Carrera To China - diary of wreckah

[wreckah]

Foreword

Friday, 05 December 2008…the temperature is dropping when the glowing red sun is swiftly sinking into the Mediterranean Sea while Erwin and I are standing – hands in our pockets – waiting for the recovery service. We’re in Makri, Greece at the time I start writing this journal of a loony adventure.


Makri, Greece

Too late to start writing of course, because things started happening literally years ago, when my long term friend Erwin and I had a couple of beers too many in a bar in Ghent.

We have had many of those nights ‘in our time’ - and we still do - but this one night was more than just the regular drinking frenzy. Of course there’s no such thing as a ‘regular’ drinking frenzy, as you most probably all know, but still. We were both dreaming aloud of this colossal trek eastward. Each of us had his own reasons for wanting to go out on a limb, but of course I can only try to express mine. From that night on, our dream became real, and there was no one or nothing that could stop us.

That was early 2006, a life-changing time for me: I lost real love for the first time in my life, but I also experienced my first real adventure. It was somewhat smaller in proportion to the hellish drive we are undertaking right now, but nothing can make me forget how wonderful it actually was. Back then, my buddy Koko led this travelling rookie from Belgium to Tanzania on two wheels. We shared a passion for motorbikes and we connected virtually from the minute we met. That was more than enough ingredients needed to go riding over the toughest of terrains for 15.000kms and 2,5 months. I still think about it every day (and smile), and I feel it has changed me thoroughly. Maybe I’ve grown up since then, but I’ll bet that quite a few people out there will deny that without hesitating.

Insert foto of koko and me in desert

Once again, a new life will start for me during and after this travel. Not only because I will change through the people I meet and through the friendship with Erwin, but also because I did a little tabula rasa at home: I quit my job as drawing monkey in my own little company, and at the same time, I moved into another apartment on the day we departed! The Luuuv boat is making anoter cruise too, and I might be on it, so I am pretty eager to see what’s going to happen in the coming months…exciting times thus!

The trek then: this time around, Erwin – a true friend for 15 years now – and I are taking a lovely old Porsche sports car around the world. In six months time, we will hopefully have covered the 25.000kms that separates Ghent with Beijing, our destination. ( why Beijing? Because it sounds pretty cool when you say ‘I drove to Beijing last year’, and being cool is what little white boys find very important.)

Comparing this trip to the Tanzania adventure is hard, because each is unique in every way, but I guess I have to do it to make some things clear, and to show that despite their obvious proportional differences, both adventures are more or less the same in essence.

Being in a car is so much different than sitting on a bike though. I hope that the choice of this little yellow oldtimer will make us feel a bit more like bikers, and I think it already has done so. We will feel the tough terrain, although we won’t ‘fall down’ on it. We will feel the cold, although our feet won’t be frozen after 5 minutes, only after 2 hours. We will feel the vibration and noise, just like you do on a bike. We will smell oil and fuel, but we won’t quite smell a foggy forest like bikers do. We will have kids waving and laughing at us, and some old people staring in disbelief or contempt, shaking their heads “(sigh) them young kids, they should better get a job”. We will breakdown many times, just like all those bikers with their exclusive Italian sports bikes – flat battery in garage syndrome. Okay okay, and all those other bikers, who can’t afford 'quality' stuff, but still love to ride the tits off their machines…and breakdown because of poor (read: ‘no’) maintenance.
Simply put, we love the car, just as bikers love their bikes.

Insert foto of car here

There’s a friendship at stake too this time. I can only hope it is strong enough to withstand 6 months together in a little metal box. Koko and I came out much stronger than before, but I must add that we had it quite easy: when you’re on two separate bikes, you don’t talk all that much, and you have a lot to say when you do get the chance to talk to each other. I guess Erwin and I will have to learn to ‘Enjoy the Silence’, just like Depeche Mode does. Another thing worth mentioning is the fact that we will both have to trust our lives in the hands of the other…not an easy thing to do, and a very important thing to remember every time you get behind the wheel of the Porsche. I’m sure it will be fine though, ‘No pain no gain’ as they say.

Often people ask me why I do these so called crazy trips. It’s not easy to answer that one myself let alone explain it to another person…especially because I don’t reckon this is crazy at all. In my life, I have never taken the plane to some kind of holiday destination, and had a vacation right there, and headed back. I’ve always been on the road, be it on my bike or in a car. I love to see the nature and people change gradually and slowly. I guess I’ve got an urge to explore this world by myself, and not simply believe in what other people say about it. I want to see for myself if there are snow-capped mountains in Laos. I want to know what they drink in Serbia. What kind of houses do people build in Cambodia? I want to know how cold it is on new years eve in Iran. Do people ride sports bikes in Bulgaria? Would Turkish food really be better in Turkey than in Belgium? Is it really that hard to distinguish girls from boys in Thailand? Anyway, I’m sure you catch my drift.

Most of all, I am very eager to find out if people in other countries still have that basic sense of brotherhood and understanding that I miss quite often in my own country…will a smile be returned or is fear overcoming hospitality there as well? I also want to rediscover the simple fact that life can be lived in a lower gear than in our overstressed atmosphere: for some people, selling 50 cups of tea during a whole day is more than enough to sustain a normal lifestyle: decent food, a roof over your head, and the ability to take care of your children…and be happy. Things that seem trivial, but are so often forgotten in our Western world.

Is it really crazy to drive a car from Belgium to China? Is it not more crazy to get up every morning, say goodbye to your wife and kids who you love, and leave hesitantly for some boring job, just to be able to afford some luxuries which add nothing meaningful to life? Maybe that doesn’t sound really convincing from a guy that is driving a Porsche, but there’s more to it. I have deliberately and passionately chosen to buy and restore this car and travel with it, and because of that, I had to give up a whole lot of other things…I know for a fact that I won’t be able to buy a house in the near or distant future, I don’t have a dolby surround system, I sure don’t own a decent car (or bike for that matter), and I don’t have (fake) marble counter tops in the kitchen. I can’t stress enough that I really don’t care about all that stuff. I live on coffee, beer, roll-ups, cheap microwave pizzas and internet – yes I am a web junkie, I’ll give you that. And I like a hot shower in the morning, I’ll give you that too.

By the way, this little oldtimer cost us about the same as a regular middle class car – Erwin and I both own half of it by the way - and we are almost certain that the car will keep it’s value over years to come, if not rise (if not crash). A brand new modern middle-class car will lose about half it’s value in two years time…so maybe we are sensible after all? Life on the road will probably not be any more expensive than at home, and that’s including fuel, food and drinks, and sleeping arrangements. The only problem is not working for six months, and thus not earning any money. But now the defence rests.

Like I said, I am way overdue in writing this journal because so much has already happened since that night in the bar.

First of all, Erwin and I had a pretty tough time finding the perfect car: not too expensive, but also not too much of a wreck. We needed a car which needed some tender love and care, but not extensively so, because we are restoration rookies and we couldn’t handle a proper full rebuild. In hindsight we pretty much did a full restoration, but I guess we got a little bit carried away. After a couple of weeks of searching, we found a pretty little yellow 911 sitting just outside Ghent. Tommy and Pascal – the previous owners - didn’t have to put a lot of effort into selling it: we fell in love at the spot. In the course of the restoration, these two guys were always ready to answer our silly questions and Tommy’s dad even did the paintwork for us – brilliantly so. Tommy and Pascal were the first of many great people we would meet along this preparation.

[wreckah]

Reinoud is another fine example: he lived next to our workshop for a whole year, and almost every minute of his spare time went into our project. Reinoud helped us with tips, techniques, materials and he lent us his tools, which - as every bloke knows - is a very generous gesture. This 20-odd year old friend also led us to another fantastic person: Nazif from café Sint-Hubert in Ghent. Over the past 3 years, Nazif’s bar became our second home, and the boss himself became a truly great friend. I am writing this as we speak from his parent’s house in Olukbasi, Turkey, where we were welcomed with open arms. His mum gave us a more than warm hug, prepared a mouth watering meal, and invited us to stay the night, even though we don’t speak one word of the same language. That is the stuff that makes this project so inspiring.


Mehmet & Ane Ordu (Nazif’s parents

I think our idea, combined with the spirit of our little car has a great power to make people dream. I remember our very first sponsor Steven Casaer’s reaction to my email very well: “I wish I could do it myself, and I know how hard it is to get sponsorship, so here you go fellas, let me be your very first sponsor!” The same goes for the somewhat more in-your-face Tom Wakeford, who called us out of the blue and said “you’re a bunch of nutters, but I like nutters, so let me give you some support”. There was another memorable day in this journey, when we just started the ‘private-donations’ page on our website: the aim was to get a buck or two from likeminded people, but suddenly I saw a figure with a bunch of zeroes in it on my paypal-account! An anonymous gift, which we humbly accepted. I met up with the unknown gifter a bit later on, and found out that this was another great guy - and funny too - who simply shares the passion of yellow 911’s with us. (thanks Butzi, you know who you are.)

I owe a word of gratitude to Alain (Rufie) too: he – and his wife and kids – made our little project a whole lot bigger during the last month before departure. He skillfully organised a Lift-Off party for us, and got a lot of attention for our project in the media too. And since we’re talking about networking, how could I forget my buddy Wouter who pulled the mother of all tricks on me, and gave me my very own fifteen minutes of fame by shoehorning me into a reality dating show on national television…product placement at its best!

Insert picture of me at phaedra’s

An online community started to form too around this project, and I’m sure many of the people who read my first post were at least a bit sceptical about the whole thing. But as the preparation went on, and the car took shape, more and more web junkies started frequenting our site, or even contacting us to whish us good luck! I am hoping to meet a couple of these guys on the road, and if not, I hope I can entertain them by telling them some passionate stories about our voyage. I must say that without the wealth of knowledge on some boards (Pelican Parts just to name one) we would never have completed the car as well as it sits now.

Of course I cannot start writing the actual journey report without mentioning two special guys: Philippe and Peter. The former is my collegue drawing slave, and the latter my younger brother, and without doubt my best friend.
Philippe had to endure 2 years of less-than-optimal workforce from me, because I was sometimes so occupied with the trip, that I totally forgot my day job. More so, he helped me program both our websites, without me having to ask for anything. He is experiencing some exciting times as well right now, and I wish him all the luck and happiness in the very near future.
I need not thank Peter – he’s the creator of the best photoshops ever and once will be the great ruler of this earth - because he knows I am grateful for the past couple of years, and he doesn’t like the stress of all the back-patting anyway… We never buy presents for each other, we just go out drinking together. Only 5,5 months to go bro…

Insert picture of pete and me
Going away

I don’t remember a whole lot about the Lift-Off party the night before our departure. That whole day was a blur - I can’t even recall what I said in the speech. I guess the last weeks of preparation took their toll on Erwin and me: we were both exhausted from all the running around, and from all the attention that had formed around our little project. We were doing interviews while we were getting our shots, and we were arranging visas over lunchtime…it was hectic to say the least.

It did feel warm though, that going away party. I saw so many people that I hadn’t seen in a very long time, and everyone in my family was there…both Erwin and me were so busy chatting that we almost forgot to drink beer! I do remember driving my buddy Marnik’s Seat Ibiza to get some change from the office, and a bunch of impolite Dutch people sitting disrespectfully on our car to have their pictures taken…I’m quite sure that will not happen in Iran! But more importantly I will not forget a very emotional Nazif and Mia almost crying at the thought of me leaving for 6 months. My close friends went out to drink after the party was over, but I was totally finished by then. I saw a complete wreck when I looked into the mirror before going to sleep one last time in my apartment in the historic centre of Ghent.

Insert picture of the party here

No beers at the party thus, but luckily, we did have some the night before, on the unofficial Lift-Off party once again in café Sint-Hubert. Imagine just the two travellers and their closest friends in the bar, with 30-odd pints of beer and a gigantic dish of Mezze on the table while they were playing their own music the whole night…a truly great last ‘drinking frenzy with the boys’. (thank you Mr. Ibne for the tractation, Mr. Kalas for bringing the dish over to the bar, and Mr. Usta for the cooking!!) What a night…- André Van Duin “Pizza”.

Quite a big contrast with the depressing sight of the washed out and empty Sint-Pieters square in Ghent, on the morning of the start. Luckily, it wasn’t long before our closest friends joined us standing in the downpour, while we saw one after the other Porsche turning up on the square. More than 25 enthusiasts would endure the cold and rain to join us on the first stage of our trip. Everyone saw how Erwin and I were finishing off the last interviews, while shivering from the cold, and waiting impatiently for the start sign…some very welcome presents were handed over last-minute (thanks for the great book, Bas) and then it was finally time to go.

Insert picture of the liftoff here

I gave my dad, my brother, Nazif, Annelies and Mia one last emotional hug – I could barely hide my tears - and crawled into the little cabin that would become my home for the next 6 months. Erwin turned the ignition, the boxer behind our backs came to life with an angry growl, and away we were…followed by hundreds of meters of Porsches.


Leaving Ghent in a caravan of Porsches

[wreckah]

We left our hometown at exactly 10 a.m., the way it was planned. A whole caravan of Porsches followed us on the first leg of our very own silk route while we were being filmed by a National Television news crew. We arrived plenty in time on the big square of Lier, after only one small hiccup: apparently we didn’t close the hood properly, but luckily the safety lock kept it more or less in place, and our luggage more or less dry.


The Big Market in Lier, Belgium

The last organised part of our journey consisted of a lunch party in a brasserie in Lier. We enjoyed a proper Belgian meal together with a lovely crowd of fellow enthusiasts. All of them joined us after lunch to watch the news, and impatiently we were waiting for our story to come up. Who cares about the credit crunch, we want to see the Porsches!!


The last lunch in Belgium

The crew did a fine job reporting our departure, and afterwards we got a welcome applause. But by then it was really time to leave everyone behind, and depart on this scary undertaking.

The lovely conversation with Wim (Annelies’ Dad) kept us warm for the first couple of kms, but soon we had to put on the heater with its dreadful side effect: a horrible smell of burnt oil filled the cabin and it wasn’t long before we were getting light headed. We decided to back off the heater but by the time we reached sunny Germany – Rammstein: “Here comes Die Sonne” – we were well and truly frozen.


Just crossed the border with Germany, on our way to the Eiffel

So was the highway, so we kept a safe pace unlike the Germans who flew by us at easily twice the speed. The sun had set for some time when we covered the last icy bends and checked into Hotel Breuer in Ripsdorf. A runny nose had me leaving no taste whatsoever and I struggled to finish my typical German dinner: Bittburger Beer and Buttereis.

I took a very welcome 40 minute hot shower, but the scrubbing of the raspy towel afterwards killed the buzz right away. Luckily I heard the sweet whiskey voice of my special lady friend later that night so all was well when I finally dozed off.


Frozen morning in Ripsdorf, Germany

What to do when the locks are frozen solid in the morning? I had just been to the toilet, so I decided to ‘lick the lock’…and it worked but I cannot recommend the taste of WD40 to anyone! Apart from some traffic jams we got noting spectacular to report until we arrived in a roadside diner around Frankfurt. Immediately we were approached by Yvan and Mieke who saw us on TV the day before. We had a funny conversation with the two store owners from Antwerp, but then I had to excuse myself and found my way into the overly organised German roadside diner bathroom. After I passed the fully automated tollbooth I locked myself into one of the perfectly sterile stalls. This is supposed to be the best time of the day, but I was suddenly knocked out of my peaceful daydream when an angry fully automated toilet seat attacked me from behind! Deutsche Gründlichkeit My Ass!!


Some truck in Germany

Around Nürnberg a heavy snowstorm prevented us from seeing any further than the two round headlight buckets of our own car, so we pulled off the highway. Not a moment too soon because I had to skid the rear wheel driven and rear biased 911 to the closest village centre. I broke my jaws trying to ask for a nearby hotel in a local butchery but still I got a wonderful compliment of the lady behind the counter: “Du hasst eine Wünderbärliche Sprache mein freund!” – Rammstein again “Du Hasst”.


Around Nürnberg, asking for directions to a hotel nearby

Hotel Weisses Ross was a fine place to stay: they served us a Grillteller (Grill plate) with a larger than life German Tücher Beer, and we had hot water and free internet in our room.

Putting on my thermal underwear was clearly a wise idea for the next day: once again it was bitter cold by the time we crossed the Donau river for the third time. Austria gave us – as expected – nothing really worthwhile apart from some traditionally dressed waitresses in a petrol station diner. We felt that we hadn’t quite left the civilised world yet when we saw a road sign telling us that there would be no toilets for the next 5 kms…Oh the humanity!!


On the highway somewhere in Austria

We entered Hungary mistakenly through the lane for Hungarian people, but that enabled us to escape a luggage check. A 4 day auto vignette cost us 4 EUR and we made great use of it: apart from a little unwanted detour in Budapest we sped over highways only, seeing nothing but agricultural plains. The roadside motel served me two beefsteaks with a sunny-side-up egg on top of each of them together with a pile of French fries. That left me a hard digestive night before driving into Serbia.


Border crossing Austria – Hungary


Billboard in Budapest

[wreckah]

Roadside motel in Hungary


Nothing to see in Hungary


Nothing to see in Hungary

Clearly I wasn’t quite awake yet when I flew by the Serbian Customs officer. I slammed on the brakes, put the car in reverse, and humbly gave the good man my best smile when I pulled up in front of his booth. “Nothing to declare Sir!” I told him, and I saw his face light up when I revved the engine hard and raced away from the border control.


Belgrade, Serbia


Belgrade, Serbia


Belgrade, Serbia

For the first time on this trip I scented the typical smell of wood- and petroleum stoves – and diesel trucks – when we drove through Belgrade. A curvy highway surrounded by autumn coloured hills – Opeth “Autumn Leaves” - led us to Nic.


Rolling hills, just past Belgrade, Serbia

When we stopped for petrol we met Sasha, a highway recovery service man. We opened up the engine compartment to show off our 2 liter flat six, but there was a big cloud of smoke coming out of it. A closer look revealed a big oil leak near the back of the motor. We decided to follow Sasha to his house and workshop in the hills nearby and let him check out the car.


Sasha’s repair shop, Belgrade, Serbia


Sasha’s repair shop, Belgrade, Serbia

[wreckah]

A couple of hours and numerous phone calls later, three new oil seals were put in, which cost us an arm and a leg ( and maye a kidney too). I don’t think Sasha ripped us off because he invited us into his house afterwards, to join him and his father and drink some home made Grappa (very strong) and Turkish style coffee. The tasty liquor made us laugh even harder at the magical tricks he pulled on Erwin and his own father, who didn’t understand them at all. The friendly Serb led us to the next petrol station to check on the seals – they looked OK at that point – where we left him and continued into the night – Liliane St Pierre “Sasha”.


Funny mechanic checking out out oil seals, Belgrade, Serbia


Saying goodbye to Sasha, Belgrade, Serbia


It was pitch dark and raining when we finally reached Nic and found a roadside motel with a cheesy room that smelled of French fries. Erwin vast vast asleep when I finished updating our site – through a free wireless network – and went downstairs to have a last smoke. I was quickly invited to the table where Nesha and Galle (waiter and cook) were sitting. They were carefully sipping out of their espresso mugs filled with vodka, while they were watching our car on the security camera. Those cameras were the reason for them to drink out of mugs, because they knew their boss was watching them. I joined them with half litre bottles of tasty Serbian beer and that night we became friends for life.


Drinking buddies in Nic, Serbia

No wonder then that we woke up too late the following morning – Erwin had joined us too a little later at night. Luckily a beautiful canyon made us forget our headaches. The oil leak was still there however but we decided to let it be, and just check the oil level more regularly.

Six booths, a memory stick and a beautiful customs lady was all that was needed to get us into Bulgaria, already the 7th country on our voyage. We carefully swerved around the potholes and hookers on the ring around Sofia and made our way into Plovdiv. We also discovered that the floors of our 911 were soaked with water…apparently we had a leak somewhere in the front too.


Detour around Plovdiv, Bulgaria

It would dry out though because the sun followed us all the way to the Greek border. A smooth as silk highway brought us quickly to Alexandropolis, a cosy half asleep little Mediterranean town. We checked into Hotel Hili, ate some Italian Pizza and went to sleep early. The next day would be a day off, to give us a chance to give the Porsche some tender love and care, and to rest from the first hard days of driving. We tightened some bolts, and replaced the ones that got lost underway in the hope of fixing – or at least containing – the oil leak.

Erwin broke out the video camera while we were test driving the car in the hills around Alexandropolis and just when I turned around to make a second pass, I heard a loud metallic ‘TWAAAAAIIIINNNGGG’ noise. I pulled over to park the car and I felt the front wheel rubbing the wing guards. Our little 911 had apparently broken its front left suspension bar and lie on its belly…


Broken front suspension, Makri, Greece

There was no way to tell where we were exactly so I stopped a few cars to ask for more details. Third time lucky when a tough Greek man in a worn pickup decided to help us. As we were still in Europe at that time, we decided to call our euro assistance service one last time, to have us towed to the nearest repair shop. The tough Greek man handled the local calls while drinking beer after beer (and chucking the empty bottles into the ravine).

We ate our last bars of Belgian chocolate when the sun set over the isle of Samothraki. It was well dark and frisky when the recovery service finally arrived. I limped the car onto the flatbed truck – with a smelly clutch as a result – and we were brought to a local workshop. I was told I had two full hours to do the repair the following morning, because our car would be in the way of some other (more important) jobs.


Sunset, Makri, Greece


Recovery service, Makri, Greece

A stressy night thus, with me thinking over the whole sequence - swapping a torsion bar – over and over again in order to complete the job in time.
I shouldn’t have worried though because the following morning I had a torsion bar in my hands after only 15 minutes or so. I was surprised to see it intact!


DIY repair, Alexandropolis, Greece


DIY repair, Alexandropolis, Greece

[wreckah]

Apparently the adjustment cap had come off the bar end and I noticed a bit of damage on the splines – both female and male. I decided to throw our spare torsion bar in the suspension arm, because it had better splines, and had a ‘safety catch’ welded onto the adjustment cap. No scrap metal to be found in the whole workshop, so we welded a large bolt to the mechanism. Ugly, but effective, and also our very first ‘bush repair’ on the car.


Bush repair with bolt, Alexandropolis, Greece

The mechanics were truly impressed with the speed and determination of this youngish white boy without any hair on the back of his hands, or a dirty ‘Tamoil’ t-shirt on. They gave us some delicious iced coffee to celebrate the repair.

We drank another big mug of coffee back in the hotel - the lady of the house threw in a large piece of yummy chocolate cake – before continuing our trip. The car wasn’t balanced anymore though and after a few kms we noticed that we had insufficient ground clearance at the front left side…which we would tackle some time later.

Not a very good idea because the car decked out heavily on the ramps of the ‘Feribot’ (that’s Ferry Boat for the slow understander ) to Cannakale. Our protective underplates did their job perfectly though, and prevented any more damage to our little car. It was literally with a big bang that we entered the Asian part of our journey. The Turkish border crossing was uneventful by the way, apart from the fond memories I had from when I crossed it with my buddy Jan on the motorbikes. This time we didn’t get any candy though, but buger king instead.


Burger King, Kesan, Turkey

We were amazed of the difference in atmosphere after only a 30 minute ferry crossing: busy, hectic, unlegislated, colourful, loud, stinky, … Not for long though because soon we found ourselves on our very own private stretch of tarmac southbound to Izmir - Chris Rea "Road to Hell". At dusk, we swapped the boring deserted straights for some exciting supertight curvy mountain roads to Assos. Some parts of this road were so steep that our little T struggled even in first gear! It was beautiful though and soon we entered the almost empty village of Assos, which clung to a dark mountain next to the Mediterranean Sea.


Ferry Crossing Cannakale, Turkey. End of the European leg.


Market square at dawn, Assos, Turkey


Apollo Temple, Assos, Turkey

I saw Erwin paintstakingly tucking in his bed sheets for at least 5 full minutes, which reminded me of Koko bursting out laughing when he saw me fiercely kicking my sheets loose in a hotel near Petra, Jordan…people are different!

There was only one restaurant in Assos, but what a great place it was: a cosy interior combined with a gorgeous view over the shattered lights in the dark surrounding valleys…and to top it off some delicious Turkish food too: we ate some earthy tasting lentil soup, börek, and a chicken sis.

I decided to get up early to shoot some pictures of the pittoresk village but a determined Muzzein beat me to it with his brutal awakening call for prayer. It was clear that we were on Muslim territory from then on.


Road block, Assos, Turkey

We were back on the road without breakfast (we forgot to turn our clocks backward), and on our way to Izmir, we saw some cows on pickups, trucks with gigantic haystacks, a man on the walk with his goat, and a lot of Polis. In Nazili, we raced a 30 year old square Fiat with 4 excited young Turks aboard, but lost the battle against the sporty four cylinder sedan. We took a right turn to Bozdogan, and drove through a busy cattle market. This week it is Bayram for all Muslims (Sacrifice feast), and thus a lot of cattle is traded.


Driving past Izmir, Turkey


Annimal transport, Izmir, Turkey


I asked for directions in the outskirts of Bozdogan, and immediately a little crowd gathered around me. An old farmer spoke some German, and tried to explain the way to Olukbasi, our destination for that night.

Olukbasi is a little village with only 1000 inhabitants, on the very end of a 10 mile mountain road. We stopped in the local petrol station to ask where we could find the parents of our friend Nazif, who live there. The clerk apparently was the only man in town who spoke a bit of English, and he gladly joined me in the car to Nazifs parents’ house while Erwin followed on foot.


The road to Bozdogan, Olukbasi, Turkey


The road to Bozdogan, Olukbasi, Turkey

[wreckah]

The road to Bozdogan, Olukbasi, Turkey

We met Mehmet (Nazif’s father) first, and let him speak to his son over the phone. The kind man invited us in his house to meet ‘Anne’ (Mum) Nazif. We sat down in the guest room, and soon enough Anne came inside and gave us both a very big welcome hug. I immediately recognized Nazif’s eyes in his mothers smiling face. We didn’t know how to act around Muslim women, so we were a little bit hesitant at first, but after a while it would become clear that in Turkey at least, everything is quite relaxed and informal. We let Anne talk to her son too, and every time we mentioned ‘Nazif’, I saw her eyes light up with enjoyment.


Mehmet and Ane Ordu, Olukbasi, Turkey

We didn’t understand one word of Turkish, and she didn’t understand one word of English, but still we could understand each other through the most basic signs and body language. After a short while, another two women entered the room, and set up the table: this means spreading a blanket across the floor, and centering a large dish on it. Mehmet showed us how to sit down for eating (which means sleeping legs after 5 minutes for us sporty westerners), and the three men started their meal.

We enjoyed the most delicious traditional Turkish food in a typical Turkish family, and it will remain something which I will cherish for the rest of my life. We clumsily dipped our bread into all kinds of bowls, and ate from many different little dishes, while the women sat on the couch watching us. The girls were eyeballing us the whole time, and giggly whispered little secrets to each other, while carefully monitoring our every move. This caused even more stress for us, and I – of course – managed to drop a piece of chicken in tomato sauce on the cloth…typical me!

After the men were finished, the girls cleaned up, and probably ate the leftovers while the men went outside to drink Cay (Tea) in the local pub. At this time, the whole village already knew that there were two guys driving an old car to China, and staying in their community that night. Everyone came out to come and say hello to us, and we had a little conversation with the local geography teacher, who also knew a couple of English words. I entertained the rest of the crew with my meagre knowledge of the Turkish language, and I managed to get a couple of laughs in the process.


One night in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


We stayed the night in the storage room of the parental house, which smelled lovely of herbs and fresh fruit and vegetables. Anne made us breakfast and sat down with us and explained how to eat a home made peanut butter & honey sandwich together with some home grown rich flavoured olives and tomatos. Afterwards I took Mehmet, together with little Kadir – his grandson – to their field of olive trees on the mountain. Kadir was excited to take a seat in the Porsche and was mesmerised by the blue 12V plug under our dashboard. Once out in the field, it was fantastic to see grandfather and grandson smile and play under the rising sun…unforgettable.

[wreckah]

One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey


One morning in Olukbasi, Turkey

We drank one last Cay in the football lounge together with Ben Hassan and Mehmet, and set course to Pamukkale, supposedly one of the highlights of a visit to Turkey. In Pamukkale - I guess from the beginning of time - hot volcanic water flows continuously out of numerous little springs and carves a way through all sorts of metal containing rock. This creates a rainbow variety of colours in their chalky deposits.

Big contrast then with the white uninspiring chunk of chalk – Billy Idol “white wedding” - we witnessed when we reached the top after half an hour worth of climbing. I could think of 100 better ways to spend my 10 EUR! Luckily we were able to visit a splendid amphitheatre on the same site, which halfway made up for it, although the ugly swimming pool / restaurant spoiled the view.


Chalk formation in Pamukkale, Turkey


Chalk formation in Pamukkale, Turkey


Chalk formation in Pamukkale, Turkey


Chalk formation in Pamukkale, Turkey

[wreckah]

Chalk formation in Pamukkale, Turkey


Chalk formation in Pamukkale, Turkey


Chalk formation in Pamukkale, Turkey


Chalk formation in Pamukkale, Turkey

The road to Antalya was a tiring stretch of concrete, with only one man chasing his goat to liven things up. The poor thing just didn’t feel like being slaughtered that day…

Antalya is little more than a gigantic tourist resort, and that’s why we drove further east – in the dark – only to find…even bigger tourist resorts! We lost at least one hour by driving past endless gated five-star hotel premises and a plethora of brand new holiday housing projects around Belek. We found relief in a little town called Side, where we checked into the overly cheap luxury sweet of an otherwise empty hotel. Edam and his friends were our charming hosts for the night, and offered us Cay, Raki, Internet, Cigarettes and a fantastic Bayram show on TV. Ibrahim Tatsis (?) – Turkish n° 1 singer – was really inspiring to the guys, who happily sang along all night before falling asleep on the couch.

The reason for following the Mediterranean coastline lies in the very moderate climate, and in Side we really took advantage of the mild temperatures: we enjoyed a nice evening dinner and a sunny breakfast on the same outdoor terrace.

For the first time on this trip, I got the typical Muslim perfume shower: after paying our bill, Edam dumped half a litre of flowery smelling water on my hand palms, which I then had to rub dry. I smelled like a rich old granny. We said goodbye to Edam with a warm and genuine hug – and two kisses on the cheeks – and went further eastward.

The road to Anamur reminded me of the coastal rollercoaster we drove on in Amalfi, Italy. We covered the brilliant mountain road at a more leisurely pace this time though, because our 911 still felt somewhat handicapped with its lower front left paw.


The road to Anamur, Turkey


The road to Anamur, Turkey

Three English bicycle riders on their way to Kenya – Paul Simon ‘under African skies’ - crossed our path at the traffic lights in Anamur. They were no match for the 110 eager horses we were riding though, and obviously we left them for dead when the lights went green. Victory at last!


Hotel Pecheur, Aydncik, Turkey


The road to Adana, Turkey


The road to Adana, Turkey

‘Hotel Pecheur’ (Hotel Fisherman) was the attractive name of our sleeping place in Aydncik, but the tiny dirty creatures on our terrace overlooking the sea promised little comfort. We did enjoy some free wireless internet though but we would have preferred hot water instead. We were walking to the village centre when we saw a brightly lit neon fish next to a little shed on the beach. We knocked on the crooked glass doors and surely a friendly looking man stood up from watching another Bayram show and let us in. “Yes. Food. Tamam (OK). Only fish.” We didn’t have to order anything because there was only one item on the menu: ‘catch of the day’. There wasn’t a lot of meat on the tiny swimmers, but it did taste very nice together with a rich salad of tomatoes and basil.

[wreckah]

We were taken over by a lowered little Fiat on 15” chrome rims and sporting blacked out windows sometime the next day – Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg ‘ Still D.R.E.’. The popular local tuning car slowed right down before us, and through some ignition wizardry the driver popped the exhaust a couple of times, simply to entertain his fellow sports car drivers. Once again 4 young Turks were revealed when the windows were pulled down, cheering and laughing and giving us the big thumbs up. Ya gotta love car crazed people.


The road to Adana, Turkey


Adana, Turkey

We were served another endless set of curves which I negotiated carefully and slowly, but still my co-pilot found me driving to close to the edge. I slowed down even more and focussed on the big white line in the middle of the road instead of the apex. I guess this shows another difference between sharing a car and riding a bike on your own…

For the record, it’s not always easy to drive this car cautiously and slowly. You can just feel the nimble 911 beg for some more speed through the corners, or some more revs during acceleration…but we are in it for the long run, this is not a sprint race. Continuously checking oil temperature, keeping the speed down, looking out for potholes, keeping an eye on the sheep and dogs on the side of the road, being one step ahead of the foolish or inattentive other drivers…it’s all part of driving a car across the world. A good rule of thumb is to always go slower than the locals, and never break the speed limits: they’re there for a reason, be it a sharp blind bend over a crest or a humongous invisible speed bump. As my good friend Nick has told me many times: “Easy does it Jean.” And he’s right.


Adana, Turkey

In Silifke we found another cheap looking auto shop and asked for help to re-index the front torsion bar, to get some more ground clearance. The mechanic on duty – read: with nothing to do – immediately recognized the system from older VW bugs, and half an hour later we were already back on the road…this time with a way too high front left side! We gained some 7cms, and that of course has thrown off the balance of our car once again. Our 911 wasn’t tracking perfectly straight anymore but we didn’t care. At least we weren’t decking out in every right corner anymore.


Adana - Osmaniye motorway, Turkey


Adana - Osmaniye motorway, Turkey

It’s as if Allah himself wanted it this way: just like my previous ride with Koko, the Turkish highway toll system is celebrating Bayram and so we’re once again rolling swiftly through open toll gates. Adana quickly disappeared in our mirrors when the roads died out and we found ourselves alone on our way to Osmaniye. This amusing town was a pleasant entrée into eastern Turkey. Erwin spotted a good cheap hotel after only 2 minutes of driving into town, and after we locked all our expensive stuff in the room, we went for a chilly walk to the centre. I asked a shoe salesman where to find the ‘Sehir Merkézi’ (centre) but he didn’t understand me. I tried again: ‘Sehir Mérkezi’ ? The old man’s bearded face lit up…of course, ‘Sehir Mérkezi’! Why didn’t you say that right away? It’s over here my son, and he pointed us to the animated city square.

Osmaniye is only 150kms from sunny and hot Adana, but the continental climate makes for extreme temperatures – Tina Turner ‘Steamy windows’. It was practically freezing when we opened the steamy doors of a chicken durum restaurant, and we were waved in by the waiter and his 4 giggling female assistants. Ahmed wore shoes the size of feribots and served us delicious 10 foot chicken rolls. His veiled assistants came to the table one at a time for no reason other than to check us out and run back to the kitchen for reporting duties. The big momma behind the cash register – read: wooden box – happily collected a couple of lira from us and gave us such a warm welcome feeling with her endless smile that we decided to come back later for another snack.

Obviously we spend quite a lot of time at petrol stations, and why not make the best of it? On our way to Diyarbakir we enjoyed a generous breakfast on the road which we gathered ourselves from a little grocery shop in Osmaniye. Afterwards we were invited for tea by Furkan, the anti-fascist Kurdish petrol attendant. In Turkey, tea goes with petrol by the way. Erwin was checking out the outside massage chair while I asked Furkan if I could have a seat on his 251cc two stroke MZ hooligan bike. In return he got to sit behind the wheel of our beloved ‘eleven’ – Billy Ocean ‘Get in to my car’.


Fuel station outside Osmaniye, Turkey


Fata Morgana Osmaniye - Dijarbakir, Turkey


Wherever you go, go cay (tea)…Osmaniye - Dijarbakir, Turkey


Driving into the great unknown. Osmaniye - Dijarbakir, Turkey

I spent the following two hours dozing off in the glow of the southern sun behind my little window, while Erwin kept himself busy by steering the Porsche in between the few spots of shadow of the empty 3 lane highway. During my daydream I think I saw one million olive and pistachio tress passing by, which filled the cabin with a much appreciated fresh odour.

[wreckah]

I asked for directions in the outskirts of Diyarbakir and a few helpful lads pointed me to ‘Otel Kalas’. Kalas is a swearword in Turkish so I could barely contain my laughter…a few hours later we would walk by ‘Hotel Class’ in the city centre. I should have known that there wouldn’t have been a ‘Hotel Emptyhead’ in Diyarbakir. We stayed appropriately in an old silkroute caravan resting place instead which boasted a central courtyard for the camels, carriages, horses etc…to be parked. This ‘Kervansaray’ was the best hotel in town, but actually not all that great, so I reluctantly coughed up the 50 EUR for a double room the next morning.


Hotel Kervansaray, Dijarbakir, Turkey


During our evening stroll around town, we were invited for cay by Semat, and ‘very surprisingly’ we saw another man enter the café 5 minutes after – Nat King Cole ‘tea for two’. This was Reshid, the former head of tourism in Diyarbakir, and professor of French literature at the local university. The conversation went surprisingly well in French – I hate to speak frog – and after we showed him our car we joined him for dinner. He invited us into the second best restaurant of town which is actually a private club, well protected from curious eyes with thick curtains behind the glass walls.

Reshid is a member of this club and so we could enjoy possibly the best meal on this trip: we had Sactava (lamb stew), fresh yoghurt with spinach and local herbs, roasted pistachios, a bowl of refreshing fruits, and Turkish coffee wit mint flavoured liquor to finish it all off. Fully according to his plan, we picked up the check for Reshid while we chatted about travelling, music, culture and love. Our host was 55, unmarried and lived with his mum by the way.

Both Erwin and I were convinced from the start that this whole night was a little bit too coincidental to be true, but that didn’t stop us from genuinely enjoying a wonderful evening. Late at night I gave Reshid a ride home and returned to the hotel through a lively and exciting traffic.


Kids in Dijarbakir, Turkey


Our host Reshid, proudly posing in front of the 911, Dijarbakir, Turkey


We had a lonely breakfast in the huge, dark and dusty restaurant of the Kervansaray and met up wit Reshid again for a quick guided tour of Diyarbakir, the capital of Kurdistan. Once again we knew that there would be a catch, and behold, after visiting the Great Mosque (converted church) we were pulled into a carpet shop for drinking tea. This vintage place apparently sold the very last of original – strongly smelling of bug repellent – Kurdish carpets. It was pretty easy to withstand the seller’s ambitions though because there was no way we would carry and old rug in the Porsche for another 20000kms. I took charge of the conversation and turned it into our favour: I asked Reshid for accommodation for the next couple of days, which he easily could arrange for us, as head of the Diyarbakir tourism office. Out came the mobile phone, and addresses were booked for us.


Old man in vegetable and fruit shop, Dijarbakir, Turkey


Old men doing nothing but smiling, Dijarbakir, Turkey


Some Poets’ house, Dijarbakir, Turkey


Drinking tea in the carpet shop, Dijarbakir, Turkey


Don’t take this the wrong way though: despite his little alterior motives we didn’t question the genuineness of Mr. Reshid, and had a truly great time with him. You can’t blame a man for trying…


Allah himself in Mardin, Turkey


Allah’s little helper, Mardin, Turkey

[wreckah]

A chat with the locals, Mardin, Turkey


Working out in Mardin, Turkey

At noon we drove to Mardin, where we parked the 911 in the central parking lot and went for a stroll through the tiny alleyways in between the yellow brick houses. Old Mardin is built on a steep hill, and overlooks the Syrian desert (Mesopotamia). When we came back, the parking lot was completely congested, and 2 drivers had to rearrange their cars to let us out. Mardin was a nice place, but bleak in comparison to our next stop: Midyat. We fell in love with this dusty desert city from the minute we entered it, and it only got better. A bunch of little kids ran in front of our car to show us the way to Konuk Evi (Beautiful Life), our sleeping place for the night - Black "wonderful life".

We couldn’t believe our eyes when we pulled up in front of the wooden doors that formed the entrance to a true palace! Mr. Narsadin walked us to our room, at the very top of the sand-coloured palace, overlooking the city and the desert surrounding it. While we were unloading our luggage, Turkish tourists were still visiting our room! This wasn’t a hotel, but a museum, and Reshid had arranged for us to spend the night here.


Little kids playing in Midyat, Turkey


Our palace (Konuk Evi) in Midyat, Turkey


Our room in the Konuk Evi, Midyat, Turkey


Sunset over Midyat, Turkey


Man milking cow in Midyat, Turkey

We both felt so fortunate that we forgot all about not having hot water, or even heating in our luxury suite. We watched the sun set over Midyat from the roof of the palace before going downtown to grab a bite to eat. The only restaurant in town served us a tasty Adana kebab, and then we retreated to our castle chamber. We didn’t care that it was literally freezing, the very thought of spending the night in a palace kept us warm. That, thermal underwear and the quality bed sheets of course.

I rolled from under the blanket at dawn to watch the sun rise again from the rooftop. The harsh cold quickly turned mellow when the sun first hit my face. The road to Hasankeyf – a little version of Capadocia, with houses carved out of soft rock – was strongly cambered, so I had to snap out of my dream quite fast, and concentrate on keeping our yellow one on the road. The scenery was amazing though: sandy desert scapes turned into broad valleys, and finally gave way to sandy plains when we reached Batman - Prince "batdance".


Sunrise in Midyat, Turkey


The road to Batman, Turkey

[wreckah]

Houses carved out of rock, and old bridge in Hasankeyf, Turkey


The road to Bitlis, Turkey


The road to Bitlis, Turkey


Taking a break between Batman and Bitlis, Turkey


Bitlis, Turkey

We filled up in a local petrol station, and had a smoke and cay with the two sympathetic attendants in their tiny 1m x 1m heated booth. We continued through a gorgeous canyon that lead to snowy and bitter cold Bitlis. The Porsche dealt with some first real off road when we had to navigate it through some muddy road works, without any drama I might add. We passed the Mt. Nemrut Dagi (covered in snow and ice -, reached Tatvan well before sunset, and stopped before Hotel Dulek. I gave all 8 men inside the miniscule lobby a warm ‘Salam Aleykum’ and booked a double room thanks to the translation of Mr. Ehran.


Erwin posing before the Nemrut Dagi, Tatvan, Turkey

Tatvan lies on the border of Lake Van - a mysteriously isolated bowl of water in eastern Turkey - at a hefty 1800m altitude. No wonder then it was freezing from the moment the sun went down! We watched the local weather report while eating our dinner in a café somewhere in the centre of Tatvan, and we saw that temperatures would drop to minus 12°C that night. Surely this would be the coldest night that our California imported car ever had to endure - Tupac "california". The friendly waiter tried his best to wish us a good night in English.


Ice cold Tatvan (-12°C), Turkey


Ice cold Tatvan (-12°C), Turkey


Ice cold Tatvan (-12°C), Turkey


Ice cold Tatvan (-12°C), Turkey

[wreckah]

We picked up our freshly washed clothes the next morning, and prepared the 911 for departure: this meant scraping a thick layer of ice from the windows, and cleaning them thoroughly. The feisty 2 liter boxer came to life pretty much instantly, and after a first couple of metres carefully feathering the throttle ( to not upset the car on the very thick layer of ice), we turned onto the main road which was dry and clear. We drove around Lake Van on the northern side, and witnessed the mother of all sceneries when we looked over our shoulders, back to Tatvan. The surface of the lake showed not one wrinkle, and the sun evaporated it into little puffs of cold steam. We are two lucky guys, that’s for sure.


Looking back to Tatvan over lake Van, Turkey


Lake Van, Turkey


Lake Van, Turkey

In Ercis, we turned away from the lake, and set course to our last stop before crossing the border with Iran: Dogubayazit. Erwin felt that the engine was working harder than usual, and a quick glimpse on our satellite navigation backed up his feelings: we were climbing, and climbing fast. The clear road showed more and more patches of snow and ice, and ultimately became fully covered with snow when we reached the top at 2644m altitude - 2 unlimited "no limits". I quickly jumped out of the car to make a couple of photographs of the unbelievable views from up there: I saw a panorama of snowy mountains, sharp dark rocks, and some fog in between to nicely finish the composition… - Anathema "Temporary peace".


From Ercis to Dogubayazit, Turkey


From Ercis to Dogubayazit, Turkey


From Ercis to Dogubayazit, Turkey


From Ercis to Dogubayazit, Turkey


From Ercis to Dogubayazit, Turkey


From Ercis to Dogubayazit, Turkey

We descended the mountain pass with a continuous view over the twin peaks of the dead vulcan Mt. Ararat (5150m), and reached Dogubayazit when the sun had weakened to a reddish glow. Our sleeping place – Camping Murat – lie a couple of kms out of town, next to the Ishak Palace, and only a braveheart would get there in these conditions: a steep hillclimb fully covered in snow let to the palace, and just before we tackled the really strong rise, we saw a man on the side of the road taking off his snow chains. Hmmm…

[wreckah]

Mt Ararat, Dogubayazit, Turkey


Mt Ararat, Dogubayazit, Turkey


The road to Ishak palace, Dogubayazit, Turkey


Drifting on the snowy road to Ishak palace, Dogubayazit, Turkey

Erwin kept cool though, and drifted the 911 nicely on the snowy hairpins upwards. No drama at all on our perfectly fresh snow tires! (thanks Tommy for the wise choice!) A bit of pain, but no gain though: camping Murat was deserted and the boss only had frozen water to offer us, so we headed back down and checked into a decaying three-star hotel just outside town: good looks from the outside, but shabby innards…of course the basement hamam was closed.


Sunset in Dogubayazit, Turkey


Sunset over Mt. Ararat, Dogubayazit, Turkey

Before we said farewell to Turkey, we needed some extra cash to get us through Iran, which has no ties with international banking systems, and thus credit cards would be useless there. I spent 15 minutes trying to figure out how to get a numbered ticket inside the local AK Bank, and when it finally was my turn, there was no way I could get anything else but Turkish Liras, which would be worthless once in Iran. I decided to get some Liras then, and have them magically turned into US dollars in an exchange office. Erwin did the same, and by 10 a.m. we left Dogubayazit, threw our last Liras in the 65 liter petrol tank and carefully – driving around the potholes - made our way to the Iranian border.

I remember my very first real border crossing between Turkey and Syria oh so well: Koko left me alone to do the Syrian side, and I was so nervous and afraid that it took me twice the time to get through the red tape. I’ve gotten quite used to tackling border crossings since then – most of them in Africa where money sticks to everything – so I made my way into the Turkish customs building with quite a lot of confidence and a big smile. Muslims don’t wait in line, and I happily joined the noisy crew and threw my passports and carnet de passage onto the customs officer’s desk, while pushing away the money changing rogues and other strange people around me - salt n pepa "pu****".

I finished off the Turkish side in about 45 minutes, and then we had to wait for the double steel gates to open. The police officer let a bus full of people through before we could drive our Porsche onto Iranian soil, and that’s why I had to queue for 30 minutes to have the passports stamped for entry in Iran. For the first time on this trip, I saw the big brown eyes coming from behind the black veils, staring at me as if I was an alien, exactly like I had seen in the Iranian Embassy in Brussels. Beautiful eyes from supposedly fierce Iranian women, wearing black chadors (fully covering veils) - Crystal Gayle "Don't it make my brown eyes blue".

The police officer saw our Belgian passports, and immediately led me to the Tourist bureau, where I was welcomed into the country by a very friendly trooper. He gave me a map of Iran, but it was written in spaghetti letters, so I couldn’t make anything of it. I’m sure he meant well though. Another man handled our carnet de passage: I needed to change some money first, get some copies of my passport, and then the formalities could continue. One hundred dollars almost made me an Iranian Millionaire by the way. Checking the car was finished in 5 minutes: we were asked to show the chassis number, and open up our bag with spare parts. The officer explained us that we had to get Iranian number plates in Khoy, the first real town after the border. We were waved clear after a little more than an hour, but some inattentive driver had in the meanwhile decided to park his car in the middle of the street, so no one could get through anymore. Whatever, another 15 minutes of waiting never hurt anybody - Fugazi "waiting room".

While Erwin was frozen stiff waiting outside by the car, I had been cooked ‘well done’ inside the customs building, and I wasn’t really 100% concentrated when we drove into Iran. The 2 lane highway suddenly changed into a normal road with upcoming traffic, and I noticed this a tad too late, and had too swerve violently out of the way of a wildly gesticulating local driver in the opposing lane. Phew. Focus Jean! We had another close encounter with a big dog too…apparently the noise and the colour of our car upsets the four footers and they always come running angrily on our side. Other cars are left alone. Maybe our little 911 does have a soul and the dogs can smell it? Or maybe the crookedness of our suspension looks like our baby wants to lift a leg on their territory? Who knows…


First picture in the Islamic Republic of Iran, Maku, Iran


The road to Khoy, Iran


The road to Khoy, Iran

[wreckah]

The road to Khoy, Iran


The road to Khoy, Iran


The road to Khoy, Iran

A billiard table flat highway and more spaghetti letter roadsigns brought us into Khoy, and Erwin pulled over to let me ask for directions to the Khoy Tourist Inn. My heart skipped a beat when I saw Erwin approaching the border stone without noticing the huge sewer gap that separated it from the road. We parked up a few mms from this ravine. Phew again.

A store owner jumped out of his tiny bazaar and recognized where we wanted to go, and jumped with me and Erwin into the car! Three big men in the front of a tiny Porsche, I bet that was the reason for the extra looks we got while we made our way through the congested centre of Khoy. The friendly man stepped out of the car right before our hotel, said goodbye, and walked back to his store as – I’m sure - a happy man.


Hotel room pointing to Mekka, Khoy, Iran


Erwin writing ‘dear diary’, Khoy, Iran


Chocolate, Khoy, Iran


Women in black Chadors (veils), Khoy, Iran


Police man, Khoy, Iran


Khoy, Iran


Khoy, Iran

[wreckah]

Khoy, Iran

We cooled off in a steaming hot tea house, drinking ehhhh… tea, and smoking a huge mint flavoured shisha ( water pipe), kindly put on our table by mister Patrick Swayzey himself - Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes "time of my life". When we returned to the hotel, we witnessed the start of a huge party: don’t get any ideas though, there was no French can-can on the tables to be seen. Men and women sat in separate rooms and very quietly ate their dinner.

We misunderstood the directions to the police office the next morning, so we arrived there only after a very healthy 1,5hr morning walk. A two-striped benjamin soldier couldn’t help us, so he summoned his four-striped boss - Bodycount "KKK *****". It became clear that the kind man wasn’t going to help us anytime soon, and our feelings were correct: the officer sent us through to Orumiye, a much bigger town, where they surely could help us finding new number plates and possibly a much needed petrol card as well.

We tried navigating out of Khoy on gut feeling and the sun, but that clearly wasn’t enough. We stopped at a crossroads, and an old Peugeot 405 - apparently the only car being sold in Iran - halted next to us, and offered to lead us out of town and to Orumiye. Great! We were following the peug for quite some time when another car joined the caravan: a brilliant old light green Mercedes benz 230E with white striped tires. The two funny men inside were laughing and taking photographs of us, and we were continuously swapping places behind the 405. Just outside Orumiye, I needed a little break from driving, so I pulled over. I knew these guys would join us for sure, and I thought that this could be fun. Of course it was: the two men jumped out of the benz and started photographing like maniacs. One of them even gave Erwin a great big loving kiss on the cheek for the photo - Bee Gees "How deep is your love?"!


Green Mercedes benz on the way to Orumiye, Iran


‘Okay Okay’-man, Orumiye, Iran

We had a smoke together, talked a bit about the cars, and then I asked where to find the police station in Orumiye. Sure enough, they guys wanted to lead us there! So Erwin stepped into the Merc, while one of the guys jumped into the Porsche with me. He knew only two words in English (Okay and Okay), but we had a blast driving through the busy city centre. The funny bearded man was controlling the traffic on the right side of the car with wild arm gestures. He stopped taxi drivers and busses to let me through, and I had a brilliant time steering the 911 through the maze.

Once in the police station – after leaving our mobile phones at the entrance booth – we quickly discovered that nothing was going to happen that day. The merc guys did the negotiating in Farci, and translated it for us afterwards. Some officer was on holiday and they wouldn’t deliver our plates for the next two days. Bummer, because Orumiye isn’t exactly the most spectacular place on earth, and our ‘lonely planet’ guide showed no points of intrest in the surrounding areas too. The green benz boyz showed us the way to Hotel Ana, once again with beardy beside me, smoking like a ehmmm Turk inside the Porsche, but I ddn’t mind at all. A fruit juice from the mini bar was all the guys wanted in return for 2hrs of their time and quite a bit of petrol – which is cheap, but very hard to get over here.

Not knowing what to do with our extra time, we went for another walk around town, and we scented something very familiar when strolling down Imam Avenue: a fresh bakery smell mixed with some fresh fruits…mmmm, this could be something. We entered the salon, and ordered everything on display! We had the famous ‘boule de berlin’s, some very sugary muffins, and a couple of fruit shakes on top. This reminded me of the fresh shakes I drank all the time when I was in Syria a couple of years back. Deliciously refreshing…and filling.


Fruit shakes in Orumiye, Iran


Fruit shakes in Orumiye, Iran

We surely are not on a diet on this trip. We both love to indulge ourselves into the local gastronomy, and if we get fat in the process…who cares! So we went out to dinner once more that night, and had a great conversation with Gingis – the boss - during our meal. We were a bit startled when he proposed to pick up the check for us when we were done. If it wasn’t for Erwin, I would have accepted it, but luckily my travelling buddy is a bit more conservative regarding these issues, and insisted that we paid for our dinner ourselves.

Later that night, I read a chapter in our travel guide which explained this strange proposition from Gingis: in Iran there is a weird form of politeness behaviour, which is called Ta’arof. People will offer you things they cannot really afford – to make them equal in rank as you – and rely on the fact that you will effectively not accept it. This gives them a way out, without losing their dignity. The rule is to refuse an offer 3 times, and only accept it when they keep on insisting…because they really mean it then. Another lesson learned.

Hotel Ana was more or less a dump, with electricity failures at regular intervals, leaky faucets, funky odours, dirty towels, dusty bunks with too small sheets and itchy blankets, deafening traffic noise, but luckily with a splendid entrance lobby in marble…No wonder we got up too late for breakfast, which they still served us, but which unfortunately sucked anyway. It was a cold day with nothing to do except some writing and some internet surfing. We fell asleep at 8 in the evening, exhausted from the emptiness.


Bazaar, Orumiye, Iran


Mosque, Orumiye, Iran


Mosque, Orumiye, Iran

[wreckah]

Mosque, Orumiye, Iran


Kids in Renault 5, Orumiye, Iran


Black chadors, Orumiye, Iran


Police ‘men’, Orumiye, Iran


The streets of Orumiye, Iran


Old man in the streets of Orumiye, Iran

Day 3 in Orumiye promised to be better: we arrived at the police station early in the morning, and discovered that the commanding officer was on duty, and that there might be a chance that we would get our – otherwise totally unimportant – Iranian number plates. We were in for a treat though: as the things go in heavily isolated countries like these, we had to run from booth to booth, drink tea wherever we went, sign very important papers which would then be classified in very important thick books, run to one bank to do a money transfer, run to another bank to do another money transfer, run to the ‘computer room’ with the receipt, and run back to the second bank to have it all checked out…etc pure unadultured red tape…and I loved it. You meet a lot of people in a short period of time, and you learn how a country functions regarding administration. Slow and disorganized thus, but fun if you’re simply traveling!

After ca. 3hrs we had all our documents ready for the acquisition of our number plates. We proudly presented them to the officer, who looked upon our work with a Jack Nicholson grin. He ordered his boys outside to check the VIN and engine number. Doh! We had done everything on foot, and the car was still parked at the hotel, so there I went again for another 20 minutes walk, and a hectic gut feeling drive through the unknown city streets. Everything checked out perfectly of course, and when we returned into the station, I gave the guys in the security booth a warm ‘Salam’ for the 10th time or so, and shook their hands for the 10th time or so. I even gave one of them my best military salute, just for laughs. And then one of the young military guards – Latif - made my day: he gave me a slip of paper on which he’d written a couple of words in English: “You are my friend. I love you very very very much. I can’t speak English! Because I’m soldier. I live in Kurdestan. Again I love you. I’m happy. See you. (smiley face) Keep this paper.”


Love letter to Jan De Man, from soldier in Orumiye, Iran

This is what traveling is all about for me. These are the wonderful reactions you get to a smile and a positive attitude…something I miss in my home country. These people feel that we are not rich kids in a Porsche. They feel we are good folk, and act correspondingly. Simply fantastic. ( Just this afternoon I got a fresh orange from a total stranger on a motorway parking lot! Otherwise it was a boring day, but this once again made up for it completely.)

I am sitting here on the sunny terrace of our hotel room in Esfahan – overlooking the marvellous Si-o-seh bridge - writing the next chapter of our story. Erwin and I have had a couple of tiring days, and we both feel that our tempo needs to be slowed down. The climate is pleasant now, after freezing for nearly three weeks – Sheryl Crow “Soaking up the sun”: we’re enjoying a perfectly clear sky to visit the wonders of the city of Esfahan, Iran’s number one attraction.

[Chuck Moreland]

What a trip! Incredible.

I've yet to read the whole post but will when I have a few minutes to spend.

Thanks for sharing.

[imcarthur]

Thanks for the great stories. I am loving the adventure!

Ian