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'VIA RISHIKESH - A HITCH-HIKER'S TALE'
An account of hitch-hiking from England to Europe,
North Africa, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan & India in 1970
by Paul Mason
© Paul Mason 2006
Chapter 12
UP IN THE CLOUDS
Since this is only a domestic voyage we very much doubt that accommodation will be provided for us deck class ticket holders. So we assume that by getting here earlier than the rest of the passengers we might find a comfortable niche for ourselves. We manage to arrive in order to board the boat in Istanbul harbour but it is already very busy and we find a line of Turkish passengers queuing for information about sleeping quarters. When it comes to our turn, our tickets are inspected and I am dispatched below deck, but I find it very hot and extremely claustrophobic with the smell of laundry permeating everything. After the steward has shown me about the cramped dormitory I find the bed that has been allocated for me and I return to where Yolanda is waiting, still holding my baggage.
'You have a look, see what you think,' I suggest.
Yolanda disappears down the other staircase to the women's quarters but is not long; she reappears with a look of disapproval writ over her face.
'It stinks of damp clothes, I don't like it,' she moans.
We exchange uneasy glances.
'Well let's look around the rest of the ship,' I suggest.
As we wander about on deck I get an idea;
'What about the lifeboats? Maybe we could hide in one of those.'
'It's worth a try,' Yolanda agrees.
Checking first to see that we are not being observed we climb into a nearby lifeboat. There is easy space enough for the two of us to make a comfortable camp here, but concerned that we might be discovered and thrown out, we crouch down low in hope of avoiding detection. It is pleasant enough just staring up at the sky, but I am interrupted by the sound of someone's voice…
'Oh sorry, I was just looking around,' he says. 'You've got a good idea staying up here.'
'It will be nice to sleep under the open sky,' I answer him.
'I think I'll find my bag and get in one of the other boats. See you…'
We miss the actual departure from Istanbul as unfortunately someone else has discovered our quarters.
'No, you find your own place. We got here first.' I tell the intruder, but he climbs in anyway, deaf to all objections from Yolanda and myself. He hauls his luggage his luggage into the life craft and sits facing us; resolute, determined and belligerent; never in my life have I come across someone more thick-skinned. I get really furious with him, but undeterred he moves to sit on the side of the boat and, belatedly, tries to make friends with us!
'My name his Fritz. Vhat is yours?' he asks in a strong German accent and offers his cigarettes around. His efforts are met with measured politeness and eventually he gives up working on us and decides to go off in search of his own boat.
'Good riddance,' I mutter after he has gone.
'Rude sod. Arrogant swine,' remarks Yolanda.
We get visits from other passengers too, and before long there are a fair amount of western passengers keen to move out into the lifeboats.
I had wondered why the Black Sea was so called. Was the water really black? Now I am in a position to check. It appears very dark to the eye but I don't think this the actual colour of the water. More likely is that the rock that lies below the surface gives it this appearance. The huge inland reservoir of still water that is the Black Sea resembles a vast unending still lake. Fortunately, we keep the coastline in view at all times and maintain a fairly steady speed.
Although the views are of no great interest, they hold a certain amount of interest, the journey looks as though it will restful and undemanding. We have prepared ourselves with some basic provisions, which we are determined to eke out with care.
We get become friendly with the few other Europeans on board, even with Fritz. Our fellow travellers are without exception joy riding, for after Turkey they are all going home.
Back in Istanbul I had met a couple intent on getting to India.
'Where are you from in London?' I had asked.
'Richmond, Man,' he answered
'What a small world. Of the two other people I've met going to India, they're both from London and from places I know well.'
'That's the way it goes..' he replied knowingly.
Since we had nothing to tie us together other than this thin thread of coincidence, we soon parted. The peculiar thing for me, of meeting folks from England was that it is very much a love-hate thing. On the one hand it is a relief to speak in English, but on the other it usually puts my back up to be reminded how 'cool' they are. Anthony being a notable exception.
Our first stop is to be the port of Sinop, and when we dock I am eager to explore the place. Yolanda and I and a motley handful of others go ashore, but being a port there is precious little of interest besides the usual industrial sights of cranes, loading bays and what have you. Our main purpose lies in replenishing our food supplies and soaking up the local atmosphere, so we forge on and are repaid for our efforts in that we find some good shops. The walk has done us all good and we return to the ship refreshed and sharpened by the exercise.
So it is with the next port, Samsun, a name for me conjures up the longhaired lover Samson who lost his mane. Samsun has another association; it is also the name of the most popular brand of Turkish cigarettes - how exciting?! Actually, as the trip draws to an end I find myself clutching at straws to find entertainment as the trip is getting decidedly dowdy. I really hope things pick up soon, but we have only night more on board before we are due to arrive at our destination.
*
With only minutes to go before disembarkation at the port of Trabzon we make the rather rash decision to order breakfast in the onboard cafe.
When our food arrives I stare in disbelief for in front of us are two glasses of tea, a plate of large black shiny olives, dry white cheese and a hunk of bread. It seems I am destined for disappointment as I yearn for a breakfast of cornflakes, toast and marmalade.
'Is there something wrong with this bread?' I ask Yolanda.
'There is no salt in it. Strange isn't it?'
'It's disgusting, it all is,' I snort, 'what a waste of money!'
Strangely though, the more I eat the more I enjoy it.
I am aware that the ship has now docked and there is a rush to clear the ship. We disembark and walk slowly through the town before sitting ourselves by the roadside at a likely looking spot to hitch a ride.
'Do you realise we haven't hitched since Africa?' I point out.
'Yes you're right it's simply ages.' Yolanda seems to be very surprised at this reminder.
'Our last lift was the truck from Tunisia to Tripoli. That was a near thing at the wash house wasn't it? I think they were out to lynch us you know? We got out in the gee nick of time. That driver was brilliant.'
'But what did we do wrong though?'
'Perhaps it was our singing,' I suggest.
'The weather's getting colder isn't it?' Yolanda points out.
'It's not so bad, but I see what you mean.'
Waiting for a lift depends on one single factor - that of a driver actually stopping with the intention of offering a lift. I suppose in theory it is possible that this might never happen, there had certainly been times when it looked as if it wouldn't happen for us, perhaps we will have to find some other means of transport to the border of Iran?
A car screeches to a halt and the occupant looks out at us, it is almost as if he expected us to be here! The driver resembles one of the villain types we had seen in the movies although he seemed friendly enough. To be back on the road feels exquisite; as far as I am concerned you can keep all your mod cons, tickets, reservations, queues and all that jazz. There is something special about hitching a ride, after all, no one has to give a lift and by the same token no one has to accept one. Ergo, it's by choice, mutual choice.
As we move further away from Trabzon the scenery becomes more and more pleasant, so much so that I begin making comparisons to Merry England, and in particular to Cornwall. Our car climbs a fairly steep incline and at last come to the top of the hill. The view fairly blows me away for nestled here in this valley are beautifully rustic dwellings, rolling countryside, fields of waving crops and to the sides of the lane, curbside flowers.
'My mum would love it here,' I enthuse.
'It's beautiful,' gasps Yolanda breathlessly.
I am distracted from the stunning view by our driver fumbling in his jacket pocket, and now he produces the fruit of his search, a shiny gun! As he brandishes the revolver I struggle not to shit myself as he holds tight the steering wheel and fixes me with a defiant unwholesome grin and nods gently.
I gaze back at him as nonchalantly as I can; it is sheer bravado, as I feel powerless to deal with the situation.
He jabs his finger on the chrome button of the glove compartment before me, and then throws the weapon inside, but in the process is less than attentive over his steering and nearly causing the car to run off the road. After arighting the steering wheel he snaps the glove compartment shut, with the gun inside.
Whether our mustachioed driver really is a villain is a matter of conjecture, but he makes no further show of his gun nor does he make us feel uncomfortable again
As ever, all good lifts come to an end, and today we find ourselves rediscovering our legs again, as we take to walking along the country roads. Rambling our way through the beautiful countryside, we pass through the occasional simple hamlets and sometimes we attract the attention from local children. We stop off in a village café for a cup our tea. We also stop to purchase some bread and tomatoes before proceeding along the road, eating the food as we go. I notice we are being followed by a group of children; after smiling at them we continue on our way.
An object strikes the ground in front of us, it is a stone, and is followed by others all seemingly aimed at us! The children continue to pelt us with stones, paying no heed to shouts of disapproval. It is an uneasy situation, but we try to ignore them in the hope they will stop, but they do not. As I become increasingly concerned for our safety I start to pick up stones to arm myself. When Yolanda sees me do this she pulls at my arm.
'Don't do it Paul,' she shrieks, 'You'll get their families killing you. That's what they'll do. Paul, don't!'
I heed her words and hasten our pace until we are all but running. The air becomes thick with ever-larger stones being hurled at us, and although many hit their targets I resist the burning temptation to retaliate. But although I feel that Yolanda is right, I resent having to let the kids have their way. As luck has it they tire of their sport and we get away with no more than minor bruising.
Why had they picked on us? Yolanda is convinced she has the answer, and explains that it is on account of their seeing that she has hair under her armpits! I wonder, personally I think it is simply that we are strangers to them and they need no other excuse.
We make it on to a fairly big town by which time it is getting dark so we seek out a cheap hotel for the temperature is getting exceedingly cold and we see no point in sleeping rough tonight. The room that is provided is ill lit and run-down but it does have plenty of blankets, so at least we get to have a sound night's sleep.
* * *
A bright new morning dawns and after freshening up we set off again for fresh adventures knowing that with every pace we are getting ever closer to our goal. Studying our map it appears that Persia is but a day or two's travel away.
Before we find a place to hitch a ride we take a quick shufty around the town. There are the usual facilities available, a bank, a post office and handful of shops. I'm not sure what a Citadel is but I am convinced that the unusual building on the skyline must be one, for it looks like a place of worship and is like no other church or mosque that I have seen.
But I wonder that these people are particularly religious? If they were why would they let their children throw rocks at strangers? Today we are involved in another such incident of stone throwing which is altogether as intense and dangerous as the day. One of these rocks could kill so again we take flight only narrowly escaping severe injury. I really start to wonder if we are not being warned off?
Bob Dylan sang that 'Everybody must get stoned'. Has he been to Turkey? What does he know?
We could really use a lift to get us out of this district; it is about time we got a move on but we sit it out anyway.
I notice a van winding its way down the road; it is a Dormobile camper van driven by a young western woman. The flash of a thumb brings an immediate response, the vehicle stops. Brilliant!!!!!!
The van belongs to an English couple who offers us a lift. Once we are settled in and on the move we tell them of our recent escapades. They respond very coolly. 'Yes, common practice in these parts. Haven't you heard the biblical story of Stephen the martyr? He was stoned to death?'
'Here? Really? So they've been at it as long as all that have they?' I muse that this means they have been at this stone throwing business for at least two thousand years!