Sunday 5 December 2010

From Istanbul












The days are short now and up on the plateau it is cold. Today a heavy mass of inky cloud covers the sky over Ankara. I spend a day here and walk to the hilltop where Ataturk is buried. A paved avenue, flanked by stone lions, leads through neatly trimmed lawns to a broad courtyard. Stern faced soldiers parade towards a tall flagpole at the compound’s southern edge; marching in unison, with high strides like John Cleese. There are long lines of school children, many clutching single red roses, being led towards the grand mausoleum at the east of the site. They file between the tall spherical pillars, into the high grey-walled chamber, and on towards the coffin at the end of the room. I stand behind and watch them, walking in pairs, and with tiny hands drop the flowers on the steps before the tomb. Beneath the chamber there are a network of vaults whose walls are covered wıth sprawling war panoramas, showing scenes from long-ago battles with the Greeks. There is rousing national music and taped gunfire and booming speeches, and the children file on by. When I leave, rain is falling and all the grey stone seems forlorn.


In the morning I ride west towards Beypazari. It is a good feeling to pass the last of the tall towers that flank the road from the city, and to stare out at the desolate moors all around. The tar is rougher now and whenever I pass a flock of sheep, the Kangal dogs tear towards me and circle the bicycle, barking and growling. The trees stand out like lonely obelisks above the murky green slopes and the wind sweeps over the vales and fills my ears with a roar like crashing waves.


I pass over a long hillside and into a broad valley. Far ahead hills crowd the horizon and thick quilts of bruised cloud roll across the sky. It is nearing dusk as I ride down to Beypazari; a cluster of old Otoman houses crammed beneath a rocky ridge. Many of the buildings have been smartly done-up wıth clear white facades and dark-wooden framed windows. Others are crumbling; the terracotta roods patched up with tarpaulins and walls of bare wooden splints collapsing inwards.


I continue west to Mudurnu, past a wide flood plain encircled by hills. A shallow trail of brown water runs lazily through a vast liver-coloured marsh of soggy silt. Steep slopes of brown and grey rock rise high from the edges of the plain. From the roadside the rock looks soft like putty; the slopes are heavily creased; folded and knotted like the hide of a crocodile’s back. The land is drier further west and the hillsides speckled with deep green pines. Near the road, isolated humps of bare rock stand amidst the pastures. The rock looks to be peeling and serated circular ridges run across the body of the mounds like chain-saw rims. It is very empty here: the only other life far off flocks of sheep.


I pass Nallıhan, and mountains begin to collect before me. There are villages nestled amidst the hills and long lines of wispy trees set back from the road. A man with a backpack and a staff is walking towards me. He tells me he is walking to Jerusalem. I give him a packet of biscuits and tell what I can of the road behind. He begins to laugh and tells me I must climb over a mountain in a few miles.


Soon I am climbing, and then racing down the other side; the wind rushing towards me, carrying the smell of the pines. I look across and can see the lower hills rising and falling like waves before me. I reach Mudurnu at dusk and leave at first light. It is clear today and I cross the last of the swelling hills and valleys of the Anatolian highlands and soon I am descending from the plateau and I know the journey is near its end. I ride on and on, past Akyazi, past Adapazari, past a sign showing 100 km to İstanbul, and on to İzmit. There are wide roads and tall buildings here and the night air is warm; it seems like days ago that I set off in the frosty dawn from Mudurnu.


The road to İstanbul hugs the northern coast of the Marmara Sea. Off the road there are soot-coated factories and warehouses and noisy truck stops. The spaces between the towns begin to narrow and a cramped clutter of buildings stream together into a single conurbation. I am close now and the traffic roars past. When another road joins the highway I am left floating in the middle lanes; the cars careering past and honking and I look straight ahead. I see the steel frames of the Bosphorous Bridge and weave slowly between the standing traffic towards the first high arch. I hear the blast of a siren and a policeman tells me I cannot ride across the bridge. I turn back and pedal round to Uskudar and soon I am leaning over the railings of a boat, staring at rays of faint sunshine splintering through the grey clouds behind the towering the silhouettes of the Aya Sofya and the Blue Mosque.