Eastern Turkiye. February 1980.

Lonely Planet’s “Across Asia on the cheap” describes Eastern Turkiye as the harshest part of the country and as “the area where the opium poppies used to grow and ... the kids, if not egged on by their parents are certainly not restrained and specialise in hurling stones through car windows.”

My bus ‘Befa’ was flagged down several hours inside the Turkish border, on route to Erzurum. Snow was ankle high. A tall, authoritative police superintendent sauntered up to Iain’s cab window, leaned his elbow against the window frame and, other hand out-stretched, palm up, demanded our bus paperwork. He had an intelligent savvy face, hardened by both the summer sun and winter wind.

Flicking through our paperwork and apparently finding one item out of date, he curtly summoned Iain and I to the police station, a spartan wooden building to the side of the road. Beside it was a huge pile of chopped wood in a corrugated iron lean-to.

Inside, the wooden floors were strewn with well-worn Turkish kilims and peasant rugs. Three filing cabinets, a large wooden desk cluttered with disorganised paperwork and two smaller tables for and the red deputies completed the furniture. A stern Mustafa Kemal frowned down from a photo above the main desk. Beside a clock hung the superintendent’s tertiary qualifications.

Iain and I downed bitter black cay and gratefully warmed ourselves in the heat emanating from the pot-bellied stove. On it sat a double tea-pot, samovar style. The commandant was less concerned with the legitimacy of our paperwork and more about chatting to foreigners. “Where are you from? Where are you going?” He was keen to boast that he was one of the youngest police chiefs in the country. “I am not surprised,” I thought, “this cold, remote location would hardly be sought after by qualified competition.” He was more astute than Barney Fife’ (the archetypal overzealous, inept deputy from the ‘60s ‘The Andy Griffiths Show’) but this was far from a thriving metropolis.

As time ticked on, my attention waned and my vision glazed over until, looking through his window, smudged and smeared by road dust ... I was stupefied to see three female punters possessing generous bare bottoms squatting to pee on the far side of our bus. I hastily rose, stuttered and blustered a few hasty words to distract the chief’s attention, thinking we were amazingly culturally insensitive. He DID see the three female butts but didn’t mind and, stifling a wry grin, waved away my apologies ...

When questioned later the three flashers (or was that mooners?) apologised profusely saying they were caught short! There was a nearby farmer checking his fences so they had limited choices. They were going to flash someone! I thought the obvious solution would have been to ask to use the police station’s facilities.

Fifteen minutes later, youths just outside a small township threw missiles accurately and smashed a back window. They scattered before we could catch them. The ‘inflated ego’ police chief also arrived, but could not find the culprits!

The tour before, buses Casper and Rags had taken the alternative Tahir Pass, 2400+ feet above sea level. Demanding. Hence I thought for Befa, the military road at lower altitude would be easier. On Casper, I was roused from my sleeping bag just before midnight. “ Everyone out!” Still groggy from slumping into a deep sleep after an extended driving period, I descended into a snow storm. Guaranteed to have you awake in seconds. Icy cold. Stinging snow was sleeting down diagonally to assault my face and hands. Casper was descending a winding gravel incline down a gully. Steep banks on either side. Inching along. Sliding. I went cab-side where Loxley shouted “Walk in front of the bus, Ian. Can we grip the road or will we slide into that bank?”

The next fifteen minutes was bitterly cold. I was inadequately dressed. The snow was bright in the glare of the spotlights but beyond that it was all guesswork. My face quickly became deadened and my feet were Arctic. I had to stamp them to get circulation moving. My body heat was leaching away … rapidly. Shivering uncontrollably, I glanced at Casper and through the headlights I could see the wipers swiping snow away in a metronomic rhythm. Behind them Loxley was squinting, peering, rubbing the condensation away from the inside, endeavouring to see the way forward.

Eventually the gradient straightened and flattened out. The punters clambered back in and we made progress.

The next morning, Casper and Rags were confronted with a Turkish articulated truck blocking the road. It’s cab hung precariously over a bank. The driver had experienced similar icy issues the night before. Other drivers looked subdued. They puffed on cigarettes and conversed. Stamping up and down on the berm’s mud to see if it could take a heavy weight, I stood with Trevor, both silently taking the situation in and weighing up our options. It was the first time I’d seen Trevor go so long without uttering a word. His mind was working overtime. I pointed out a possible way to get our buses around the truck. Trevor pondered.

The passing manoeuvre was successful with Casper but Rags, quickly descended further into the soil to tilt alarmingly. Steve in the cab seemed remarkably calm. Unfazed. I later learned Lodekka’s could lean over to an angle of twenty-eight degrees before toppling. A Turkish lorry came to our rescue. Trevor asked if he had a strong cable which he then wrapped around the two towing lugs attached to Rag’s chassis.

By reversing, Rags was successfully hauled out of the quagmire.

Mew

#CatsOnFrienduca

Mew

#catsOnFriendica