Open heart surgery can be a good thing.

If you bike starts making a noise it doesn’t normally make, it generally warrants an investigation. Changing down a gear while going around a tight corner started a loud tick tick ticking. Ginger has made this sound briefly one day but the noise went away. 10kms later the ticking is getting louder, like one of those movies where the bomb is about to go off.. I pull into a service station and started looking, there is nothing obvious but it sounds as though it‘s coming from the engine. Maybe she just needed a rest - I wonder with naïve hope. I checked the oil, Ginger had used almost half the tank in 50 kilometres…that can’t be good. Two men had stopped in their car and came over to have a look. After much umming and ahhing, it was agreed that I needed to head back into Adiyaman, town I had just come through and get some help.

Ginger limped back into town, I was keeping the speed down to prevent any more damage and wondered where I would find a mechanic. A little further down the road shiny new mototbikes were lined up on the curb and a Honda sign helped to decorate a small shop window. Motorcyle mechanic lutflen? Grease stained hands point to Ramazan…we all listen to the bike. Ramazan knows very little English so the shaking of his head brings enough panic in me to ring Zeki…my Turkish guardian angel. Another mechanic arrives on the scene and I sit like a visitor in a hospital ward while Ginger’s prognosis is being determined. I feel funny - almost sad. If this had happened at the start of my journey I might have said oh well, I made it this far (the chicken in me raising its ugly head). But now,…..now I want to make it to the end, I don’t want this taken from me, I’ve come through so much. I want to experience more.

The doctors come into the waiting room (small chair in the corner of the workshop) with solemn looks. It’s not good, you will need to get her fixed but if you go slowly you should be able to get to Istanbul where there is help. But I’m not going to Istanbul, that’s the wrong way.. I’m going to Iran!!! Again, the lack of English makes comprehending this hard but with Zeki on the phone, we determine that surgery could occur in Adyaman but it will take 4 - 5 days. Ohhhhh…not so good but better than going back to Istanbul.

Ramazan’s family kindly offer to put me up for the time Ginger will be in hospital. He has two late teen daughters which we pick up in the afternoon to visit some Roman ruins just outside of town. I would have missed these beautiful old structures buried in the hill side if they didn‘t show me. The next few days are spent with Gulah, Gisem and Sinem while Ramazan undertakes open heart surgery. We look for clothes suitable for me to wear in Iran and meet the neighbours every day for Turkish Coffee. I love to watch the women interact, I have no idea what they are saying but it’s fun to watch the gestures. They keep their scarfs on their heads even in this informal all female company although Gulah doesn’t wear one at all.
　

The whole family take me on a picnic where I learn to shell unshelled sunflower seeds with my teeth and tongue. And to understand that if you see a Turkish woman rubbing mud over a really big pot it stops it from going black in the fire (and unless you like intestines...it’s best not to taste the contents). We visit the graves of Gulah’s parent in a little village both Ramazan and her were brought up in. There is such homely innocence in people from this town. Young kids can just stroll around the park by themselves without fear, children can just be children without forced to become adults too quickly and families spending Sundays together picnicking. I think it’s great.

I really relish the time I had with this amazing Turkish family and feel a little sad when Ginger is right to go. She’s purring like a tiger and has a working speedo again - I wonder how long it will last this time. If she had broken down in Iran it would have been the end of my journey so here, where there is help, was the best place for it to happen.

Nemrut Dagi is where a king with more time and money than sense ordered his people to make the tallest mountain in the area…..err…taller. He did this by getting them to carry millions of tons of rock from the sea to create a 50metre extension on the highest peak. After a brilliant afternoon ride through the nearby villages, I head towards the mountain top for the sunset. Fearing I might be too late, I fly around corners on the paved surface, hoping not to overshoot and fall down the other side. The car park is steep and all the parks at the top where it’s flatter are taken. The three musketeers' bikes don’t seem to be amongst the plethora of mini buses. I make the worlds worst park at the direction of a suicidal bus driver who beckons me forward to a patch of ground that I’m never getting the bike out of and is perched at a gravelly bit of road on the side of a drop. A friendly wave from one musketeer in the coffee shop above suggests two things - firstly the guys ARE here and secondly - I’ll have some grunt to help extract the bike.

The Muskateers had arrived at the same guesthouse later that afternoon . Four Istanbulians who had been riding around Eastern Turkey. They were hilarious company and one even turned out to be a famous motorcycle rider and TV commentator - not that I knew. We walk up the last 1km of mountain together and watch the sun set over man’s folly…enormous heads backed by a loose stone pyramid.

The Musketeers leave early the next morning. I crawl out of bed to say good bye as I had been up half the night with something that just didn’t want to stay in my body. Other guests have it too, so I suspect the kitchen…but you can never be sure. That evening three other bikers arrive: a couple from Italy and a German grandfather called Joseph who is following the Silk Road. It’s great to have some biking company and the general vibe of the place is very friendly with guests all speaking to each other….something that I had been missing since Cappadocia. It turns out that Joseph is likely to be crossing the Iranian border at the same time as me. He’s taking a different road to the border but we will try to meet up when we both get there. I had been worried that they would not let me in as a single female rider. As long as my carnet (bike passport) makes it to the border in time, it looks like I’ll have company after all. Brilliant!

 
Total Kilometres travelled: 3277
Unexpected stays with Turkish families: 2
Bits that were pulled off Ginger: 289 at least!
Lessons learnt - never follow the parking directions of a non biker - especially suicidal mini bus drivers.
Times I have been sick on the trip: 2