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“Allahu Akbar!”
The meuzzin’s time-honoured call rang out into the sultry afternoon heat.
“Allahu Akbar!
Allah is the greatest.
Eshedu en lailahe il Allah.
I testify that there is no other Allah than Allah.
I testify that Mohammed is Allah’s prophet.
Come to prayer.
Come to the temple of Salvation.
Allah is the greatest.
There is but one Allah.”

At dawn, noon, four o’clock, at sunset and during the night, Moslems are summoned to prayer in the manner prescribed by their prophet Mohammed.

Mohammed’s young life, as an orphan, was spent with relations tending their herds, but by the time he had reached the age of forty, he was making a living by managing caravans routed through Arabia. One day, as he sat meditating in a cave near Mecca, he saw a vision of the angel Gabriel. This was followed by other visions, which at first terrified him. Encouraged by his wife, he came to believe that he had been summoned as the mouthpiece of God, who was revealing to him piece by piece, in successive visions, His message for mankind. Mohammed’s doctrine was that there was only one God, but the people of Mecca did not receive this new teaching very well; their money came from the revenues of the pagan pilgrimages to the idols of the Kaaba. Kaaba means ‘cube’ in Arabic, and it describes the shape of the building, which held over three hundred and fifty idols. In one corner there is embedded an oval black stone. It is possible that it was a meteorite. However it was, and still is, considered to be sacred.

Mohammed’s task of convincing people that there was only one God was, therefore, a very difficult one, and at first his converts were few. Only one group of people, from a place known now as Medina, accepted his ideas. In 622 AD, strong opposition from Mecca and an invitation to go to Medina forced the prophet to travel two hundred miles north to preach to the Medinese. This journey, known as the Hijra, was to be regarded as the beginning of the Moslem calendar; the date being reckoned by the number of years after the Hijra, AH, instead of AD as in the Christian calendar. While Mohammed was in Medina he gathered support until, in 630 AD, he returned to Mecca with an army of religious followers to clear the idols from the Kaaba, and establish it as the shrine of the Moslem faith.

Although Mohammed died in 632 AD, his armies went on to conquer Syria, Iraq, Persia, Egypt, and North Africa, establishing Islam as they went. The words of the prophet were recorded, very haphazardly at first, on palm leaves, stones and even on the shoulder blades of animals. Today, his words and teachings are gathered together in the sacred book of the Moslems, called the Koran. It is said that the original is preserved on a tablet in heaven.

Islam is derived from the Arabic word Aslama, which means ‘to submit’. A Moslem is a person who has submitted to God and found peace. There are ‘five pillars of Islam’, or main religious duties prescribed by the prophet, which form a basis for the Moslem faith. They are unity of God; prayer, fasting during the month of Ramadan, pilgrimage to Mecca and almsgiving.

The idea of unity of God involves a simple declaration of faith, namely: There is no God (Allah) but God.

This is where one can find the fundamental difference between Islam and Christianity. Christians find this unity in the form of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit. The absolute unity of God in Islam is evident in the fact that to call a Moslem a Mohammedan would be offensive; it would imply that he worshipped Mohammed. As we have seen, Mohammed regarded himself only as a messenger.

The true believer should engage in prayer five times a day and this religious duty I will describe in some detail later in the chapter.

According to the Koran, Mohammed received his first vision during Ramadan, the ninth month on the Moslem calendar. The day, or rather the night of this revelation is considered to be the 27th of the month. It occurred on a ‘night of power’ when ‘the gates of Paradise are open; the gates of Hell shut, and the devil in chains’. The whole of the month of Ramadan, which comes at different times of the year by our calendar, is a period of fasting between the hours of sunrise and sunset. Specific instructions are given to ‘eat and drink until so much of the dawn appears that a white thread may be distinguished from a black, then keep the fast completely until night’. The only Moslems exempt from fasting are the sick and aged, young children and pregnant women.

The fourth pillar of the Moslem faith is pilgrimage to Mecca, which should be performed in the twelfth month of the lunar year. It should be undertaken at least once during the lifetime of Moslem, as long as he can afford to pay his own expenses, and those of any dependents during his absence. A woman must go together with either her husband, or a male relation. Each pilgrim has to put on a special seamless garment before carrying out the rituals, which last over a period of ten days, and are both complicated and tiring. They include walking round the Kaaba, undertaking a twelve-mile journey to Mount Arafat, running between chosen places, the kissing of the Black Stone, the stoning of the devil and frequent prayers. At the conclusion, the pilgrim shaves his head, puts on his own clothing, and thereafter is known as a Hajii.

Finally it is almsgiving. A tax of two and a half per cent used to be collected by officials, but this has now become purely a voluntary offering. To the true Moslem, the Koran is the Book of Allah, never to be touched with unwashed hands, or to be held below the waistline. It must always rest on top of other books, never beneath them, and when it is read aloud there must be silence. Children are often asked to learn the six thousand, two hundred odd sura or verses, by heart. Some Moslems will not leave their home without a copy in their possession. The opening words with which every sura begins; ‘In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful’, are often said before entering a vehicle or house, in order to avert any misfortune. One story tells of an ill tribesman, who copied out a verse of the Koran onto a piece of paper, crumpled it into a small pellet and swallowed it in the earnest belief that this would cure him.

In Edirne, ancient Hadrianopolis, and one time capital of the Ottoman State, the Muezzin was calling the faithful to prayer from the mosque of Sultan Selim. With its huge dome and a large arcaded fountain court, it is a simple yet perfect masterpiece, built by the Turkish sultan Sinan. He was considered to be one of the great architects of the world. He built more than a hundred mosques in Turkey, between his fiftieth and ninetieth years.

On the other side of the town we found the B.P. Mocamp. There was a charge of ten shillings for vehicle, tent and two people per night. These camps provide excellent facilities for cooking and washing and are situated adjacent to, or forming part of selected B.P. Filling Stations in a number of important towns in Turkey. There is very little alternative for organised camping, but cheap hotels can be found, even in some of the small villages.

We made friends with some young Turkish children who were working with their families in the fields behind the camp. As we held out a handful of sweets, they all made a feverish grab. One little bright-eyed girl, wearing a red dress over her baggy trousers, came back later and offered us a small watermelon. The whole area seemed to be taken over for harvesting purposes. Each family was very busy throughout the day, everyone taking a turn at sitting on the wooden, horse-drawn sledges, which were forever turning in a circle, grinding the corn. Some people were engaged in winnowing, throwing handfuls of corn into the air, and letting the wind carry the light husks away while the grain fell to the earth. At night their large bonfires gave a warm glow in the darkness and we went to sleep in our tent to the muffled sound of distant voices and barking dogs.

Suddenly we were awakened by a noise, which suggested that someone was tampering with the Land Rover. I got out to look, but there did not seem to be anybody about and the vehicle was secure, so I crawled back into the tent. A few minutes later we were disturbed again by the same noise coming from the same direction. Grumbling to myself, I got up once again and this time opened the rear door of the Land Rover. Peering inside I could make out that several things had been repositioned. The general chaos suggested that a burglar had been at work but, there, sitting in our washing-up bowl, was a cat. It looked terrified at having been discovered. For a moment it froze, dead still, then with a sudden spring it was out of the door and had vanished into the night.

In the morning, Lilla, the little Turkish girl and her brother, Nazmir followed us into town. Horse-drawn cabs rattled along the dusty road. The horses wore bells and bright turquoise blue beads on their bridles, the beads to ward off the evil eye. Shops and houses, made of wood and plaster, were in poor shape but sold all kinds of things. Judging by the number selling cakes and sweet stuffs of various sorts, the Turk must have a very sweet tooth. In fact, the Turks are renowned for their flaky pastry filled with nuts and honey and called baclava. Spaced at regular intervals along the road were the shoeshine boys, their boxes decorated with colourful picture postcards, their brass-domed polish containers kept bright and shining – a good advertisement for their trade.

Turning into one street we were confronted by the sight of so many different vegetables, many that we did not know. There were boxes and baskets piled high with shiny red and green peppers, giant-sized tomatoes, purple aubergines or eggplants, cabbages, beans, peas, lemons and cucumbers. The colours were startling and the impact upon us after many weeks in Communist countries, where sometimes little more than potatoes were sold in the shops was tremendous. There was no difficulty in recognising the butcher’s shop. Revolting looking chunks of meat dripping blood were hanging outside, accompanied by intestines and animals’ stomachs blown up to look like balloons. All was subject to the settling of the flies.

Gazing wide-eyed as we walked along, we heard someone call: “Hallo”. Turning round we saw a girl waving excitedly, as she tried to battle her way through the jostling crowds towards us.

“My name’s Margaret”– she said breathlessly. “I’m working here as a teacher with the Kennedy Peace Corps Organisation. It’s so good to speak to someone who understands the same language, that I just had to catch you up.”

We introduced ourselves, and an American couple, with whom we were strolling around the town having previously met them at the camp.

“Would you like to come along to my flat for a cup of coffee, then perhaps you’d like to see the school where I work.”

Margaret’s flat, comprising of a couple of rooms, was small, but bright and comfortable. It was decorated with many souvenirs of Turkey that she was collecting. As we sat talking together, we heard of her difficulties in getting the children out of their formal routine of discipline, and how she preferred a lively class, not one that sat still and quiet. Apparently she was managing very well, and the children were becoming quite able at memorising English words. Her patience must have been infinite, for her class consisted of between seventy and eighty boys and girls of eleven years of age and over. What we admired most of all was her genuine enthusiasm for her work and the Turkish people.

Suddenly we realised that it was time for lunch.

“How about us all going to a restaurant together?”– Margaret suggested.

“Good idea – replied the American couple – then you can introduce us to some of the Turkish dishes.“

“The interesting thing about eating in a lokanta or restaurant – said Margaret – is that one is expected to go into the kitchen and choose one’s meal.”

As we walked through the town, Margaret stopped to buy bread. In the bakery three or four men in white overalls, were very busy, but one came over to speak with her.

“I think I must be known by almost everyone in Edirne”– she laughed.

The restaurant that we went to was quite simple, but Margaret’s help was greatly appreciated in the kitchen, where we were confronted by an assortment of bowls containing all kinds of vegetables and meats. Finally, we sat down to a plate of kebabs, stuffed green peppers, red beans, tomato salad and diced cucumber in yoghurt.

Afterwards we visited the school and were introduced to the headmaster.

Thanking Margaret for her hospitality, we left later in the afternoon and walked back through the town past many open-air cafes frequented by men only. They sit for hours, staring rather indifferently at the world passing by, fingering their amber prayer beads, or occasionally playing a game of backgammon. No doubt their wives were busy at home!

Leaving the Mocamp, we followed the London Highway until, at last the fortified walls of the old city of Istanbul came into view. Many kings and emperors, between 600 BC, and 450 AD, reinforced or rebuilt these walls, but those completed by the Roman Emperor Theodosius still mark, to some extent, the Western boundary of the city. A notice at the roadside stated, ‘Rakim 10, Nufus 1,466,600’. The first figure gives the altitude, in metres, above sea level, and the second indicates the population. We were to see similar notices at the entry to most towns and villages on our journey through Turkey.

At the time when Byzas founded Byzantium, it was common for advice to be taken from the oracle at Delphi for all major policy decisions. When Byzas asked where he should site his new city, the oracle replied, “Opposite the Blind.” And, although not understood at the time, this was later interpreted to mean opposite Chalcedon where the Chalcedonians had settled. The oracle’s reference to the blind, inferred that a much superior site across the Bosphorus would have been preferable. Ancient Chalcedon was renamed Kadikoy, and together with Uskudar, formerly Scutari, where Florence Nightingale ministered to the injured during the Crimean War, it now forms the suburbs of Istanbul, the only city in the world that spans two continents.

Istanbul is divided into two sectors on the European side of the Bosphorus. The old city of Byzantium was founded on the south side of the estuary, known as the Golden Horn, while on the north side the old town of Pera has come to be known as Beyoglu. The old city of Byzantium and Beyoglu are joined by the Galata Bridge and the Attaturk Bridge.

Driving through the city walls by way of the Topkapi Gate, we joined the commotion within. Negotiating one’s way by car through Istanbul is a hectic business, made more nerve-racking by the constant noise of hooters. Someone told us that Attaturk had banned the use of them many years ago and that they should only be used in emergencies.However, it did seem that every situation on the road in Istanbul was an emergency and, perhaps, the worst offenders were the dolmus drivers.

A dolmus is a shared taxi. Incidentally the word dolmus literally means ‘stuffed’ which seems to be a most appropriate word, since the drivers try to cram as many people in as possible. Their cars are distinguished by a black and white chequered band along the outside and by numerous dents and repainted areas on the wings. With one arm hanging out of the window, and the car radio on at full volume, the driver would manoeuvre his vehicle in and out of the rest of the traffic, some times at hair-raising speed whilst beating on the side of the car to attract the attention of passers-by should he want any more passengers.

Several people we met refused to take their own vehicles into the city unless they had to. We went in with our Land Rover, but did not attempt to drive along any of the many narrow, cobbled streets. Walking around some of these we witnessed one glorious traffic jam and roared with laughter when a dolmus driver called out asking if we wanted a lift. He was stuck tight with cars locked in all around him. People shouting, horns blaring, and donkeys braying, all added to the scene of disorder. The situation looked unsolvable.

A German engineer built the Galata Bridge in 1913. He incorporated floating landing stages at both ends. Not normally appreciated is the fact that the centre section of the bridge is able to swing aside to allow the passage of larger ships to docks situated farther up the Golden Horn. Most of the ferry steamers start from this bridge, which bustles with commuters. It is a very good place from which to experience many of the activities that are typical in Turkish city life.

All manner of things are sold on the streets, but the sale of fish at the southern approach to the Galata Bridge is a sight worth seeing. They were attractively arranged on large circular pans and decorated with red paper collars and green leaves. Apart from looking good the fish tasted delicious and we bought a great deal, all freshly caught, for the equivalent of only nine-pence a pound.

There were always crowds around the fish stalls. Young boys, with their hair closely cropped, clambered up to see the live pelicans who stood supremely arrogant above the fish, miraculously without eating any. Men were dressed in cheap suits and wore caps that did not always fit too well. They pushed their shoes down at the back, in order to make them like ‘mule’ slippers. Women covered in black, tent-like cloaks, which enveloped them from head to toe, walked side by side with women in western dress. An old man, sitting on the pavement, was selling corn-on-the-cob. Completely surrounded by pigeons, it seemed as though they might be his only customers for the day.

Along came a group of young schoolboys carrying their satchels on their heads. They moved more naturally confident in this way than if they had carried their bags under their arms. They stopped to buy some of the delicious looking crunchy rolls covered with sesame seeds. Shaped like hoop-la rings, these are very popular. Another frequenter of the streets is the water-carrier, who, for a few kurush, will pour a drink from his large elegant silver container strapped to his back. Some still use the traditional jugs, which could quite easily fit into one of the stately homes of England.

Audrey gave a gasp, and I turned to stare in utter astonishment, as a man bent double with the weight and volume equivalent to a double wardrobe on his back walked past. To say he staggered past might seem more appropriate, but he was not staggering, he was steadily and slowly making his way up to the bridge. Those hamals or porters are human beasts of burden. They can carry anything and everything that is humanly possible on wooden frames strapped to their backs. In the fruit and vegetable market one can see many hamals transporting heavy wooden crates from place to place. Apparently there are laws to prevent excessive loading of these men, but it seems they must be completely ignored.

Slowly, we made our way towards the Blue Mosque, coming first to what was once a hippodrome. During the reign of Septimus Severus it was used as a race-course, and was capable of holding a hundred thousand spectators. Now it is known as the At Maydan or Place of Horses. Three columns have been erected on this site. The first is known as the Column of Porhyrogenitus and is built of individual stone blocks. Its outer layer of bronze, was plundered by the Crusaders in 1204. The second, a smaller bronze column brought from Delhi by Constantine, and is called the Serpent Column. The ground level has risen since Constantine erected it, such that the base is now six feet beneath the surface. The third column, resembling our misnamed Cleopatra’s Needle, is called the Obelisk of Theodosius. Bearing the cartouche of Thuthmoses III, a Pharaoh of Egypt, this porphyry obelisk came from the Temple at Karnak, and was erected on this site in AD, 390. Unfortunately, none of the three columns made an impression on us, as we knew nothing of their history until later in the journey. The whole area is laid out with neat lawns and there are a few kiosks from which one can buy sweets or cigarettes. We knew it as a good place for parking and at the campsite people declared it was the best place to exchange money on the black market.

We crossed the road to the splendid mosque of Sultan Ahmed, more commonly known as the Blue Mosque. It is the most perfect architectural masterpiece of Ottoman Turkey. Six slender minarets pierce the sky, while a series of exquisitely sculptured domes tumble down to the main courtyard, forming a spectacle of beautiful proportion. Built at the beginning of the 17th Century, it was the only mosque to have six minarets, with the exception of the Grand Mosque at Mecca. The religious authorities in this Holy City rebuked Sultan Ahmed for allowing his mosque to compete with that in the centre of the Moslem faith. As a result of which, Sultan Ahmed immediately provided the authorities with sufficient funds to build a seventh minaret for the Grand Mosque rather than spoil his design.

We approached the courtyard by an arched gateway, which perfectly framed a large stone fountain and some of the lower cupolas. A fountain, pool, or rows, of water taps can always be found in a mosque because washing before prayer is essential. This is done in a specific order: first the face, then the hands and feet. At the entrance to the mosque we removed our shoes, and walking inside, placed them in wooden racks provided especially for the purpose. My mind, being what it is, automatically holds a picture of complete confusion as the people leave the mosque and hunt for their shoes, which just cannot be found. Consequently, I noted, with great detail, where ours were placed.

The whole of the floor area, of 5,500 square yards, is completely covered with richly patterned carpets, soft to the feet. Four massive pillars support the dome, but the overall impression is one of lightness in design. The characteristic pale blue tile-work, together with many stained glass windows, enhances this effect. Here, as in every mosque, there is a semi-circular recess called a mirhab, which is placed indicating the direction of Mecca. The pulpit is a seat reached by a long, straight flight of steps leading directly to it. It is called a minbar, and in the Blue Mosque it is made of white marble. Some men were squatting cross-legged on the carpets and rocking back and forth as they chanted suras from the Koran.

The word ‘mosque’ means ‘prostration’ and each Moslem as he worships carries out an interesting ritual of prostration. At first the worshipper faces the mihrab, and consequently Mecca. Standing he says, inaudibly, that he intends to recite a certain number of rakas or bowings. Then, opening his hands and touching the lobes of his ears with his thumbs, he says, “Allahu Akbar” and recites the prayers with the bowings. Lowering his hands, he folds the left hand within the right, and recites the first chapter of the Koran, beginning with the words that preface every verse:

“In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful,
Praise belongs to God, the Lord of all Being,
The All Compassionate, the All Merciful,
The Master of the Day of Doom,
Thee only we serve . . .”

Then after a few more suras, he bows from the hips, with his hands resting on his knees. He rises with the words Allahu Akbar again. Sinking gently to his knees, he places his hands and forehead to the ground. Rising, and sitting back on his heels, he then performs a second prostration. The prayers of one raka are then complete. A set number of rakas are specified for each time of prayer of the day. At the conclusion of prayers, the worshipper recites the Shahada, or confession of faith that “there is no God but God”. Then sitting with upraised finger, he makes his private prayers.

One often finds clocks in mosques, but the grandfather clocks in the Blue Mosque deserve mention, if only for the fact that they were made in London. The swinging pendulum’s slow ticks are indicative of the peaceful, reflective atmosphere of worship, such a contrast to the bustle outside.

A wide, circular, wrought iron frame suspended from above supports numerous glass light bowls. Originally, each must have held a candle, but now the lighting is by electricity. Luckily the effect must be very similar, as the lights are so small.

I wandered back to the minbar, and left Audrey looking at a picture showing the Kaaba at Mecca. When I turned to go back, I could see a man talking to her. Guessing that he might be the confidence-trickster that we had earlier been warned about by a couple of American girls, or simply a shop owner touting for business, I strolled towards them. At first the conversation was about the Moslem faith, but in no time at all we were being asked if we would like to see some carpets. This was exactly what he had asked the Americans. Seeing that we were not interested he walked away, but as we left the mosque, we saw that he had got into conversation with another couple of girls.

From the At Maydan it was but a short distance to the most historical edifice in Istanbul, the Santa Sophia. Known as Aya Sofya to the Turks, it gives very little outward indication of its remarkable history and great age. Justinian, the last Roman Emperor, believing that he was beginning a new age for the Roman Empire, created the church built to ‘The Divine Wisdom’ on the site of a former pagan temple. Completed by ten thousand workmen led by a hundred master masons, in the comparatively short time of five years, the Santa Sophia was easily the largest church in the world. Its dome, with a diameter of over a hundred feet, was built of specially designed lightweight bricks from Rhodes. Although the dome collapsed in an earthquake in AD 559, it was quickly rebuilt to last, essentially unchanged to the present time. To think that this was over one thousand, four hundred years ago is amazing. The addition of four minarets marked the time when the Turks turned it into a Moslem mosque. More recently, in 1935, Attaturk made it a museum and gave authority to the American Byzantine Society to carry out restoration work. They removed a thin coating of plaster from the interior and revealed sixth to twelfth Century mural paintings and frescoes, which hitherto had been invisible, for the representation of the human form was unacceptable to the Moslems and had been plastered over.

Entering the vestibule one’s eyes are drawn to a magnificent mosaic showing the Virgin Mary holding the Infant Christ. On either side of her are figures of the Emperor Constantine, presenting her with the city of Constantinople, and the Emperor Justinian, offering her a model of the Santa Sophia.

Around the nave of the church are eight massive, green marble pillars, brought from the Temple of Diana at Ephesus, and others of porphyry and granite. Hanging one on each of the four main pillars, a little disturbing to the eye, are four circular plaques bearing gigantic Arabic characters, proclaiming the names of Allah, Mohammed, and the first Caliphs[3]. There is a superstitious fear that an earthquake will follow if they are taken from their position. The arches formed by the pillars are decorated with patterned mosaic, and are very typical of Byzantine art. They support an upper gallery, which was used by the women who prayed out of the sight of men. High above, at the crown of the dome, there was a circular inscription of a passage from the Koran. All was still, and there were no bright ornaments; everything of colour had mellowed through time. One feels the age of the Santa Sophia, as though one was turning the pages of a valuable, old, leather-bound book.

If it is bright ornaments that you are really looking for, then the Grand Bazaar offers an almost infinite selection, but you will undoubtedly be involved in a certain amount of bargaining. This bazaar was like nothing else that we had experienced before. Walking down the main arcade, our eyes were drawn from side to side as we passed the many smaller arcades leading off to the left and right. Each is devoted to selling a particular commodity. For instance, if you want a pair of Turkish slippers, there are at least twenty little shops from which to take your pick. I think it must be absolutely impossible to walk through the bazaar without being drawn into one of these side turnings. Apart from the general activity of people calling out their wares, and hurrying about their business, the brightly illuminated shops display fantastic arrays of jewellery.

The gold and silverware were impressive enough, but one walks on to discover arcades containing copper and brass. There are jugs, trays, vases and containers of every conceivable size and shape. This, too, must be an antique dealer’s paradise, for old guns, swords, coins and icons lay in great profusion. From amongst this display of wealth, one small, brass, coffee pot caught our attention. We stopped to look more closely and were immediately recognised as tourists.

“Very good. Speke Englis? Parle Francais? Allemagne? Very cheap”– said the shopkeeper in one breath. We confirmed that we were English.

“Aaah”– he said, knowingly. Immediately we felt at a disadvantage. After casually tossing about a few of the items he had jumbled together in a cardboard box, as if we could assess their value at a glance, we pointed enquiringly at the coffee pot.

“Seventy lira“– he murmured.

We offered him thirty lira, but his expression of complete disgust almost shattered us; we felt quite mean.

“But Mister– he cried – this wonderful little coffee pot...”

By the time he had finished talking, the brass pot seemed to have attained an enhanced value, it could even be an antique. Was he really giving it away at the price he asked? However, we hardened ourselves and said,

“Forty lira”– turning to walk away if necessary. A few minutes later we found ourselves inside the shop, sitting on leather padded stools, drinking chai from small, gold-rimmed glasses. This tea, appearing as if from nowhere, was always the same, hot, sweet and without milk – a wonderful amber colour. There is only one difficulty: the tea is so hot that it is only just possible to hold the glass.

Eventually, the shopkeeper had come down to sixty lira, but our offer still stood at forty. It seemed we would get nowhere. There was a suggestion that we should pay with English money, and we agreed to pay two pounds, which at the official rate of exchange would be worth forty-eight lira. It occurred to us that this would be worth more to him than the original price of seventy lira, but we were satisfied, the coffee pot was ours. Although we had an uneasy feeling that he was more than pleased, we had enjoyed the experience. In another part of the bazaar we bought one of the colourfully patterned, glazed plates. This took almost as long as our bargaining, for there were so many designs to choose from.Finally, we purchased a string of sheep bells interspersed with turquoise beads, which, we remembered, warded off evil spirits.

Away from the central area of the bazaar, we passed vendors selling every imaginable item, including much more westernised material than we had expected. Again, as in Edirne, we were confronted with an abundance of fruit and vegetables. As we walked back towards the Galata Bridge, we came to the conclusion that one could buy absolutely anything in the Grand Bazaar, if one looked hard enough for it.

Life at the B.P. Mocamp was taken up with meeting other travellers like us. We met some old friends, Ken and Elaine, whom we had last seen in Moscow. Jim and Marie, who shared our farmyard camp at Bucharest, and a Swiss antique dealer. Most people travelling overland between Europe and Asia stopped at Istanbul, so plenty of ideas and information were passed around. A few, ourselves included, were particularly concerned with the developing situation of the India and Pakistan dispute over Kashmir.

Borders were now closed, and we were told that there was no possibility of driving into India or Pakistan. To some Australians, who were driving home, this was a serious problem. Although alternative possibilities existed, such as shipping from Greece, the costs were high. For those travelling with barely enough cash and, believe me, some were existing on just a few shillings a day, without sufficient food on the basis that their journey would not take many more weeks, the situation was critical. They did not have enough money to wait for a possible change in the state of the borders, or turn back. Stories were coming in of how some people had resorted to selling their blood at ten pounds for a pint, in order to raise funds, and how a missionary, returning to work in India, had driven to within sixty kilometres of the border only to be turned back. A group of desperate Australians had made a rush and forced their way past the barrier at Pakistan. One was stabbed in the leg with a bayonet, but they got through. Of course, they still had to negotiate the Indian border. The carefully made plans for our journey would undoubtedly be affected, but we decided to carry on with our route, deferring any decision about changes until later. We would be able to enquire about any difficulties while we were at Ankara, and later in Teheran. Meanwhile, there was still much more to see and do.

We needed another day in Istanbul, in order to visit the British, Iranian and Iraqi Embassies. After a long search, we found the Iranian Embassy and obtained our visa. Making further enquiries there as to the whereabouts of the other two, we were very grateful for the offer of an elderly gentleman to accompany us across to Beyoglu, where they were situated. So far we had not been across the Golden Horn.

The most dominant landmark on Beyoglu is the Tower of Galata, which is high on a hill and visible from all over Istanbul. There is a splendid view of the city from the top of this tower, which is now used for fire watching. A crowded bus took us over the Attaturk Bridge, and all offers of payment for our fares, were refused by our helpful companion.

The employees at the British Embassy were not able to comment on the situation in India, as the information that they had been given was so vague. However, they did not give us any hope of getting into Pakistan. On arriving at the Iraqi Embassy, we found they had just closed for the remainder of the day, so we would have to obtain our visa in Ankara. We walked to Taxsim Square, where there were plenty of restaurants, and choosing one of them, we ordered Doner Kebab, which is mutton cooked on a vertical spit and cut into thin slices. Our drinking water, for which there was a small charge, arrived at the table in bottles, an indication of the quality of the tap water.

The rest of the day passed quickly by as we explored some of the streets that led down to the Galata Bridge. The souvenir shops sold beautiful, fine silver filigree work and we particularly noticed that turquoises were plentiful.

The following afternoon, which was warm and sunny, we stood waiting on the quayside for a ferryboat would take us across the Bosphorus from Europe into Asia. A glance at the speedometer showed that, so far, we had driven about seven thousand, four hundred miles.

Instead of driving to Izmit, we saved ourselves eighty-five miles of road travel by taking a ferryboat from Kartal to Yalova on the southern coast of the Sea of Marmara. This only cost twenty lira, which was under a pound, and took less than two hours. During this time we sat on deck eating sandwiches, and playing with some young children. Looking very much like gypsies, they wore long skirts, had thick matted hair and henna-dyed hands. There were several men close by us, and one or two were holding small strings of beads. Audrey asked one of them what was the significance of the beads. Apparently these were prayer beads, which are passed through the fingers when a Moslem recites his prayers to himself. This rosary, carried by many pious Moslems, contains ninety-nine beads, or thirds thereof, and assists in enumerating the ninety-nine ‘beautiful’ names, or attributes of Allah, most of which occur in the Koran. Some people know them as ‘worry-beads’, as they seem to give the fingers something to do at times when there is nothing else to attend to. Seeing that we were so interested, one of the men generously presented us with his rosary of black beads and wished us a safe journey.

We disembarked and drove to our destination for the day, the B.P. Mocamp at Bursa. Four large coaches were already there. They turned out to be the ‘Indiaman’ service, from London to Colombo, with over a hundred passengers, mostly Australians. For such a large number, they managed to camp in a comparatively small area of the site, which left plenty of space for other people. While I was writing the diary for the day, their reporter came to have a chat, but was unable to help with any information on the Kashmir dispute. As we prepared our tent that evening, after seeing a wonderfully colourful sunset, a multitude of twinkling lights gradually appeared from the direction of Bursa, shimmering in the clear night air.

Bursa, the ancient capital of the Ottoman Empire, nestles at the foot of the 7, 200 feet ‘Ulu Dag’ or Mount Olympus of Mysia. Spas helped the city to gain fame in Byzantine times. And it was often visited by the Roman emperors. Justinian’s thermal baths are still in use today.

Our first visits the next morning were to the Yesil Cami, or Green Mosque, and the Yesil Turbe, the Green Mausoleum. Both were built in the early fifteenth century. The Green Mausoleum is distinguished by a pointed dome and is an adaptation of the old style Seljuk mausoleum. It was completed forty years before Sultan Mehmet I died. Within is the Sultan’s tomb, covered with blue and green tiles, over which there is an inscription in yellow ceramic lettering. At the head of the tomb is one of the Sultan’s enormous turbans.

From the peaceful gardens around the Yesil Turbe, we strolled to the market area. Several traders were selling Turkish towels and brilliantly coloured silks, and one man was successfully selling miniature-copies of the Koran.

That evening, we watched the man who cleaned the camp come out to pray. With meticulous care, he washed his hands, feet and face at a standpipe before moving towards a single fir tree. Standing perfectly still for a moment, facing Mecca, he then began his prostrations. Had there been distractions, or even if he had been in a busy street, it would have made no difference. In his faith he was at one with God.

Later, some Germans arrived, and greatly irritated us by pitching their tent within a few feet of ours, when the rest of the camp was empty, the Indiaman group having left in the morning. That night, their noise woke us up as they returned from town obviously having drunk a great deal of raki, the Turkish national drink distilled from grapes and flavoured with aniseed.

As the time ticked round to the early hours we could stand it no longer. I got up and slapped on their tent, shouting at them to be quiet. After a few stifled laughs all was still, all save the muezzin calling from the minaret with the words: “Prayer is better than sleep!”

For Audrey’s birthday, we decided to take a short trip to Mudanya on the shores of the Sea of Marmara. The Land Rover climbed a steep, rough road until we were confronted with a wonderful view of the sea. It was a deep blue, with areas of light, translucent green. The road then dropped sharply down past groves of olive trees to stony beaches. Opposite, we could see the coastline of Turkey in Europe. In the village we saw several of the new chalet-type buildings, which were being bought by the Germans. We had been told that many are buying property in the southwest of Turkey, and we certainly saw quite a number of German cars on the roads.

As we were eating our sandwiches, a wrinkled old man came tramping towards us leading his donkey. He was selling grapes and pomegranates, which the donkey carried in two great woven baskets strapped on either side. We asked for a kilo of grapes and the old man weighed out the correct quantity for us using his simple brass hand scales.

On our journey back, we followed a bus loaded with passengers. Those in the back seat found us quite a novelty and continually turned round, at first to stare, then to wave and smile. They must have passed the news forward, as we could see those farther along the bus, peering to get a closer view. Suddenly, someone held a large fish up at the window and indicated that it was for sale. We, in turn, made signs, to say that we would buy it. Then the bus lurched forwards and began to rush along the narrow roads at an alarming speed, the passengers waving excitedly, urging us to keep up. After a few hair-raising kilometres, it drew up with a squeal of brakes. We were at Bursa. Pulling up behind the bus, we found the crowd of passengers running towards us accompanied by the young man with basket. Setting it on the ground, he pulled out the fish. It was a fair sized red mullet and freshly caught. Looking at it proudly he told us his price. It was far more expensive than any fish we had bought in Istanbul. The crowd stood silently waiting, watching proceedings. After some bargaining about the cost, we decided, much to everyone’s approval, to buy it. The young man pocketed the money and carefully wrapped the fish in a sheet of paper. One or two people wandered off when they realised that the deal was closed, but others stood watching as we unlocked the back door of the Land Rover and placed the fish in a plastic bowl. They were most intrigued by all the cupboards and our various belongings, and it was some time later when we left them and returned to our camp.

Ulu Dag looked splendid under the light covering of snow as we left Bursa early next morning for our drive to Ankara. We passed through Eskisehir and became aware of the change in terrain to very open dry land with ranges of mountains beyond. In some areas the earth had dried and cracked into fascinating patterns. Although fertile this soil has to withstand the rainless summers of at least seven months duration. Aridity is assured. The Anatolian plateau that we were travelling across has charm and grandeur, but it is not without desolation. In the continual panorama of sky, mountains and steppes, villages are few and far between. The mud built houses lie close to the ground, huddled together in groups, and usually pinpointed by a single minaret rising to the sky from their only mosque. Some of these solitary villages stand on hills that have been created by the debris and remains of former buildings. Over successive generations, these mud houses have been rebuilt gradually raising the ground level. They can now yield interesting information to the archaeologists, who dig through the history of each earlier settlement.

Ankara is Kemal Attaturk’s capital. It is a modern oasis of prefabricated concrete which has grown to its present proportions from a relatively small, though not insignificant Anatolian town. It was an important centre on the great caravan route to the East, but when the Ottoman Empire expired at the end of the First World War, modern Ankara, said to have taken its name from ankyra, meaning anchor, was born.

Attaturk’s capital dates from the lst October 1923. His choice of site did not go without criticism, for at this time Constantinople was well established and had an advantageous position on an important waterway. Ankara, on the other hand, was isolated in the dry central plain without access to the sea, and without an adequate water supply.

To Kemal Attaturk, who was not easily daunted, this was a time of re-birth for the Nation. Turkey had just regained independence, after a succession of bloody wars. He had himself defended the Dardanelles against the British in 1915 and had driven the Greeks out of Turkey and almost literally into the sea. He personally directed everything, forming a Grand National Assembly, who, in turn, elected him as their President. Attaturk wanted above all for Turkey to become a westernised nation, and he went some way towards achieving this. Some of his methods were an affront to the people’s dignity, yet he did not lose popular support for long. His abolition of the fez was outrageous as for ages it had been the customary headdress for men. Yet Attaturk went to the extent of making the wearing of one a criminal offence. The result was: that it was replaced by the incongruous cloth-cap. In 1924 he ordered every person to adopt a family name, himself taking the name of Attaturk, which meant ‘father of the Turks’. His own first name was Kemal, meaning ‘Perfection’. His schoolmaster had given this name to him. It was the usual custom.

Polygamy was abolished and he gave women equal rights. But this was a theoretical emancipation. The true roll of most Turkish women of today still has its roots in the past. The veil is still worn, and you will not see a woman in the cafes, which are still strictly a man’s domain. Women work at home or in the fields, while the men sit with their friends. Inevitably, true emancipation must be a long process.

When Turkey became a republic, over eighty per cent of the people were illiterate. In 1928 the Arabic script was abolished in favour of the Latin, and later adult educational classes were started. By 1965 the population of Ankara had risen to eight hundred thousand, but as one may expect from such a young capital, it offered little compared with the history, culture and pulsating bustle of Istanbul. It was, however, a success in that it symbolised the new Turkey that Attaturk created.

Passing a triple sculpture of Attaturk portrayed in three guises, as shepherd, soldier and statesman, we walked along a neat paved path to the most imposing structure in the city. A vast open square, with steps flanked by long bas-reliefs led up to the constantly guarded marble mausoleum of Attaturk. From this modern piece of architecture, we were able to get a good all-round view of the city, which extends high on the slopes of the surrounding hills.

A visit to the British Embassy resulted in their staff telephoning the Pakistan Embassy for the latest information. This confirmed that borders were still closed. We collected our mail and obtained our visa for Iraq, where the consul, or his assistant, casually asked us if we could take a carpet back to London for him. Amongst our letters was a tape recording from home from our friends Eddie and Susan Hobbs and this kept us captivated for some time, before we began cooking our evening meal. All the while a near-starving dog waited impatiently, so we tossed it half a loaf of stale bread, which it quickly carried off.

That evening we reviewed our plans and decided to change our route. Instead of making our way to Syria and Lebanon, we would travel north to the Black Sea. The reason for this change was that the troubles in Pakistan seemed unlikely to sort themselves out before we arrived there. If the situation improved by the time we got to Teheran, we could still go on to India, if not we could spend much more time in Jordan on the return journey and even consider the possibility of going to Egypt as well.

As it grew dark it became quite cold, and when we got into our sleeping bags, we realised that the hungry dog had crept between our tent and the flysheet for shelter and warmth. People do not keep dogs as pets here and it seemed likely that this bony mongrel would not see the winter through.

In the morning we set off for the Black Sea. Throughout our drive to Corum we often saw veiled women. These Anatolian women are remarkably industrious, not only in the fields, but also in carrying out their duties in the home. It was interesting to see that they still retain their traditional dress, which consisted of large baggy trousers of varying colours, over which a skirt is worn. Sometimes they were washing their clothes and even carpets at the streams, and nearly always they drew their veils across their faces as we drove past.

There were always people waiting for lifts at the roadside and we stopped occasionally to help. We were amused once, when a man raised three fingers as we approached. As well as several enormous bundles, he had three women with him. Were they all his wives we wondered?

Stopping at Corum, we asked if we could spend the night within the confines of the army barracks, but the major in charge would not hear of it. There was no B.P. Mocamp, so we decided to drive on to the Shell Filling Station. We were offered the use of a small storeroom containing bunk beds, but preferred to erect the tent in spite of a strong wind. Several men came out to help us, and when the work was complete we went into the office and joined them as they sat around the stove. It gave out a scorching, but welcome heat. Little did we know that we would be spending many evenings in a similar manner.

Continuing our journey through the valley of the Murat Irmak, we had our first glimpse of the Black Sea, or Kara Deniz. Our arrival at Samsum, Turkey’s principal port in the north coincided with the first patch of bad weather for some time. Checking on the weather to date showed that in the previous thirty-six days we had enjoyed thirty-two fine days. We should not have been so smug, as it did not improve to allow us to see the towns of Samsun, Urdu or Giresun to advantage.For three nights we camped at a Mobil Petrol Station close to the beach. During the period that we were there, the Black Sea lived up to its name, but it would have been a splendid place to stop had it been warmer and brighter.

It was while were here that we first noticed the dubious ability of the Turks to unreservedly stand and stare for quite long periods. Adults and children would stand open-mouthed, gazing at our tent and at our strange vehicle with a raised roof. Our every movement was watched. On one occasion two of the older men walked over to have a closer look at the tent, and we exchanged cigarettes and talked for a while. Along came another man and he unzipped the tent. We showed slight disapproval, but I am sure that it was curiosity getting the better of him, as he was friendly enough. One evening, four or five mischievous children tried to reach our Land Rover to let some air out of the tyres, while we were still sitting in it.

The road between Giresun and Trabzon was marked on our map as being of low standard. It was indeed. At one place it was flooded to a depth of about two feet, which we realised was deep enough to seep through the floor, and there were so many pot-holes that it seemed that there was more hole than road. They were all filled with muddy water, so it was impossible to judge their depth. The only way to make reasonable progress was to speed up to about forty miles per hour, riding over the top of them. To drive more carefully meant that we were reduced to about three miles per hour and a feeling that could be likened to riding a bucking horse. Meanwhile, the rain bucketed down and water seemed to be everywhere. The wind was whipping up the sea on the left and huge breakers were pounding into the sand.

At one stage we made a check on the clips securing our roof rack, which were not ideally suited to the load we were carrying under these conditions. Inevitably, some time later, there was a terrific crash as the roof rack, complete with cabin trunk and three jerry cans, left the roof, bounced onto the bonnet, and finished upside down in the middle of the road. How it avoided tumbling over an impressive drop of about a thousand feet at the edge of the road we do not know. We immediately gave full marks to Land Rover for their well-constructed bonnet lid, which had surprisingly only received small dents. Then we viewed our twisted roof rack in the road. It was too heavy to lift and this was not the time or place to try and do any repairs. The only solution was to dismantle as much as we could and get it all into the back of the Land Rover. While we were trying to do this, a man, who had been driving behind us, stopped to help. The rain was torrential, so within a few minutes we were all thoroughly soaked to the skin, but between us we had managed to get everything into the back. As we did so, I noticed that the trunk did not seem to be broken, even though the rack was badly buckled. We thanked the man for his help, and he left us with a parting gift of some nuts. Needless to say, these were to eat, not to repair the roof rack. In fact, this part of the country is famous for the cultivation of hazel nuts, large quantities of which are exported.

Before reaching Trabzon, we came to a B.P. Filling Station with facilities for camping on the adjacent beach. Dismally we realised that the somewhat limited area looked as if the sea would soon cover it. Making enquiries at the small office, we were offered an untidy room at the back of the garage, which was used for storing cans of oil. Just as we had started to clear a reasonable space, Kemal Guc, the proprietor, arrived. He suggested that we should sleep in the service station, which was heated by a stove, and pointed to the tiled floor, indicating that there would be ample room for us to put our beds. Both he end his wife slept in a small room adjoining the glass fronted office. He had to sleep on the premises, just in case anyone came through at night needing petrol, and was always up at six o’clock for the early morning traffic. Unless we were smart to get up at about the same time, we knew that our ‘bedroom’ would be on display. It was rather like living in a shop’s window.

Kemal was able to make me understand that there was a welder in the nearby village of Vakfikebir, who would be able to repair our roof rack. The following morning we arrived in Vakfikebir at the same time as a taxi-driver who had experienced the same misfortune as ourselves. The welder was soon on the job, bending the rack straight, and welding it where necessary. When I asked him later if he could make some supporting straps, he nodded and enthusiastically set to work.

Unfortunately, rather than make up simple straps with an adjusting nut and bolt, he tried to repeat the more complicated original ones that were damaged. What he did not appreciate was that they contained one left-hand thread, in order to screw them tight from a central tube. When he had completed the work, the central tubes simply moved up and down. Nevertheless, we managed to make him understand what was wrong and he got to work again, saying, “you make them in England – we make them in Turkey”. Although, on reflection, he may have been saying: “You make them in England, and break them in Turkey.”

Kemal was a short, tubby man of about forty, who often as not, had a dark stubbly growth of beard. He took pride in the fact that he was the ‘boss’ of the petrol station. His desktop was decorated with photographs and post-cards given to him by passing tourists, and he was delighted when we added a postcard of London to his collection to remind him of our stay. Drivers often came in and warmed themselves beside his stove, while drinking a glass of tea, and they would pass on all the bits and pieces of news that they had learned as they travelled through the towns and villages. In the evenings he was happy to talk with us and, as he knew a few English words we were, with the aid of a pencil and paper, able to understand some things about his home and family. All the time his wife sat quietly behind the stove making lace.

An exotic silver samovar, the Turkish equivalent of a teapot, provided boiling hot tea for us all from time to time. We had by now acquired a taste for tea without milk, although we still found it difficult to take the first sip without burning our fingers on the rim of the small glass. On the wall was the most ancient telephone that we had ever seen, consisting of a wooden box with a trumpet mouthpiece on the front, a receiver hooked at the side and a wind-up handle for calling. Occasionally it startled us by abruptly ringing, before choking off into silence, whereupon Kemal would take the receiver off the hook and shout “Allo, Allo”, into the mouthpiece several times. When he got no reply he would replace the receiver and come back to his seat with an expression of resignation at the inadequacy of the machine.

After the torrential rain and low, grey clouds, the sunshine of the following day was a welcome change. The early morning sun however, could not have been a reliable forecast of a fine day, because a few of the Turkish men making their way along the road on foot carried umbrellas. They did so in a most unconventional way, with the handle hooked into the back of their coat collars, leaving their hands completely free. Kemal’s wife was down on the beach with several other women and children, collecting driftwood and stacking it into large wicker baskets. Some of the women were wading out into the breakers, trying to collect the wood directly into their baskets. They were working frantically before the tide changed, and getting soaked in the process, but everyone was enjoying themselves. Audrey was invited down and was soon collecting wood, too. She was wearing slacks and this caused some amusement among the women, for although they all wore baggy trousers, they also had a long skirt over the top. They must have thought she had forgotten to put hers on. When it came to carrying the filled baskets up from the beach, Audrey found that it was all she could do to manage it, even though her load was half the amount that the other women were carrying.

While I was refitting the roof rack and generally cleaning and servicing the Land Rover, Audrey was invited to Kemal Guc’s house, which was opposite the B.P. Station. He had told us that he built it himself for about thirty pounds. As I did not go with her, Audrey will write of her experiences that afternoon.

‘The three women were ready to take me to their homes which they pointed out high on the slope on the opposite side of the road. They had each lifted one of the long wicker baskets onto their backs, and. were now bent almost double with the weight of the load. I offered to carry one, too, but they only shook their heads and smiled. So we set off across the fields and then began climbing the slippery mud path. I must admit that I was relieved not to be laden with a basket – I needed both hands to scramble up and even had to be helped on occasions. At last we reached an old wooden well. On either side stood two brick-built houses surrounded by tangerine trees. There were plenty of scraggy chickens pecking around, and several tiny kittens. Kemal’s wife beckoned to me to follow her, while one of the other women went into the neighbouring house, and the youngest girl, newly married and very shy, waved goodbye and continued on up the hill.

Inside Kemal’s house a bent old lady, who warmly kissed me on both cheeks, greeted me. She seemed pleased to see someone different and she sat on a low stool gazing at me, smiling all the while. Two young children came running into the room, both bare-footed and wearing thin cotton dresses. They looked cold and this was not surprising for there was no fire and the floor was made of stone. A few words from their mother and one child began to sweep the floor, while the other fetched a pail of water. A bundle of sticks were thrust into the stove and with plenty of blowing onto a few sparks, a fire was kindled. Then a large open pan was selected from the many stacked on the floor in the corner, and rice was poured into it.Kemal’s wife began to finger it through, picking out any grains that were discoloured. By now, the children had overcome their shyness and sat by my side on a long wooden chest playing with the kittens.

Kemal’s eldest child, a son, carrying a zipped briefcase entered the room.He was wearing a smart peaked cap, which showed that he attended the Orto-Okol, or Secondary School. He could not speak English, but was learning French, so we were able to talk together and study some of his school’ books. All the time the old lady sat watching her grandson, admiring his abilities.

When the meal was ready, the boy and I sat on chairs at a wooden table and were given bowls containing what appeared to be porridge. Then the Grandmother, Mother and children squatted on the floor with one large bowl between them. They nodded at me to begin. (I realised that this was the equivalent of porridge that Kemal’s wife had watched me prepare. She was trying to please by giving me food that she knew I liked.) I smiled at them and then took a spoonful. It was dreadful. It was so awful, that I had the greatest difficulty in appearing to enjoy it, and the bowl seemed never to empty. Glancing at everyone else, I saw that they were all thoroughly enjoying it, licking their lips in appreciation of such a fine meal, and even wiping their crusts of bread around the large bowl. I was offered some more, but decided it would be better to offend them by saying “No”, and make signs that I was already full, than risk being sick the next day. Then I was given a small chop, and so was the boy, but we were the only ones who had this special treat.

When we had finished, Kemal’s wife cleared the plates to a corner of the room, and then asked me to follow her. We climbed some open wooden stairs to a large landing. All the walls were white plastered and there were no curtains at any of the windows. The furniture was simple and scarce, but everywhere was clean. With great pride, she showed me her sewing machine and many articles of clothing that she had made, dresses, pillowcases, eiderdowns and tray-cloths, all edged with handmade lace. Everything was held out and duly admired. Then there was a gift for me: a tray-cloth and a narrow length of lace, which I was really thrilled to accept.

At last it was time to leave and outside we said goodbye to the neighbour who was waiting with a bag of cobnuts for me. The two children appeared with tangerines, some still green, and with these gifts I made my way back. It had become dark and at the foot of the hill I could see the twinkling lights of the village and the even brighter lights from the Filling Station, our home by the Kara Deniz.’

We did not spend long looking around Trabzon, as our time was taken up trying to obtain chains for the tyres. Kemal had advised us not to pay more than forty lira (just over 30 shillings) but we were not able to find anything under two hundred lira. Whether it was a result of being recognised as a tourist, I do not know. One man said that he might be able to help us obtain second-hand ones, but even then the price was not much different. A little apprehensively we decided that we should have to carry on without them, hoping that the four-wheel drive would help to some extent. Trabzon was, at one time, the last outpost of the Greek civilisation. For a full two hundred and fifty years it remained Greek, even after the Crusaders had sacked Byzantium in 1204. Now it is still a busy port, with an ancient citadel above deep ravines. Looking in an easterly direction, we could see the imposing line of the snow-capped Caucasus Mountains stretching out towards the sea. This range stretches between the Black Sea and the Caspian at the southern limit of the U.S.S.R., through Georgia and Azerbaijan. In the haze of the early morning, it appeared as though the snow line was not attached to a land mass.

We left Trabzon on a day that was to reward us with one of the most exhilarating experiences to date. Gradually we passed between fields of maize to picturesque pine-clad slopes and then gradually up to the snow line. The first snow at the roadside was at four thousand feet, but higher we found the tall trees heavily laden with it, their branches bowed down and sparkling white against a clear blue sky.

We were on the lower slopes of the Zigana Pass. As we drove on, now with ice and snow covering the road, we engaged four-wheel drive. Around us lay a different world. Everywhere we looked, there was a deep, pure white covering that seemed almost unreal. Occasionally, somewhere in the expanse we caught sight of homes almost completely buried and without any signs of life about. I stopped, in order to take a photograph. It was cold and treacherous underfoot, in fact, I was hardly able to stand upright, let alone walk about. The atmosphere was exceptionally clear, and the stillness of the natural elements was something to be savoured.

As we started off again, we had one moment of concern when the Land Rover began to slip slowly backwards, but not for long. The wheels soon got a better grip and we continued our ascent. Taking great care on the hairpin bends, where there were sheer drops signposted Dikkat Yavas, meaning ‘Danger-Slow,’ we progressed without another mishap. At the top we were able to stop more comfortably. Our altimeter reading was 6,650 feet, and the view was magnificent. In every direction, as far as our eyes could see, were miles of snow-clad mountain peaks of indescribable beauty.

On the descent we kept in four-wheel drive and high ratio gears until we were down to below five thousand feet. Our progress was somewhat impeded by hundreds of sheep and goats that flowed over the road, even though the shepherds with them tried to keep a way clear. These men were well pleased with some cigarettes that we handed out through the window. The tuneful ringing of the bells that the animals wore around their necks evoked an idea of what a migration is like, particularly when a group of people passed us who must have been moving their home for the winter months. They had all their bundles strapped onto the backs of donkeys and some of them rode packhorses. We shall always remember the scene as we stopped and waited for them to pass.

At Gumasane, which was set in a dry, dusty yellow valley, we asked a man coming from his house if we could put our tent up in the field nearby, but, in spite of our endeavours, we were not able to make him understand. Finally, he directed us to the hotel. Instead, we drove on until we came to what turned out to be a road works stores. We knocked on the door of a small hut and a man with a large moustache came out. (Is there a Turk without one?) He readily agreed to us putting our tent down, but did not seem to approve of the place we had chosen. We discovered later that it was by the side of their dynamite store. Once the tent was up in a more suitable position, we were invited into the hut, where about five men were sitting warming themselves by the stove. Immediately one man began to stoke up, producing a roaring fire, and I was given a stool right in front of it. Audrey was given a seat behind, as was befitting her status, this reminded us of the more modest position that Kemal Guc’s wife always took. One man began frying an egg in a pan and offered us some. We could not think how he could share one egg easily, so we politely refused. Later, another gave us each an apple and some of his bread and cheese. It is so much the nature of these people to share even the little that they have.

During the evening, each man reverently carried out his prayers, using a simple prayer board. There was no concern about the noise of our talking together, for when praying they were at one with God. In this rough shelter, we found it very moving. The oldest man at the table looked towards his companion, as he prostrated himself towards Mecca. He then turned to me. “One God” he said, and then repeating; himself, with one finger raised and more emphasis. “There is only one God”. It was a comment that Kemal Guc and others had made with much deliberation and sincerity when talking of the Christian and Moslem faiths. Before we retired for the night, the men showed us a well-oiled gun; it was their task to guard the area. At regular half-hourly intervals one of them passed our tent with a torch, and presumably the gun, to make sure everything was in order. We slept comfortably enough, although the night was particularly cold, as we were at nearly four thousand feet. Our breath condensed during the night, leaving the top blanket wet and in the morning there was a considerable amount of frost covering the tent.

The second pass to be negotiated was the Kop Dagi Pass rising to 7,456 feet, and notorious for the sudden fury of its winter storms. The approach road was steep and we were in second gear for long distances. We were prepared for plenty of snow at the top but, as we climbed higher and higher, we realised that a great deal had melted. At five thousand feet, where it had been thick the day before, there was none to be seen. Of course, we were about seventy-five miles away from the Zigana Pass.

Erzurum is the centre of military activity east of the River Euphrates. Our AA Information showed that we would need a permit to enter this restricted zone, and that the use of cameras was strictly forbidden. We did not have a permit and fortunately we were not asked for one. As we entered the town, the horrible sight of a grotesquely mutilated horse, presumably having been hit by a lorry, greeted us. It lay at the edge of the road – a rivulet of blood spreading over the dust-covered path.

We pitched our tent beside a B.P. Filling Station, and were glad to get back into the Land Rover, as it was icy cold. On evenings such as this we used the re-circulatory heater in the front of the cab to good advantage. According to our altimeter we were camping 6,400 feet, the highest yet. For the first time we used our hot water bottles and wrapped ourselves up in our double sleeping bags again. We slept fairly well, but during the night I glanced at the thermometer, it was reading 20 degrees Fahrenheit then and I believe that it dropped a further ten degrees by morning.

When we awoke we found that all our drinking water had frozen. It was almost impossible to dismantle the tent, as I could not withdraw the tent pegs without digging around them, they were frozen solid into the ground. As we sat warming our hands around mugs of coffee, we could not help but marvel at our surroundings. They were bleak, most certainly, but somehow grand and remotely beautiful. There was a clear sky, and the sun, which was climbing over the immense range of mountains that stretched far away on the other side of the plain, was beginning to light up the snow with shades of pink and gold. Although we were wearing every warm article of clothing that we had brought with us, we shivered, as a biting wind swept across the valley.

Finding the gearbox stiff with thick cold oil encouraged us to put an extra tin of anti-freeze into the radiator before setting off.

We had some letters to post, so stopped at Pasinler, the next town that we came to. A young boy, keen to practice his limited English, was pleased to take us to the Post Office. He went up to a small hatchway at the far side of the room and spoke to an elderly man, who showed no sign of surprise that there were two foreigners waiting to be served. Handing over the necessary money, we were given so many stamps to stick on each envelope that it was difficult not to obscure the names and addresses.

On the Tahir Pass we again met snow, as we climbed to nearly 8,000 feet. Cold weather persists for a total of seven months in each year and wolves often roam this part of the country in Siberian-like conditions. We kept a good lookout, but only saw a large fox moving with a defiant tread across the lower slopes. The most ferocious animals were the wild, rough-haired dogs, which used to jump out and snarl at the Land Rover whenever we passed through isolated villages. These animals have their ears cut off to save them being torn in any encounters with the wolves. They were the protectors of the nearby homes, and we certainly did not make any attempt to get out when they were around.

Although there was a great range of snow-covered mountains towards the south, it was the more isolated volcanic cone of Mount Ararat, rising to 16,920 feet that drew us instinctively on. At Dogubayazit, a smallish town nestling at the foot of this mighty mountain, we found the local police station, where we were offered room for the night in the superintendent’s office. We were glad to have the opportunity of a roof over our heads, even though there was a considerable amount of rebuilding work being carried out which was obviously disturbing the rats and mice. Just before we bedded down, we walked out into the crisp night air. The brightest stars were burning points of light, almost unaffected by the clear cut outline of the moon, which gave a gentle light to the snow-capped peaks rising majestically above primitive mud-built houses.

The following morning, a young boy brought six small glasses of chai on a brass tray to the police officers and ourselves, as we sat outside in the sunshine. They certainly looked a roguish lot, in a mixture of uniforms and homburg hats. We sat sucking our tea through lump sugar in the truly Turkish manner, and could not remember the last time we had drunk an English cup of tea with milk. After thanking everyone for their hospitality, we set off, anxious to get on the road that skirted the foot of Mount Ararat and its companion, Little Ararat.

Although we knew that this was the traditional resting-place of Noah’s Ark, we had no idea of the convincing evidence in support of the Biblical references. Firstly, archaeologists digging at Ur in Southern Iraq came upon a band of clay about eight feet thick, which pointed to a flood disaster having occurred about 4,000 BC. Above and below the clay deposit were traces of human settlements. Geologists and archaeologists inform us that it is likely that the flood burst inland in the form of a cyclone followed by a tidal wave, which emanated from the head of the Persian Gulf. If we accept their theories, then Mount Ararat would be on the northern edge of such a catastrophe.

Since 1800 there have been several reports of sightings on Ararat, that lead one to believe that Noah’s Ark could have rested high on the flank of the mountain. Rather than comment on these, however, I will just record the events.

In 1833, at the end of a particularly hot summer, a shepherd saw the prow of a wooden ship jutting from the southern glacier. Later, a Turkish expedition was sent to investigate, and confirmed his finding.

In 1840 Mount Ararat erupted for the last time to date.

In 1876, Lord Bryce, the historian, found a piece of wood at 13,000 feet, fashioned by man and answering to the description of Noah’s handiwork.

In 1892 Dr. Nouri, Arch-Deacon of Jerusalem found the wreckage of a great wooden ship, dark red in colour, locked in the eternal ice of the mysterious Lake Kop, which is just below the summit.

During the First World War, Roskowitski, engaged as a Russian airman, saw and photographed the remains of a fair-sized ship held in the ice on the southern slopes of the mountain. Unfortunately, the photograph passed into the hands of Czar Nicholas II and was lost when the Bolsheviks murdered him. There was another similar report during the Second World War.

In 1951 Dr. Smith, an American historian and missionary, searched unsuccessfully for twelve days.

In 1952 a French expedition reported seeing the keel of a ship, the size of which was approximately as specified in Genesis.

In 1957 a British expedition was glad to escape with their lives after being attacked, by seven-feet tall, hostile bears.

Perhaps one day someone will bring back more positive evidence of Noah having rested on this mountain, now regarded as holy to both Moslems and Christians.

Having stopped in the desolation dominated by Ararat, some boys appeared, as if from nowhere, to stare at us with curiosity. They sat down by the Land Rover and one of them began to sing a tuneful little song, while his friends clapped their hands in time with the rhythm. They were so encouraged by our clapping when they had finished that they began to sing again. Unfortunately, two older boys joined us who did not look quite as friendly. When Audrey went to throw away some scraps of food and a couple of empty tins, they almost snatched what she had from her hands. Even an old tin was of value to them apart from the food it may still contain.

Driving on towards the border point we pulled up when we saw some Kurdish women coming in the opposite direction. The Kurds belong to one of the oldest tribes in the Middle East and claim to have descended from the Medes mentioned in the Bible. They are a semi-nomadic people moving with the season from villages to pasture lands. Most of them, about half a million, are in Iran although five hundred thousand are in Iraq, some in Syria, and some in Turkey. Always quick to take any opportunity to gain independence, they have organised themselves into a feudal system under the authority of a chieftain, who protects the interests of the peasants and shepherds. Although there has been a tendency to quarrel continuously amongst themselves, they are said to be a very likeable people, enormously courageous and with a good sense of humour.

The men can be recognised by their large, black and white turbans with hanging tassels, while the womenfolk wear voluminous dresses of varied silks and cottons in brilliant hues, which contrast vividly against the more sombre colours of the mountains and dry plains. The three women that we met certainly looked very colourful in what appeared to be several layers of skirts in vividly patterned orange, red and yellow materials. One of them had dark blue tribal markings on her face, and was carrying on her back a chubby, healthy-looking baby. We had not noticed it at first because it had been obscured completely by various wrappings of cloth.

Their laughter and happiness was matched by their eagerness to look into the back of the Land Rover. They were most intrigued by the various bits and pieces that we had with us. We gave them some nuts and tangerines, but one of the two young boys with them made us understand that he wanted cigarettes. The women laughed when we explained that he was too young.

They had been travelling along with a couple of bullocks, which were laboriously pulling a primitive cart laden with grain. The wheels were just solid wooden discs. A lurch and a creak, and they were on their way. We stood and watched them for a while, as they continued their slow journey towards their destination, somewhere at the foot of the cone of Ararat. It was a glimpse of the past and the present, a life almost unchanged for centuries.

Turning away, we climbed into our Land Rover. We pressed the starter and the engine fired. We were in a different age, but our thoughts and spirits lingered, they were with the true nomads. Theirs was a hard yet simple life and they were happy with their lot. One day we might return and spend more time with them.