So it begins!
In Istanbul, we won it 5 times!
At 6.10PM on Monday the 17th of June 2024, I boarded Turkish airlines flight TK1998 from Gatwick to Istanbul. Gobekli Tepe to Cape Town, my journey from Ancient Stones to African Shores was officially underway!
That morning my son Keegan had dropped me off at Taunton railway station, given me a big hug and wished me good luck for the trip and in the same breath said, “not that you’ll need luck, you’ll be fine”!
His support and more particularly, his lack of anxiety over what I was doing was setting off to experience, was important to me. Remember that at this stage my plan was to walk from the 11’000 year old megalithic site of Gobekli Tepe or Potbelly Hill in Șalniurfa, Turkey, to Cape Town, South Africa. A distance that would range from 11'000km or if you prefer 7000 miles to 13’000km, depending on which ancient sites I was able to include and also upon my dealings with any militant groups.
A real possibility and as I now know, not necessarily as one off either!
In case I haven't mentioned, I am very interested in the human origin story and the idea of an advanced, pre-diluvian civilisation or indeed civilisations.
Included on my itinerary were the ancient sites of Karahan Tepe, Gobekli Tepe’s so-called sister site in Şanlıurfa, Petra in Jordan, Baalbek in Lebanon, Giza and as many as possible of Egypt’s ancient sites from Alexandria to Aswan. I planned to visit the Pyramids of Sudan, there are more than in Egypt! Hisn al-Akrad, known in the West as Krak de Chevaliers in Syria. The rock hewn churches of Lalibela and Axum’s claim to be home to the Ark of the Covenant would take me, via Asmara in Eritrea, to Ethiopia.
I would spend a few weeks at least travelling through Ethiopia from where I would head south through Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe, possibly Botswana and Namibia before heading home to Cape Town where I planned to remain!
Having people worrying about me was not something I particularly wanted, especially as I had absolutely no doubt that, regardless of which groups I ran into, I would be fine.
The Universe had my back!
Settling in to the 4 1⁄2 flight to Istanbul in one of my custom made Scouse African / Gonzo Journalist t-shirts everything felt good. This was it. I was going to visit places of legend. See things of immense, cultural and historical significance. Meet people from countries and cultures I hadn't even heard of and, most of all, I was going to hear and record the stories of the people I met along the way.
Those stories, as well as my own experiences would form Simunye! We are One.
Where the stories were given to me by the people I met, I promise to recount them exactly as they were told to me. Where the stories are my own experiences, I will tell them as a Gonzo Journalist. In other words, I will say what I see. I will relate my experience, tell my story in my style.
I prioritise factual reporting over balance.
I carry out due diligence to the best of my ability, give credit where credit is due and if something looks and smells like shit, I’ll say so.
For reasons of individuals’ safety, including my own, I have changed the names of people who were, for example, critical of their government and for the first time, I am telling some stories that couldn't be told until I was safely in South Africa.
I learnt very quickly that the press isn't free everywhere.
Whenever I change someone's name I will make it clear and explain the reason.
I’m aware that some of the people I promised that I wouldn't take unnecessary risks, may think that I took some unnecessary risks.
Our pilot informed us that it was a balmy 33℃ as we began our approach to Istanbul airport.
Simunye, We are One.
Turkey
Istanbul
It turned out to be more like 36℃ and by the time I cleared customs I was ready for a cup of strong Turkish coffee.
Three cups of delicious, red hot turkish coffee. At least by airport standards it was delicious.
I had a 6 hour layover before heading off to the former military airbase, now the thriving hub of the Southeastern Anatolia Project, that is Şalniurfa international airport.
-Plenty of time to pose, in my Liverpool FC replica shirt, in front of a sign Saying Istanbul, holding open the four fingers and thumb of my left hand.
5 times.
In Istanbul, we won it five times.
Did I mention that I was a fan of Liverpool FC?
I was born a scouser, in Sefton General Hospital on a Saturday morning in January, 1969.
I grew up in Johannesburg, South Africa.
The Souse African.
Complaining to the dept’ of home affairs, no matter how tongue in cheek, about the census is not going to change the census.
It will however make you the proud owner of the UK government's equivalent of Vogon poetry. (If you haven't yet read Douglas Adams’, A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy,a trilogy in 4 parts, I recommend doing so, after you've finished Simunye) A letter, on official paper, riddled with bureaucratic jargon and laced with a subtle hint of menace with the promise of a “more a strenuous response if you bother Her Majesty's government again!”
Anyway, after a very un authentic, airport style, Turkish breakfast, I was ready to board for Şalniurfa.
Onboard Turkish airlines served a very authentic, airport style Turkish breakfast.
And lots of good coffee.
As I sprinted to the gents in Şalniurfa airport I was blissfully unaware that my stowed luggage, an Osprey Farpoint 70 resplendent with its attractive, neon green airport / rain cover, had attracted the attention of airport security.
I was equally unaware that I was about to take a seat in a windowless, aluminium lined, office, awaiting the arrival of a more senior officer.
I was even more unaware that this wouldn't be the last time I would find myself sitting, at the invitation of airport security, army, police or customs officers, in a windowless, aluminium lined office.
When I returned to the luggage carousel though, I did notice that there was still no sign of my bag.
Şalniurfa
The airport had no air conditioning but there were two or three industrial type fans whirring away and between them they accomplished nothing.
Hot and sticky. And where’s my bag? At this point I was carrying two bags, the 70 litre back pack and a day bag. The day bag currently contained toiletries, a solar powered battery charger, my treasured copy of Marcus Aurealius’s Meditations, given to me by my son as a travel companion, a basic forest aid kit, my 50x monocular and 2 bottles of water.
By now my fellow arrivees had all collected their luggage and were being collected by friends and family or making use of the many, yellow taxis waiting in the carpark.
I wasn't particularly concerned, my pack had to be on there somewhere. Oh wait, they've turned the belt off and the plane is taxiing away. Ok so my pack has to be somewhere between Istanbul and me.
It was time to try out my Turkish!
By; try out my Turkish, I mean, it was time to supplement my basic knowledge of Turkish with google translate.
There’s no WiFi, I haven't got myself a local SIM card yet and I haven't downloaded Turkish for offline use to my phone yet. Ok, while I pluck up the courage to actually speak to someone, let's have a look in the luggage handling area, easily accessible in the old, military style hanger.
My search of the area proved negative and I was considering the possibility that perhaps my pack hadn't left Istanbul. That was an inconvenience but realistically it meant a 12 hour wait and it's not as if I was on a strict schedule. I’d pre-booked myself into The Nomad Inn in Şanliurfa old town, a mere 40 minutes drive away. I had the owner Omar’s WhatsApp details so as long as I could get some data, I'd be fine.
I didn't realise it yet but choosing Omar’s traditional, Turkish style inn, deep in the heart of the 3rd century urfa or city was a stroke of genius. I originally intended to be there for three days while I made final preparations for the trek. I ended up meeting a fascinating and really friendly couple from the Netherlands, a Russian American food blogger, flogger?, learnt of additional, ancient sites in the area and made a good friend in Omar.
If you are heading to the area, look up The Nomad Inn, Omar and his team will look after you like a long lost friend!
Oh, and I stayed another week.
Of course, as yet, none of this had happened and I was translating, as best I could, the airport signs looking for the lost luggage desk. Şanliurfa airport still feels like an old military airport. Unlike Istanbul airport, the signs were all in Turkish and Arabic, not English. The desks are all, roll on roll off, type and there is no shopping area. Don't let this put you off going though. Apart from the upgrade, due to the area being part of the Southeastern Anatolia Development Programme, everyone is incredibly friendly and quick to offer help if you need it. Having a really basic knowledge of Turkish will go a long way. As is the case in any country, making an effort to learn a country’s culture and language will naturally cause people to be even more inclined to help you.
Oh wait, a soldier is approaching me.
He looks stern.
That's his job though.
Isn’t it?
His holster is fastened. That’s good.
Sometimes, people can appear even more stern when neither of you speak the same language. My pronunciation meant that we didn't speak the same language. Unlike the capitol, not everyone speaks English in the area. We did however, manage to figure out that my new, parachute regiment friend was eager for me to follow him to the previously mentioned, aluminium sheet clad, windowless room.
As he politely ushered me into the room I caught sight of my pack being wheeled across the tarmac on a flatbed trolley by two more soldiers, I couldn't see the colour of their berets so couldn't make out their regiment.
My initial thoughts were that either my Garmin satellite geo-locator had grabbed the attention of the security scanners or the 400 or so anti-malaria tablets I was carrying looked suspicious on their screens. The protective cover had been removed but my PacSafe, stainless steel mesh, backpack cage meant that the contents were unexamined.
Back to soldier number one who was motioning for me to sit on one of the two stainless steel chairs, placed opposite each other on either side of the room's only other contents, a matching stainless steel table. I wasn't about to argue and immediately retrieved the Turkish / English phrase book that I’d forgotten was also in my day pack.
I must have bought the abridged version that doesn't include the section on what to say when you are detained by armed soldiers at an airport.
As I was returning the phrasebook to my pack a different soldier entered the room, indicated that a senior officer was coming to question me and then placed a bottle of cold water in the almost exact centre of the table, before leaving.
Was this a test?
There were black orbs in each corner of the ceiling that I took to be cameras and so, drawing on all of my espionage knowledge, gained entirely from watching hollywood movies, I placed my hands on the table, maintained a look of mild irritation and amusement and tried my very best to look nonchalant.
Most of all, I resisted the water torture. Yes it was by now 38℃ and extremely humid in the sealed room but I wasn't going to crack. I’d done nothing wrong.
I’d deliberately chosen the chair facing the door and after a wait of about 10 minutes it opened again and a moustache wearing the insignia of a captain in the Turkish parachute regiment opened the door and entered the room.
The rest of the army captain entered the room too.
All of my attention was on the moustache though.
If moustaches could become sentient and exist independently of the human who grew them could, this one would!
I was staring in awe at the road brush like upper upholstery when it bristled visibly and a sound emanated from it.
Merhaba Mr Rowlands, please you must drink the water, it is very hot in here and we have delayed you, for which I apologise.
It turned out that the airport cover on my backpack had come off during the fight and the airport staff were worried that it had been damaged. They wanted me to check it properly before leaving the airport.
Ten minutes later, having found everything to be in order, I was asked to explain the reason I was carrying a satellite location device, a fairly high powered and quite military looking, monocular and large quantities of foil wrapped tablets.
Explaining what I was doing was made easier by explaining my t-shirt. The Turkish version of The Scouse African / Gobekli Tepe to Cape Town!
The logo I designed for the Turkish leg of my journey.
The Urfa
Now that I had finally answered all their questions and demonstrated the non military nature of my kit, I was allowed to go on my way with the best wishes of the airport security team and a recommendation of which taxi driver to use to ensure a fair price.
I can only say that the Captain and his team were the epitome of professionalism and thank them for their patience. Had my proficiency with Turkish been higher, I would have already been sipping Omar’s delicious mint tea.
Now I was confident that the elderly taxi driver Ali and I had agreed on a fair price. What I wasn't so confident about was the ability of his bright yellow Lada Samara to make the journey. By this point Ali had already magically produced a cup of coffee, a bottle of water and had handed me a cigarette. The last stage of the journey to Şanliurfa was underway.
By now the mercury has crept over 40℃ and being at 800 metres above sea level, I could feel the effects of the harsh sun on my right arm as we drove along with the air conditioning, or windows, in the on or rather the open position! As we drove, Ali explained which local cigarettes to buy, where to get good food in the town and to explain the additional tour-guide services he offered. In between these nuggets we listened to the very disturbing noises coming from the engine. At least I thought they were disturbing, Ali seemed more concerned when the car was quiet, as if he was worried something must have stopped doing what it was supposed to do.
What I was grateful for is the fact that Ali knew of The Nomad Inn and even had the phone number for a friend of his who worked there. It's a good job as the 500 meters or so from the perimeter of the Urfa to my base camp was via a maze of twisting turning side alleys, shop fronts filled with spices and copper utensils, rolls of silk and exotic looking pastries and restaurants preparing for the evening trade. Even with mobile / cell data, google maps was, as I later learnt, useless amongst the covered streets of the ancient urfa.
Had I not been met on the edge of the market by Mustafa, who insisted on carrying my huge back pack AND buying me a beaker of the refreshing and delicious, locally produced mango juice.
By the time we got to the Inn, tucked away behind a single door in the walls that once upon a time protected the elevated, central hub of the town, I was hot, sticky and needed to sprint to the gents’ again!
Within 20 minutes I was showering and planning my afternoon.
On my list I had;
Get a local SIM card.
Find a good place to eat.
Explore the old town.
So really, explore the old town.
At about 4pm, freshly showered, sun tan lotion diligently applied, it wasn't until I’d spent some time in the Egyptian desert that I decided I could ditch the sun cream, 2 litres of water in my day pack, I set out to do just that.
My excitement at this point was mounting as I took the first of many wrong turns that afternoon as I orientated myself in my new surroundings. Every corner I turned I was met with a new aroma, a new sound, another waft of hot air and another stunning vision of this beautiful part of the world.
The sound of the numerous mosques making the call to attend Asr, the third daily prayer in Islam, just added to the magic.
Just over 24 hours ago on a cold wet runway at Gatwick airport. Now here I was in an authentic, mediaeval, Ottoman city, surrounded by donkey carts, mopeds, spices, elegant dresses, mounds of different types of tea, mountains of pistachio nuts and carefully stacked, pyramids of vegetables. Many of which I had never seen before!
Tuesday the 18th of June 2024, was a good day!
