I think it was in Turkmenistan when we heard the unhealthy banging sounds out of our transmission for the first time. Of course, we had almost every imaginable spare part with us - except the transmission. Here was our predicament: we had a few kilometers to the Iranian border to make as the Turkmenistan visa were for transit only and they do not renew them. Afterwards, there was about 2,000 km of road through Iran, and should we break down there we would have tough time to get the new transmission delivered there. After Iran, the situation would improve. In Turkey, we did not need the visa and thus we could fly to the Czech Republic, get a new transmission and fly it back as our baggage to Turkey. Or should I say the situation might have improved in Turkey? Because there was one little problem. At about the same time when our transmission seemed to have enough of our trip, there was an attempted coup in Turkey and none of the news media knew what was really going on.
We were in a bit of a "up the creek without a paddle" situation. We did not know whether it might even be possible, or advisable, to go through Turkey. Should the Turkish situation deteriorate even further, we might decide to opt for the northern route through Kazakhstan and Russia. But that would mean to get to Teheran, get the visa for Kazakhstan and Russia there, and possibly secure a new transmission. So the alternatives were set and we postponed the final decision to the time we get to Teheran. Unfortunately, we had to drop our visit to Esfahan, as it would add additional 1,000 km to our trip, and the transmission was whining more and more every km we took. We got to Teheran and the Turkish situation seemed to stabilize and the transmission was still holding. Therefore, we decided to drive on through Turkey. In a few days we were actually across the border in Turkey. Now we started to push back home driving the whole day every day. Our trip was basically over and we just had to drive West.
As we drove across Turkey, I realized more and more how different the Eastern and the Western part of Turkey were. The Eastern part is the sun drenched, sandy and dry poor cousin of the Western part. It is the Kurdish land shunned by the Turkish government, with heavily protected police stations (as there was an attack by the PKK (a Kurdish military group) on one of these stations about a week before we crossed the border).
Since the time I was in a refugee camp in the early 1980s, I love Kurdish people. Among our best friends was a Kurdish family and we learned a lot about this nation without state. Now I could see it. I could see the poverty and neglect by the Turkish government; I could also see the gang-like groups of young kids with their very aggressive begging. And, surprisingly, the religion seemed to harden a bit too. Although the women do not wear the chador, burkas and similar religious garb much, the mosques will wake you up every day at 4 am. This was the first country where it happened to us. It was also the first country where I have heard that the two women and one Muslim man beat up badly another women because she did not wear a full religious garb.
Eastern Turkey is also the land where Turkish government wants to relocate over 2 millions of Syrian and Iraqi refugees in order to destroy the Kurdish independence movement. Maybe all of this is in some way connected, but I was there for too a short a time to really get any deeper understanding of it. So, all I can say is that I left the Eastern part of Turkey with a bit more of sadness for the Kurds than I used to have.
The Western part of Turkey is different. As you drive west, the land is less and less arid, the villages and towns look wealthier and there were less and less road controls by the police, the military and the local militias. Of course, the Turkish flags were everywhere, showing the support for the current government led by Recep Erdogan. Sadly, such support brought back the memories of the flag and slogan waving citizens of the old communist countries that had to show the support for their dictators some time ago. Once again, I cannot judge whether the support was genuine or forced, but there were just too many flags to my liking...
Istanbul, of course, is a part of Turkey separate in its wealth from the rest of the country, Surrounded by the factories, the city booms with construction and wealth, and the modern European style can be seen everywhere. And it was there, where our Trabant crossed the bridge back from Asia to Europe. And the transmission, still whining and banging, held on.
We were in Europe. In Europe that changed from the time we first drove our Trabant out to Asia about a year ago. The pride of the common external border and no internal borders of the Schengen Zone was gone. Bungled by the bureaucracy in Brussels and the indecisiveness and quarrels of the national governments about the solutions to the immigration crisis, the internal borders appeared again in Bulgaria, Romania and Hungary. Yet, although a hassle, these borders were of no concern to us. Every day and every kilometer we were closer to our Czech destination with the transmission squealing and banging, but holding. Holding all the way to Prague.
We were in a bit of a "up the creek without a paddle" situation. We did not know whether it might even be possible, or advisable, to go through Turkey. Should the Turkish situation deteriorate even further, we might decide to opt for the northern route through Kazakhstan and Russia. But that would mean to get to Teheran, get the visa for Kazakhstan and Russia there, and possibly secure a new transmission. So the alternatives were set and we postponed the final decision to the time we get to Teheran. Unfortunately, we had to drop our visit to Esfahan, as it would add additional 1,000 km to our trip, and the transmission was whining more and more every km we took. We got to Teheran and the Turkish situation seemed to stabilize and the transmission was still holding. Therefore, we decided to drive on through Turkey. In a few days we were actually across the border in Turkey. Now we started to push back home driving the whole day every day. Our trip was basically over and we just had to drive West.
As we drove across Turkey, I realized more and more how different the Eastern and the Western part of Turkey were. The Eastern part is the sun drenched, sandy and dry poor cousin of the Western part. It is the Kurdish land shunned by the Turkish government, with heavily protected police stations (as there was an attack by the PKK (a Kurdish military group) on one of these stations about a week before we crossed the border).
Since the time I was in a refugee camp in the early 1980s, I love Kurdish people. Among our best friends was a Kurdish family and we learned a lot about this nation without state. Now I could see it. I could see the poverty and neglect by the Turkish government; I could also see the gang-like groups of young kids with their very aggressive begging. And, surprisingly, the religion seemed to harden a bit too. Although the women do not wear the chador, burkas and similar religious garb much, the mosques will wake you up every day at 4 am. This was the first country where it happened to us. It was also the first country where I have heard that the two women and one Muslim man beat up badly another women because she did not wear a full religious garb.
Eastern Turkey is also the land where Turkish government wants to relocate over 2 millions of Syrian and Iraqi refugees in order to destroy the Kurdish independence movement. Maybe all of this is in some way connected, but I was there for too a short a time to really get any deeper understanding of it. So, all I can say is that I left the Eastern part of Turkey with a bit more of sadness for the Kurds than I used to have.
The Western part of Turkey is different. As you drive west, the land is less and less arid, the villages and towns look wealthier and there were less and less road controls by the police, the military and the local militias. Of course, the Turkish flags were everywhere, showing the support for the current government led by Recep Erdogan. Sadly, such support brought back the memories of the flag and slogan waving citizens of the old communist countries that had to show the support for their dictators some time ago. Once again, I cannot judge whether the support was genuine or forced, but there were just too many flags to my liking...
Istanbul, of course, is a part of Turkey separate in its wealth from the rest of the country, Surrounded by the factories, the city booms with construction and wealth, and the modern European style can be seen everywhere. And it was there, where our Trabant crossed the bridge back from Asia to Europe. And the transmission, still whining and banging, held on.
We were in Europe. In Europe that changed from the time we first drove our Trabant out to Asia about a year ago. The pride of the common external border and no internal borders of the Schengen Zone was gone. Bungled by the bureaucracy in Brussels and the indecisiveness and quarrels of the national governments about the solutions to the immigration crisis, the internal borders appeared again in Bulgaria, Romania and Hungary. Yet, although a hassle, these borders were of no concern to us. Every day and every kilometer we were closer to our Czech destination with the transmission squealing and banging, but holding. Holding all the way to Prague.