week 5: The black sea, fallen empires and rising tempers.

 Like any traveler will know, it's hard to get back in the saddle after finding a haven of peace, tranquility, and emotional safety. Amid the chaotic hustle and bustle of Istanbul's streets, I had found a place where I could probably hang my hat, but something in my heart was still stirring me to move on. It was a sad goodbye to Emily and her neighborhood that had, in a sense, become mine. Ismael the shop owner, Onur the rug dealer, and Mohamed the barber had become my friends and made me feel at home on the Bosphorus. But I have a mission, a goal to achieve: to get around the world on Tara. So, with a bit of my heart forever in Istanbul, I set off toward Georgia via the Black Sea, knowing that I will see my friends again soon, and Emily even sooner! My feelings are torn between my longing for adventure and the serenity and well-being I found in her presence. I text our mutual acquaintance who introduced us, "Mate, you’ve messed me up on this one. She's either my Penelope or the Medusa that turns heroes to stone!"

It's time to go; the journey awaits, and there is much healing and living to do before I can safely settle somewhere. The decision to take the less traveled route was based on two factors: the heat and curiosity. The turquoise coast of Turkey is certainly appealing, but when traveling solo, heading to places that are overcrowded can feel lonely. I wanted to go where the wild things are, not where the lazy tourists go to flounder around on expensive beaches, drowning their dreary lives away on two-week package holidays. I wanted wilderness, to go to places where when you enter a café or a shop, you are not viewed with suspicion but greeted with warm and curious eyes—not to places where you are just another walking wallet to be exploited. So, I chose the northern route. I also picked it based on its geography:; it snakes along the Black Sea coast, between mountains and the cool, fresh Ukrainian breeze. My guiding principle has always been to keep hills and mountains close; they are my safe space. Mountain people have more heart. They are tough but kind, harsh but welcoming—my people. So, I set off out of Istanbul, crossing the bridge from continental Europe to Asia.

It feels good to be on Tara again. We roar through the suburbs of Istanbul and the heavy Eid traffic. It seems the whole city is heading for the countryside on the eve of Eid. Whizzing out of Istanbul and energized by being back on the road, I let Tara rip a little on the motorway to get some distance going and not have to think about what I have left behind. The roar of the engine and the blast from the wind replace any feeling of longing. I stop for a quick coffee after a few hours, having loosely picked a seaside town on the coast for a place to camp, and check my phone. I notice that one of the young mechanics from Istanbul who had fixed my bike has posted a story in the mountains not far from the area I had picked to set up camp. I send him a quick hello and mention that I'll be in the area if he wanted to grab a coffee. He instantly responds with, "Come to where I am. We are celebrating Eid up in the mountains with my whole family. Come and join us!"

How could I refuse? He sends me a geolocation on WhatsApp. It's deep in the mountains; I couldn't ask for a better return to being on the road, and I was starting to feel a bit lonely and sad about sleeping alone in my tent. Life can just be perfect sometimes! So, Tara and I divert our course and head for the hills offor Gorkhem’s in Kastamonu. A place I had never heard of, nestled in the hills, I tear through unknown tracks and roads and finally make it to the RV point at the base of a beautiful waterfall, a local tourist spot. I arrive at sunset amidst all the local tourists who are amused and curious at seeing a foreigner there. A mandatory dive in the cold water before heading back to meet Gorkem and his family. He sends me an updated GPS point further up in the mountain where no tracks are showing. Switch Tara into off-road mode and start scrambling up the mountains, unsure what I'm stepping into. I had met Gorkem in an underground garage in Istanbul, recommended by a mutual friend. Gorkem is a young kid of 25, part of a crew of riders who specialize in popping wheelies across the city and uploading them on social media. Absolute maniacs riding on their back wheels across traffic jams, in shorts and T-shirts, and obviously no helmet. My kind of people!

With the sunset and a little navigationally challenged, I finally stumble upon the location. Greeted by Gorkem's infectious broad white smile, I'm herded to the family table of 30 as the guest of honor to meet all the family. His dad, his mom, his brother, nieces, uncles, cousins—they all live in the same valley, a mix of working-class Istanbulites and local hunters and farmers, all gathered in the house of the family elder for Eid! We communicate using Google Translate. I meet Muktar, the local mayor, the only one wearing a suit and also the family clown. They tell me he's the cover for their poaching activities and proceed to show me all their hunting rifles and trophies. We share a copious meal of beef stew, yogurt and fennel, Turkish salad, constant laughter around the table. I feel safe and at home. The generosity shown to me by his family is incredible. The children surround me to practice their English. I have to be rescued by Gorkem to go sit with the elders around the fire and smoke endless cigarettes and gallons of sweet tea with Muktar.

As the meal draws to an end, Gorkem tells me it's a short ride up the mountain to his family cabin where we will all stay the night, with his dad, mom, brother, and niece Ada. He hops on his modified Africa Twin, his dad jumps on the back, and we set off tearing up the hill on complete off-road. Thankfully, this was a Muslim celebration; I don’t think I could have made it if I had drunk any alcohol. We make it to the cabin in the dark and settle in for the night. I can't quite get the surroundings. Gorkem explains that his great-great-grandfather was a hunter and a farmer and had built it entirely on his own using the surrounding apple trees for wood. It's two stories tall and has four rooms, with plumbing and multiple fireplaces—a real fire hazard but exudes charm and tranquility. It's their home; they built it from the ground up. Inside, there is a collection of ancient farming equipment made of wood and all his grandfather's poaching gear, including an old functioning double-barreled musket.

We settle into the living room, and Gorkem's mom prepares us a delicious meal of pasta and yogurt, followed by more tea and cigarettes. I feel so welcomed and at home with them; their eyes are so warm and kind. There's, of course, a fierceness in them as there is in all mountain people; that's why I love them—they are wild! They recount stories of bear hunting and wolf attacks; we laugh and talk all night. Gorkem and I stay up all night talking about life and the future. He's a young, passionate man, full of life and energy, who loves mountains, motorcycles, hunting, and has a real zest for life. He tells me about his heartaches and shows me all the scars he's amassed from riding and tells me it's nothing compared to the aches of the heart. I agree; mine still run deep, and I still can't bring myself to write about the reasons for my leaving everything behind to start afresh on the road. The specter of my failures to love and care for those that needed me still gnaws at my heart.

Time to pop another antidepressant before I slide back into the abyss. I’m drawn out of my ruminations as Gorkem springs to action and pulls out a massive automatic shotgun and runs onto the roof; he's heard a deer! It's 0400 hrs in the morning, and the rest of the family are sleeping. We decide it's best not to start blasting 12-gauge rounds at the poor unsuspecting deer. Gorkem's dad's snoring saved Bambi's life that night. After the excitement, it's time for bed. My mind is swirling with thoughts of Emily, Kate, Dad, the road ahead, and whether I really want to end up in an orange boiler suit on RT or Al Jazeera.

I’m up at 7 to write and take in my surroundings. It's so quiet; the cabin is nestled in a small apple orchard on the edge of the mountains, the grass green and luscious, full of flowers, the air fresh, and the sun warm and clean. We have a lavish breakfast of bread and yogurt with local honey. Gorkem's mom is as witty as he is wild. We get on like a house on fire. They tell me I can stay as long as I want, and I do want to. But I had promised my long-not-seen good friend Shota in Georgia that I would be there the next day too, we have a date with a 5000m mountain to climb, guns to fire, and horns of wine to drink. I can't let him down. So again, with a heavy heart, it's time to hit the dirt tracks to get back on the coast and on my way to Georgia. I wave goodbye to my new Turkish family and head east. Gorkem does some road with me; we tear through mountain dirt tracks, and he shows me a hidden road to the coast. I tell him it's going to take longer; he tells me, "Don’t worry; you will love it so much it will fill you with energy for the rest."

He's right. What a wild, crazy ride! I’m up on the pegs, ripping through dirt tracks surrounded by pine trees and red rocks, expecting a bear to pop out at any time! I make it to the coast at last, from the woods to the sea, but I've lost far too much time and realize I won't make it to Georgia at the arranged time. I've added a day to the journey. So, it's time to hit the gas and get as far as possible along the coast. I pick what I think is a small fishing village to bed in for the night, but as I finally arrive, I realize I’ve made a mistake; it's not a village, it’s a big town, and in full Eid celebration. Traffic jams, chaos, hell! And no safe place to pitch my tent. The sun is setting, and so is my morale. I’m frantically looking at the map to find a place to pitch my tent; there's a peninsula just short of town. I rush up it on Tara to escape the town madness. No place to camp; there's a beautiful fenced cliff edge overlooking the sea, and no way of getting in. I’m starting to get a bit desperate, then a lonely shepherd appears with a tail-wagging dog in tow. In sign language, I ask him where I can find a place to pitch my tent; he signals me to follow him. He must be in his sixties and starts running up the hill to the fence entrance. He unlocks it and shows me a narrow path along the cliffs and points there with a broad smile.

Hesitantly, I scramble Tara along the path, praying not to fall, and find a secluded little alcove to pitch my tent just as the warm red and purple sun sets behind the sea line. I wake up alone on the beach and for the first time, I’m alone but not lonely; I’m free! Seagulls gulling, birds chirping in the yellow shrubbery, and the crazed barks of roaming dogs have ceased. The smell of salt in the air, bees curiously buzzing around me, a lone crow crowing at a fishing boat returning to port. Bright orange and pink violet sun rising from the eastern Black Sea, filling my tired mind with energy and hope for the day ahead. What a joy to be alive today! I can’t remember being so alone and free, content.

Do you remember waking up in Toulouse alone, and your first thoughts were about how you could exit this life as fast as possible? How you had planned to hang yourself from the beam of your expensive living room flat and wondered how long it would take for anyone to find you? You couldn’t handle being alone and isolated in a town where you didn’t belong. Well, look at you now, a man of no fixed abode, living where the wind takes me, where the sun shines and the smiles are real. You woke up alone this morning, and your first thought was, "Where next?" Then you stared at the rising sun, alone but not lonely, solitude but free, and more importantly, that rope and beam can fuck off. Right now, in that moment, I was happy to be alive. I had a choice to make before setting off from Sinop. Still processing the warmth and kindness I had experienced with Gorkem's family, the kindness and love his mother showed me as she packed my bike with biscuits and juices, the gentle amused and mischievous gaze of his father's eyes, Ada’s curious and innocent child's heart, his brother's wounded heart, having been left by his wife but still managing to smile as a single dad, Gorkem's wild, unchecked explosive energy.

Their faces still swirling in my memory, I rode on to Georgia. I was up at 0400 and on the saddle by 0500. I knew this was going to be a long day's ride as I had quite a distance to cover to make up for the lost day in the hills. The plan was to get as close to Georgia as possible in order to cross the border the next day and make it to Tbilisi by the following afternoon. I picked the coastal route based on two factors: proximity to the sea if I wanted a swim, and cooler, fresh sea breeze. Clear-eyed and bushy-tailed, Tara and I opened up in the fresh morning air and tore across the Black Sea coast. Just one problem though, after 400 km of going through the same coastal town after town, the scenery never changing, and being just a stone's throw away from the sea and not seeing it, I started getting quite irate. Monotony is an occasional companion to the lone rider who hasn't judiciously picked the best routes, and in this case, I was guilty of having failed in my route selection, choosing ease (the sea breeze) and speed, I voided my guiding principle of sticking to the hills and paid the price. Boredom on a long ride can only be mitigated by a good soundtrack selection, copious amounts of coffee and cigarettes, and the occasional race with a brain-dead local to spice things up a little.

So, after riding in a straight line for 4 hours, I decided I had had enough of this pleasantly soporific coastal road and headed for the hills. Selecting the twistiest of roads and reminded of a conversation with Emily when she mentioned the town of Kars in northeastern Turkey, which sits next to the abandoned Armenian city of Ani, finally off the coast and inland we went. Tara purred at finally being able to open up her engine and lean her side tires. I switched her into sports mode to get a bit more of an adrenaline fix to kick the boredom into touch. The road takes us through a variety of changing countryside scenes, from desert plateaus to mountain lakes and eternal snow. We finally make it to the outskirts of Kars with barely enough fuel to make it. It's getting dark, the sun was setting, and the moon had risen, painting the sky violet, purple, and faded navy blue. The plateau is at 2500 meters, and a storm has broken on the horizon. I check the odometer: 1023 km in one day. I pull out my last cigarette and look at the hotel owner through the window from the street; he smiles at me, a young kid, and we laugh at my broken appearance. After some locally sourced beef keftas, fresh bread, and grilled chicken wings, and feeling a bit more human, watching the rain fall on Kars and its people scurrying around to avoid it, I’m joined by a local imam and his soldier friend who sit at my table. We share tea and cigarettes, and we talk in broken English and German about religion, travel, and God. A full belly and lively conversation satisfy the mind, and I finally fall into a deep and restful sleep.

Waking up in Kars to the sound of the minarets, the air is clean and crisp, mixed with the smells of cattle and wild flowers. It’s a largish city of mixed Russian/Soviet, Armenian, and modern Turkish mosques, overlooked by an ancient fortress atop a green, flower-covered hill. A couple of coffees, and it's back on the saddle toward Tbilisi and the border, but not before a short detour to the ancient, abandoned city of Ani.

Ani, often referred to as the "City of 1001 Churches," stands as a poignant symbol of medieval Armenian architecture and urban planning. Located on the Akhurian River in present-day Turkey, it was once the capital of the Bagratid Armenian kingdom during the 10th and 11th centuries. At its zenith, Ani was renowned for its splendid architecture and bustling markets, rivaling other great cities like Constantinople and Baghdad in both size and splendor. The city's strategic position on various trade routes contributed to its rapid economic growth and cultural flourishing, drawing artisans and traders from across the Silk Road. However, its prominence also made it a target for conquest.

Over the centuries, Ani experienced numerous sieges and was controlled by various powers, including Byzantines, Seljuks, Georgians, and eventually the Mongols, each leaving their mark on the city's cultural landscape. Today, it Ani lies mostly in ruins, a hauntingly beautiful expanse of collapsed walls and standing structures that include churches, a cathedral, and a citadel. The ruins eloquently testify to its former greatness and the complex history of the Armenian people. The site, often enveloped in a poignant silence broken only by the wind, invites visitors to ponder the impermanence of human endeavors against the backdrop of time. In 2016, recognizing its significant historical and cultural value, Ani was inscribed asdeclared as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The site is empty. I have it all to myself, and I get to be transported through time and empires, imagining the lives of all the people traveling east and west on the Silk Road, meeting on this high-latitude plateau full of wonders from across the world, faces of all colors, faiths, and religions exchanging goods, spices, ideas. At the entrance of the site is a 20-meter-high Turkish flag floating above it, and at the bottom of the valley surrounding the old city, the Akhurian River snakes around a deep valley separating Turkey and modern-day Armenia. On the other side of the river is a long line of Armenian military watchtowers nervously overlooking the site of the city that was once theirs. I can't help but think of the impermanence of man and his arrogance. Modern flags and ancient ruins, empires come and go, stones are raised and fall into dust; in the end, only nature remains calm, balanced, and free, or at least for now. It’s time to go, leave the ghosts of fallen empires where they remain, and head to Georgia to finally catch up with Shota and his promise of high mountains, big horns of wine, and shooting guns!

After a long ride across the northeastern plateau linking Georgia and Turkey, the environment starts to change, old Soviet buildings dominate the horizon, sturdy and devoid of any style. Finally, the border, tired, cold, and over-excited at having made it, I cross the Turkish side smoothly, not without having to pay a 70 euro fine for my speeding transgressions in Anatolia, a small price to pay for if this had been the UK, Tara would have been impounded on the spot!

The Georgian side of the crossing was another story. Glad to have made it and maybe a little carefree, when I get asked by a stern-looking Georgian border guard where I am from, I jokingly say from Japan, thinking the joke would land and maybe elicit a smile from him. Big mistake, don’t try to make little officials with big egos smile. This fat-bellied, weak-armed, receding hairline, vicious, weasel-eyed sliver of a human takes offense at my joke and tells me to go back to Turkey immediately; I am not welcome in Georgia. “Go back,” in a coarse and unimpressive tone from the safety of his little metal box, his belly overhanging his desk.

I stand my ground. “It was a joke. I’ve had a long day, sorry. Here’s my passport.” “You think you’re funny, man?” he stares at me. I can sense the provocation. Fuck it, I'm going to bite. I can feel the rage mounting at this weasel. “Yes,” and I stare back at him with all the violent intentions in my eyes. I have enough time before his mates shoot me to break at least his arm and rip his eyes out with my teeth. “Calm, Max, calm, just stare at the cunt  and say nothing.” He breaks and looks down. I have him; he's afraid and weak and knows it. All he has is his shitty police badge and the safety of his cabin. From this point onward, I don’t care what he does; he and I know that I broke him just by looking at him. He can waste all the time he wants; in the end, I’ll get into Georgia, and he will slowly rot in his metal box, with no pride and no honor. The rage that inhabits me has taken control, venomous spite, anger and violence are coursing through my veins, I can’t seem to control it, I try and step back but I can’t let go. Years of trauma, violence and anger still inhabit my body, it's easy to preach compassion and kindness but in that moment all I felt was like pink misting this guy. As the anger diminishes I feel ashamed, embarrassed, the same way you feel after you’ve had a weird wank, just a bit empty and stupid.

He puts me aside to check my documents and lets all the other travelers through, who all sympathize with me. We even laugh at him from the road when he takes out a magnifying glass to look over my Russian visa, which irritates this powerless weasel even more. His colleagues raise their eyes to the sky at me and seem embarrassed by his behavior. In the end, I’m let in. I shake hands with his colleagues and stare the weasel down again for good measure. I’ve made it to Georgia!