Central-Asia and Europe 1969 (5).

In the middle of the night - for us at least, we went to bed at 8 o'clock - clattering at the door. "Open up, open up". Playing deaf did not help, they kept on shouting and clattering. Outside the light in our room was turned on. Sleepily we opened the door, the hotel manager came in, guest book under his arm: "Register!"
From the Caspian Sea into the inland we had to conquer a high pass in one day from below sea level, through tropical jungle and rice fields up into the bare mountains close to the perfectly pointed Damavan, crowned with snow, to more than 2000 meters high. Although the road was steep it was good. Sometimes, however, there were landslides. "Now you can imagine that buses and cars are dragged into the depth" I said while we were struggling through the mud and stones. Very often, long tunnels had been cut through the rocks." How do we get through this", I said. Henry walked into the pitch dark hole with a torch in his hands. "I cannot see my hand in front of me and there is also no light at the end" Henny said when he came back. What now? A bus stopped "Ride in front of me" the driver indicated. Slowly he drove behind us, while he illuminated the road with his strong headlights. Gratefully we waved at him, blinking in the daylight. He raised his hand and applauded "Marvellous to cycle on this pass," he shouted. "Good luck for the rest of the journey."
"I am not a sir", I shouted angrily. Once again I stood between the bicycles and two teenage boys addressed me. They looked at me embarrassed when I turned around. "This is not a good place to sleep", they said timidly but in good English. Henny came out, it was only a teahouse where there was a loam room with a mat on the floor, the only place where we could stay the night. "Come with us" the boys invited us. Together we walked through the village streets along a lot of blind walls behind which the houses were hidden. Through a gate we arrived in the courtyard. The house, was also made of loam, but in the room a beautiful Persian carpet. Piled up along the walls, the pillows and blankets for the night. A few schoolmates had joined us, together we sat down on the floor. The lady of the house came in, a tall woman who radiated dignity. She wore beautiful, colourful clothes, a white headscarf on her head, seldom you would see the Persian costume like this, outdoors the woman was always wrapped in a black veil. She came in with tray. The boys stood up all together and put it in front of us: sweet tea, flat bread and fried eggs, floating in sheep fat.

he last days in Persia Henny felt ill, he got yellow eyes. Except for a few times some diarrhoea we had been healthy all the time. But now after 2 months practically without vegetables and fruit, this was no wonder.
In Turkey, climatologically a little different, there was plenty of it. Kilos of cherries and prunes arrived in our stomachs and the yellow eyes disappeared like snow in summer.
"Do you have imam bayildi?" "Yes". "And biber dolma". "And taze fasulya, pilaf?" The innkeeper kept on nodding. We read these delicious meals in our pocket dictionary and in the first sleepy town in Turkey they had it all.
Gastronomically it was well a developed country.
Eastern-Turkey, you will never get through it, there are frightfully high mountains, said the Dutch chancellor in Bangkok at that time and who travelled through it by car. And yes indeed, almost every day a pass of over 2000 meters awaited us, steep, stony and bumpy to climb encouraged by shepherds boys, who with catapult or just by hand were aiming stones at us, lorry drivers who "for fun" wanted to mangle us along the rock-face, passengers in the back of the lorry ,who were comfortably spitting at you on your head, while we were climbing laboriously. Gruesome cries from the teahouses of the chaps who were sitting the whole blessed day behind a cup of tea and domino. A woman on a bicycle, too crazy!!!
The loneliness in the mountains was a relief, in the fascinating mountain picture we found mental rest. Sometimes disturbed again by furious barking, flashing teeth of wolf-dogs, the size of a calf close to your hands on the handlebar. You had to get off your bike like lightening pick up stones. and throw them at the monsters to fend them off. In this way the stones along the road had their advantages and disadvantages.
In a culvert the stones came in handy again. Not against the sun now, but against the rain, we sat in the culvert to shelter, a heavy thunderstorm went on for hours lightning struck the the top where the pass was. Shivering we looked upwards. The water in the culvert rose, but that is of course what the culvert was made for. As real Dutch dike builders we started to pile up stones, and laid down a dam and thus we kept our place dry.