Jim William West
There’s no public transport at the Iranian/Turkish border. This is a killing zone. Travelers straggle up in small groups, while taxi drivers, like sharks, cruise around, picking them off one at a time. The fares are fixed at an absurdly high level. You pay, or stand about in the desert for a day, and then pay. I start walking, but this end of Turkey is no place to be out on your own. Come across a huge transport truck. The driver is doubtful about giving me a lift. There isn’t a second seat, just a metal casing, which I presume houses the engine or transmission. I’m desperate. Unpack my sleeping gear, pile it over the box, and climb up. It is a bone-jarring 50-mile ride. Get off, in a daze, at a large campsite. Somebody feeds me: somebody gives me a place to sleep. The remainder of the journey to Istanbul is a blur. At one point, a Turkish coach stopped for me. Tried to pay, but they insisted I ride for free. This was in the same region where I had been stoned on my first trip. My internal organs had taken a pounding during the truck ride. Everything hurt. It felt like hepatitis. I was so discouraged and dejected that people avoided me, adding isolation to my list of problems. Ate and slept in Istanbul, but didn’t think I’d ever reach England.
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