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The Anatolian Steppe is vast. It covers much of the centre of the country and extends into Armenia and Iran.
Like the Russian steppe its flat, dusty and deadly. Baking hot in summer, a quagmire of sticky mud when wet, and frozen and lifeless in winter.
It saw off most of the second crusaders in the early twelfth century as they tried to walk from Antalya to the Holy Land; picked off by thirst, hunger and constant attacks, and its Russian cousin struck a deadly blow against the invading Nazi army when the dusty plain turned into a muddy hell after the autumn rains.
I was cycling across a section of it, following the faint trail of monuments left over 2500 years ago by the Phrygian civilisation, who under the legendary king Midas, made this area their home.
..... It’s been dry and hot for weeks. Humidity is rising and a storm is coming. They say it’s a couple of days away and when it comes the Steppe will be impassable.
So, for two days and some 250km I power through, from Yazilikaya, the principal city under King Midas, to Gordion, the city of his father and the political capital of the Phrygians, and on to the end of my journey at the modern day frontier town of Polatli.
I bump along dusty tracks, across an endless flat and intensively farmed landscape. The bike handles beautifully. It’s solid, stable and comfortable. The tires are wide with good grip. It’s well balanced with one bag under the handlebars, one in the frame and a rack on the back with a couple of dry bags and bottles secured with bungee cords.
It was made for this terrain - rough but level - and I’m sure it’s grateful to be let off the lead rather than being hauled over rocky tracks as it has been for the last couple of weeks. It feels strong and capable and transmits this to me. Travelling at speed, dust billowing, bumping over tracks rutted with the deep fossilised treads of tractor tyres, time and sensation evaporate, and through dust covered glasses my sight loses focus. All that remains is movement and instinct. Lost in the vastness, alone but travelling with purpose, it’s exhilarating.
Like in the desert, the occasional settlement is spotted by the tufts of green trees cutting the otherwise unbroken horizon. At the centre of each is a fountain which cascades into a series of deep troughs for watering people and animals alike. Bountiful and free, these fountains are the central feature of every town and village – the pulsing heart of the community, and its greatest gift. After the searingly hot, dry and dusty plain, arriving at a village parched, sun beaten and delirious, there is nothing more welcome or rejuvenating than the sound, feel and taste of generously flowing cold water.
Nearing Polatli in the late afternoon, I feel the breath of the storm which has been closing in on me since lunchtime. Ahead the sky is still blue, but above me it’s grey, and behind a menacing black. The wind picks up and there’s a light rain. I pedal harder as I enter the outskirts of the town. The Steppe ends at Polatli and the land drops and the last few kilometres to the bus station are all downhill. Past the Soviet style apartment blocks the dark skies overtake me and the wind picks up. I felt like I’m surfing the storm, perilously riding a great wave which will engulf me at any moment. Gusts are catching plastic bags and forming sheets of dust and toying with them in the air. In the distance are rumbles of thunder so deep that they reverberate through me. Traffic is building as I career through narrow side streets towards the bus station. A strong gust catches some empty cardboard boxes which have been neatly stacked and explodes them like shrapnel. The buildings brighten slightly before a sudden and violent clap of thunder which echoed off the narrow streets. More thunder follows as I arrive at the bus station. As I get off my bike the sky darkens and with the next clap the heavens open. I never really appreciated that phrase ‘the heavens open’ until now after witnessing the power of the Steppe and a downpour so dense and heavy that within seconds everything not under cover is soaked and the drains are chocking. Seeing me wet and exhausted the owner of a tea shop, who was about to close, invites me in out of the cold and together we sit with a warm and reviving glass of sweet tea, and watch the storm.
My coach to Antalya is due to arrive at midnight. It’s coming from Ankara and will pick up from outside its offices in a nearby street. By the time I arrive the office is closed although there are a few chairs outside. I join a couple of others and sit and wait. The storm has passed but the debris and floodwater is all around. It’s dark and cold. A family arrive, parents and four very young children. The children huddle together on a cold stone step and the parents wrap them in a blanket. When my bus finally arrives after 1am they are still there, quiet and uncomplaining. They are clearly used to this. As the warm coach moves off I look back at them. They are motionless, waiting with patience and dignity in the bitter night.
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