Christina Dodwell
Editors’ note: Christina Dodwell is one of greatest women explorers and adventurers in history. She has journeyed across much of Africa, the Middle East, Siberia, China, and Papua New Guinea by horse, camel, elephant, canoe, and microlight (small plane). Her adventurous life began, more or less, in 1975 with a trip to Africa with a girlfriend and two male companions. The two men stole the women’s jeep. Stranded, Dodwell and her friend acquired two wild horses. After a year of travels, her friend returned home, but Dodwell carried on for three years, traveling by horse, camel, and elephant. “When you’re thrown in at the deep end you either sink or swim,” she told British journalist Mick Sinclair in 1985, “but I found it was such a learning ground and I enjoy the learning. Everything changes once you lose a vehicle and you’re down to your feet or the horses, which we had. You can see the country in a different way because you can’t carry everything that you need. You can’t carry food supplies or much water so one becomes much more dependent on the land and the villages.”
The following two excerpts—“Bandit Border” and “Noah Was Here”—are from a series of remarkable solo horse journeys in Iran and Turkey collected in her 1987 book A Traveller on Horseback in Eastern Turkey and Iran.
Bandit Border
After Keyif and I had a last bath in Lake Van, we were ready to leave. I collected him from his stable the next morning at 6 a.m., was grossly overcharged but I had expected it, and was content that he’d been well looked after; his girth was one notch fatter.
I was making for Ercek Lake to the north-east, crossing over a mountain divide between the two lakes. At noon I stopped by a stream bank where turquoise kingfishers were diving for their lunch. I rubbed Keyif with some anti-fly treatment I’d bought from a vet, though I doubted it would work since we were too outnumbered; even the vet had been pessimistic but suggested that the flies might feel ill after biting Keyif.
Our afternoon’s route lay along a dirt road in a beautiful valley bordered by mountains whose rocky outcrops were pink-red, and at the valley’s end I could see a massive natural gateway of vertical rock flanking an empty space of blue sky. To the west it was black and rainy, and the wind was pushing the rain clouds into my valley. There was just about time to outrun the storm, with luck, so I set Keyif into a canter, and felt the first raindrops splatter against my back.
We never quite got caught, always just ahead of the storm. Five storm clouds were converging, and I could see rain falling from all of them, but when I pulled out my plastic rain-sheet Keyif freaked out, rearing up in a panic; it would be impossible for me to wear the rain-sheet and ride, or lead him in it. So much for my rainproofing. Kurdish women in the fields were hastily finishing tacking sheaves of barley; their red clothes making them stand out against the ripe corn.
Passing through the natural rock gateway, Lake Ercek lay below ringed by beaches and cliffs. I turned left up over a headland under an ominously black sky, though there was sun beyond and rainbow. From the headland a chain of small islands and rocks ran into the lake. We went down for a drink but the water was salty and Keyif spat it out in disgust.
We wandered along the lakeside and over headlands and long beaches. It was evening and people were herding their cattle and horses home. Keyif neighed frantically at them all, he was obviously back in good form.
I spent the night in the lakeshore village of Golalan, at the muhtar’s cottage. A kindly man, he told me he had been muhtar here for fifteen years, the village didn’t bother to hold elections any longer. In various cottages I noticed tapestries and pictures of a legendary creature which the villagers said used to live in the lake. The creature had a man’s head with elaborate head-dress on the scaly body of a fish, like a merman except that its tail ended as the head of a serpent. The shape was curled around so that the serpent’s forked tongue stuck out toward the man’s head. The villagers said the creature’s name was Sha Maral, it no longer lives in the lake, nor are there any fish.
We left Ercek Lake on a cart track up the mountains, but I lost the track. The valley led east and I was worried about straying too near the Iranian border. When we passed some cowherds they followed me and kept calling me back. I ignored them since the valley had now swerved north but when I stopped for Keyif to graze, one cowherd caught up and told me that my route would lead into a very bad area. He made throat-slitting gestures to illustrate his meaning.
He took me back to their camp, introduced himself as Ahmet, we drank hot water, since he had no tea, and he invited me on a treasure hunt. Later, at Ahmet’s village, I met his brothers. They talked of Urartian gold crowns like the ones I’d seen in the museum at Van and they were convinced I must know something—or else why should I be there? I disappointed them by not having a treasure map to contribute to the enterprise but they decided I’d bring them luck anyway. One of the brothers drew a picture of circles and tree shapes which he said was the key to understanding the site.
I couldn’t make head nor tail of their map but was willing to join the adventure. But when it transpired that we would have to go at night, I said no, how could I understand anything in the dark, I’d only trip over rocks. So we agreed to go at dawn. The secrecy was because they thought all the villagers would follow them and take away their prize.
Of the three brothers, Ahmet had the lowest status, no one gave up his cushions to him, or moved up to make room for him. He sat on the plain carpet, and after lunch he cleared away the tray which is usually the work of women. In this village I was treated as a man. I noticed that the women had enormously fat bottoms, wearing numerous wrappings under their skirts, which looked just like bustles. A couple of men here had two wives, one had three, and another had the Moslem maximum of four.
Very early the next morning I went with the brothers to where they thought the Urartian town had been, and they took me to a large rock whose face bore the very ancient inscription which they had drawn on paper for me the day before.
Although much eroded it was easier to understand on the rock than on paper. The circle enclosed a series of ornate crosses, not trees, similar to the Christian pilgrim crosses I had seen on the stonework of Aghtamar’s island church in Lake Van. So I explained that I thought the symbols marked a holy grave or tomb.
The brothers had already dug a large hole at the foot of the rock, uncovering the masonry of old walls, and although they dug to shoulder-depth, we found nothing of significance. They decided to abandon that hole, which suited me since I’m not keen on tomb-robbing.
As we parted they gave me a list of villages I should pass through to reach Muradiye, since there was no direct route and they were worried about my safety.
I crossed a forbidding chasm and climbed its opposite side, up into mountains, through the first village on the list and again up a long steep zigzagging climb. From the top I could see both lakes, Lake Ercek behind us and the northern tip of Lake Van ahead.
The track descended and looked as if it were headed down to Lake Van. That didn’t suit me so we took off across country along the mountain contour, and by midday had reached an alpine plateau, endlessly rolling and rich with pasture. There were small yailas, pink landslides of rock, many fresh springs, streams and turtles. The cool breeze made it a glorious day. We entered a hidden plain extending about ten kilometres, Keyif cantered along in top form, he simply wasn’t interested in walking, and his excitement added to my sense of exhilaration. It was a memorably wonderful ride.
I stopped four times to let Keyif eat, roll and relax, and midafternoon we paused at a hamlet so I could have lunch, but rather regretted it because of silly young men and no stable for Keyif who got left in the sun and wouldn’t touch the thistle-full hay that the villagers gave him. The silliness of the youths was mostly because they too were convinced I’d got a treasure map—it’s odd how people were obsessed with treasure hunting, and they wanted me to give them my gun, which I don’t have, and didn’t I know any karate or self defence, which made me think they were planning to rob me. Also I had a tick inside my trouser leg which I couldn’t get at to kill.
So I left after half an hour, keeping a sharp watch-out behind me for followers, and we sped over the hills. Still going north, down through a boulder field and sloping mountain spur; gently down, the major descent would come later. I hadn’t realised how high we had gone.
A movement attracted my eyes, the lumbering of a brown bear, fortunately moving away from us. I was told that they could be quarrelsome when coming out of hibernation. Later I spotted another hamlet and thought there should be a way down from it but the track proved to be an animal path which clung to the side of a ravine. At times I felt sure I had mislaid the right way and was only on a goat path. This was probably true, since by halfway down the slopes became perilous, and the path narrowed along a sheer drop. I slipped dislodging some stones that fell vertically for fifteen metres. The inner side of the path had such prickly thistles that leaning inwards was impossible. In patches the path had eroded away leaving gaps that Keyif stepped over gingerly.
At one steep patch I slid down on my back, holding the reins to stop my fall. Keyif stood firm. Very testing for him, the worst I had asked of him so far, but he wasn’t fazed by it. The steepness of the angles necessitated a crupper to stop my saddle and saddlebags sliding forward on to the horse’s neck, and I suddenly realised that the tasselled woven strap which hung from the back of the saddle was not only decorative. I fitted it as a crupper and it worked well.
Crossing landslides and loose scree, I tended to go down toboggan-wise and wished that Keyif wouldn’t keep taking a higher route. If he slipped I would be cushioning his fall!
The descent took three hours, and we came down into a valley beyond the north-east tip of Lake Van. I stopped at a village for tea, and let them persuade me to stay the night. The men here also asked me about treasure maps, and showed me some local rock-inscriptions of crosses, square W’s and other squiggles. We had rice pudding running with butter for supper. The night was one of heat, mosquitoes, and bed bugs that put red weals on my stomach and legs.
In the morning as I rode out of the village, a dog the size of a Saint Bernard bounded up to attack. I drew up my knees and rattled Keyif ’s reins as if to tell him “Do something,” and when the dog tried to bite Keyif ’s hind legs, the horse kicked back. But one got me later that day as I was walking along the road to Caldiran. A large Anatolian came bounding out of a shed snarling furiously. I did the worst possible thing, I ran, and felt its teeth snap into my leg. Pain and fear shot through me but luckily the dog let go and ran back into the shed. I limped away, wondering if not having a tetanus injection would be more harmful than a visit to the local hospital, if there was one.
I decided to look for anti-tetanus vaccine in Caldiran, the next town, which we reached at sunset. Someone yelled “Turist, gel, gel” (come here) so I went to ask where to find a water tap for the horse, and I stayed there, with Keyif in the empty cottage next door. My host killed a chicken for supper which we ate with melon and watermelon. It was a cold evening, I put on a sweater and at night was grateful for the thick quilt.
The hospital was not open at 8 a.m. so I went to the nurses’ house. The nurses were delightful, though the dispensary was waiting for a new supply of anti-tetanus vaccine, due to arrive some day soon, but the girls assured me that the hospital at Dogubayazit should have some. And they gave me a little bag of sweets for the journey as a touching gesture of goodwill.
I rode north across a great flat plain where the battle of Caldiran had been fought in 1514, when the Ottoman Sultan Selim the Grim had decisively defeated the Persian army before forging on to conquer Syria and Palestine.
Our road led close to the Iranian border. A dirt road with parts still under construction, in a year’s time it would be asphalted, but now it was perfect for a horse.
Lonely and desolate, we pattered through a vastness where black rock was eroded in turbulent seas of jagged teeth. A strong wind kept the day cool and emphasised the desolation. I paid attention to the slightest movement, being aware that there was a very real danger of bandits.
As the land unfolded I saw a distant crater of a large volcano to the west and realised that the jagged expanses of black rock were actually huge tongues of lava. The volcano’s cone was topped with snow, and the patches between the black tongues were verdant green, a startling combination. Keyif danced along, giving me a top-quality ride.
We reached an army outpost, here to guard the frontier, and the sentry called me over to check my passport. He looked at the photograph, then at me, and queried “Bayan?” (woman?). Other soldiers came over and seemed equally puzzled so I took off my man’s cap and let my long blonde hair show. This earned me an invitation into the office for a glass of tea under the regulation portrait of Atatürk. The soldiers were patriotic young men doing their eighteen months’ national service on one of the remotest frontiers. They had no transport to go into town, their supplies being brought in by truck, so they never left their station except to make foot patrols in the mountains. They claimed they didn’t mind the discipline and it occurred to me this was just as well. Without discipline, they might all have leapt on me like a roomful of Keyifs with one mare.
The soldiers said that martial law had ended this week in eastern Turkey. I hadn’t known the region was in that state. They also said there would be three more military outposts along the road, and warned me that when I descended into the lowlands I would pass through a notoriously wild and lawless place called Kizil Ka where even they dare not stop, and their vehicles have frequently been stoned. Those people are the worst type of Kurd they told me, lawless and violent bandits. The commander added that there was no alternative route, I would have to ride through Kizil Ka, but I should keep my wits sharp.
At the second military outpost the soldiers were playing volleyball. My passport was checked and the news relayed that here was a girl, and when I explained that I’d ridden from Erzurum via Van they all began to applaud.
Later, passing through a windswept empty area, I looked for a hidden niche where Keyif and I could take an hour’s undisturbed rest. The giant lava flow with its grassy inlets offered concealment, and some way back from the road I found a good space, unloaded the baggage, tethered Keyif and, suddenly, realised that we were not alone. Someone else was hiding here too. I could see his feet in worn leather boots sticking out from behind some rocks and, thank goodness, he was asleep.
My first instinct was to flee, but not without my horse and baggage. At that moment Keyif found the stranger and snorted, waking him. The man was startled, he scuttled backwards and hissed at Keyif. Then cautiously he poked his head out from behind the rocks. My heart was pounding, but it occurred to me that perhaps the man was just as frightened as I was. We stared at each other for a frozen moment. His was the unkempt face of a thin twenty-year-old who had not shaved for weeks. His expression was very wary. I couldn’t think how to react, so in the end I waved my hand at him politely and greeted him in Turkish. His head poked out further and he replied not in Turkish, but Farsi.
He walked over and scrutinised me then asked “Do you speak English?” I nodded, my surprise left me speechless. He asked for food, saying he’d hardly eaten for a week, so I gave him my picnic lunch of bread, eggs and tomato. I meant for us to share the picnic but he ate so ravenously I let him finish it. Between mouthfuls he talked and I pieced together his story.
A fugitive, deserting from the Iranian army, he had walked for eight days through the Kurdistan mountains to seek asylum in Turkey. He had been afraid to walk by day because the Iranian army or Revolutionary Guards would have shot at him, mistaking him for a Kurd; and afraid to walk on moonlit nights because the Kurds would have shot him, mistaking him for a Revolutionary Guard.
He was well-educated and spoke English fluently, and explained his reason for deserting. “I was likely to die crossing those mountains, but I was sure to die if I stayed in Khomeini’s army.”
He bombarded me with questions, did I know where there was a collection point for other Iranian deserters? Actually yes, I did know because in Van I had met a group of them, most of whom had paid the Kurdish mountain-folk about $1500 each to bring them out on horseback. Even their stories had been grueling, riding by night in constant danger. So I told him the name of the place where he could find the others, and explained that as I understood it from them, UNESCO gives $500 for each man’s food and lodging, but that he was not yet safe since Iran offers $1000 for every man sent back. After twenty days in Turkey he could apply for work, and would need to go to Istanbul to ask UNESCO for a passport. But it would not be easy and his Iranian money was almost worthless here in Turkey.
As Keyif and I approached the third military post I heard some shots from up ahead. Creeping forward and scanning the mountains, I noticed the movement of a man on a hill summit attracting the attention of a second man on another summit. It seemed reasonable to suppose they were soldiers on lookout duty. They didn’t appear agitated, probably they were just firing to make sure their rifles worked.
There was no trouble and I cleared the checkpost without delay. They said it was twenty-five kilometres to Dogubayazit, the same distance as both other checkposts had told me! Beyond it the mountains became beautiful with thick meadow grasses and the black tents of nomadic yailas dotted across the undulating vastness. This was one of the most scenically glorious roads I had used so far.
We had not yet reached the notorious Kizil Ka; Kizil means red, so I stayed alert for some sign. The land to the west fell away in a series of parallel mountain ridges outlined against each other. Suddenly we came over a hilltop into a magnificent panorama with snow-covered Mount Ararat looming above the mountainous horizon.
Mount Ararat is unequalled in the world for the height it rises above its surroundings. Even Mount Everest at nearly 10,000 metres is only about 3,500 metres above the glaciers which define its base. Ararat’s summit is 4,270 metres above the plain of Dogubayazit, although in total altitude the mountain is only 5,180 metres. Its height is made more impressive by its shape and solitary position, growing from a flat plain almost without foothills. Ararat was still far away yet already it seemed to fill the sky.
Closer to me, about one kilometre ahead, was a massive pyramidal triangle of red rock. This was the red sign I had been watching for. The village shortly after it would be Kizil Ka. I dismounted to collect a pocketful of stones (for retaliation), and decided to try going through the village on foot, which might look less aggressive. Though the dogs could be a problem, and I left my stirrups ready for quick mounting.
It was a fairly successful idea, but I could tell that Keyif was being peppered by small stones because he pranced along fast. I smiled and greeted the elder villagers, it was only the urchins and youths who threw stones. Once clear of the village I swung into the saddle and we galloped away. Stones rattled behind us but we were quickly out of range. However I was congratulating myself too soon.
A man on horseback galloped up behind us and, instead of passing, he slowed to keep pace with Keyif. This was potentially a bad sign. So I made polite conversation with him; admired his horse, told him about my journey, and my husband in the next town. Keyif was snorting and I warned the man that he would kick and strike if the other horse came too close. Keyif played the part well. At one point the man tried to make Keyif throw me, but I’d kept Keyif ’s mouth so soft that he was easy to bring under control.
When we reached a flock of sheep and three shepherd youths, the horseman said goodbye. I was relieved. But the shepherds blocked my path waving sticks and demanding money. I politely asked the horseman to tell them to let me through. He did try to help me, and chased off one of the shepherds but the others attacked me with sticks and stones. The road was so steep and rocky it was impossible to run, and the road sides were even rockier. Pure violence was written on the shepherds’ faces. They knew they had me cornered. Keyif reared and plunged as the shepherds brandished their sticks and pelted us with hefty sized rocks. One hit my shoulder and another just missed my head.
We weren’t going to get past without help so I commanded my ally on horseback to come over. He came and Keyif dodged behind his horse, passing the shepherds who then leapt at my saddlebags, tearing into them with their hands, but Keyif danced clear before they had managed to break anything. I remembered the stones in my pockets and began to hurl them at the youths. Their eyes went murderous, and they ran at me.
Clapping my heels to Keyif ’s sides we didn’t quite manage to get away before they had grabbed the back pocket of one saddlebag and my reins. I kicked one youth in the ribs to make him let go, and Keyif responded to my gallop command. The youth at the back clung on for several paces before letting go. Keyif and I raced down the steep track.
Several times Keyif nearly fell, but the hail of rocks still hitting him and me deterred him from slowing down. We had escaped. Glancing at my saddlebags I saw that the shepherds had succeeded in stealing my water-flask, Keyif ’s tether, and a few other things. But we weren’t going back.
It was sunset, I stopped at the next village and asked if there was a safe place where Keyif and I could stay the night, explaining that I’d just had a bad experience in Kizil Ka. The men were stroppy, looking at me with unfriendly eyes, no one would take the responsibility of housing me. They suggested I kept on riding.
“Nothing would make me ride in this hostile place at night,” I retorted. “My horse is tired, we need shelter.”
A boy was ordered to take me to a military camp beside the village, where I dismounted and shook hands with the apparently senior men before voicing my request. Not that I wanted to stay at their camp, just to make sure they would treat me with respect. The muhtar happened to be there and he said that I would be welcome to stay at his house, and my horse would be safe in his stable because his property was enclosed behind walls whose outer gate was locked at night.
During the evening he told me that he had been the muhtar for five years and he certainly didn’t want to be elected for another term, the work was all forms of trouble. He and his family were delightful people, I wished I wasn’t too worn out to enjoy the evening. The night was abysmal, the bedding full of fleas, I awoke every few minutes and eventually just sat waiting for morning to come. It seemed likely to me that it’s only the bedding which is stored without regular use that has fleas. Extra quantities of bedding are a status symbol, but it can go unused for years. At breakfast the muhtar asked me if I had slept well, I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.
Rather than take the road to Dogubayazit and Mount Ararat, still twenty-five kilometres away around a mountain barrier, I decided to try a shortcut over the mountains. The muhtar agreed that one of the ravines would take me the right way. After passing the fourth military checkpoint I turned east, it was easy to keep my bearings since Mount Ararat towered into the sky way above the nearer mountain horizon. At the end of the plain we began climbing into hills, using a dry riverbed. It steepened into a ravine, progress was possible on a sheep path, but it changed course and as we closed in under the mountains I lost sight of Ararat’s peak. So we went by God and by guesswork. My saddlebags got torn by rocks along the inside of a narrow cliff ledge but I stuffed a plastic bag under the tear and it plugged the gap.
At the head of the ravine was a spring, Keyif and I both tried to drink from it but he muddied the pool. Above this was a hill crest, we hurried up it, I was impatient to see whether I had picked the right ravine. We went over the crest, but another bigger crest lay ahead. Then slowly I saw the summit of Ararat appearing above my ridge, growing taller with every few metres that I climbed. Cloudless snowy flanks, smooth sweeping cone stretching down towards earth level, it seemed to keep growing until I reached the crest and then it lay before me, straight ahead.
From my highland vantage point I could also see the town of Dogubayazit still a few hours away down on the plain, and the ancient palace of Isak Paşa, which I hoped to visit later.
Near me on a mountain shoulder a Kurdish shepherd was brewing tea. He called me over; for obvious reasons I wasn’t feeling friendly toward Kurdish shepherds but my desire for a cup of tea overcame my reluctance. He had two hundred sheep and he showed me how he played his flute to them. Its notes were reedy and zingy and its song carried on the breeze among the sheep and over the hills. My faith in human nature began to flow back into me.
He also showed me his favourite sheep, a woolly ram whose corkscrew horns indicated his descent from wild moufflons. Some young shepherd boys sauntered over to say hello, and respectfully called me Agha, a man’s title. I thought about the line between distrust and caution, and how I prefer to trust people than to expect the worst, believing that in general one has a choice over whether one brings out the good or the bad in people.
Time stood still, it was a scene which didn’t seem to have changed since men wrote about shepherds in the Bible.
Filling the background was the mighty Ararat, a mountain revered as holy by Christians, Moslems and Jews. On impulse I asked the old man if he thought that Noah’s Ark was on Mount Ararat, and his reply was an unhesitating yes. He said all the local people know it’s there, though they haven’t seen it.
Noah Was Here
The descent to the town was long but not difficult, we reached it at noon and I put Keyif in a public stable run by a half-wit.
My first chore was to go to the hospital and have an anti-tetanus injection against the dogbite. My leg didn’t hurt any longer, in fact the skin had gone numb which was worrying but the bite was healing well. After the injection I stopped at a chemist for flea powder, then went to the army headquarters. My purpose here was to try and obtain a new water-flask from their stores, to replace the stolen one, since it was impossible to buy a proper metal flask in the town shops, and the cheap plastic bottles on offer would split with rough handling.
In explaining why I needed a replacement flask the soldiers misunderstood what I wanted and they took me to the gendarmerie who promised to try and get back my original flask. It seemed they were longing for an excuse to teach Kizil Ka a lesson. That was fine by me and I hoped they would succeed. They told me to report back the next morning.
As I walked down the road two young school-girls latched on to my hands. Laughing and skipping, they led me to their home and invited me to stay. They were learning English at school, so I gave them an hour’s reading practice in the afternoon.
Later I walked out of town to visit Isak Paşa. The palace is visible from afar, perched in a dominating position among sharp escarpments of green rock; its walls, dome and minaret stood out in sunlight against a black, threatening sky. Built in the 1700s by a Kurdish chieftain, its style is a mixture of Seljuk, Ottoman, Georgian, Armenian and Iranian. The entrance is magnificent, even without the gold-plated doors which the Russians took away during their 1917 invasion. Inside the first courtyard ornate stone-work is carved in the Iranian style of animals and flowers instead of Moslem geometric motifs. Beneath the mosque a marble staircase leads to the graves of Isak Paşa and one of his wives. There is a warren of small interconnecting rooms and dead ends and since I was being followed by a young man I climbed on to the walls, and toured the palace from above.
The floor of the throne room is superbly tiled in black and white marble and it has carved stone pillars, while each small individual room of the harem and children’s apartments has its own fireplace with an elegant half-conical mantel, chimney breast and windows. The sky behind the palace now glowed as late sun lit the black clouds.
Isak Paşa seemed deserted except for its caretaker and my Kurdish shadow. He came up to me as I left and said he was also walking back to Dogubayazit. Rain began falling, increasing in ferocity until hailstones were stingingly painful. We sheltered in a ruined building and although the man was most helpful about pointing out the various other ruins in the jumble of fallen masonry covering the mountainside, he was very tedious with his suggestions of how we could keep warm together. I said that if I didn’t hurry back to Dogubayazit my large jealous husband would be angry; and despite the rain I opted to run down the mountain, taking off my sandals and using a short cut to meet the road at the bottom. The man ran with me, to show me the way, quite amicably still offering me his body every time I paused for breath. Apart from that the views were stunning and the short turf with its stubby red flowers and feathery plants underfoot made for lovely running.
The man finally gave up on me and soon afterwards I reached the road. Still three kilometres to go, and still pouring cold rain, so when a tractor and cart came along I accepted a lift. The four young men in the cab offered to let me drive and since the driver’s seat was safer than being squashed in their midst, I drove. I hadn’t driven a tractor before, the cart made it swing around and slow to accelerate, but with four men trying to grope me I put my foot flat on the pedal and hoped the load of sheep in the trailer wouldn’t fall out.
The roadsides banked steeply and I couldn’t see the potholes because the windshield was caked in mud. More mud came flying up from the wheels into the cab, but without mishap we reached the school-girls’ house and I jumped out. They were just sitting down to supper, tablecloth on floor, the girls tucked the cloth into their shirt necks. What a sensible idea. And we all dipped into the communal bowls of meat stew, pasta, yoghurt, and salad, a delicious meal. Despite the humble appearance of the house, the family was obviously not poor. They had a television, video, fridge, and a servant girl who was an orphaned relative. Listening to the news on television I heard that there had been an earthquake a few nights previously in this region. Although I must have slept through it, the shock waves had stretched to Ankara.
In the morning when I went to feed Keyif I found that chickens had nested overnight in his manger. They hadn’t allowed Keyif to eat his hay, and they had laid two eggs in it. I moved him into a private room, fed him and shut the door so the chickens could not tease him any more.
As arranged, I reported to the gendarmerie and was surprised and impressed to see my water-flask and horse ropes lying on the desk. I congratulated the men on their efficiency. The rest of the day was spent quietly writing letters and mending the tears in my saddlebags, until 6 p.m. when I went to give Keyif his evening feed. The stables were locked and the half-wit had gone home. I couldn’t leave it at that because I wanted Keyif to gain weight, he needed to eat plenty, so I started looking for a way in.
The local children who had accompanied me to the stables said they could get in through the roof. We climbed on to the flat roof and found a series of small ventilation holes. I knew that one of them had a shallow drop to an empty loft beside Keyif ’s stall, and I managed to squeeze through it. The drop was head height, but it wasn’t until I climbed down into Keyif ’s stall that I remembered that I had bolted his door against the chickens. His hay and barley were in the next room. So I tried to climb out, and couldn’t make it. I got my arms out but could get no leverage to lift myself. Hopelessly stuck, the situation was so absurd that I began to laugh. It’s silly what people assume they can do. Finally a boy climbed down and let me stand on his back to get out.
Then we did what I should have done in the first place, went to the house of the stable-keeper, and he unlocked the stables for me. In the meantime another horse had arrived to be stabled overnight. I brought Keyif out for water, he took one sniff at the other horse, a mare, and lunged at her.
I couldn’t hold him and my feet slid through the wet dung on the floor. The mare was kicking at Keyif, I was pulling with all my might, the mare’s owner was shouting, I got kicked by the mare and trodden on by Keyif as he leapt on to her back, trying to rape her. Fortunately he missed and I managed to wrap his tether around a pole and pulled him away.
The man quickly took his mare into another stall and I apologised, leading Keyif away in disgrace. Life was never dull.
Mount Ararat, I pondered which way to ride up it. We must assume that Noah was the first man to climb down Ararat. But the first to climb up it was a German called Dr. Parrot who made the ascent in 1829. The easy approach from Dogubayazit didn’t appeal to me since today most climbing groups go that way and it sounded crowded. When you’ve got a whole mountain, why follow the beaten track?
A south-east route would have taken me up on to the col between the great and small Ararats, but this alpine pastureland would be full of Kurdish yailas, and I had been told stories of a couple of American climbers who had everything stolen, including their boots.
The north and east faces of Ararat look into Russia and the area is prohibited to tourists, a shame because from there one can see up the abyss, a 3,000-metre chasm that splits the mountainside up to its summit massif, and it is overhung by 1,000 metres of glaciers. So Keyif and I would try a western approach. Once there was a village called Ahora and a monastery dedicated to St James on the north side of the mountain but both were destroyed by the massive earthquake of 1840 which threw the Araxes river out of its bed in the plain below. Today a new village stands nearby, and the north side has the added curiosity of a rocky outcrop shaped like the prow of a ship, which has often been mistaken for the Ark.
I liked the idea of looking for Noah’s Ark. Soon after the 1840 earthquake there had been various sightings of the Ark, the first by a team of Turkish surveyors and workmen who went to check for danger of avalanches. They reported finding the front section of a large boat protruding from a glacier. Experts were sent to examine it and they climbed into some of the boat’s well-preserved storage holds, but complete examination was not possible since most of it was still enclosed in ice.
In 1893 the highly respected Archdeacon of Babylon and Jerusalem, Dr. Nouri, launched an expedition. He too found the Ark and announced that he had entered the bows and stern, although the central part was still icebound. He mentioned very thick hull timbers held together by 300-centimetre pegs. The archdeacon was an intelligent and educated man, speaking over ten languages, and a friend of the American President Roosevelt, and it seemed unlikely that his story was a hoax.
Other reports came from Russian pilots during the First World War; stories that were initially laughed at then checked out by senior officers, who agreed it was true, the Ark was still there. The Tsar authorised an army expedition. It returned with photographs, but these were lost during the Russian Revolution.
In the Second World War another Russian expedition claimed to have located the Ark, badly rotted by this time and in the process of submerging back into a glacier.
While I was riding through Turkey, an American had been applying for permission to dig for Noah’s Ark. He believed he knew where it now lay and was coming armed with special electronic equipment. But at the last minute the Turkish authorities had rescinded his permit and decided to investigate his spot for themselves. I felt a little sorry for him. Personally I didn’t expect to find the Ark, but that didn’t stop me from looking.
The next morning dawned clear, and Keyif and I set out via the corn-merchant, where I strapped some extra barley in a sack behind the saddle, and saluted the gendarmes who had recovered my stolen goods. It took only ten minutes to leave town, Keyif was so fresh he raced along skittishly and shied at every vehicle on the road.
Once clear of the town we headed towards the west side of the mountain, aiming to run up between two parallel arms of lava. Before long the land underfoot became spongy and I could see reedbeds and marshland ahead so we detoured to the west and tried again. The morning sun was building up a hellish heat, yet high above were glaciers.
The slopes were extremely tricky, the giant lava flows were jagged with crevasses that Keyif could not cross, the land between lava tongues was boggy, much wetter than would be expected after rainfall, and it made me agree with the recent scientific theory that Mount Ararat contains a vast lake inside its bulk. People had warned me that water is a curious problem on Ararat because although there is a massive ice-cap there are very few springs or streams. And their length is short, they flow back into holes in the mountainside. A vast subterranean cavern is plausible when one considers the inner working of molten volcanic activity, and it ties in with the last eruption producing steam and gases instead of lava.
Reaching an area where the marsh had dried to a crazy-paving of crusty slabs I heaved a sigh of relief. Keyif was less sure, he didn’t like the fissures between them and he was not at all keen to walk where I directed him. At first the crust supported his weight and we progressed quite far until suddenly it gave way.
The slabs cracked and dust exploded upwards. Keyif floundered, thrashing with his legs but was unable to find any firm foothold, and we were sinking fast. I was almost blinded with dust and shock; realising the dry bog was probably made of volcanic ash, possibly bottomless.
We had already sunk down over one metre, but Keyif had managed instinctively to turn around and was plunging desperately towards the point where we had entered. All I could do was cling on to his mane and shout encouragement.
That was the first of many dry and wet quagmires that we fell into over the next twenty-four hours while Mount Ararat lived up to its popular reputation as a mountain that does not wish to be climbed. Ancient nomads believed it was guarded by angels and forbidden to men. A lot of talk nowadays centres on its dangers, like the zone of snakes. But I would see for myself.
Keyif and I were battling into a strong headwind and I could feel rain drops coming from behind us. With luck the wind would push the rain away. We reached about 3,000 metres; I wondered how long it would be before Keyif began feeling the effects of the altitude.
This western side, even down on the plain, is almost uninhabited and uncultivated, there seems to be no water. Above us tall rocks reached up like spires. The eastern plain is more populated, with villages that bear names such as Nakhitchevan, meaning “the place where Noah disembarked,” and there is a site called Noah’s burial place, and Ahora which means “vine plantation.” Among the birds and beasts saved by the Ark, Noah also brought a collection of plants, and the vine was one of them.
The book of Genesis (chapter 9, verse 20) tells that Noah planted a vine after landing on Ararat. His son, Shem, took vines with him to the southeast and southwest. In fact, this geographical region is said to be the original home of the vine and, as I’d seen near Lake Van, it was an early centre for vine cultivation with sophisticated techniques of wine-making by 800 BC.
Despite the headwind, rain was now lashing down. As before, Keyif panicked at the crackle of my rainproof sheet and I had to fold it away. There was no point in seeking shelter since we were already soaked. I had noticed some yailas, but Keyif had spotted their horses and he began stamping and whinnying. That mare in Dogubayazit had scrambled his brains. Even the faintest horse-like shape in the distance made him prance with excitement.
The rain eased to drizzle and finally to wet mist. When I opened my saddlebags to put on dry clothes I discovered that rain had funnelled in through a hole in the plastic lining and everything was damp. The two most vital items were my sleeping bag, now useless, and my notebook, also useless because a biro doesn’t write on wet paper. A pencil would have worked but I didn’t have one. Weighing up my feelings about a cold wet bed against my mistrust of the Kurds here, I stopped overnight at a yaila. The women helped me to dry out my clothes on their dung-fuelled fire, and were as kind and hospitable as Kurds can be. Keyif was a bundle of energy, racing to and fro on his tether and roaring at the mares, he had no interest in food, water or sleep.
Dawn was misty, and when I went to collect Keyif he seemed to have no outline, just a grey blur in a grey fog. He was still prancing with energy, his mane streaming out and his nostrils steaming. A cold damp morning, I shivered uncomfortably and we got rather lost because mist shrouded the whole landscape; billowing and thinning, putting stark lines into soft focus. At our highest point I saw, looming blackly out of the opalescent blur, the tall prow-like shape of the Ark Rock. From this angle it certainly did look convincingly like a ship.
A shepherd I met said that the mist could stay for days. That was enough for me and I headed Keyif downhill. As we came down we reached the level where the clouds ended and beneath us was warm sunshine. Below that, the descent through lava spews grew continually hotter until around us was a volcanic bomb-field, scorching under a relentless sun.
I didn’t mind about not reaching the summit. One cannot fail unless one sets out to succeed. Goals are like destinations, they don’t always matter. Our journey was enough in itself.