I have no chance to work for National Geographic

I meet a Scandinavian cyclist, some “maybe” refugees, and have me invited to a couple in a fight. Between Ankara and Sivas, I realize that I still have crusts to eat before being hired by National Geographic.

Another 500 km to Turkey.

Mads, the attractive Norwegian.

I put my saddlebags at an Ankara hostel. After six days without washing myself other than in service station sinks, I tell myself that the shower is a very nice invention.

I spot another touring bike near the front desk, and a short time later I approach its owner. Mads Herdal is a 33-year-old Norwegian engineer, and the first cyclist I have met since leaving on a trip similar to mine. We both left a week apart and followed parallel routes in Europe to Ankara. It feels good to share what we've been through over the past few months. Our favorites like our most difficult times. Mads has already had two accidents, one of which was so violent that he had to change the fork on his bike. But he does not lose his smile or his motivation to continue! His next destination is Iran, while I pass through Georgia and Azerbaijan. But it is not impossible that we will meet again in Central Asia.

When leaving Ankara, I have to take the highway, as in Istanbul. It's literally like driving on the metro in Montreal. On two occasions, I have my mirror hung up by motorists who pass too close to me, and who cannot give a damn more. Fortunately, I left the city unscathed, still zero accidents on my counter!

The refugees "

The days quickly return to the way they used to be in the capital: alternating ascents and descents, with strong headwinds. After a few days, at the end of the day, I see large tents seeming to form a small village not far from the road. I sleep a few kilometers away, and from my own tent, I start to think that it could be Syrian refugees. At the latest figures, there were more than 2,7 million in Turkey. Enough to put into perspective the Canadian promise to accept 25.

"Why are you asking me which country are we in?" "

The next day, I therefore retrace my steps, adding a dozen kilometers to my day. A power line has been installed just for this conglomeration of large tents. There are children, women, the elderly. Convinced that they are refugees, I approach so that I can talk to them.

The village is built on beaten earth and is surrounded by barbed wire. Clothes dry in the sun. As I approach, I realize that I do not know the local customs at all. Can I just enter this village without an invitation? Can I approach the women and ask them questions? Are my cycling shorts appropriate clothing?

Standing motionless at the front door of the village, I realize that I am the worst international journalist.

I finally managed to talk to two children. Talking is a big word. I don't speak more Syrian than Turkish. I try my hand with the words “Syria” and “Türkiye”, thinking that the latter means inhabitant of Turkey. Finally, I learn later that it rather means Turkey as such. I am told yes to that. The young people must have said to themselves, well yes man, did you come here to ask us which country we are in?

Not bad my report on the Syrians. I don't even know if they were, but at least I have a photo and confirmation that we are in Turkey. This is Jonathan B. Roy, Radio-Canada, somewhere in Turkey.

Yozgat

As I continue my journey, I will notice many other small camps, from one to ten tents gathered. These (perhaps) other refugees seem to be settling on unoccupied or deserted land. Like that old derelict gas station.

People are setting up makeshift camps where they can.

I then arrive at a roadblock. An army guy beckons me to go see him. Since I'm naive, I think he wants to ask me about my trip. Well no, he wants to see my passport and then search me. The guy is all trapped in my bags and pulling on my straps. I help him open one before he pulls everything off. He makes me take out all my clothes. I ask her why, and the four soldiers around me tell me to shut up. At least that's what the tone of voice seems to indicate. It seems that the guys weren't looking for old cycling shorts since they let me continue on my way.

View from my room of the live soccer match in Yozgat.

I stop at the town of Yozgat. From my dingy room, it seems to me that the noise of the city is amplifying. I open the curtains and I see that my balcony gives a direct view of the central square and the broadcast of the soccer match at the Euro. No need to speak Turkish to guess this one!

Spain wins 3-0 against the Turks. The party doesn't end too late.

 

Haci

Haci.

I keep rolling, rolling, rolling. Passing in front of an old house almost in ruins, as happens to me a few times a day, a man invites me to stop. He looks nice to me, I stop.

He comes to see me and speaks to me in Turkish. Obviously, this is a failure.

- English? that I ask him.
- No English. French? that he answers me.

I am right in the middle of Turkey and I have a seventy-year-old Turkish man who speaks French to me. French approximate, but still.

We manage, sometimes with the support of Google Translate, to have a conversation. Haci tells me that he lived in France for seven years in the 70s before returning to Turkey. I am impressed that he can still speak French, almost forty years after his last practice.

Haci is now a tractor mechanic, and I get a full tour of the garage and the various accessories that make up a combine harvester. After a break on the garage floor for a prayer in the direction of Mecca, and between two tractor parts, he talks to me in a few words about his son, who died in 1999 while in the army. Then he invites me to supper.

This is where it gets even weirder.

His wife does not seem delighted to have me. Ramadan obliges, we wait for the exact time when the sun goes down to be able to eat. We are he and I sitting on the floor in the living room, in front of a coffee table filled with food, waiting for 20:15 pm. His wife is in the kitchen and does not have dinner with us. My mechanic goes to see her and I hear them arguing. I can tell you that I feel weird sitting in Indian in his living room at this time ...

Haci returns. I ask him if everything is ok. "No problem," he replies. 20:15 p.m. rings. My host no longer speaks, he eats everything at lightning speed. I haven't even finished my soup that he already includes his dessert. Between bites, he gently reproaches me that in Canada, we do not respect Ramadan. "Canada always eat," he says with his mouth full.

Well done for driving in the dark.

Finally, as I am still more or less comfortable with the marital situation, and I wonder if I am not playing the role of the missing son, I decide to leave in the dark. After a few kilometers, I pitch my tent three meters from the path.

The next morning, an employee from the nearby gas station comes towards me and asks me if I am a tourist. I say yes and he nods that I can stay in the field if I want, and he leaves. Frankly, taking me for a refugee, he would not be hired by National Geographic, him!