Hitchhiker's Guide to the Karakayalar

ANKARAGUCU 1986 is scrawled in blood red letters on the side of ASTI's cream-coloured departures building, and Norman's gaze rolls over this, and the children unloading sacks of onions from their father's truck which stands completely obstructing the oncoming traffic attempting to get level with the bus terminal, horns blaring and hands waving as the headlights flash annoyance and impatience in their direction, but they are seemingly oblivious and Norman zeroes in on the face of the small boy carrying the fifteen kilo sack noticing that he is perhaps hyperactive like the children he worked with last summer in the home for the disabled in Berlin.  His eyes drift across to a poster for the Ferhat Gocer show which is playing endlessly in the Kentpark mall to an audience of...well, pre-teenagers and briefly Norman wonders how the surgeon-singer came down from open air concerts at Rumeli Hisari to plastic matinees at Kentpark, near where men are slicing up giant springs in the midday sun with a naked blowtorch, but since the bus ticket is only fifteen lira and they are going to Karakaya for two days of climbing, a prospect that fills Norman with a nameless dread, even after hitch-hiking through Serbia in a stolen Mercedes until the fuel ran out and forgetting to pack his water purification tablets, he just sits silently contemplating the arid landscape of minarets and shopping malls and party headquarters and pathetic fledgling forests that makes the receding periphery of Ankara look like a scene from any one of the nine planets, other than Earth.  

"It's disgusting!" he is shouting almost, in the sweaty confines of the Buzlu coach which is taking them toward Eskisehir. "There are so many soldiers in this country. You can't make a move without being stopped by them and taken for questioning! It is not like Europe...I mean, last night, at the tolls, the gendarmes - is that what they call themselves? - insisted that I come in with them for tea, and I had to explain to them in broken English never mind Turkish which I don't even know, man, for God's sakes, what I was doing there and I said I was only trying to get into the city and that the truck driver had left me there because he thought it would be easier to hitch a ride instead of ending up in Konya damnit or maybe even Afyon! I mean, why in the hell would anyone be seen alive or dead in Afyon?" His voice has been rising throughout this tirade, and he is practically screaming now, causing a whole row of women in headscarves by Vakko in front to turn around in colourful but silent unison, like animated puppets, and turn back again without comment.  I notice, however, that the teenagers immediately in front are making comments about Norman's red-tinged beard but I neglect to mention this as it would probably only provoke another Saxon tempest of indignation, which soon arrives anyway. 

"What...this stuff is free? How can they afford to give out tea and coffee and cakes and still make a profit on a fifteen lira ticket?" Norman is referring now to the busboy in the bowtie making his way patiently up the aisle distribution small rations of cakes and salty snacks by Eti, which I decline as I am on a diet in order to boost my climbing grade but which tempt Norman momentarily as they will not be as costly as the orange juice at ASTI, even though I paid for them.  As promptly as the tirade started, it is over as Norman falls asleep under the sedative effect of the sun which is shining persistently through the window.  Once he is asleep and,much to my annoyance, snoring and slowly collapsing onto my arm every few minutes, I pull the curtain to and in the comparative but rather blue shade that results pull out my headphones and start thumbing through the latest ubiquitous Brett Easton Ellis novel which I purchased at the book stand in the terminal along with a 30 cl bottle of Erikli mineral water. 

Above: Standing stones silhouette the evening sky on day two after the thunderstorm washed over, but without the expected catharsis.

And then, as if in a movie, framed by the interplay of refractory glass and afternoon sunlight: Temelli, the small artificial lake, melon-sellers, radar guns, broad, military emplacements and broad, dusty fields, a wind farm, an abandoned ONEPET petrol station, boredom, stranded cars carrying eight people, Polatli, Gazi Tepe, signs to Gordion and the silhouette of Mustafa Kemal high above, more free tea and coffee, someone scalded by a bump in the road, Sivrihisar, patrol cars, chrome-plated chicken farms glinting like razor blades amid yet more dustbowl, an air force base, snoring, miles and miles of what could be Oklahoma, someone picking up a cell phone to inform his wife that they are now 60 km from Eskisehir, headlines of panic in Vatan concerning the latest military coup rumours and floods in Pakistan; and then the busboy is level with Norman, shaking him by the shoulders to wake him and the teenage girls are disappointed

Norman comes to just as the bus is slowing down and the door in the midsection is flung open over the ribbon of asphalt and tottering on the steps he feels he may slip beneath the wheels like in a scene from Indiana Jones, clutching the chassis of the coach as the bus keeps on moving, the driver unaware Norman is still attached, pulling himself hand over hand, avoiding the front wheel axles and, levering off the radiator he climbs up the front of the bus, over the Buzlu logo, the driver's face wearing a sudden mask of panic as he realises his enemy is still on board; but it is too late as Norman smashes the windscreen and hurls the driver out under the wheels...

Above: Sunset blackens the landscape as we approach the Karakaya on the evening of day one.

Around an hour later, Norman is trudging slowly into a copse of acacia trees which rattle softly with the wind and will occasionally shake off leaves that thud unexpectedly onto the tent canvas during the interminable night, startling him as he sleeps fitfully in his lime green ultra-lightweight tent by The North Face with reverse-combi technology, fully seam sealed canopy and taped ultralight floor costing $400 from the flagship store in Chamonix (by mail order), and matching Green Kazoo sleeping bag.  There are other climbers in the campsite, and Norman has made broken conversation with them for the last few hours, while attempting to prise open a packet of Eti Crax salty snacks as the sky abruptly darkened, then re-ignited into brilliant starlight, making him regret the opaque nights he spent earlier on this trip, all the stars blocked out by light pollution above the cities of eastern Europe.  Here it is the clearest canvas Norman has ever seen, and the sky seems to be filled with a million stars - a whole galaxy distinguishable and sharp, suggesting a stark infinity and filling him with a palpable but nameless sense of dread. 

Above: Semih heavily engaged on the strenuous crux of Anus Jackpot (6b/VII), Tatar sector.

Two climbers - from Afyon in fact - trudged into the campsite just before darkness.  Semih, shirtless, was wearing a sport climbing harness by Petzl, on which 8cm quickdraws and a belay plate by Camp, a polka dot chalkbag by Louis Vutton and rock shoes by La Sportiva hung from various snap-link carabiners by DMM and wearing boot-cut climbing pants by Zara.  Serhat was carring a snakeskin 10.2mm 60 metre single dynamic rope by Beal, and wearing bermuda shorts by M&S Blue Harbour under an identical harness by Petzl, adorned with rock shoes by 5.10, a nut key by Camp and a belay plate by Kong.  Norman was not wearing any climbing gear at this point and felt a momentary pang of inferiority, which flared into a twinge of jealousy seeing as he would not be able to sport his own hear until the next morning.  As a precursor, he had casually fingered a set of DMM lightweight rocks on wire during the entire dinner proceedings, while attempting to communicate with his companions and their girlfriends, models from the south of Turkey who Norman believed could climb grade five. 

Above: Serhat tackling the hard balance test that is Feristah (6b+/VII+), on the north side of Tatar sector.

From the breakfast table Norman senses a movement in his peripheral vision, and turns to see a snake, gray body, red-tinted head, creeping out from beneath a boulder in search of food.  Curiously he begins to follow it (at a safe distance) as it makes its way along the base of the cliff where Norman climbed last night, before the dinner and the darkness...today Norman is determined to lead his own routes, but he does not know the routes in this little junkyard of basalt blocks and is going to have to put up with the humiliation of being top-roped by his rather perfunctory English guide who just at this moment is pulling on a rather weathered harness, which Norman recognised as a Black Diamond Blizzard and then he watches as the guide clips on a selection of lightweight quickdraws, all by DMM of Wales and asks Norman where is the rope? Humbled by this display of equipment, all Norman can do is retrieve the rope from the vestibule of his small tent, noticing that it is only a 45 metre 10.5mm single rope by Roca, not a 60 metre rope like the Mamut he has stored back at home, in the laundry cupboard. 

Above and below: Warming up in the shade on Destur (VI/5c+) in the Koru sector.

The morning is a blur: Karakan (5c/VI-), a mossy skirmish on slabs; Fall Factor, the cutlass of Koru sector east (6a+/VII-...but it feels more serious on lead, the small crimps wonderfully delicate and crisp as the shade melts away and Norman is suddenly top-roping the steep wall in a fug, as though pinned down by an ex-girlfriend under a hairdryer); Feristah (6b+/VII+), with that awful left to right traverse on palms only and wafery footholds, the true exit via the ramp, not the easy rotten flakes to the right which are off piste, Norman thinks coldly watching the Afyon climbers jug their way up these; Tatar (6b/VII) with its overhanging crux consisting of an occupied birds' nest and some triangular slopers, before the 'finishing jug'; Semih overpowered incomprehensibly by Anus Jackpot (6b/VII) and retreating; everywhere people falling onto shiny quickdraws (except Norman who is on top rope); red ants invading the bag of nuts and dried fruit ('It has more calories now,' someone is heard to say) and endless bowls of Tang which fail to quench Norman's thirst (He thinks: a Corona perhaps, maybe an Apollinaris?).

Above: Norman hangs out on top of Tatar (6b/VII) after a decision to rappel down and no doubt inspect the bird's nest more closely.

Then a pause, as the heat becomes more overpowering than the rock.  Norman feels tiredness wash over him like the waves of the Elbe in summer, and dozes in his tent for an hour or more while his guide drinks tea and pores over a paperback incessantly, obsessively even.  In the evening they walk back across the thorny ground to Cesme sector where the guide is insisting Norman try leading a 'fanstastic' slab route called Ihtiyar Heyeti/Wise Men (6a/VI+).  Norman baulks at this having laid eyes on the route but 'volunteers' to top-rope it later, then 'maybe lead it'.  The guide works his way smoothly up the slab, clipping the quickdraws and occasionally cleaning a hold with a toothbrush to 'make it easier' for Norman to gain friction on the small crimpers.  After all, Norman has paid for this service along with cooked meals every night and tickets to the Ferhat Gocer show (actually they were complimentary).  Somewhere halfway up the slab, Norman falls off one of these freshly cleansed holds and stubs the big toe of his right foot painfully on the stone.  He is unable to continue climbing, and limps back to camp while the guide goes to refill the Platypus and MSR with the seven litres of water that will be necessary in order to cook their evening meal (a set menu designed by celebrity mountain-chef Tunc N Findik, consisting of Earl Grey Tea, coffee by Nescafe, Cabuk Corba by Ulker with croutons, farfilli and Dardanelles tuna fish (the plastic sleeve packaging, not the canned version) in olive oil, more Earl Grey Tea and an Eti Cin biscuit, coffee, and finally, to round things off and prevent nighttime dehydration - more tea). 

Above: T-man Cafer! Norman replenishes our stocks of liquid prior to an attempt on this famous route (6b/VII) in the Balkon sector.  Bring stoppers for the middle section which is unprotected by bolts.

Above: Dilek responding to peer pressure on Mahalle Baskisi (5b/V+) in Rockdoctor sector.

Above: Fear of Falling. Fall Factor (6a+/VII-) visible as the line of pale slits in the foremost block beside the rotten chimney; while the magnificent cracks of Zorro (6b/VII, large friends needed!) can be seen rising up to the distinctive round boulder atop the basalt formations of Tatar  

Above: Stanage of Anatolia. The Balkon sector, with difficulties up to 7b+ evokes the gritstone of the Peak District with some extra wildlife thrown in.

Above: On top of Rockdoctor (6a/VI+), a panorama of volcanic outcrops all around.

Above: Ice creams all round as we ambush the local Eskisehir delivery van by the main road.  Below: THIS IS NOT AN EXIT. The journey continues for Norman, as he heads east across Turkey looking for new meaning and no doubt other Jagermeister customers.