An Unusual Conversation in the Shadow of Mount Ararat - and a Hitchiking Trip through Turkey

This anecdote has been prompted by Frank Hegedus' comments about Hungarian-built Ikarus coaches and whether such vehicles could get to Turkey, as I wrote in Kester Tester128. (Pl read an update to the post that should have settled that dispute, I trust.)

Mount Ararat, most probably caught at dawn, I suspect. The agriculture is certainly looking greener than when I was in the area, but I don't know where this was taken, it might be from Turkey, Armenia or even Iran. In my memory, I was closer to the mountain than this photographer. Photo by Aram on Uplash – with thanks!

True, this tale doesn't really feature Ikarus buses, more Hungarian trucks and the Magyar diaspora, but that will play out anon …

Back in the summer of 1976, I found myself travelling overland from India to the UK, and en route I teamed up with a couple of young Aussie brothers called Pete and Steve, accompanied by Pete's girlfriend, who I think went by the name of Liz.

They were trundling overland from down under to the UK, and I think we met up on a bus between Kabul and Herat, in Afghanistan. We certainly spent some nights at a sort of camp site in Meshad, the holy city in eastern Iran, which was the stop beyond Herat.

(The yoghurt in Meshad was memorably tasty, try it if you're ever passing through, or staying at a campsite in eastern Iran.) 

Pete and Steve were not just 'any' Australians – they were the sons of a Hungarian couple, probably 56-ers. Indeed, if so, Pete, the elder of the two, would surely have been born in Hungary, Steven possibly too.

Not that their ancestry meant much to me at the time, as I knew next to nothing about the land of the Magyars, and though they probably told me something of the tale, the facts of their parents' lives largely passed me by.

After leaving Meshad, somewhat sadly, we rather rushed through Iran on buses, failing really to take much in of the country, then ruled, of course, by the Shah. I have some vague memories of Tehran, and somewhere near Tabriz, of looking north towards the Soviet Union border, today the meeting point of Iran, Armenia and Azerbaijan.

Whatever, within perhaps three days of leaving Meshad, we were walking across the Iran-Turkish border at around six or seven in the evening.

This crossing, although boasting rather limited, indeed, bare basic facilities (at least back then) was rather special because, perhaps 15 kilometres to the north the vista was dominated by the imperious, snow capped Mount Ararat, the final resting place, according to Biblical tradition, of Noah's Ark.

The mountain, though left in Turkish territory after World War One, also overlooks the Armenian capital of Yerevan, at the time,  part of the Soviet Union. There were a lot of borders meeting within the shadow of Mt Ararat.

Believe it or not, despite being 1,500 miles – 2,400 km - from even Istanbul, Turkey somehow felt like home. I could read the signs and knew what some of them meant. But there were no 'oteli' at the border in those days, and the nearest place hosting a cheap bed was the small town of Doğubayazıt, about 20 km to the north-west.

Map of the Iran-Turkey border near Mt Ararat The Iran border station is called Bazargan, with the rest of Iran to the south-east. Mount Ararat is named in Turkish - Ağrı Dağı - in the centre of the map. Armenia (then the USSR) is to the north-east.

The obvious option was to hitch. I can't remember whether I'd persuaded the others to hitch through Turkey when in Iran or only at this point. But that is what we did. Except to get to the road out, we had to negotiate our way past perhaps 50, 80 or even 100 trucks parked up on the Turkish side of the border.

So there we were, four twenty-somethings, bent with rucksacks, trudging past these trucks, beyond which was Mount Ararat, now lit from the side by a setting sun. At which point, we were passing a couple of Hungarocamion lorries.

Now – apart from domestic lorries (of course) - the international traffic to and from the west across Turkey was dominated by Hungarian and Bulgarian artic trucks. Hungary and Bulgaria both being Communist states, of course at the time, these drivers were paid a fraction of any colleague from western Europe.

And I knew these were were useless for hitching, because the drivers were under strict orders not to pick folks up.

But probably unaware of such regulations, Pete and Steve decided the chance to leverage their Magyar roots (and linguistic prowess) was too good to miss.

So up they go to a truck cab and call out, naturally in Hungarian: “Good evening, any chance of a lift to Doğubayazıt, please?”

I'm not sure of the accuracy of their pronunciation of the Turkish town (the ğ in Turkish is said nothing like the English, except perhaps as in 'dough'), but for sure the truck drivers could hardly believe their ears. Even if it did come in an Australian accent, this was definitely the tongue of Saint-King Istvan, something like 2,500 miles from Budapest on the Turkish-Iranian border.

And sure enough, despite being vetted as reliable comrade drivers by the Hungarocamion commissars, they were charmed. Twenty minutes later, with a comment on the lines of “We can only take you to Doğubayazıt, as we're in big trouble if caught with others in the cab,” we were on our way to the nearest Turkish municipality.

[These conversations are what I guessed what went on, or were translated to me. Of course, at the time, I spoke not a word of Hungarian.]

The next day, we split into two twosomes. Pete and his girlfriend together, me with Steve, and set out, thumbs out wide, hitch hiking to Istanbul.

Whoever got to the one-time Byzantine capital first would leave a message in the famed Pudding Shop on their whereabouts for the others to find. We reckoned on about a week's journey, and so it proved: at least, there was a note from Pete and Liz on the wall of the eatery's wall, and we duly met up.

In truth, Steve and myself had a fairly uneventful trip across Turkey, though a day's 'regular' tourism trip to the 'fairy tale' vistas of Cappadocia en route proved worthwhile.

But I was jealous of Pete and Liz's adventure. You see, instead of taking the direct route westwards on the “main” road from Doğubayazıt (main road in theory, it actually deteriorated in two sections of maybe 10 -15 km in length to a stone track – yes, really!) - their first driver for reasons known only to himself turned north, and the Australian couple soon found themselves travelling right along the Soviet border in an area, I suppose, was near the ruins of the former Armenian city of Ami.

After a day or two's rest in Istanbul, we hit the road again, hitching west towards Greece (It was shorter through Bulgaria, but that meant buying a transit visa, and then being on a strict deadline to exit the country, or face a penalty fine and no doubt endless bureaucracy.)

Map of the route taken west of Istanbul. I think the New Zealanders took us to Silivri, and we made it on to Alexandroupoli on the Saturday. Then across to somewhere north of Thessaloniki. The short border in the top left hand corner then was with Yugoslavia. Today it is North Macedonia. (Hungarians may know the town of Tekirdağ, half way to the Greek border, better as Rodostó - the burial place of Ferenc Rákóczi.)

It was a bright Saturday morning, and a VW campvan driven by a couple or threesome from New Zealand provided our first lift. I remember them playing Jethro Tull's Going back to the ones that I love* on their cassette player, which seemed very appropriate, at least for me.

The Kiwis were probably going via Bulgaria, whatever they dropped us well short of the Greek border, which we reached sometime around mid-day. Despite tensions between the two sides of the Maritsa river, which forms the demarcation line of east and western Thrace, we could walk across the curved concrete bridge linking the two countries. (Nine months later, when I tried again, Turkish border guards were having none of it. I must have got a lift somehow, I forget, but I got across in the end.)

The blue and white flag of the Hellenic Republic in the summer sun felt even more like home, despite the fact it was my first time setting foot in Greece.

Photo: These are definitely not Hungarocamion lorries, I know. And this is not Turkey, nor 1976. It's in north-eastern Greece, from memory somewhere in the vicinity of the lagoon near Komotini, on another trip in 1984. Looking at google maps, the modern route is now a motorway to the north of this old road. My pic.

Saturdays are not, however, a good day for hitching, and Saturday afternoons are even worse. After some hours of thumb exercises, we finally got a lift to civilization in Alexandroupolis, the first place of any size, but that was it.

Steve and I kipped under the stars in a field to the west of the town that night.

On the Sunday, we made it through Thrace and quite some distance north of Thessaloniki, demolishing the short hop to the Yugoslav border early on the Monday morning.

But in the deep south of Yugoslavia we hit the hitchhiking doldrums, making the grand distance 4 km northwards by foot for the entire day before unfurling our sleeping bags in a set of (empty) concrete water pipes left by the road that evening.

By contrast, lady luck was with us on the Tuesday. We had barely stuck out our thumbs when a truck stopped. Then another, and, I forget exactly how, but 24 hours later Steve and I passed Maribor and crossed into Austria at Spielfeld Strass, where, at the first turn off, we parted ways.

I had a contact address for a nearby farm in Styria. Steve was bound for Vienna, to, hopefully, meet up with Pete and Liz, before getting visas and heading into Hungary to meet relations.

We never met up again, despite plans for a reunion in England.

If, by some astonishing chain of events, you happen to read this, Steve, I haven't forgotten I owe you $10 US. And a beer or two in interest for the 49-year loan.

Oh, and fate being what it is, my Hungarian might now be as good as yours, who knows? For sure, I could understand the conversation all those years ago between you and the truckers, with Mount Ararat lit by the setting sun a few miles to the north.

• Errata: The name of the song is actually With you there to help me, but it has the refain 'I'm going back to the ones that I know, with whom I can be what I want to be.'

It is the first track on the 1970 album Benefit.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfKzPV-Ely4