Are we there yet? How much longer is it? I’m bored? What can I do? I need the loo.
When travelling long distances daily, we have two priorities. Prevent bottoms from going numb. Keep brains from becoming dumber. Regular stops help to avoid the first. For Mrs S, Quordle (Wordle x four) and Classic Words (Scrabble) are her go-to mind bending apps. She loves nothing more than wiping the floor with ‘Droid’.
Meanwhile, Mr S keeps his hands on the wheel and snoopy eyes on the road ahead. When not occupied deep inside his ‘nothing’ box, there are few moments when something of interest doesn’t loom into view. The Jandarma seem to be everywhere. Cars and occupants randomly checked at mini road blocks. On sight of Beastie, we are waved through. We did get stopped on one occasion. The officer approaches. Passenger side. The usual mistake. We’re right-hand drive. Window winds down. Two innocent smiles beam silent protestations. “We ain’t dun nofin guv!” “Welcome” he says. Waves us on. Very random!
Mr S is constantly caught out by clever roadside lookalikes. Strategically positioned. Some have red and blue flashing lights for authenticity. Job done. Beastie’s speed halved.
Our journey has taken us past thousands upon thousands of minareted mosques. Mr S has a theory. Bush, Blair & Co have been blindsided. All hamlets, villages, towns and cities in the Middle East and Asia have been fitted out with the very latest air defense systems.
Today’s start was delayed. Mr S had to confront head on (au contraire) another looming fear. So far, the squat toilet has best been avoided. A cubicle too far. A single sit-down, often coming to his rescue. It was inevitable that sooner, or later, the axe was going to fall. Today it fell. So, in for a penny, in for a pound . . . thighs take the strain, as if preparing for a lift and jerk; knobbled knees groan as undercarriage is slowly lowered; cartilages creek and bulge as the point of possible no return is reached; an ungainly balancing act, Jenga-like and not for public viewing starts to take place behind the loo door; hands grasp ankles, as if preparing to do a tucked summersault from the five-metre board; thighs start to burn; knees scream; balance lost; body topples forward; head bangs against the door; perfect pinioned position attained; mission accomplished – that’s the easy bit – now for lift off.
We are now pitched up at Damlacik Garden Camping – 18km from Mount Nemrut, tomorrow’s main attraction. The highest and furthest east we’ll venture. The facilities here are immaculate – by far the best. With a restaurant terrace view that’ll take some beating.
