By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
“Why won’t this car let us pass?!” I rolled my eyes, as I slammed on the brake to avoid a head on collision with a honking, smoke-belching semi truck. “Turkish drivers are the worst!” my husband, Caleb, agreed, staring through the open window at the rocky rolling hills of Eastern Anatolia in the 112 degree heat wave. It was week three of our Turkish perimeter road trip. Eastern Turkey was blowing my mind. The cheesy deliciousness of kuymak; the constant insistence on drinking çay, or tea; even the Kurdish gas station attendant that introduced us to his family as if we were long lost relatives and warned us about the ominous sounding “night terrorists”. The hauntingly fog shrouded jagged rocks of the Kaçkar mountains, with their rivers of dripping wildflowers, contrasted sharply with the emptiness and totality of Mount Ararat. The memory of an Imam silently sharing his watermelon with us on the side of the road drifted through my mind. But now, this car would NOT let us pass. At every opportunity, I would press down on the uninspired gas pedal of our tiny Peugeot 107, feeling the already limpid air conditioner try a little less hard to cool us down as the car shuddered to accelerate around these EVIL Turkish drivers. And every time, they would give their pickup a light tap of the gas, speeding out of reach. Then, as we crawled sadly back behind them, they would slow down, making us hit the brake yet again. As the next opportunity for freedom on the open road presented itself, I coaxed the Peugeot equal to our highway captors. This time as we glanced over, scowls at the ready, we saw a young couple laughing hysterically. “How are you?” the girl called through the open window, in English, her hair streaming around her shoulders. “Trying to pass! And you?” we yelled through the wind. “Come over for some çay,” she laughed, already speeding off. “Follow!” After navigating the ancient twists and turns of a nearby city, we entered their home - to the boisterous Turkish greeting of at least thirty members of their family. All the women wore hijab. No one spoke a word of English except the limited vocabulary of the girl, who turned out to be just sixteen. They served us çay in an elaborate ceremony as we all crowded around cross legged on the floor. Then the food arrived. Although we had just gorged ourselves on a kabob feast in a back alley of the last town thanks to a dubious “tourist policeman,” we found ourselves unable to refuse their smiling faces and the mouth watering smells. Despite our broken Turkish protests, the family insisted we eat first, in accordance with their ancient rules of hospitality. We noticed several people going without to ensure that we had more than our fill of the incredible food. Caleb played music with the girl’s older brothers as she told me about her dream to one day become a doctor, something unheard of for women in her area. They proceeded to make us, just some strangers they had kept from passing on the road, a part of their family that evening. When we finally insisted on leaving, they escorted us an hour across town to the road we needed to take, sending us away with smiles and waves more lasting than any words we could understand. As we drove beneath the myriad of stars to our campsite for the evening, we smiled realizing that not all Turkish drivers are as crazy as they might seem.