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“Welcome to Mars,” my lift, Mustafa, jokes in Turkish, as he stops at a fork in the middle of nowhere. Thanking him, I heave my cumbersome pack off my aching lap and clamber out of his dusty old sedan. Waddling under its weight to the thin strip of gravel that somehow passes as the shoulder of the narrow road, I extend myself to my full height, imploring the kinks that had burrowed into my spine to make themselves scarce. Not much goes on in this remote, far-eastern corner of Turkey. Glancing around, I understand Mustafa’s quip - the surrounding hillsides and cliffs are striking. Splashed in proud stripes of red, soulful shades of maroon and a morose brown that threads itself into the brighter colors, it produces a somber feeling of otherworldliness, indeed akin to our neighboring planet. Stillness returns to this planet as the coughing and spluttering of Mustafa’s faithful old chariot fades into the distance. I strain my ears for the welcome drone of another vehicle approaching, but that of mosquitoes is all that reaches my ears. A high-pitched biological buzz replacing the mechanical one I’m yearning for, the determined vampires make repeated efforts to claw their way into my ear canals. I take to my heels, slapping my face and neck as I gallop along the precarious roadside. Far below my right foot winds a serene river that hides a turbulent secret – it forms the border with Armenia. A chasm of past tragedies, cultural differences and political chest-beating coalesces into a barrier far more divisive than the gurgling ebb and flow of the indifferent water. The sun sets. A curdling sense of worry gnaws away at my innards. Human kindness had carried me at top speed all the way from the Iranian border, but now fear settles in that my hitchhiking target for the day flirts with the ambitious. A sense of foreboding rises like bile in my throat and I fight to keep it down. I shine my torch on myself and wait, a lonesome figure dancing a tango with the mosquitoes in the blackness. An hour later, an open-air fruit truck grinds to a halt in a cloud of dust. Its occupants holler and beckon to me. Gloom descends as I understand they are not heading toward my safe refuge for tonight. However, the truck’s crew becomes insistent and I make a snap decision to join, not fancying the alternative. I squeeze into the only empty space among mountains of melons and tomatoes as the truck roars off into the night. The two lively characters sharing my nook yell questions at me, but they are speaking Kurdish, completely negating the usefulness of my hard-earned Turkish vocabulary. All I can do over the din of the engine is forlornly shout back “Anlamıyorum, anlamıyorum” (“I don’t understand”). The more grizzled of the two looks at me quizzically and shouts again, gesturing at his phone. Nodding, I painstakingly type in the number of my original accommodation contact, swaying as I hold onto the cold metal with my other hand. The floor beneath us bangs and bounces as I watch the ensuing phone call. A lot of bellowing and gesticulating into the night precedes him hanging up and flashing me an enthusiastic thumbs up. My stomach unclenches, slightly. I dare not raise my hopes, which are as much in the dark as the truck, with its feeble, flickering headlamps. An hour later, we groan to a stop in an unassuming village. Many friendly locals gather around with oohs and ahhs at the excited explanations of "Türist! Türist!". I find myself shaking many hands until, with great relief, I hear a "Ryan? Come with me." Hasan shatters the stereotype of the traditional conservative Turkish man. His ripped shirt, hippie glasses and manbun clash with every surrounding male, but he exudes a strong sense of authority. “Safest place here is with me,” he explains as we walk to his house. “I am film director, but also secret policeman. You want see my gun?” A pistol is conjured from beneath his flapping jacket and pointed at me. I almost vomit. His maniacal cackle echoes up into the black Turkish night.