We wake up in Cizre on the banks of the Tigris. We don't need an alarm clock, the dogs take care of that outside. One last look at this beautiful and mighty river. "Goodbye Tigris!" we think. We don't realise yet that everything will be different again.
At this point, it would be appropriate to tell you about our plans. We wanted to take this beautiful D400, which runs along the Syrian-Turkish and later Iraqi-Turkish border through a rugged and impressive mountain range. A small border river to the right of the road, then Syria and later Iraq to the right of the river. We pass a few Turkish police checkpoints, but most of them simply wave us through, perhaps because today is Sunday.
The road is almost empty. We're not surprised, because who wants to drive here unless they live in one of the remote mountain villages or are a tourist?
It's just over 500 kilometres to the Iranian border, which should be manageable in one or two days. At the roadside, we keep seeing people, young and old, waving at us. People are visibly happy when guests drive past. Oncoming cars honk their lights. (We still think we are being greeted.) After about 200 kilometres, I think aloud that if there was a tea room around here, I would be up for a cup of tea.
A little later - you really have to be careful what you wish for - a lot of men wave at us. The men look very special in their traditional clothing. Wide pluder trousers, an ornate, wide belt that looks as if it has been cut out of a carpet. Thick woollen jackets, scarves tied on their heads. It is cold here in the mountains, it has been snowing for days and the sun rarely ventures out.
They wave to us and tell us to stop. And with hand signals and the only word they probably know in English: "Closed!" All eyes and fingers point to the last pass ahead of us, which we still have to take. Then we would be on the Hakkari plateau (why do I always think of hara-kiri?) and could drive comfortably to the border.
That was a sentence with an X!
While the gentlemen, who have all got out of the small minibuses, have to find somewhere to stay, we turn back. Yes, the road is beautiful. And yes, during the journey I wished I could drive this route again. But I was thinking of summer, without the snow.
We change the information in our satnav and read that it is now another 600 kilometres. Well, what else can we do? We take the small diversions. We'll probably be in Iran a week later, after all we still have to spend the working days in Turkey.
Gerd turns our Felix round and in one of the villages we now know, we stop, eat and drink, take a break. That's what travelling is like. We use Google Translate to ask the waiter how long he thinks the road will be closed. He asks out loud, a few bus drivers shout an answer over the guests and we know: at least two days. Maybe even three. Or longer. That's just the way it is here.
All right, let's move on. Or rather: back. Beautiful roads are beautiful from both sides, aren't they?
The snow flurries we escaped quickly this morning now hit us with full force! The police checkpoints greet us like old friends but retreat to their heated tents. Sure, I would do the same.
At some point we leave the snow behind us, turn northwards, cross incredibly beautiful mountain ranges (and I remember the descriptions in "wild Kurdistan") and find a place just before sunset that turns out to be a treasure trove of gold when viewed in the light.
Merci for "travelling with us
We are thinking about taking another break from travelling in the summer and visiting our families in Germany and Switzerland. One of the ideas is to organise a Lecture about our long journey to the Persian Gulf to prepare. If you would like to, what would interest you the most? We will also tell stories here that don't find a place here on the blog. We're thinking of the Bern and Berlin area - simply because we have family there. But other places are also conceivable. Feel free to write to us.
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The snow-covered mountain landscape is marvellous! What a shame that you had to turn back. We hope that you still arrived safely in Iran.