From the bustling city to lonely hills

I had only caught glimpses of Islamic architecture through books and museums but now, in Istanbul, it was sprinkled all around me, part of Istanbul for over 700 years it found expression in elegant mosques, fountains and bazaars - giving testimony to a once confident, forward looking Islam.

The Blue Mosque as an example, its domes and semi-domes cascading down gently, its needle like minarets leading your eyes to the heavens - is as if the architect accepting his humility and redirecting your awe towards God. Here was Haghia Sophia, one of the most important churches in Christendom for over 900 years, later converted to a mosque, now empty - its still air thick with history and reverence, bearing witness to the changes for over a millennium and a half.

The Topkapi Palace, the residence of the sultans until the 19th century holds something that, to this day, I have not figured out a reaction to - in a little known museum, a mantle (turban) worn by Holy Prophet Mohammed is on display, looking as the actual item after seeing pictures all my life I am unsure what to do, here is a hair from the Prophet's beard, a letter with the seal of the Prophet and even the Prophets swords all in front of me. In 'secular' Turkey, walking around glass cases, I should stumble on such a significant find: Keys to the Kaaba, the swords of the first four caliphs in Islam, and around me strolling seemingly dispassionate tourists. I have witnessed the fervour in shrines and expected the same here, but instead there is calm indifference. Had this display been in Pakistan I can only imagine the crowds.

I whisked through Istanbul. Maybe it was the cold February air, the sheen of indifference a large city exudes, perhaps it was discovering that "where are you from?" was opening line to a sale pitch, but after the end of the third day I was ready to head out.

Efes my next stop, after a night journey, is one the most intact of Roman ruins anywhere in the world. Once it was the second largest city in the world next to Alexandria. I had chosen to hide in the comfort of a guided tour rather than battle my own way around, and Han our guide went through the history of Efes in impenetrable detail and accent and with the impression his mind was with the birds hovering above up. If I have a difficult time understanding his English, God knows what the state of the polite Japanese behind me. In Hans favour, I suppose, after doing this a 1000 times you run out of passion (like watching Rocky movies). I returned to my $10 dollar a night hostel that evening and from

a dark corner listen to Mo the proprietor orchestrating conversation and games amongst the wide-eyed tourist, rounding up stray conversation like a seasoned shepherd rounding his flock, refocusing, maintaining control, always the centre.

The next morning I visited Pamukkale, where the cliffs have been bleached snow white by the mineral water deposits caused as the water cascaded down for thousands of years and forming little pools of water. Most were out of bounds now after the havoc caused by tourist over the last few years. I sat by the channel of gushing warm spring water. However hard I tried to resist, eventually I succumbed: I took off my shoes, rolled off my socks and dangled my feet in the water. It felt good: warm and gushing. However, there is a price to pay for inexperience, 20 minutes later, I realised that I hadn't rolled my trousers up high enough and would have to carry the weight of the cold water around for the rest of the cold day.

That night at the hostel thawing, I sat next to a disgruntled couple banish to the far corner of the communal area (my area). In conversation is transpired that Mo had tried to sell them a carpet. And after resisting his pressure he had started to reduce the price - a sin, because that was his sale pitch, he never reduced the price like other carpet salesmen: a) he was a buddy b) he was honest c) he was on your side. So I sat through the evening hearing Mo mutter indirectly how his time had been wasted and understood confidence-gaining ruse.

I gladly left for Cappodicia after three days. Arriving at dawn, after another punishing night journey I and immediately enjoyed the strangeness of the place. The moon like landscape, the old churches hewn into rocks, and the amazing underground cities. I was still unable to escape the cold however, and wanted to head for a warmer climate - Antalya on the coast beckoned, but before then had to make a pilgrimage to Konya - the resting place of Rumi one of Islam's greatest sufis. They say that the sprite of Rumi can still be found in Konya - I would tend to agree, there was something about the calmness of the people. Islam has a strong hold here.

Turkey is unsure about is place in the modern world, its history lies with the muslims but its constitution fiercely secular. The election of the moderate Islamist Justice and Development Party recently is an outward sign of its difficulty of leaving the past behind.

In Antalya, I successfully released myself of the shackles of organised tours, and began to relax and not view everyone as a potential threat. I had been in Turkey for two weeks and had survived.

I stayed in a family run pension (basically a hostel), and met Matt, a 'fellow' Britain one evening. We went through the traveller courting ritual of 'where have you been' and 'where are you going'. I was intrigued to find that Matt was travelling through Turkey in a Land Rover (Mark III to be precise) and already spent three or four months in Europe to get to here. That evening we hit the town in a small budget way. Two days later, with a better understanding or Quakerism, I had rescheduled my flight to Tehran and hitched a lift with Matt and Jenny, his other travelling companion to Istanbul. It was as if all the missed buses were meant to lead to this. It felt preordained, as the previous two weeks had been a supporting act and now it was the real deal. I felt ready for adventure!

Having your own transport changed the paradigm. You no longer need to rely on bus schedules and main roads. Meeting local people away from the tourist rat runs become an increasing pleasure. Whilst language can be a problem at first - but you soon learn to communicate with a few words, and learn that "Beckham" goes a long way "Ah Beckaaam". Lily the Land Rover helped, she gave you presence. It made school children stare, it made petrol attendant jump to attention.

It was now that I discovered that introducing myself as a Pakistani gained a better reaction than claiming I was British (which lead to confusion anyway: British = English = White). 'Pakistani? Brother' the attendants always claimed. Why that should be I cannot understand - but it was nice for the shoe to be on the other foot. We were indebted to 'Hulya Avsar' the beautiful Turkish actress: a simple mention of her name and with a mischievous 'ohh lala' made out male hosts go crazy - it seemed to cut to the chase, I became a 'brother' immediately and tea soon followed. Who said you need English?

Most travellers come with an open mind and a lightweight rucksack, Jenny was the reverse: He makeup kit alone forbade any mode of public transport and her philosophy cupboard was decidedly bare of political/religious/philosophical mix. But she was undeniably glamorous and so in my shallow male kind-of-way it didn't matter. Children would flock around her, older girls eyed her jealously, old ladies fussed over her like a daughter. Maybe it was her outward vulnerability, her fancy ski band or her perfect teeth with a million pound smile that despite the inconvenience of travelling - she still managed to keep. Men warmed to her. But in a way it was all a game. She knew that they knew that she knew that they knew...

Matt in the other hand was erudite, practical and quite shy deep down. He had a certain stubbornness that English always seem have abroad and was as interested as I in meeting locals , and so enamoured we chanced packed tea houses and restaurants.The first night was spent parked behind some trees. Lily came equipped with a two man tent fitted around the extended roof rack, in which Matt and I slept, whilst Jenny slept in the cab (her 'boudoir' as she called it). It was extremely cold. I spent the night adding layer on layer of cloths, and finally covering my face with my scarf.

As we made our way towards Istanbul, the weather improved in the passing weeks.

On the 7th or 8th day, at the great carved out amphitheatre at Pargumum, built at the side of the side of a hill, giving a splendid vista of the countryside below, I indulgently sat watching coaches ferrying in tourist, whisk them around, herd them in, and drive off to the next destination. I sat back and reflected on my journey so far, eyes closed, lying on a rock with the soft spring sun warming my heat starved body. It was pleasantly warm, my body sighed in relief as it soaked up the gentle heat from the rock underneath me and in my eyes closed red world I thanked God for this simple pleasure. After a very long time absence I could feel my soul rising and walking in this glorious light.

There was still a week to go before I got to Istanbul. I had company, transport, a good sound system and two new members to Nusrat Fateh Ali appreciation society. Roll on the good times.

Main places visited: Istanbul, Selcuk, Efes, Pumukkale, Cappadocia, Konya, Antalya, Aphrodisias, Sarids, Pergamon, Bursa, Van, Adana.