I was cycling in rural Turkey – I couldn’t tell you where. My plan that day was to ride until I reached a village with somewhere I could stay. I needed people because, unlike other bike tourists, I didn’t have a tent. I thought not bringing one would mean I had more adventure – maybe I’d stay in barns, living rooms or school halls. That had worked in Thailand, Malaysia and South Korea. It didn’t work in Turkey.
I needed to get to the next town before sunset. I was cycling quickly downhill, probably too fast for a gravel road. I was scooting around a blind corner when a car came screaming around the bend. As soon as I saw it, it was in front of me.
The next thing I remember is lying in the middle of the road with the cylinder of my bike handle skewered into my leg, blood everywhere.
A week before that I had met Bryan, a bike tourist who’d ridden through more than 40 countries and settled in Turkey. I had his number because, like countless bike tourists before me, he’d let me stay the night in his small apartment in Antalya.
After I was discharged from hospital – a rural Turkish hospital in a town I didn’t even know the name of – I sat outside in a wheelchair, not knowing what surgery I’d received or the state of my injury. I thought about calling everyone besides Bryan – my partner, Dad, Mum, best friend – but none of them could help. The only local number in my phone was Bryan’s.
I don’t remember much about the phone call. I know it wasn’t a simple request to stay a few more nights. I essentially asked Bryan to be my carer for an indefinite period. I had no travel insurance, didn’t know anyone else in Turkey and couldn’t walk. What I do remember is the call was easy. There was no negotiation, just a welcoming: “Sure thing.”
Soon, a nurse was helping me into a cab and Bryan’s nextdoor neighbour was carrying me up two flights of stairs like a bride and laying me down on Bryan’s couch. Neither of us exchanged a word.
When Bryan arrived, he greeted me like a friend, not a basket-case traveller with a sorry story and no insurance. Despite having a job, a partner, a social life and all the normal life commitments, for the next five days Bryan became my carer. I lay on the couch reading articles about which Disney prince would be the worst to date and Bryan served me food, helped me shower and talked to me about his life. I was entirely dependent on him – someone I’d only spent a day and a half with– but never once did he complain or make it awkward.
Eventually my family organised a flight home from Antalya. After I left Turkey, Bryan and I lost contact.
The only thing I had to remember him by was the review he left me on the bike touring and hosting website Warmshowers:
Nick stayed with me in my small apartment in Antalya for a couple nights in September 2014. Then, uh, ooops, I heard from him again as he unexpectedly returned to Antalya. He was in need of some help, and I was able to help him. It’s times like this – in an unknown city, with no friends, and a problem – that Warmshowers is especially terrific. Nick ended up staying another four or five days. He’s a super guy, open-minded, knowledgable and experienced beyond his years. You can absolutely trust him.
I’d long wondered if Bryan remembered me or what happened, so a few weeks ago I wrote to him.
“Of course I remember you,” he replied. “I always felt a bit bad that I sent you off on dirt roads and this happened because maybe you weren’t so used to dirt road touring … You never said anything at all to make me feel guilty about that. It’s just a feeling that I had.”
He added: “I certainly never thought I did anything special. You should come back to Antalya. I live in a palace compared to where I was living when you were here.”
