I write today from Mardin, variously described as one of the most interesting cities in Turkey, and as a 'little Jerusalem,' what with the honeycomb coloured old houses in the historical centre, the spectacular views towards Mesopotamia (indeed, it is in Mardin where one finds the geographical divide between Anatolia and the plains of the Middle East to the south), the craggy fortress that broods above the stone city, the polyglot nature of the inhabitants (Arabic, Kurdish, Turkish, and Suriani are spoken in a city of 65.000 people), the religious harmony to be found here, and anything else that the standard Turkish Tourism Bureau would print in its annual brochure.
Today, however, I'm not greatly moved by the wonders of Arab influenced architecture, I'm not particularly interested in hearing about Suriani Christians' doctrinal differences from the Western co-confessionalists, nor do I feel like investigating the hidden gems to be found in the cities sandstone coloured Ulu Cami. Why? Because it is cold. Utterly, categorically, profoundly, and unremittingly cold.
I must consider myself very fortunate to have ventured this far into Eastern Anatolia without feeling the wrath of Mother Nature. Indeed, until this point, she has been a remarkably accomodating and welcoming woman --- this region is usually knee deep in snow for half the year ---- but this year, few have felt her icy breath. As a result of me living on borrowed time, it figures that she would choose to unleash her wintry forces on the day I decided to hitchhike with three amicable Czechs from Hasankeyf to Mardin. I couldn't believe my luck when I learnt I wouldn't have to pay for the bus ride --- although Mother Nature evidently had other ideas, just to be dramatic.
As it is, the first snowflakes were greeted with typical schoolboy enthusiasm: (Mom, can we go outside and play?? 'No, son, the Turkish security forces and a bunch of kerchiefed Kurdish militants are rationally discussing their problems and differences in the hills around you with very large guns. Go play in Iraq instead.') As the day continued, however, the novelty very exceedingly quickly wore off. Even more so when one considers that a good two hours was spent fitting the tires with chains, then taking them off, then reaffixing them, then pushing some stalled trucks up the hill, then walking 20 minutes to see why the traffic wasn't moving (turns out it was the snow! Fancy that...), then receiving incorrect directions to our destination, then having every piece of clothing soaked, then having all bags soaked, then having the chains break, then trying to fix the chain with frozen hands in some God-forsaken Mardinli suburb, then checking into perhaps the crappiest Turkish hotel (Otel Başak! Your home in Mardin!) I've ever been in (ugggghhhh.....) --- there is heat some of the time, a shower is out of the question, and I would prefer to go to the washroom in a barn ----- all of this adds up to a very cold day.
And it is because of this Platonic form of the cold that I have decided that tourism has taken a back seat to the rather overriding desire to get warm. One wakes up at 5am, and lies in a cold room for three hours thinking about the joys of not being cold --- all else tends to pail in comparison.
For photographic proof, I submit the following: One, from me after pushing a truck up a hill somewhere about 30km from Mardin, and two, me thinking about being warm this morning....
But just for those of you who thought that I was suddenly going to finally splurge and find a better hotel --- I have decided to contradict everything I have just said (about the overriding desire to stay warm, etc.) and announce that I will stay again at OtelBaşak tonight.... It can't possibly be that bad two days in a row, can it? I can always have a shower again in a few weeks......
Tomorrow, if the Siberian front has withdrawn somewhat, I shall endeavour to either the monastery of Deyrul Zaferan, or perhaps Midyat....
..where more of the same awaits...
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