Cryptic Tonsillitis?

Forty-eight hours of fevers, rashes, inability to swallow, disorientation, loss of apetite, painful eye movements, headaches -- and will leave aside whatever happened in thewashroom --- convinced me that perhaps another trip to the doctor was in order.

And indeed it was: Apparently, I have 'Cryptic Tonsillitis' and very low blood pressure, requiring a daily dose of two very large and friendly needles full of penicillin inserted into my bottom regions. This doesn't sound like a fantastic prospect, but neither does never swallowing again.

Anyway, the day passed again with free IV at Kars' state hospital, but instead of company in the form of bantering doctors, my companions as the IV slowly flowed into my arm (an arm I'm sure will resemble a heroin addict's by the time they're done with me here) were three consistently, persistently and remarkably annoying flies --- it is hard to believe how flies could be so annoying, but maybe you just have to have cryptic tonsillitis and on IV in Kars' state hospital to understand...

Four Encounters in Kars

Kars lies on a high plateau on Anatolia's Northeastern edge. The winters are viciously cold: nighttime January temperatures routinely dip past the -40 mark. The city also has no natural defensive barrier. As a result, the city has been looted, raped, pillaged, conquered and reconquered by more than its fair share of Selçuk Turks, Ottomans, Russians and Armenians.

Today's present edition of Kars is Russian built, a fact evidenced by the neat gridlock street system, wide, tree-lined bouvelards intersecting at right angles, and a legacy of sturdily built Russian governmental offices that look somewhat out of place in Turkey. Alas, such attention to order means that the chances of taking interesting fotographs is somewhat limited: It is only really the haphazard and disorderly that really merit the camera's eye.

Kars also has the reputation of having some of the most unfriendly people in Turkey. I don't know if this reputation has widespread currency in Turkey, or was just spread maliciously by the inhabitants of neighbouring Ardahan. Nonetheless, I am happy to report that it is false:

ENCOUNTERS:

Encounter I: At the local police station: Having gone their on other business, I am persuaded to stay by their insistent offers of tea. 'But I've already drunk tens of cups today,' I protest. 'Ah, but we have the best tea in Kars,' the plainclothes cop replies. I could hardly disagree. Over the best cup of tea in Kars, I have an animated discussion with the Erzurumlu police chief about the degeneration of society and the coming of Armeggedon. 'Don't you realize,' he asks, 'that all this degeneration we see around us portends to the end of time?' Inside, I stifle a laugh, because it is the exact conversation one is likely to have with more scripturalist, Evangelical Christians in North America. We discuss more about the end of time, football, love, politics, the weather and whatnot over more delicious cups of tea. It is only when I realize that my hosts are starting to view me a spy that I decide that is time to beg my leave. Nonetheless, the chance to talk cordially with Turkish police officers rather than being tear gassed by them is a promising development.

Encounter II: At the state hospital: Having succumbed to a wickedly sore throat and fever, I make my way out to the hospital, anxiously wondering what the bill will be. Before taking an IV, the on-duty doctor says that we'll work something out after the IV is done. Now, ''working something out'' after the fact in regard to a bill is never a smart course of action in Turkey, but my feverish self has no choice but to comply. After an hour of tossing and turning while the IV empties into my arm, I go to the doctors' room to await the financial damage. The final cost: Zero. 'But you are a guest in Kars!' They all exclaim.

The relief at being off the hook for the bill (if still quite ill) is followed by the requisite 30 minutes of conversation about politics, love, football and socialism. The conversation then turns to drinking. To my amazement, when I ask whether anyone in the room drinks, everyone in the room, from the most senior surgeon to the security guard proclaims a love for rakı. 'But this is Kars!' they exclaim once more. 'A majority of the people like to drink here.' Having found a common love of rakı, we agree to meet for a rakı session at the meyhane. 'But what about my antibiotics?' I enquire. 'Don't worry about that,' the answer comes in unison. 'Alcohol has no effect on antibiotics.'

Encounter III: In the back of clothing shop. I am introduced to a man, who introduces himself as a socialist and a lover of rakı. This isn't so rare in parts of Eastern Turkey, although what is rarer is the fact he was a candidate for the AK Parti in the recent election. The AK Parti, as most Turkey watchers will know, has its roots in political Islam, and its more straight laced founders would have brooked little time for the socialism and drinking habits more common to the country's CHP (Atatürk's party -- the great man himself also a great fan of the lion's milk) party. But the idiocy of the current leadership of the CHP drove the self-proclaimed socialist into the womb of the AK Parti. It is a curious political shift seen elsewhere in Kars and indeed in Turkey: People that normally would never have voted for an Islamic party turned out in droves to elect them in with a crushing mandate. My illness getting the better of me, I beg my leave once more, but not before making promises to stop by once more for discussion on life's travails, both important and insignificant.

Encounter IV: The lobby of my hotel: The server of my tea is at once extremely hospitable and welcoming. In his 30's, he looks much older due to the rigours of a hard life. He sports the standard moustache common to almost every Turkish male over the age of 30, although he also has the permanent 5 days of bearded growth more common to an Iranian than to a Turk. He is missing many teeth, and the ones that do remain are extremely yellowed from a lifetime of sucking his tea through a sugar cube placed between the remaining ones. He walks with a very pronounced and painful limp, while his reebok shoes are falling apart (a result of the curious Turkish habit of generally never slipping one's foot into the shoe, but instead crushing the heel-guard and effecting mobility in such a fashion). He never fails to offer me tea, and checks in at regular intervals to see how my rather sickly health condition if fairing. Most significantly, however, I hardly understand a single word from him. As a result of the Kurdish/Eastern Anatolian dialect, coupled with the lack of teeth, a lisp and soft-spokenness are encounters are generally wordless, for want of an ability to communicate...

My two days in bed/hospital preclude me from writing anything more interesting that this. Instead, it is the Kars encounters that will tell the Kars story, whether they be over enlightened conversation, or merely silently over expertly prepared Kars çayı...

Of Icy Rivers and Silver Gates

This is the second time that I have been fortunate enough to come to Tunceli. Tunceli, masochistic readers will remember, is in Central Turkey, is home to a large Alevi population, and is best-known in Turkey as the place almost everyone is mortally afraid of going to.

Indeed, I perhaps could have taken a rather large hint about the security situation given that our minibus had to share the rather small ferry across Lake Keban with a very large tank and even larger military truck carrying it. Liberally plastered on every side of the tank were various Kızılay logos (the Muslim equivalent of the Red Cross), although I chose not to deign to ask the soldiers with rather large guns guarding said tank what exactly the International Committee of the Red Cross/Crescent needed a tank for. Having always assumed that trucks were better for carrying wounded combatants, I evidently stood corrected.

Depositing my bags again at the Hotel Demir (Tunceli being a four-street kind of town, one is not spoilt for choice in the hotel department), I set out to investigate the Munzur Gözeleri, curious rock springs whose origin is buried in Alevi folk tradition. The bus ride there, hugging the bank of the glacially fed Munzur River, can easily lull one into forgetting that the reason there were no other cars on the road was that this remains a major 'theatre of operations' in the renewed war between the Turkish army and the PKK --- indeed, it is hard to believe that this is a guerilla war zone, what with the blue/green Munzur winding its way through the sharp and jagged mountains; the landscape is not unlike a semi-arid Rocky Mountains.

Reminders of the 'troubles' come quickly, however: The surrounding fields and open spaces are fenced off with large 'Landmine' signs; A burnt-out and bombed semi-tanker near a remote police post, allegedly shot by nervous guards because its driver was refusing calls to slow down, served notice that nighttime is probably not as serene as the day. Last month, 8 soldiers were killed in a well coordinated PKK attack in another Tunceli district at another remote police outpost. Our drive to the rock springs proceeds slowly: The poor road, coupled with regular police checks, forms, questions, and interrogations (especially to the sole foreigner who decided to visit that day) does not make for a rapid journey.

But wherever one goes in Tunceli, known as Dersim (Silver Gate in the local Kurdish dialect) to the inhabitants, one finds hospitality, welcome and enlightened conversation. Indeed, despite the area's relative poverty, Tunceli's citizens having the highest education rate in all of Turkey. At the holy Gözeler, I have watermelon with an Tuncelili returning from France for his summer holiday; In Tunceli's centre, there is tea to be had with workers selling crafts along the river bank's edge; I intended to go home at 18.00, but the conversations on the street corners, about socialism, humanism, religion, politics, culture, and various other topics concerning differing Weltanschauungen, stretch until 11pm.

And in the end, this is the joy of Tunceli. In a small provincial capital, located in one of the most inaccessible parts of Turkey, under tight police and army control, there is not a lot to see or do. The people, however, make a Dersimli visit one of the most rewarding to be had in Turkey.

The Road to Elazığ

After feeling like I had discussed politics with nearly every moustachioed man and played with nearly every child in Diyarbakır, the time came to regretfully leave the city.

The road north from Diyarbakır to Elazığ is arid, as one might expect of Eastern Turkey. No trees, just barren, brown scrubby hills visible in all directions -- the only truly distinguishing features are the ones left by the Turkish security forces: Large, friendly signs painted onto the hillside reminding the local Kurdish population that Turkey is ''one country, one flag, one nation'' -- assembled security forces of adequate numbers of course exist in the environs of said friendly reminders should the local Kurdish population wish to discuss over 'tea' some of the socio-economic issues that arise from the mentality created by such large and friendly signs, but, alas, there was no 'discussion' during our journey today. About the only object of discussion was the rather blatant misadvertising by one roadside stall purporting 'to sell every type of vegetable' (printed in large, friendly letters on the stall's roof), but which in fact contained only a few diseased looking tomatoes and eggplants.

No, misadvertising aside, the bus journey was relatively uneventful. With little traffic to worry about, the only hindrance on rapidity was the (Eastern) Turkish custom of public-transport-musical chairs: While Turkey is officially a secular country (...but not really, I assure you), most Eastern Turkish bus companies practise a tacit policy of ensuring Islamic modesty on buses. This means, among other things, that unrelated men and women cannot sit to next each other, lest shenanigans arise. In practical terms, this means that every time a new person boards the bus, substantial seat rearrangements need to take place to guarantee a modest gender balance --- today's seat rearrangement, meanwhile, took somewhat longer because of one man's desire to bring on a weedeater. I'm not sure if carrying a weedeater onto a Turkish bus necessarily affects the gender of its bearer, but the discussions about what to do with the weedeater and the man who was holding it where sufficiently long enough to suggest that future weedeater carrying bus passengers might be entitled to a gender (and thus a seat) all of their own.

Weedeaters, gender politics and political messages scratched into the harsh earth aside, I was somewhat apprehensive in coming to Elazığ. Tunceli Alevis had told me stories before about how Elazığ residents used to stone their buses when they passed through Elazığ.

The entrance into the city wasn't particularly promising: Large billboards advertised the newspaper 'El-Aziz', a local radical Islamic newspaper. Other leftover political party posters admonished the city's residents to choose ''either nationalism or surrender'' (to whom, I'm not sure, but it was probably a heinous combination of Christians, Zionists, Armenians, Americans, Kurds and Communists (always a traditional hectagonical axis of evil)) in the election.

However, first appearances can be deceiving: The city might not have much to look at (although the city does possess one of the thousands of ruined castles that litter the country), but its inhabitants were not the radicalized, nationalist mob as so advertised.

After spending a few hours kicking old stones at Elazığ's once imposing fortress, my time was taken by Reşit, a 47 year old Elazığlı who introduced himself by saying that Turks weren't the brightest people in the world: ''Why else,'' he asked, ''would we mine chrome, sell it to foreigners for 5 dollars, have them refine it for us, and then buy it back at 50 dollars to make a license plate?'' Words for contemplation certainly, but not particularly ones of militant nationalism.

His philosophizing (or marketing) didn't finish there: ''When you go to Tunceli, you can say that Elazığ people are good. In the end, God is one, we are all humans, and we can't be prejudicial.'' It would certainly be trite and cliche if it came from a politician, but the cheap cigarette smoking Reşit wasn't into political gamesmanship, while the unfolding arid surroundings trailing off into the great resevoir below us had me inclined to believe him.

So yes, the moral of the story, as amply demonstrated by Mr. Reşit, is that Elazığ is full of helpful, friendly people, even if its castle isn't quite as impressive as something in Transylvania...

Elazığ: Friendly place, although a difficult away fixture. At left, a local football ground for only the most athletic of players

Five more views of Diyarbakır

At the risk of diluting the five 'views' of Diyarbakır provided but 24 hours ago, I submit for consideration five more views of Diyarbakır -- and then I promise that no more views of Diyarbakır will appear on these pages.




(1) Not concerned with the fewer than expected seats, seven-year-old Berfin Şen flashes the victory sign (coincidentally the symbol of Kurdish resistance)













(2) The children of Diyarbakır's pro-DTP Hasırlı district display their various stages of preparation for the photo. At the back is the matriarch, keeping a careful eye on proceedings.












(3) The Hasırlı housing landscape --- the owners evidently Galatasaray supporters


















(4) The day done (or not even begun given the level of unemployment in Diyarbakır) the only thing left to do is to get angry while playing cards with your mates at the local kıraathane

(5) And I couldn't leave with providing an obligatory shot of Diyarbakır's main tourist site, the city's Ulu Cami (not present are the 37 or so kids that wanted to discuss football before being ushered off to Qur'an class)

Five views of Diyarbakır

Why have I included only five shots of Diyarbakır? Give up, there is no prosaic answer -- it is merely because I can't include more than five shots on one blog post (without everything becoming exceedingly slow), and I don't have enough spare change to spend another 20 minutes sending more pictures...

While you can't enjoy the soaring daytime temperatures with me, at least you can take a visual journey to its dusty backtsteets (1) (although, in truth, that's pretty much every Diyarbakır backstreet), peer over the terrace wall onto the mosques and rundown buildings below (2), look at what remains of the Armenian cathedral, now inhabited by friendly locals (3), actually meet some of the locals (4), or wander their backstreets (5)

Election Day in Diyarbakır

The much anticipated Turkish election has come and gone, meaning of course, that the true work can now begin --- that is, by ordinary Turks as they sit for hours on small wooden chairs in dusty back alleys discussing the problems of the country over a cheap cigarette and an oversweetened tea.

The July 22nd election was watched with interest around the world and --- as if I were participating in some sort of sporting festival -- I decided to come to the place that was likely to provide the most ''action'': Diyarbakır.

Two months before ballots were cast, the election was a foregone conclusion for all intents and purposes: The AK Parti (The Justice and Development Party) would win another parliamentary majority, the CHP (Republican People's Party) would finish second, while the MHP (Nationalist Action Party) was projected to reenter parliament after a five year absence. Yesterday's results were more or less spot on: The AK Parti, criticized by the secular camp for its perceived hidden Islamic agenda, actually increased its share of the vote and ended the day as the only party with support in all parts of Turkey. The formerly leftist CHP and the ultra right wing MHP, for all their bluster, advertising, and catchy folk tunes, failed to prevent another AK Parti majority.

But while these parties' numbers were never in doubt, interesting things were happening in the East. The nation's Kurds, who form an ethnic majority in the South East, have been continuing a long struggle against the Ankara authorities in an attempt to receive what they believe to be equal rights. The war between the government and the PKK (Workers' Party of Kurdistan) has claimed tens of thousands of lives throughout 20 years of intermittent warfare. Having sensed that violent struggle was not producing the desired results, many intellectual Kurds attempted to change Turkish law through parliamentary means. These parliamentarily inclined Kurds, for all their non-violent intentions were rewarded with extended jail sentences when they first entered parliament in the early '90's.

Thankfully, the state of fear and police presence is no longer as omnipresent in the country's South East. Kurdish is freely spoken on the street (I have had the same conversation in Kurdish close to 187 times in the past two days -- a conversation that usually consists of

Stefan: ''çawni, ti başi?'' (How are you?)
Respondent: ''Bale, ez başım, gelliki spas. Ti başı?'' (Fine, thanks, and you?)
Stefan: ''Gelliki spas, ez başım...'' (I'm fine thanks)

before my Kurdish runs out of steam, but not without roars of approval from the assembled Kurdish constituents delighted to fear a foreigner speaking Kurdish (the more politically inclined ones near keel over when I break out my Kurdish political slogans (of the three or four that I know))), and Kurdish based political parties are more or less tolerated.

But despite this tolerance, the Kurdish based party, the DTP (Democratic Society Party) had a problem: Turkish electoral law prevents any party that does not win 10% of the national vote from entering parliament. To counter this measure, the DTP ran scores of ''independent'' candidates in the South East, plus Istanbul and other centres with migrant Kurdish populations. Rather optimistically conducted surveys informed the dubious public that 35-40 candidates might be elected in this fashion.

In truth, the question of how many ''independent'' DTPers would bring their cause to Ankara was the election's only real variable: Would religiously minded Kurds in the conservative South East support the leftist DTP? Would the army ''encourage'' South Eastern villagers NOT to vote DTP a bit too ''strongly'' in areas out of reach by the mainstream media and human rights groups? Would the DTPers gain enough votes in the big Western cities to pad their numbers in parliament? In the end, the DTP managed to elect 24 members to parliament, a low total considering the optimism of some predictions, but still a message to the Turkish establishment nonetheless.

In Diyarbakır, long a centre of Kurdish resistance to Turkish state authority, half the inhabitants supported the DTP. While this pleased many, there was no euphoria at only 24 candidates being elected to parliament.

I had come to Diyabakır in the hopes of witnessing some ''euphoria'', but I had to instead settle for some of the relative ''excitement'' (read privilege only granted to a foreigner whom no autority knows what to do with) of being the only non-authorized person allowed to observe all 8 hours of voting at the local primary school.

My entrance (duly completed with about 37 conversations consisting of how are you? etc. in Kurdish to the duly accompanying applause) to the school evaded the rather robust police presence (perhaps they just didn't care), although my entrance to the polling station did raise a few eyebrows. Every manner of Turkish citizen was being immediately removed from lingering in the polling room a nanosecond too long, but the novelty of having a Canadian come to watch the Turkish national election evidently provided enough of a diversion for the assembled officials that my presence was tolerated --- for 8 hours in the boiling hot classroom (it's not that I needed to be there for 8 hours to sample the full ''taste'' of the election --- but the oppressive Diyarbakırlı 46 C day made all forms of motion next to impossible).

Unfortunately, hospitality did not extend to being given permission to film anything that moved (although in true Middle Eastern fashion, the officiant said that if I could avoid getting caught by the police I was more or less aloud to do as I pleased), but the chance to watch illiterate village women, adorned in the most Kurdish of Kurdish headscarves, give thumbprints instead of a signature because they couldn't write, to watch ancient women, covered under layers and layers of black sheets out of a
concern for Islamic modesty, stagger with extraordinary slowness to cast their ballot, to watch the men bedecked in şalwar kameez, sporting the rather Middle Eastern-obligatory-three-day-growth beard give the Kurdish national salute as they cast their ballot -- all the while staring at me with the most piercing of blue-eyed stares --- was a chance at watching a polling of the people's voice that wouldn't quite be the same if one were to hang out at a polling station for 8 hours in Langley.

While I've decided that sitting in the inferno that is a Turkish classroom in the height of summer for eight hours is not an activity I am going to repeat with regularity, at no other time could one hope to see the inhabitants of an entire neighbourhood pass before one's eyes as if on parade...

















A typical example of a local constituent












The election over, everyone turns to the TV to wait for the results... And since only the truly mad would stay inside during the Diyarbakır dust, when in Diyarbakır, one waits for the results on the terrace accompanied by watermelon...

Veda Etmek O Kadar Zor Mu?

Istanbul is a bloated, megalithic, and dirty city, marked by horrendous traffic, continual roadwork, honking horns and inconsiderate drivers. You can't find a good kepab; kalamari is better in other countries; and the summer humidity is suffocating....

I could go on with the disadvantages of Istanbul. But despite it all, the attraction, lure and desire to sit with a tulip glass of çay next to the Bosphorus, probably the world's most important waterway -- if not its most beautiful, is so irresistable that those that depart from its sweaty embrace find it difficult to stay away for long.

I have left about five times, and I am about to do so again for a sixth. My contract has ended, and the desire to buy a bus ticket for a very strange and far-off Anatolian destination is too powerful to avoid.

I will travel for a few weeks before returning to Canada for a master's program; All the while, however, there is the knowledge that one can't spend too much time away from here without a powerful sense of longing...

İstanbulsuz bir hayat hiç yaşamak istemem...

Bulgaria Mark 6

Like an annual flood, the coming of my Turkish visa renewal time fills me with dread, some fear, and a lot of loathing. Alas, I must inevitably renew my visa in Bulgaria (not Las Vegas), and it must be done every three months, not every year (I suppose only Bangladesh gets the opportunity to experience floods 4 times a year...). Turkey has land borders with eight countries: Georgia (interesting but far), Naxçivan-Azerbaijan (requires a visa and is even farther), Iran (requires a waiting period of 7 weeks and is very, very far), Syria (requires a visa and is very, very hot), Armenia (border has been well and truly shut, locked, barred and probably mined for about 15 years, plus it's very far), and Iraq (suicidal and is far, even if closer than Iran). This leaves Bulgaria and Greece.

Unfortunately, Greece and Bulgaria have the reputation as being two of the most unfriendly countries in Europe. Greece has beautiful, but tourist-infested islands in the summer, and what's more, they are far. The only reachable parts of Greece are generally held to be fairly boring. Furthermore, Greeks have the unfortunate habit of using the Euro, which means everything is unduly expensive....

This leaves the Turkish visa seeker with one, realistic, relatively painless option: Bulgaria. A 12.00 Istanbul departure time, an 18.00 Bulgarian arrival time (to Haskova), five hours of useless wandering, a 23.30 departure, a 4.5 hour wait at the border while Turkish customs officials consider checking your bag before having some çay in order to properly consider whether they should or should not properly consider checking your bag, and a tired and haggard Istanbul homecoming at about 8.30 the next day.

Relatively painless, other than the sleep deprivation, requiring only interaction with Bulgarians in between. I, however, in the six times that I have now found myself in Republika Balgarija, have developed a very useful coping strategy: I only go to parts Bulgarian inhabited by Turks, which requires no Bulgarian linguistic outlay, and also means that people are somewhat personable when communicating. In my previous journeys to Bulgaria, I quickly deduced that trying to elicit smiles or laughter from the general Bulgarian populace was always a mission likely to end in failure, so I decided that the best course of action when visiting the EU's newest member was to either talk to the country's ethnic Turks or go searching for sunflowers to take pictures of....

Which is exactly what I did.... ....So I will end there abruptly, not mentioning Bulgaria's decaying industrial infrastructure, sidewalks on the city's main road overgrown without about 5 years of various degrees of botanical growth, Soviet-era cars and their Gypsy occupants, the pan-Eastern European techno beat that pervades every sort of commercial establishment, the amazing amount of 20 year old women with children, nor the abundance of cheap alcohol (this time, sadly not enjoyed because of a summer cold) available everywhere.

And now, to close off, random collage of my sixth Bulgarian journey for your viewing pleasure...

Rush hour in Haskova

A brisk day at the border's washrooms

Fading Light

Bulgarian Sunset