I have been gone from my Turkey for the past week and I feel it behoves me to write some sort of ending to my last few weeks there.
It is a difficult task to write such a conclusion --- for summations such as these seem to come in two forms: One is a breezy, breathless account of the exotic -- where the words trip over themselves in a rush to convey the sights, smells, and experiences of something encountered for the first time. Here, the writer finds dare-devil adventure, and has no problem portraying this to the audience, such is the clash and the colour of the new 'unknown.'
The second type of summation is a mere listing of the events in question, the days on which they occurred, the people met, the mundane minutiae jotted down in point form like some sort of shopping list. Such a chronologous account can stem from a profound familiarity for one's subject: In the mind of the writer, there is no high drama, there is no entertainment, there is no longer any exoticism -- to the audience who have never ridden the busses with the pious mothers decked in black sheets despite the heat, accompanied by their stony faced men clutching their rosaries while repeating again the 99 names of God, who have never been woken up by the call to prayer at 5.30am, who have never listened to the click of rummy boards in a whitewashed, men-only cafe in a provincial town, who have never inhaled the charcoal-filled air that pervades the entire country during the cold winter months, who have never been refused the permission to pay for goods purchased at a small store in an even smaller and windswept Anatolian town by the obviously modest shopkeeper -- on account of being a 'misafir' (guest) in his country -- who have never chatted with a perfectly amiable stranger over a strong cup of tea and an acrid-smelling cigarette whilst waiting in a dilapidated bus station for a bus that never actually comes, who have never clambered over the neglected, forlorn and forgotten tomb of a great Sultan of antiquity --- who may have moved mountains in his time, but whose grave is marked today by the ravages of the elements, visited only by the beasts of the field who feed on the overgrown fieldgrass which partially obscures the nameplate ------ to this audience, these annals of events can still be of great interest.
For the observer, however, they form part of the everyday background noise that accompanies day to day life: the events cease to be exotic or entertaining -- but become instead an accepted and expected routine in life (indeed, a theoretical lack thereof would be shocking). Even an effort to make light of something that initially seems curious (which is what the observer assaulted by an initial hubbub of activity and clash of human bodies in our first paradigm is well within their right to do) seems strangely inappropriate when one has become immersed in that which one was initially distant from. A sacred respect begins, and the observer has no desire to make light of the spectacle (since there is no more spectacle -- what was spectacle has been imperceptibly transformed into the banal). And thus the problem of summation begins. After prolonged exposure, facts and smells can be recorded and reported, reasons for this and reasons for that can be provided, but members of the audience seeking tales of roller coaster adventures will inevitably be disappointed -- such adventures may still happen, but they have receded into the background noise, no longer warranting great mention...
++++FLASH++++FLASH++++FLASH++++
(In case the preceding unnecessarily introspective musings about how to write a damn summary have mystified, confused, bored, and finally cured you of insomnia ----- it was essentially a long-winded rider explaining that there weren't really any hijinks this time...)
But I digress -- again to our topic: My last few weeks in Turkey. Following some more goodbyes after my Southern Balkan sojourn (I seem to have the habit of saying goodbye periodically every few weeks), I departed Istanbul’s shores once more.
BURSA: The first stop was Bursa -- an important centre, strong industrially, richly endowed with Ottoman mosques and other monuments. But as is my fetish for going to the farthest flung corner of the country to the place that has the longest and most unpronounceable name, I had never been to Bursa, despite its proximity to Istanbul.
In a sense, there is nothing to report from Bursa. It is well-run, clean, and relatively wealthy. Regular buses from Istanbul deposit their passengers at the modern bus station at the outskirts of the city, from which clean, efficient, cheap and reliable city buses transport everyone to the centre, past the giant Tofaş factory (maker of the Turkish Fiat, and Bursa's largest employer), to the Ottoman historical centre. Historical places of interest are neat and tidy, easily demarcated, while modern, clean, welcoming cafes await those who tire of visiting site after site, guidebook in hand. The citizens, busy on their way to and from work, remain courteous and polite to directional queries as they patiently queue for the bus. To be sure, one can find Bursa souvenirs if one goes to look for them, but a rapacious postcard salesman harassing foreign tourists at the door to the mosque would be a persona non grata in an orderly, businesslike Bursa. Bursa has modern ring roads, Western style shopping centres, and a string of other contemporary conveniences nestled onto the hills of Uluda— (one of the Mt. Olympuses (Olymp
i?) of antiquity --- the Gods had many places where they liked to hang out, you know), Turkey's premier skiing resort. Of course, one can still find a warren of old cobblestone streets, but they retain a museum-like air -- it is as if it is a showcase for what the cityscape of yesteryear was like - minus the noise, commotion and chaos that accompanies an area of dynamism. It seems fragile -- if one were to let a child run around there, would not the whole place fall down?
In short, Bursa has become the epitome of the ordered everyday: Sizable, but not sprawling; old, but not dilapidated (enough) --- one can enjoy a pleasant stay there, but there is nothing outwardly fascinating to report.
THE ROAD TO SİVAS: Of Sivas, some has already been written on this page. My purpose was the outlying village of Divriği in the eastern part of the province, but the overnight bus would only go so far as the centre of the city. The gradual transformation from outside observer (at the beginning of any sojourn in a new, unexplored place) to one immersed within the host culture entails a natural loss of true objectivity --- and the acquisition of biases based on the societal circle in which you associate. So it was with trepidation that I boarded the bus from Bursa to Sivas (with the express purpose of making some sort of quiet pilgrimage to the Hotel Madımak (you can troll through this site for more explanation, if you so desire)), mindful of the fact that I was travelling to some sort of Satanic stronghold, the preserve of radicals ready to slit the throat of all who chose not to subscribe to fundamentalist Islamic and far-right nationalist causes. And indeed, the centre of Sivas is certainly not the destination of one looking for a night on the town ---- if the presence of an alcohol shop is a barometer for the conservatism of an area --- then Sivas ranks as one of the most conservative in Turkey --- nary a welcome, blue EFES beer sign in two hours of aimless wandering (one cannot throw a stone in some Istanbul districts without damaging one of these representatives of 'civilization') --- nor a woman to be found sans-headscarf on the street.
However, it is a tremendous mistake to assume that someone that doesn't agree with you politically must therefore also be some sort of sadistic, murderous, xenophobic, eater of children, rude, loutish (without imbibing alcohol, of course), and curt. This would be a tremendous mistake to make, since Sivaslıs are some of the friendliest in Anatolia.
To refuse this sort of friendliness and offer of hospitality would be to cause the height of offence. So (speaking completely hypothetically of course) when the conductor of your never ending Anatolian bus journey insists that you eat breakfast with them at 4.30 am with the rest of the crew at a God-forsaken rest stop somewhere near the town of Yozgat (a city whose main claim to fame is that it has a fairly cool-sounding name), you had better comply. Of course, you can try and evade their friendliness --- but hiding in the washrooms won't particular suffice --- neglected and disused rest stops near Yozgat aren't especially patronized by boatloads of blond Viking tourists -- 0 are to be found at the height of summer, and slightly fewer blond Viking tourists are to be found enjoying sumptuous Yozgatlı bus stop cuisine at 4.30 in the middle of the harsh Anatolian winter ------ so such a lack of common Aryans precludes me, the sole reprsentative of the Viking hordes, from averting the attempted hospitality of the typically gregarious Sivaslı.
Evicted from my hiding space, there is no choice but to partake in breakfast. The rest have of course stopped eating by this juncture, but such a situation certainly does not excuse me from digging into mountains of eggs, sausage, cheese and flatbread. No less than four çays are presented for my consumption, and only my baying protests about being served a fifth prevent them from forcibly opening my mouth and funnelling the latest down my windpipe. Eating finished (and my mere mention of financial recompensation for the goods and services rendered are taken affrontedly), it is time for conversation. After the standard query as to my country of origin, comes the inevitable topic of confessional creed. Shocked that I do not profess Islam, they invite my to invoke the name of the Prophet --- and as a special sign of their accomodating nature, call upon the cooks to produce some sort of sharp object --- after all, Muslim men are circumcised. Circumcisional processes generally take a few days, but, with the bus leaving in about 8 and a half minutes (to stop again about 21 and a half minutes thereafter to give those riding the chance to release the angry-çay induced volcanoes welling inside) time is short and the part-time circumciser/full-time bus driver must work quickly and nimbly to adequately Islamicize me so that we can still arrive in Sivas before daybreak. In the interests of self-censorship and repression of memory, the rest of those 8.5 minutes at the Yozgat rest stop shall remain unmentioned in the public sphere.
Following the more physical/logistical aspects of my Muslimization (how do you know the truth?) and my Sivas perambulations, I found myself at the Sivas-Village bus station, a dusty, sunlit, run-down establishment marked most prominently by a rather conspicuous no-smoking sign occupying the sort of place a Russian train station circa 1938 would have a picture of Stalin --- a
sign as conspicuously and blatantly present on the wall as it was conspicuously and blatantly disregarded by those milling about, waiting for a bus (through the smoky haze I was able to distinguish some sort of nonsense about a 500 dollar fine --- an arbitrary amount of great comedic value for those puffing below the sign).
The rest of my stay in the bus station, spent choking below the no-smoking sign, became predictable. Concern was shown at my thinness and apparent weariness --- a fact remedied by a second breakfast and jug of çay in two hours (alas, no offers of further of carrying out some of the logistical changes necessary in becoming 'physically' Muslim), and being forcibly made to have the seat of honour at the Divriğibirliği Bus Company’s modest table (my protestations that I had just spent 12 inert hours on a bus across Anatolia carried precisely zero weight), along with the usual conversational diet of a) why the smeg was I there, and b) my football preferences.
DİVRİĞİ: Divriği is a small village in the East of Sivas district --- wedged between two arid mountains, its aptest description would be 'dusty' ---- the visitor to Turkey quickly learns that 'dusty' can be used to appropriately describe about 97% of all Turkish settlements --- the guidebook seemed somewhat optimistic (or perhaps I went to the wrong Divriği?) when they spoke of vineyards growing between the houses, row on row, since naturally occurring vegetation had not seemed to be a feature of the Divriği landscape since the paleolithic era. This said, Divriği is home to some of the finest Selçuk artwork pretty much anywhere. Unfortunately, my eyes tend to glaze over looking at the patterns surrounding mosque entrances, but this did nothing to detract from the authentic Divriği experience (indeed in almost 2 years in Turkey, I have managed to happily remain a tourist despite generally eschewing most things that would qualify as touristy --- furthermore, I tend to get off on dusty, arid towns completely devoid of vegetation): Like most towns in eastern Sivas, the majority of the inhabitants are Alevis --- as such, a far more relaxed and liberal air pervades the town (in strictly banal terms, the presence of an Alevi centre, like the presence of Armenian districts in Syria, means that an alcohol shop cannot be far away), while the stunning hospitality remains as magnanimous as found elsewhere in Sivas.
THE ROAD TO TUNCELİ: The road system in Turkey is quite good. Far from some sort of antiquated Western stereotype of Turkey being the home of camels, sand, and whatever else Disney's Aladdin taught us (Disney is generally always an accurate repository of cultural knowledge, I should think), the roads are paved, and 1001 bus companies can transport you to all four corners of the country, smile (most of the time) while doing it, offer you circumcision (with participating buslines), and generally give you a fairly strong cup of çay at anytime. Unfortunately, the road from Divriği to Tunceli is an exception to this rule. Yes, there is çay enroute, no, there was not much circumcision, yes, there were many smiles, but no (fairly crucially, it would seem), there is no road. After Divriği, the cracked pavement abruptly stops at the foot of the rocky Mercan Mountains. Despite an actual distance of only 150 or so kilometres, travellers are forced onto a 4 minibus (worn out bag strapped to the roof in the falling snow -- Indian travelling style), 40 dollar, 10.5 hour, detour around a series of geographical obstacles placed there on account of God's sense of humour.
Enroute, of course, the usual cast of local characters can be found: those that have no clue where Canada is, those earnest in their stumbling attempts to speak English with the foreigner (one can literally see the wheel turning inside as they mechanically repeat the pre-programmed 'Hel-lo, ver are you from?' phrase that one is constantly serenaded with), those that know everything about Canada because they watch the Discovery Channel, those that want to talk about the various 'characteristics' and 'merits' of Swedish and Korean girls --- I proffer that their knowledge about certain 'characteristics' and 'merits' of Swedish and Korean females has been primarily acquired through secondary means (ie: the internet) -- yet that in no way should stop them discussing it openly with strangers, those that gaze in utter shock and amazement that such a Viking monster has shown up on their doorstop, plus those that just want to altruistically give you a cup of tea. Alas, the nicest man of the day also had the most mumbled, hillbilly accent that I had ever encountered in Turkey --- meaning that if we rendered 'Sea shells, sea shells, by the sea shore' as 'ssssssssshsshhshhshhshshshshshshhshshzhzhzhhzkhdfgkhfkdhsfhksfr' we would probably have a fairly apt equivalent of the odds I was up against in my futile attempt to understand ---- it was a conversation spent essentially nodding, making encouraging 'continue on, please, I'm so happy that I understand everything' murmurs, and hoping for the hospitality to end. Inevitably, it was time for my friend to depart, and I was left alone on the bus to approach the Tunceli provincial limit.
....At this stage, it might be useful to reiterate my penchant for stubborness, persistent weirdness, masochism, and general eccentricity in terms of selecting holiday destinations. Turkey is one of the world's hottest tourist destinations. Hordes of illiterate and loutish Western tourists descend upon the Turkish coast's pristine beaches every year, contributing greatly to the Turkish economy; more intrepid or independent travellers can tour places of great historical interest and import (such as Ephesus, Cappadocia, or Nemrut Dağı); those with an interest in extreme sport can sample the whitewater rapids of the Black Sea region; only the obstinately weird go to Tunceli.
Tunceli is mountainous, small, cold --- and a haven for alleged terrorists. The PKK (Kurdistan Workers' Party --- leaders of a 23 year insurgency against Turkish rule in the country's southeast) has a wide base of support there, as do any number of other ultra left wing groups. Upon hearing that I planned to visit Tunceli, most Turks were either dumbfounded, worried, or, as in the case of my landlord, fairly suspicious. (As it was, my landlord was from Tunceli --- an alcoholic, bipolar, pimping, angry and paranoid man at the best of times ---- he had the peculiar habit of calling me at work to tell me that my roommate's blinds were up, and that failure to close them could result in summary eviction --- my stated desire to travel to his hometown shifted his paranoia into overdrive.) So it was it with great bewilderment that the regional jandarma (military police) met my presence at the provincial boundary. Not used to having foreign guests, I was ushered into the cold and sterile bunker for questioning by two balaclava wearing soldiers with AK-47's. Save for the empty samovar and collapsable table in the middle, the room was empty. Having had bad experiences with the jandarma in the past, I attempted to deflect questioning by making weak attempts to discuss weather patterns and football loyalties -- a nervous invitation to friendly banter (as much as it possibly to engage in friendly banter with men who have very large guns pointed in your general direction) not equally reciprocated. It thus came to my utter and genuine astonishment that after a few perfunctory questions (point of entry into Turkey, how many days would I stay in Tunceli, why the hell was I here, mother's name (I'm still not sure what that question's relevance was)) I was given a few cordial handshakes by the commandoes in combat fatigue, issued an order to 'take care' by the officer in charge, and sent on my way back into the Tunceli night.
TUNCELİ: Although I had told the men with large guns that I had come to Tunceli because of the 'nature' (Turkey is full of nature --- and you don't need to go 1300km to find it), I had been drawn to that forgotten corner of Turkey because the province has the most per capita Alevis anywhere in the country.
Because of this (and as a result of various philosophical and other historical processes that needn't be mentioned here) this bastion of the Alevis happens to be one of the most educated (a major achievement given its relative poverty), intellectually open, and leftist areas of Turkey.
(On the last point, people in Omsk could probably hear my nerdy squeel of delight when I looked out from my hotel window to see a vast conglomeration of ultra-leftist political platforms, parties, and Marxist trade union offices, all within spitting distance ('wow! they have a Workers' Socialist Platform office here!, plus a Revolutionary Workers' Union Confederation office!') --- all extremely and dorkily cool in my own interpretation of the subject. Furthermore, a quick browse of most shops also revealed a preponderance of 'Che' paraphernalia and a complete dearth of pretty much anything else... even the smallest of newshops had lunatic fringe leftist newspapers on sale --- I parted with 1YTL of my hard earned currency to sit down and read 'Devrimci (Revolutionary) Demokrasi' ---- before being informed by concerned passersby that while it was permissible to sell such a newspaper, it was apparently impermissible to read such a newspaper anywhere in the remote vicinity of a law enforcement official.)
In short, Tunceli, because of its predominantly Alevi populace, is a breath of fresh air in comparison to some of the surrounding Turkish districts. No where else in small-town Turkey are you likely to discuss interlinkages between Islam and Christianity on a street corner over beer, chat amiably with old women about housing rents and football beside a glacially fed stream, discuss Turkish prison regulations with well-read shopowners, meet local chainsmoking men that introduce their f
riends as Kofi Annan, or meet card-carrying local Communists that like to discuss appearances by Hz. Hızır, a mysterious and immortal prophet --- vaguely connected to Elijah (I think) whilst cutting meat for hours in their capacity as local butchers: It is all part of the Tunceli experience --- a place so devoid of historical landmarks, but so enriched by the people that live there.
With the threat of coming snow, however, I had no choice but to move on from Tunceli in the direction of Lake Van.
THE ROAD TO TATVAN: An essential part of the Turkish travelling experience is being cold and waiting for a bus --- thankfully (going to Tunceli notwithstanding), one never has to wait that long for a ride, but being cold while doing it is most certainly a prerequisite. So it was without surprise that I found myself shivering by the side of the road at 8am in a small town in Elazığ (never the most atmospheric or open of places for your holiday --- Elazığ is about as likely to host a gay pride parade as Kandahar) waiting for a bus. And duly, after only a short time spent shivering in the pale December morning sun, a bus appeared --- and in true Turkish hospitality, the lack of seating did not pose a problem in allowing just one more person on.
I sit on the stairs in the front, and repeat my mantra-like answers to the familiar questions posed by the conductor and fellow-passengers ("Where are you from?" "What is your name?" (I generally dispense with saying "Stefan," it is difficult to pronounce for locals and not as cool as just calling myself "Süleyman" (or simply "Sülo" to be very hip indeed) for the benefit of Turkish tongues); "Is your wife in your country?" (I'm not sure what Canadian wife would be permitting me to gallivant through Eastern Turkey during Christmas time); "What do you think of Turkey?" "Can you speak Kurdish?" (Again I robotically furnish them with the complete inventory of my possessed Kurdish: My numbers to 9 (10 is a bridge too far), "hello," "good evening," "straw" (for putting into a drink --- extremely useful vocab, don't you know) "how are you?" and "I'm fine". The assembled crowd of precisely 0 women and 79 men roars in appreciation. ...There is a silent pause before everyone speaks at once in an attempt to teach me more. Through the cacophony, I was made to repeat (if not learn) whole sections of Kurdish literature, although I have failed singularly to retain anything except for 'take care' (produced in my larynx with astonishing care, difficulty, and a complete disregard for accepted Kurdish pronunciation laws)...
With the conclusion of the Kurdish lesson and the end of the novelty of the blond foreigner, everyone settles into a fitful morning sleep. Outside, the cold continues as we race past miles and miles of never ending rocky terrain. There are no mountains, no large hills, and no clouds in the sky — the entire environment is punctuated by only three colours: the dark blue of the sunny December sky, the arid brown of the hard and stony lands completely unsuitable for any sort of sophisticated agriculture, and the slate grey of the lonely asphalt road winding its way through the unforgiving surroundings. Save for brooding soldiers warming themselves on the hood of their APC at a forgotten checkpoint, the road to Tatvan is completely devoid of any other form of life.
TATVAN-AHLAT: Tatvan is the gateway to Turkey’s Van Lake, the hauntingly beautiful body of water that dominates Turkey’s southeastern quadrant. Surely there can be few lakes that rival its icy beauty. When dusk settles, the deep, dark blue of the lake is broken only by the towering icy mountains that rise abruptly on its far shore --- the sensation is otherworldly.
Alas, Tatvan itself is not so otherworldly, but -- shockingly -- a typical Eastern Turkish town. The city has no historic mosques or any other edifices of architectural import, although it does have its usual cast of friendly people, a high military presence, ubiquitous children running towards any remotely foreign-looking person in their insatiable quest to find "pens," pious women wrapped in scarves, men in baggy pants, few alcohol stores, students from the underfunded state school system who can barely speak Turkish, a post office, three ATM’s, some men-only coffeehouses, and a few cheap restaurants. And like most small places in Turkey, it becomes eerily quiet after 5pm. While Istanbul parties until all hours, cities like Tatvan observe an informal curfew — shutters all over the city are rolled down in unison around 5pm and a pitch winter darkness shrouds the city. The eerie silence, of course, is punctuated only by the solitary traveller’s (who really should know better) grumbling stomach whose owner failed for the 42nd consecutive night to make it to a donair stand before the 5pm cut off. Stomach again unsatiated and unloved, I traipse back in the Tatvan night to my hotel room, ready to dine yet again on the two squashed and unappetizing mandarin oranges inhabiting the bottom of my bag —only for want of a donair at 17.20.
My stomach's anger notwithstanding, I take heart from an enjoyable day --- a trip to the fantastic, rust-coloured Selçuk graves of Ahlat (some 40km from Tatvan). The graves, some centuries old, stand in pleasant isolation in a field by the shores of Lake Van. Forgotten by all (most apparently by the Turkish tourist board --- nary a postcard seller, ticket booth, nor multi-lingual book (in 10 poorly translated languages) in sight), the graves have turned a beautiful rust-colour, while the long grass and lichen only add to the mystery. In a deserted field below the impressive volcanic core of Mt. Nemrut, they resemble Easter Island's Moai in the fading December sun.
THE ROAD TO BATMAN: As has been reiterated time and again, Turks and Kurds are generally a fairly pleasant and friendly lot. They take great pains to make sure that you are (overly) well-fed, that you always have one more cup of çay, that you are comfortable, that you have a good seat on the bus, that you can find the right bus --- and, in this area of Eastern Turkey, that you will find eternal salvation.
While Islamic rhetoric in Istanbul, plus Western and Alevi portions of Turkey is fairly muted, the same cannot be said of large swaths of Eastern Turkey. While most Canadians were spending Christmas Day with friends and family, mine was generally spent being force-fed çay and listening to accounts of why I should become a Muslim:
"Sülo (Stefan), you are a good person, but you should become a Muslim."
"Why?" I ask wearily, since the conversation seems to occur about every 26 minutes.
"Because the bible was changed, it's false," my new friend responds immediately. ...But there is no point in arguing --- especially when 9 men are gathered around you in a haze of acrid cigarette smoke at a bus-station in Bitlis --- the sort of fascinating eastern Turkish mountain town entirely devoid of female presence on its streets.
Instead, they continue, "many Christians become Muslims everyday. Muhammad Ali and Cat Stevens became Muslims. Be a Muslim." .... I failed to grasp what I had in common with either an American boxer or a British singer from 25 years ago.
"Why do you have three Gods?" another interjects. ...I don't think Christian theologians have been able to explain the Trinity (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) in 2000 years --- and I certainly don't fancy my chances of explaining it now, given that a) I'm shivering (again) next to a broken window, intent only on sleep, and b) I probably know more about Islam than doctrinal Christianity. I mumble something about the mysteries of God, and stumble into the bright, snow-enhanced light in search of a bus.
But the Christmas Day religious discussions are not over. My company on the bus trip is an Imam --- in shalwar kameez, white turban, and long black beard, he affects the look of someone recently arriving from tribal Pakistan. Apparently speaking Turkish, his speech seemed to be essentially lifted from the Qur'an, with the occasional Turkish grammatical ending thrown in.
(As if a Hutterite Preacher on a bus in Alberta would say to a British tourist, "Do you know, dass Gott und sein einiger Sohn echt heilig ist? Furthermore, es gibt keine andere echte Glaube. We mussen alle Christer sein, or else, wir werden alle in die Hölle gehen. Do you want im Feuer der Hölle alle Ewigkeit zu brennen? No, I think not. Be a Christian.")
The Imam mentions something about Muslims who don't pray or fast are animals: "Does an animal have responsibility?'' he asks. "No," he replies for me (my input evidently not actually needed). "So," his logic going from A to Q in lightning speed, "if a Muslim does not do his responsibility, then he must be an animal." I congratulate myself in that this was the only part of our two hour conversation I actually understood.
...It was at this stage that I realized that I had completely misunderstood the southeast portion of Turkey beforehand. The PKK (Kurdistan Workers' Party) had been fighting an allegedly Marxist struggle against the Turkish army since the mid-1980's in attempt to set up an independent Kurdistan based on Communist principles. As such, I expected to find some sort of socialist Weltanschauung among those living there, but it was singularly absent among everyone. In these eastern areas, everyone spoke of a Kurdish pride, but there was more desire for shari'ah (Islamic) law than any sort of independent Kurdistan organized along Communist lines. Either no one had really believed in the ideology when they took up arms in the 80's, or the whole struggle was essentially over: Sporadic violence from a few die-hards continued, but the ideology was no longer evident....
HASANKEYF: Hasankeyf is a small town in the province of Batman (the name is infinitely cooler than the actual city, believe me). It has two restaurants, a few butchers, a cheap internet cafe, high unemployment, devoutly pious Muslims, corner stores that are well-shuttered by 5pm ---- and it is going to disappear in a few years. In an effort to jumpstart the Southeastern Anatolian economy, the government is in the process of constructing a huge hydroelectric dam (the GAP Project) that will increase cotton production and bring electricity to the area. When the dam comes online, however, small towns like Hasankeyf will be flooded ---- a very bloody shame, since Hasankeyf is one of the most fantastic architectural treasures in Turkey.
The ancient city spans the same Tigris River of antiquity, and its ruins go back a thousand years. The surrounding area is littered with mausoleums, attractive mosques whose caved-in roofs only add to their mystery, centuries-old cemeteries, old churches, and a network of caves that bisect the searingly beautiful, green and rocky hills that rise quickly from the banks of the Tigris. The scheduled destruction of such a treasure has become a lightning rod between Kurdish nationalists and the federal government --- it is an issue unlikely to disappear for the foreseeable future.
THE PROVINCE OF MARDIN: Cold, cold, and then it got just a bit colder... Enough has been said about it already elsewhere on this forum. I'm not going to talk about staying in a hotel with no heat anymore.
Perhaps in penance for my continual cursing, profanity, and general anger towards the weather Gods, I felt it behoved me to stay a night in a Süryani (Assyrian Orthodox Christian) monastery. The more famous Mardinli monasteries closed due to the (rather) inclement weather, I settled on Midyat’s Mor Abrohom monastery. I had grand and pious intentions of attending Süryani masses with the ancient black robed priests, lighting candles in the chapel, and learning something about Christianity's oldest sect. As it was, I was able to learn something about Süryani culture from my rather bored host, Şabo (Turkish citizen, grew up in Germany, speaks almost no Turkish, can't really go back to Germany, so he now lives a life in limbo at the church), but on the other two more penitential intentions, I must confess that I failed miserable --- on account of drunkenness.
It is not often that one goes to the church with the intention of getting soused, but it's not everyday that one goes to a Süryani cathedral in December in Midyat. Süryanis produce some of the best wine in the world, and in the spirit of hospitality, they are not shy in providing it to guests. Another thing they are not shy about providing is smuggled whiskey --- I had gone with my host to the border town of Nusaybin to collect some of his visiting friends. A quick lunch was followed by a trip to the bazaar to purchase... well... lampshades, Alpine pictures (I was the only Canadian in Nusaybin that day who spent the better part of his day carrying a 15 square foot painting of Switzerland over his right shoulder), fish, and smuggled whiskey. I'm still not sure why Chivas Regal should be entering Turkey from Syria, nor how my host knew that a souvenir shop selling Japanese samurai swords and other eccentric trinkets was also the local whiskey emporium, but I guess a local just knows these things.
Whiskey and memories of Switzerland purchased, we drove through the stark and snowy Mesopotamian countryside back to the monastery. A quick meeting with the priest (he spoke 5 languages, and was very interested to hear about the conception of central heating), was followed by mandatory hospitality --- in this case, Chivas Regal, leftover Christmas candy, and an invitation to watch American kids' movies dubbed into German. Who could refuse? ....For reasons not entirely clear to me, the remainder of the night seems to be beyond my powers of recollection --- although I am fairly certain it did not involve mass or candles.
ESCAPE FROM THE COLD: Shaking off the disadvantages of hospitality, I headed for Diyarbakır, centre of the Kurdish resistance in the 1990's. Diyarbakır is an interesting town, with many features to draw the visitor: It has a fascinating old city replete with scores of mosques and churches, an imposing black basalt protective wall, historic stone bridges, the Tigris River, and ubiquitous friendliness. In winter, unfortunately, it is positively Siberian. Upon by disembarkation at the city's modern new bus station, the rather salient issue of me being unable to feel my toes convinced me that it was perhaps time to head (reluctantly and with sadness) for warmer climes.
THE ROAD TO İSKENDERUN: My first port of call was Adana, fourth largest city in Turkey, agriculturally rich, comparatively prosperous, home of the Sabancı family, one of the country's leading industrial magnates, and, crucially, not cold at New Year's. The centre of the city is marked by Sabancı's addition to the cityscape, the Sabancı Mosque. Only a few years old, it is what I would imagine a mosque designed by Disney to look like. White, massive in size, complete with six pencil-thin minarets stretching to the sky, the mosque appears like a mirage in the dark Anatolian night, and is visible throughout the downtown area.
The only other note of importance in Adana was that I was hungry following my night journey from Diyarbakır -- a shockingly regular occurrence for most of us (not the part about appearing from Diyarbakır in the middle of the night, but about the fact that most of us, apart from Kate Moss, tend to get somewhat peckish from time to time). This is, of course, not in and of itself special. In this instance, however, my choice of food was to have profound implications for the days immediately subsequent. The 31st of December was the beginning of Kurban Bayram2 (the commemoration of Abraham's near sacrifice of Ismail), and as such, most every eatery was closed -- except one. Submitting to the siren-like temptation of a cheap donair at the only place open (at 750.000 TL - about 50 cents American - a catastrophically low but inviting price) I satiated my stomach, still angry and distressed at the constant diet of mashed/rotting mandarin oranges.
İSKENDERUN: Of course, my consumption of the siren-donair was largely forgotten as I prepared for New Year's festivities with my friend's family by the Mediterranean. We ate well, drank well, and danced well, ringing in 2007 in good Antiochian style. But 2007 had barely been more than two hours old before I developed the distinct sensation that I was about to give birth. I went to the toilet, ready to bear my child, but was shocked instead to bear most of what I had ate the past few days. After a few more born children, some emergency food exits from the other end of the spectrum, and valiant attempts to heal me by those caring for me, it was decided that a visit to the state hospital would be in the interests of everyone, and most certainly would give the family toilet a chance to see someone other than me for a few minutes.
A Turkish state hospital is no bad place -- and it is especially a good place when, through a creative Turkish solution, no payment for medical services provided was ever rendered. The experience became even more thrilling when, under the influence of whatever was in my IV drop, I got to spend the better part of an hour discussing Turkish third division football with the doctor, evidently a man who didn't have enough other patients to preclude him from discussing the legacy of Sarıyer Spor Kulübü (my favourite third division side in the whole world) with a foreigner on New Year's Day.
In the end, it was the end of the two and a half week odyssey. I spent the rest of my time in İskenderun being cared for by Cem and his family, while I probably added about two hours to the drive back to ¤stanbul as I groaned in a series of gas station toilets across Turkey....
There can always be more to say, but this ''update'' is fast becoming a novel.
I shall say, however, that despite the cold, the fundamentalists, the questions that never change, the dodgy food, the heaters that don't work, the hours spent shivering while waiting for a bus, the cold, police with big guns, the cold, no food after 5pm, the frozen pipes, and the occasional bout of cold weather ---- I fully intend to go back at the first opportunity.
