Ani

The ancient city of Ani was built first by the Armenians in the 900's, but then spent the next 1100 years or so changing hands between collections of Armenians, Turks, Mongols and Russians. I fail to see how 100.000 people once lived here as the books claim, but perhaps, if one uses one's imagination, 100.000 people could have lived there....

As a modern geopolitical sidebar, the site remains on the exact frontier between modern Turkey and Armenia. But because of the Nagorno-Karabakh war in neighbouring Azerbaijan, Turkey and Armenia have no open borders nor diplomatic relations. In the past, visitors to the site needed to jump through hoops just to get there: One needed police permission, one needed army permission and only certain things could be photographed. Now, however, things are much more relaxed and it comes as somewhat of a surprise that one can actually throw rocks into Armenia from Turkey (ummm... theoretically of course). On the border of Turkey's biggest mortal enemy there is no visible troop presence; but on the border with Bulgaria, a country Turkey actually halfways gets along with, the fences and the police checks abound for miles around....

A River Runs Through It: On the left bank, Armenia, on the right, Turkey. The River Aras (glorified stream?) separates the two.

The Cathedral/Mosque. Built as a cathedral, it has been changed into a mosque and back again several times

The earthquake happened, but no one bothered to put the pieces back together again

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

Welcome to Sulukule

After a long and arduous twenty consecutive days of work (I must actually consider myself lazy --- some teachers have been working every day for the past 3 months), I was well and truly ready for some peace, order, and --- while not in search of good government --- at least for some relaxation (if that has flown well and truly over the heads of most of you, that's because you have been unaware that that is the Canadian motto -- don't worry, most Canadians don't know it either...)

Leaving Canadian myths aside, I prepared for my day off of monk-like silence. In my best interest, I concluded that the best way to spend a day off solitarily contemplating the intricacies of existence was to go to a Gypsy festival in one of the barrios of Istanbul. Now, as most of you can guess, a barrio is not a particularly appropriate place to contemplate existence in silence. Secondly, one would never accuse Gypsies of being of a particularly quiet disposition. And thirdly, a festival encompasing our first two points is a sure-fire way to ensure that silence won't be the watchword of the day.

The festival in question was Hıdırellez. Long a popular holiday in Turkey, it is especially celebrated by the Roma. Every year, on the evening of May 5th, fires are lit, wishes for the coming year are made, dances are held, sleepless nights are (not) enjoyed, and so on. Ostensibly, the holiday is in honour of the Prophet Elijah and his connection to the mysterious ''Green Man,'' (Hızır) a semi-mythical prophet common to many cultures and religions around the world. According to the Qur'an, he is immortal, a guide for all other prophets, and a helper to those in need. While Hızır did not make an appearance at yesterday's festivities, it certainly did not stop the assembled Roma from enjoying a good night out in the barrio.

As it is, yesterday's Hıdırellez festivities carried an added political significance. The district in which it was held is Sulukule, a community just inside Istanbul's ancient city walls possessing a thousand year long Gypsy presence. The Roma of Sulukule have been living in the district since the days of the Byzantine governers: They survived the fall of Constantinople in 1453, they prospered during the Sultans, they witnessed the rise of the Ottoman Empire and its subsequent fall, they escaped the privations of modern Turkey's violent birth, and lived through four military coups --- all the while, they produced the city's music and added a colourful tile to the cosmopolitan mosaic that is Istanbul. Alas, after all the trials and tribulations of the past one thousand years, they now face their sternest test yet: The Istanbul City Council.

Unfortunately for the Roma of Sulukule, they happen to inhabit some of the primest ''undeveloped'' real estate still found within Istanbul's ancient walls. Developers have been drooling at the prospect of razing the ancient quarter, erecting luxury (but officially ''affordable'') accomodation, shopping malls, and other trappings of ''modernity''. That a Roma quarter --- with its attractive houses, chicken coops, livestock, colouful drunks, smoke-filled nostalgic cafes, peeling paint, crooked alleyways, dusty playgrounds, power lines, and hordes of friendly children --- should still exist within the heart of historical Istanbul seems to have become a bit of a sore point for the city authorities.

As such, they are doing their best to ''rectify'' the situation. Denizens are being offered about 40,000 YTL for their property at a take it over leave it rate --- unfortunately, the ''affordable'' new residences to be built will start at 140,000 YTL. Far from destroying the character of the district, however, the developers, in cooperation with the City, promise to retain the ''Gypsyness'' of the community. Despite plans to bulldoze the multicoloured houses, raze the smoke-filled cafes, eradicate the dusty playgrounds, pave neat and modern roads through the crooked alleys, and relocate the hordes of friendly children, the original character will apparently be maintained. Somehow, according to the developers, Sulukule's ethos as the preserve of the Gypsies, spiritual guardians of the music of the city, will survive the demolition of the present Sulukule. Such thinking, of course, is folly. At best, any ''re-creation'' of Sulukule will feel artificial and tacky (much like clumsy attempts to rebuild the city walls --- the restored wall looks like the wall of a mechanics shop in an industrial district), at worst, nothing will remain whatsoever.

In an effort to stall such efforts, NGO's and concerned citizens are increasingly putting pressure on local authorities to halt plans to destroy the personality of Sulukule. As part of the drive to increase awareness over the fate of the district, organizers invited the public to yesterday's celebration of Hıdırellez. While most of the participants were locals, a foreign research team and yours truly also penetrated the colourful backstreets, eager to lend support for Sulukule's protection.

As it happened to be, however, I happened to be the only blond haired foreigner present that spoke anything resembling Turkish. What followed was a five hour inquistion by hordes of adoring Roma children (nary a demand for money either --- to quash a prejudice about Gypsies): ''Where are you from,?' ''Where is Canada?'' ''Are you married to the other foreigners?'' ''If not, do you want to marry my sister?'' ''Why is your name Süleyman?'' ''Are you a Muslim?'' ''If not, how come you're not a Muslim?'' ''Do you want some rakı?'' (from a 10 year old boy who insisted that he was a good Muslim, despite promising to partake in said rakı with me) ''What football club do you support?'' and ''Would you be our English teacher?''. Of course, the questions didn't come sequentially, but sort of at once, many times over. I estimate that I answered the above questions no less than 37 times each.

My main contribution to engendering local goodwill (since I decided drinking rakı with 10 year olds might not ingratiate myself to their parents particularly) was to purchase a football for the local footballing youth, and provide amusement for the assembled headscarf wearing, smoking and cackling grandmothers to dance -- Gypsy style, of course. My feeble attempts to do anything but fall drew an ovation from the grandmothers and various local denizens, although I would posit that their applause was more out of embarrasment than any appreciation for my dancing ability (my efforts to explain that being a Canadian of Mennonite origin meant that I was genetically incapable of dancing fell on deaf ears).

All that was left, after the speeches, fantastic music, interrogation, and general good fun was to make a wish in accordance with Hıdırellez tradition. But, this being a chaotic Gypsy festival, wishes for the coming year could only be made whilst leaping over a good, old-fashioned mattress fire. I spent most of my time trying to take semi-professional photos (without success) of the Romanized mattress fire, before being exhorted by those assembled to make my wish and leap over the fire. Having not much experience with making wishes while jumping over mattress fires in Istanbul barrio districts -- being egged on all the while by a crowd of roaring Roma --- I was unsure of what I ought to wish for. But with the flames licking my waist, I decided that the most prudent wish for the coming year was also the most prudent wish for the following split second -- ie: That I escape my first Gypsy fire-jumping-wish ritual without getting burnt.

Thanks in large part to Hızır, my wish came true, with nary a burn mark to be found....

But while I was wishing for self-preservation, I imagine most of the area's inhabitants were invoking Hızır's name for a far more important wish --- the very self-preservation of Sulukule...

Yaşasın 1 Mayıs Polis Bayramı!! Long Live May Day-Police Holiday!!

May Day is probably the most universal holiday in the world: No other holiday cuts across racial, ethnic, and religious divides as much as International Labour Day. In Moscow, they dance peacefully in Red Square; in Havana, they have a party; in Europe, a picnic; in the USA, a few marches; in Baghdad, a relatively calm meeting; and in Istanbul, a police holiday.

Of course, most of us here were under the entirely deluded impression that the first of May (here, Bir (1) Mayıs) was some sort of workers' holiday --- and why not? The newspapers announced weeks in advance the planned march to the holiest of (socialist) holies, Taksim Square --- a march made all the more poignant because it was to come exactly 30 years after unknown assailants fired on 1 Mayıs revellers in Taksim Square, killing between 34 and 42 workers. Since then, permission has not been granted for another 1 Mayıs gathering in Taksim Square.

This year, of course, was no exception. The governor of Istanbul refused to hear the pleas of the unionists who had asked for the right to lay flowers at the site of the massacre. Uncowed by the bureaucratic intransigence of the local government, the collection of unionists, left-wing political parties and ordinary people -- increasingly sick and tired of the escalating violence and nationalism inherent in contemporary Turkish policies -- insisted on a march to Taksim.

Heeding the rallying cry to meet in front of the Sultan's Palace at 10.00, I filed past the ranks of police sunning themselves in the mid-spring sunshine, doing their very best to emulate some happy Brahman cows, such was their contentment at being able to lie about in the grass before their holiday.

As can perhaps be evident at this point, I have abondoned all claims to neutral objectivity. I went to 1 Mayıs last year as an observer, but to this year's celebration as a participant, despite the rather menacing police (their vacant, contented, zen-like Brahman smiles notwithstanding) buildup on almost every street close to the square.

The 10.00 congregation never happened. A massive police presence, coupled with excessive force was too much for about 20 syndicalists who bravely (if foolhardily) opened a banner and walked towards the police lines before being hitten by a triple barrage of water cannon, tear gas and batons.

Revolution ended, and peace apparently restored, the only thing left was for a busload of Japanese tourists to disembark, wander obliviously through the dissipating wafts of tear gas, and point their camera at just about everything except the police tanks. Such pronounced ability to amble contentedly and completely unaware through one's surroundings left me unsure as to whether I should laugh or cry...

Leaving the Japanese to pay their exhorbitant Sultan's Palace entry fees, I hurried to Taksim Square, found only more and more police, tried to find a boat to another demonstration on the other side of Istanbul, found no boat, found instead more and more police, turned around in the direction of Taksim Square, found some more police, got stopped by other police, showed my blond hair to still other police, was adjudged to be undangerous by these police, walked towards Taksim, got stopped by other police, eluded other police, and finally came to face to face with a whole battalion of police.

Through the various police cordons, about 3000 people had succeeded in reaching the police lines ''protecting'' Taksim Square. Disorganized, but not lacking in spirit, we 3000 chanted, marched in our pen between police lines, and called for the resignation of the Istanbul governor. A collection of ragtag, disorganized students, workers and fellow travellers, however, is not much of a match for tanks, riot police, water cannon, or tear gas (to state the tear gas blindingly obvious): The police response was swift, efficient, and brutal. Volleys of tear gas into the middle of the crowd sent those collected scurrying for cover (the experience of running, panicked and pushed from behind, all the while choking on the thick smoke of tear gas is not an experience easily forgotten) --- while those too slow to escape rapidly were rewarded for their tardiness with beatings and detainment.

At full time, the Police ran out 1:0 winners, 600 people were arrested, tens of thousands succumbed to tear gas, hundreds were beaten, buses were stopped, train service was curtailed, ferries ceased operation, and the police succeeded in breaking up a peaceful memorial celebration at the cost any existing goodwill --- even displacing the usual mayhem reports from Iraq as the BBC's top story.

And so, I invite everyone to celebrate next year's Polis Bayramı, only a mere 364 days away. I'm sure we can expect more of the same...

A Fine Start to 1 Mayıs: 300 police with water cannon, tear gas, batons and a paddywagons vs. 20 workers and a banner.

Well done lads! One of the riot squads, returning triumphantly from taking down the 20 workers















Moment of Panic: The 3000 run for cover after the tear gas was released. Photo taken at full tilt, camera pointed over the left shoulder
















After effects of tear gas --- plain for all to see















The struggle continues on the next street over. Not to fear though, because the police are there to save the day again

Miting

Over the years, the Turkish language has borrowed many Western words, usually from French. One such English word, however, is miting. But just when the Turkish neophyte thinks that they can be comforted by the fact that at last they can recognize a word --- the Turkish language gods crush their feeble hopes: For while miting is taken from the English meeting, it has no connection to the English conception of the word. Instead, it means protest (there is also the verb 'protesto etmek' in Turkish, which, somewhat disappointingly, actually means 'to protest', rather than 'to meet' --- a meaning that would be so much more deliciously bizarro-world like).

And yes, there is a connection to reality outside of mere linguistic contemplation. For today, Istanbul has ground to a halt because of a 'Miting'. The official reason (in our pages here fairly crudely summarized) is popular protests over the ongoing parliamentary elections for a new president ---- the office of the President isn't actually so important --- more powerful than a figurehead, but not as important as the Turkish Prime Minister. However, no Turkish President's wife has ever worn a headscarf.

That a President's wife would choose to not reveal her hair would perhaps not seem particularly divisive in a country like Canada --- odd perhaps, drawing isolated protests from a nationalist fringe, but not necessarily divisive, but in Turkey, the issue of the next President has the country at a standstill, and men are even taking time out of harassing each other over football results (Turkish football, while low in overall quality, could never be accused of lacking overheated, testosterone-induced passion) to discuss the Presidential issue.

The parliament's current candidate, Abdüllah Gül, is from the Islamic AK Parti. His candidature has been supported by many on the Islamic side of Turkish politics, and vociferously opposed by secularists, including the all-powerful armed forces, who have not so subtly advised any prospective candidate for the Presidentship to have strong secularist credentials (a thinly-veiled threat aimed at anyone with a religious background bent on assuming Presidential office), and who intervened into Turkish politics (either bloodily or unbloodilly) to depose elected governments in 1960, 1971, 1980 and 1998.

In an atmosphere where everyone is trying to decide the future of the country --- in kepab shops, in doorways, around the proverbial water-cooler, on the bus, in smoke-filled men-only cafes, in upmarket tanning salons, at work, at home --- the only decisionmakers that matter are those in military HQ. Nonetheless, hundreds of thousands of Istanbullus poured onto the streets today in a show of popular force to 'claim the republic' and convince Gül that his next seven years would be better spent accomplishing something else, rather than parading in front of the cameras with a headscarfed wife, anathema to Turkey's secular establishment.

The crowd of hundreds of thousands of Turks represented a decent cross-section of society. Young were mixed with old, women seemed to make up about half the number (as I assume they would when there's a palpable fear (whether real or unfounded) that an Islamist President will advance the cause of mandatory headscarves), most seemed middle class, and all carried Turkish flags (which incidentally, always seem to be sold by Gypsies in this country --- a monopoly they control in addition to the florist industry) while shouting slogans supporting the primacy of secularism in the Turkish republic.

In the end, secularism was the watchword of the day; Those opposed to the rally complained about the antidemocratic nature of the populist wave: The government was legally elected, any street efforts to oust it by encouraging military intervention will do nothing to encourage democracy. Those taking part, however, believed in the almost 'sacred' (to use the term completely incorrectly) duty of protesting: By not protesting, millions of liberal minded Turks might wake up in the morning to a radically Islamic government no one really wants.... Whether that is ever to happen is probably moot, since the courts and a not so-subtle group of soldiers with guns are more likely to decide what happens in the coming days...

A Trip to the Furthest Reaches of Non-Existence, a.k.a., Paderborn, Germany

Travelling can always be much more rewarding if it can be endowed with some sort of purpose. This is not to say, of course, that there is necessarily always some sort of grand, altruistic, or even self-fulfilling aspect in travelling --- but turning a possibly mundane outing to another mundane place into a spiritual quest to an extraordinary place at least makes you feel like you are doing something in your life, rather than living off your parents' largesse and working occasionally as you flit about the world sampling the wide range of mouth-watering kepabs this planet has to offer.

But, having previously been denied by fate entry into Amsterdam -- a place that, for my purposes and conceptions at least, continues to not exist -- I set out upon another quest, this time to a place that does not exist for the purposes and conceptions of anyone else either. If you are confused by the incoherency of the previous sentence, then you are not alone -- I am as well, so I shall do my best to elucidate the destination of my quest.

My goal was the German city of Paderborn and specifically, one of its outlying villages: Wewer. Now, when questioning a German citizen as to the theoretical existence or non-existence of Paderborn, most Germans will inform the foreign sojourner that Paderborn, in fact, does not exist. Munich exists (even if most Germans don't like Munich unless they're from there), Berlin exists (and everyone likes it even if they're not from there), Hamburg exists, as do more entertainingly named places like Mönchengladbach and Garmischpartenkirchen.

But Paderborn, as Germans seem to claim steadfastedly, does not exist. There is nothing personal nor dehumanizing in their refusal to recognize the ontological or metaphysical existence of Paderborn. In fact, it's not really about Paderborn at all, it's about the neigbouring industrial city of Bielefeld. You see, Bielefeld is reputed to be so dull, boring, and uninteresting, that its place on the map is taken to be a massive void. And thus, by logical extension, we must also conclude that its nearest neighbour, Paderborn, must also be so frightfully dull, boring, and unexciting that it surely cannot exist outside of any sort of difficult philosophical precept. And so to this void of nebulous non-existence, I bought a train ticket.

HISTORICAL INTERLUDE: Just to add slightly more to the general incoherency of everything on this page, let me leave this interesting thread of speculation on existence/non-existence issues, and transport all of us to the Ukraine of the 1940's. (Who saw this coming?)

Our historical interlude picks up in the small farming town of Adelsheim, not far from the banks of the mighty Dniepr River. There, years of Stalinist policies have contrived to turn the Ukraine, the breadbasket of Europe, into a famine zone. Worse still, purges launched in the 1930's against a wide range of potential, fantasy, or purely non-existent (see, we haven't completely left the thread!) enemies by our great Comrade Stalin have depopulated a large amount of Russia, turned neighbour against neighbour, and left everyone cowering in fear from the '10pm knock on the door from the men in the black car'. Add to this mix the greatest land battle in history between the Nazis and the Soviets, and you end up with a pretty crappy place to live.

Our protagonists of the story are the Wiebes: Paterfamilias purged in 1937 (sentenced to contribute to socialism by building a canal in Russia's frozen north before being rewarded for his efforts with a bullet in the head -- an end enjoyed by millions of Soviet citizens in those days), the family is forced to flee the chaos of WW II and make their way to Germany. Staying just ahead of the advancing Red Army, the family finally reaches the village of Wewer, in our non-existent Paderborn, at the end of the war. There, at the baron's castle, the family works with several other DP (displaced persons) families on the land. By this time, of course, the war is already over, the division of post-war Germany is being solidified, and new homes for millions of Eastern European refugees are being sought.

For ex-Soviet citizens, however, the war is not yet over. In a profound concession to Stalin, Western leaders Churchill and Truman grant Red Army units permission to comb through Germany's western sector in a search for escapees from the Soviet Union. But for the 'white lies' told by the castle's baron, the Wiebes, like so many other unfortunate ex-Soviet citizens, would have ended up on a direct army truck back to Russia and a life of 'volunteer settlement' in the farthest, coldest reaches of Siberia or Kazakhstan.

....In case none of you have figured out the rather quite obvious already, you will have realized that the Wiebes are indeed my family, and that one of the daughters, Maria, is my grandmother. (And yes, Grandma, I realize that there are probably quite a few historical inaccuracies in this report --- I should have reviewed Aunt Anna's book beforehand...)

END OF HISTORICAL INTERLUDE....

So yes, out of a quest to see where my grandmother hid during the end of the war, and where she was protected from marauding Red Army troops after the war, I set out on Deutsche Bahn, with Turkish newspaper in hand, to a place that apparently does not exist.

My arrival at Paderborn Hauptbahnhof upon my sacred quest was not met with great fanfare, much to my shock and amazement. Stepping out, I was met by a rather dullish city, of medium size, somewhat industrial, somewhat unhistorical, somewhat rather bland, somewhat not ugly (not enought to be interesting anyway), and somewhat nebulous --- so nebulous in fact, that I was unable to pass judgment as to its reputed non-existence.

I have always been of the opinion that for any quest to take on quest-like status, one must walk several kilometres before reaching the final target, the better to feel a sense of accomplisment (getting lost along the way certainly adds to the sense of accomplishment also). Arriving at your hallowed destination in the form of motorized transport is about exciting as discovering the Colosseum with 10,000 other ice-cream eating foreign tourists after taking a two minute taxi ride from the nearby metro stop. While the site might be awe-inspiring, the mode of discovering certainly is not.

So, with Paderborn's finest ale in my bag, I set off in the direction of Wewer Castle. I would like to add something here about how spiritual the walk turned out, that it was conducted while negotiating treacherous mountain passes and whatnot, but it was most certainly not. Given a reputed non-existence due to its dullness, boringness, and general non-excitment inducingness (to coin a new word), I was not shocked to discover that the outskirts of Paderborn had been badly deformed by the blight of big boxstores: Big boxstores with huge yellow façades, with big, huge discounts on huge yellow things for your home, followed by other big boxstores selling equally unknown but equally large items with which to adequately decorate your home.

Resisting the urge to purchase some large patio chair sets, I continued on through the fields towards the village of Wewer, negotiating my way across the 'mighty and raging' Alme River (I have been amazed at what constitutes a river in Germany: The smallest, driest brook always warrents some sort of name-plaque to inform the tresspasser that, yes, indeed, this is a river --- as if a failure to announce the fact might lead everyone to realize that a trickling ditch of water is indeed not a river...) My eventual arrival revealed no castle, but only row upon row of immaculately, annoyingly and anally-kept front gardens. ....But to spare everyone some sort of Kafkaesque tale about how I never actually reached the castle, I shall cut to the point and inform you, tired readers, that I indeed did.... more or less...

Alas, the picture below is the closest I could approach, after being dutifully and bureaucratically informed by the groundskeeper in fairly plain terms that I was permitted to advance as far as the signpost, but no further...

So, in contrast to trying to reach Amsterdam, I succeeded in reaching the hallowed Schloss Wewer. I braved a day long jaunt through several dimensions of non-existence, drank local Paderborner beer, and lived to tell about it....

A successful day, in other words....

A Trip to Amsterdam, or an Incoherent Oddysey to the Underworld?

It has been a dearly long time since I have written anything.... I will explain away the intervening 3 or so months by saying that I wrote nothing because I did nothing whilst I whiled away my time at home.

So I jump all that intervening bit we call regular life and delve straight into my quest to reach Amsterdam.

It is without notifying a vast majority of the reading public that I have been toodling around Germany for the past week and a half or so. And while Germany certainly has its drawing cards and half-ways interesting stories to tell (perhaps more about them at a later date), it was the lure of tulips, canals, Rembrandt (umm... sort of... saying so makes me vastly more culturally sophisticated than I seem), green plant matter, but most importantly, the chance to say that I've drunk beer in another country that drew me to embark on my epic quest of reaching Amsterdam from Osanbrück in NW Germany ---- that, and the rather more Sysephian quest to secure cheap Dutch coffee.

The guide and I settled in for the long and grueling mountainous climb through the impenetrable peaks that jaggedly crisscross the Dutch landscape. The stress of not knowing whether the car, despite its Volkswagen quality, would surmount another tortuous 2 metre high rise was more than any mortal ought to take. With time, however, our People`s Car proved itself more formidable than the awesome inhospitableness and remote mountain peaks of the Dutch A1 autobahn. Despite a scenery to rival the Himalayas surrounding me, the rigours of the journey left me in need of a nap.

And thus it was that my contribution to the quest to reach Amsterdam mostly consisted of sleeping, waking up occasionally to see that another mountain pass was coming, sleeping some more, waking up to helpfully point out that we were following a Lithuanian truck, sleeping, waking up to inform the driver that we were now following a Latvian truck, and so on, until I had pointed out a rough quorum of the former Warsaw Pact.

As the resolution of our quest neared, it was entrusted to me to correctly negotiate our way through the last breathtakingly beautiful mountain valley and into the promised land of Amsterdam, where we would be sure to find some Grolsch and reasonably priced coffee. It was, alas, a Sysephian task.

The German road map we brought along, was, in the end, a German road map, meaning, to state the perfectly and painfully blindingly obvious, that Dutch roads were not included. (Of course, they did have a `Holland` section towards the back, but it happened to include a good cross section of Northern Europe, thus ensuring that it gave a pretty good idea of what autoroutes those Lithuanian truck drivers I had so helpfully pointed out had taken to reach Amsterdam, but singularly failed to provide various reasonably priced coffee dispensing emporia that may or may not have lain upon some sort of convenient entrance to Amsterdam.

In the end, we were never really that close to rolling our boulder to the top of one of those impregnable and forbidding Dutch mountains, a la Sysephus. Vague directions about `10 minutes that way` yielded about as many reasonably priced coffee dispensing emporia in 60 minutes of driving as a thorough enumeration of various reasonably priced pork dispensing emporia in Kandahar would.

Sixty minutes of coffeeless searching confirmed three things: Dutch people don`t eat (a lack of food emporia logically suggests that they are some sort of super race who have conquered the scourge of hunger and thirst for reasonably priced coffee), they like bicycles, and they really love plant stores. They abound. They multiply. They take up biblical amounts of land. And they have absolutely no reasonably priced coffee.

Taking with us a roll of string into one of these autonomous republics of gardening (lest we should meet some sort of minotaur between the hanging baskets and the rhododendrans in the labyrinthe that is a Dutch gardening store and need to walk the three or so hours out), we set off on the vain chance that there might be food or reasonably priced coffee inside. After more battles, adventures and encounters with sirens, cyclopses, and anything else Homer could write in a lifetime (no prizes for correctly deducing that there is a classical mythological theme running throughout our story today), we realized that there was no food, and no reasonably priced coffee. So we bought a plant instead.

Few mortals enter the lair of Hades (to mix the mythological metaphor just a bit more) and return alive. But we did. And we got a small plant, too --- an absolutely gorgeous specimen perfect for a bathroom windowsill.

And so, that was Holland, land of rocky mountains sometimes reaching an astonishing 3 metres, no food emporia, behemoth garden stores and any other stereotype about the country that I would be compltely unjustified in making, given that I spent no more than 8 hours of my life in the country.....

.......And we happened to find some reasonably priced coffee at a supermarket (though not quite the right kind, mind you) right on the German border at Enschede. But if we had just gone there, would we have ever gotten a plant from the deep bosom of a Dutch gardening store?




....Just on the top of the car there: Spoils from Hades