Wednesday 29 February 2012

The Land of the Disappeared

I didn't mean to write another entry so soon but when you've got a blog in you, it's only healthy to let it out...

Leaving the blissful lanes of Sanliurfa we headed out into the dusty plains. The black tents and tarpaulin of nomad camps sending smoke signals toward the distant mountains. We had organised a homestay in a Kurdish village through a British woman who, having married a local man and given up a high-flying career, had dedicated her life to improving the life in tiny Yulacali. Most people here live on less than a dollar a day, 50% are illiterate, 80% intermarried. The result of all this is a 20-30% infant mortality rate. Apologies if I've begun to sound like an Oxfam advert. The village itself, a patchwork of concrete, adobe and animal dung, lay on an ancient site. A Neolithic settlement mound rose from the muddy ground, paths were littered with fragments of Roman mosaics, ancient pots and flint tools. We were in the land where civilisation began, where hunting and gathering first  became passé. We watched some village men rolling flat the mud roof of their house, they were using an ancient Roman column.

We stayed with a kindly family in a house of carpets and doilies. Outside, sheep, chickens and cows scratched the earth. Various relatives came and went (our hostess was one of 16, the oldest 60, the youngest 12) and we watched the daily bread baked over a straw-fueled fire.

As Kurds, the children are forbidden from speaking their own language at school (even though it is sometimes their only language), on a Turkish census form there is not an option to say you're 'Kurdish'. We headed next to Diyarbakir, a stronghold of Kurdish defiance, a place that strikes fear into nationalist hearts. We were received with open arms and soon found ourselves in the depths of the bazaar discussing politics with a group of Kurdish men. Here, the godlike Ataturk, whose face graces every school, restaurant and public park from here to Istanbul was denounced as a 'motherf**ker' (they had a highly sophisticated grasp of the language). They even spoke openly of the silent Armenian churches that scatter these lands and the 'disappearance' of their former parishioners.
In the west of Turkey I had been regularly assured that 'everyone loves Ataturk!' 

We spent a few nights in Erzerum, where two metre icicles hang from the eaves and white mountains diffuse into snowy skies before bussing up into the mountains, slipping over the icy roads between sliding lorries. We are now in Dogubayazit, our last stop in Turkey. We are encircled by mountains including Mount Ararat (believed to be where Noah's ark ended up) and overlooked by an amazing palace that looks out over the dusty plains to Armenia on one side and Iran on the other.

Our journey in this fascinating country is coming to an end, soon we leave the the long shadows of the Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman empires (in which we've been travelling since Croatia) and enter the ancient heart of another great civilisation, Persia. In a few days we'll cross an infamous Silk Road mountain pass (in years past, the spring thaw would reveal the petrified corpses of unlucky travellers) into Iran...

...no, we're not mad. Trust us. 

Monday 27 February 2012

Mesopotamia Bound

Şanlıurfa


This was mostly been written sat by a lake of scared carp, a glass of strong black çay before me and a castle rampart up above. Though I'm now in a seedy  internet cafe full of adolescent boys playing videogames, please imagine the former. Imagine the lake and the holy carp and the passing Arab women in purple headscarves and flowing gowns, the old men in keffıyeh and baggy pantaloons that smoke hand-rolled cigarettes and clack their rosaries. For we are in the beautiful old town of Şanlıurfa.

But waıt! I must rewind a week or so through my jumbled memories of the last few towns. From Konya, we headed south to the coast and a castle afloat on the waves. We were in Kızkalesi, where a colony of concrete hotels had made their home amongst Alexandrian battlefields, Byzantine castles and the footprints of Zeus. Along the coast, we dropped into a deep canyon known as the Chasm of Heaven. Followıng a path that wrapped around boulders and twisted walnut trees, we came across the cave of Typhon, a jagged black opening in the rock. Inside, dark waters could be heard a'rushıng. It was said by the Greeks that the underground river was a tributary of the river Styx (over which one crosses to the underworld) and as we slipped over the rocks into the blackness, the deafenıng rush of the water did indeed sound somewhat demonic. As the light failed and the black water slid by, we decided the overworld was good enough for us and returned, slightly disturbed to the sunshine. Its neighbouring chasm, the Gorge of Hell, was positively cheerful in comparison. Having had enough of melodramatically named holes in the ground, we fled east to ancient Antioch through a blur of olive, pistachio and citrus trees.

Antioch may now be called Antakya but we'll forget that for the moment, it's not half so evocative. It is the birthplace of St Paul and we duly visited a rock-hewn church (the ancients here couldn`t get enough of hewing things from rocks) where he preached about his then bizarre little sect. It is perhaps the oldest church in the world. More interestingly for us, Antioch could also be considered the western terminus of the Silk Road, where the riches of the east were shipped off to (among others) Rome.
 
The highlight of this Biblical city though, was none of these things and it involved a fair deal of robot dancing. The previous day, we had been strolling the rugged streets of concrete, as per usual, we were the only foreigners in sight. We were busy picking our way through vegetable carts and over-excited school children when a car screeched to a halt beside us and a hyperactive woman bowled out. She explained she was an English teacher at the local high school and begged us to come to her class the next day. So, the next day we turned up, sodden from the ropes of rainwater that gushed from every ill-built roof. Students were summoned to fetch us hot tea. We were pretty shocked however, to find that it was all really informal. We were led to our classroom, pushing our way through excitable smiles and handshakes and 'how are you?'s. In class, we asked if anyone had any questions. The first student to speak, a sweet-looking girl stood up and asked `Do you like street dance?`. Before we had time to answer, some hip hop was switched on, a boy was pushed forward and he started to jolt and judder as if auditioning for Turkey`s Got Talent (which, by the way, appears to have been won by a performing dog). It was all entirely and wonderfully mad.

At school

A few hours later, we were bussing through snowy valleys to Gaziantep (Antep), culinary Mecca of eastern Turkey. I will leave the food bit to Nic (click here for Nic's blog) and concentrate on our experience as Gaziantepspor FC's newest fans. Fresh from a rather cultural morning examining some lovely Roman mosaics, we were wandering past the football stadium when we discovered it was match day and  were suddenly sucked into another surreal encounter.

I was thinking of getting tickets for the game when we were adopted by a gang of cheeky teenage boys in full Gaziantepspor paraphernalia. They handed us tickets as a  gift and guided us toward the gates. They didn't speak a word of English and our Turkish is sparse to say the least, but they were soon inducting us into the stand of hardcore fans. Before long we had linked arms with our fellows, begun jumping on the seats (for they are not for sitting) and singing along with a stand full of fanatics. The crowd is 'conducted' by an angry man at the front flanked by two drummers. He leads the songs and chants, the hand movements and Mexican waves. We were competing with another stand of Gaziantepspor supporters who countered our chants and movements with their own. Police and stewards with full riot gear looked on unbothered as a fight broke out in our stand, but it was largely good natured (if a bit shouty). 'If you cut me, I bleed Gaziantepspor' Nic declared after about 5 minutes. No one seemed to take any notice of the football, they were having far too much fun. Waving goodbye to yet more unexpected and ridiculously generous friends, we headed here to Şanlıurfa.


Gazıantepspor - before the game has even started

Nic with the Gaziantepspor massive
On the way, we crossed the Euphrates into what was ancient Mesopotamia ('The Land Between the Two Rivers' - the Euphrates and the Tigris). The landscape began to resemble what I expect nearby Syria to look like, furrowed brown hills, goats and olive trees. The city too feels different, an amalgam of ancient stone and slapdash concrete. We follow winding lanes passed community bread ovens, Arabic archways and ornate balconies to the Fish Pools. It is the birthplace of Ibrahim (Abraham) and pilgrims flock to feed the sacred carp that swim the holy pools (the coals of his funeral pyre became fish or some such thing). It is a beautiful, peaceful place.

Şanlıurfa
 Last and best of all is a 500 year old caravanserai that is now tea garden (introduced to us by another new Turkish friend). It is always full of old men slapping down dominos, downing bitter coffee and setting the world to rights. As we sat there with our nargile (water pipe) Nic said 'this is it really' and I knew exactly what she meant.

Havıng finally managed to upload this blog after days of trying, we are no longer ın Şanlıurfa but in icy cold Erzerum (in an equally seedy internet cafe). So, with the smell of Lynx Africa ın my nostrils, I bid you farewell...

In an old caravanserai, Şanlıurfa

Kıds on a bread errand Şanlıurfa

Thursday 16 February 2012

Into the Mystic

I moved deeper into the cave, there were human bones amongst the rubble beneath my feet. My torchlight couldn't  quite reach the darkest corner so I pushed on, the crack of daylight shrinking behind me. 'I am literally Indiana Jones!' I thought to myself. Though I don't know that Indiana Jones would have turned back when it got a bit slippy and I'm pretty sure his wife wouldn't have been waiting outside ready to tell him off for being all dusty.  I was in an old rock hewn tomb in Sille, Turkey. Outside, snow sat heavy on the hills and the ramshackle roofs of the village. Nic and Emine, a former student of mine, were waiting patiently outside for my fantasy to subside.  We were staying with Emine and her family in nearby Konya. Konya is a city of God, a place where Rumi once ruminated and where his legacy, the Whirling Dervishes, still spin themselves into a holy trance. The city streets were thawing, meltwater dripped from the mosques, medressas and mausoleums. We went to watch one of the weekly dervish performances but it felt more like watching prayer in action than a dance piece. Thirty dancers unfurl like flowers and whirl across the floor, arms raised to heaven, minds in commune with their creator. It was unlike anything I have ever seen and strangely moving. The highlight of our trip to Konya though was staying with Emine and her family. For a few days we had a warm home and a new set of brothers and sisters. We sat on carpets around a round table guzzling çay and being force fed the most delicious food. So insistent were they in their fattening of their English guests that I began to wonder if we were not part of some human foie gras experiment. The level of generosity was quite unbelievable, we were not allowed to pay for even a single bus ride. It was all quite wonderful. I seem to have got overexcited here and somewhat messed up the chronology. We had spent the previous week on the Med where green mountains gather at the coast and stretch their rocky limbs languidly into the turquoise waters. The landscape is strewn with ruins, tombs are carved from cliffs, Roman amphitheatres  scooped from rocky hillsides, bizarre burial chambers hide amongst the trees. We were staying with Nic's aunt and uncle overlooking a foaming sea. After a day of glorious sun, the clouds that have doggedly followed us for weeks swept from the mountains and unleashed hell.  The gods, it seemed, we're against us, so where better to go than to the Chasm of Heaven? That divine depression and its less appealing neighbour The Gorge of Hell will have to wait for the next missive as these fingers they grow tired. Like dervishes, we whirl ever closer to our own slice of heaven...

Sunday 5 February 2012

From the City at the Centre of the World

Our boat left Istanbul as the dawn broke on the shores of Asia. The morning call to prayer that echoed out over the rooftops was answered by the melancholy calls of foghorns out to sea.

To find out what I thought of Istanbul, you can choose either Paragraph A: the simple version, or Paragraph B: the wordy, pretentious version.

Paragraph A: Istanbul is amazing!

Paragraph B: From the water, the city appears to be a crust of concrete and cables but, through this mess, sprout delicate minarets, clustered domes turning white in the snow. Look deeper and you can find bazaars ancient and alive, streets of European grandeur and bohemian intrigue. Beneath the winding messy streets of steaming snack stands, turning doner and cold-huddled crowds, lay sewers and cisterns built by the Byzantines over a thousand years ago. This is a place where one's daily commute might mean taking a ferry to another continent. A place where you can smoke nargile in ancient tea gardens and watch old ladies lower baskets to the street to filled with bread by a local boy. A place where you can eat mezze and fresh fish sandwiches into the night! Okay, I think I'm done.

Crossing the Sea of Marmara, we arrived in the city of Bursa. There too, snow fell in drifts on the surrounding hills and the sprawling bazaar. We stood pilgrim-like in an old caravanserai that once received camel caravans from the east and is still a centre for silk (though now Turkish-made). We took a bus into blizzards, cars and trucks lay crashed in the central reservation, slowly turning white. They're seriously unused to the snow. The news has become a montage of 'hilarious' clips of cars spinning out if control on the ice. True car-crash TV.

Nic at Ephesus (with all her friends)
We arrived unscathed in the town of Selcuk and found a bed just minutes from one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the Temple of Artemis. Once the largest building in the world, it is now just one solitary pillar standing in a field, a handy pissing-post for stray dogs. Up in the hills, the Virgin Mary is supposed to have ended her days. But the real reason we were in Selcuk was to visit the ancient town of Ephesus, an amazingly well preserved city of ruins nestled in the hills. If, like me you live life pretending you're in an Asterix book, it's a dream!

The next day we found ourselves on a hillside of brilliant white, barefoot and baffled. We were in Pamukkale where strange mineral deposits have turned a whole hill white with a pummice-like crust. At points hot water bubbled over out feet (you must walk barefoot) and at others they plunged through ice. It was the most wonderfully surreal experience.

A bronzed adonis takes the waters at Pamukkale




My abiding memory of Pamukkale however, will be lying in a naturally hit pool amongst submerged Roman columns, the steam rising to the amphitheatre above. Okay, so there was a tour bus of German tourists gawping at us from under their 'authentic' Turkish turbans and a nearby cafe thumping out dreadful Euro house, but it was still truly magical.

I'm going to sign off now as I'm sure we're all dropping off. We're now staying with Nic's auntie and uncle in Kas and the sun is a'shining. Hope you're all well.






Wednesday 1 February 2012

A Short Note on History

Now that the beaten dust of the old Silk Road lies beneath our feet, I thought I should explain exactly what the Silk Road is and why one may want to follow it. So, with my rather wordy travelogue on hold, I shall give a brief (if probably quite wordy) history.

The Silk Road was actually a series of trade routes linking the Far and Near East. The main route began in Xian, China and stretched across Central Asia to the Mediterranean. The Chinese were the only ones who new how to produce silk, so that any silk that turned up in a Constaninople bazaar would have to have travelled by camel caravan through storms of dust, snow and marauding nomads. From just before the time of Christ to around 1400, goods and ideas were exchanged between East and West. This included silk, teas, spices, Islam, Buddhism and, rather less romantically, the bubonic plague. The route is still encrusted with ancient trading cities and caravanserais. Caravanserais were like rest stops for weary travellers where sleep could be caught, goods exchanged and, in my overly-romanticised mind, where turbaned men smoked shishas and watched the stars in flickering fire light.

We are now stepping into the shoes of Alexander the Great, of Marco Polo, of the Hun and the Mongols, of the great Morocaan explorer Ibn Battuta, of a load of hairy hippies in vans.

So, don't think we're just bumming around the world for a few months, we're bumming along the greatest trade route of all time!

I shall write a proper entry soon and will hopefully include some pictures so you don't have to bother with the reading bit (we haven't had the facilities to include pictures for a while).