Nesfe Jahan, pt 35

Needless to say this means a lot to me. But that is probably only in a week or two, if I manage to restrain myself. First, I would like to visit Hasankeyf, a unique and beautiful village that will disappear because of the GAP project in three years time. It’s Turkey’s Three Gorges Dam. I’m well prepared to go.

But also that is the future. Now, I have to spend my last night with the people I have spend the last 4 days, quite intensively. I learned a lot of valuable things about Turkish mentality, and especially among twenty somethings. You will read about it in the future too. But now is now.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 34

Nesfe Jahan, pt 33

Posting pictures of Capadoccia will be harder than the others. The right sequence and timing. Conveying the utter lack of time, the feel of elemental forces, the alien strangeness

Nesfe Jahan, pt 32

Tuesday I left Adana behind me to go and visit Nemrut mountain. Open any guidebook on Turkey and it’s in their top ten. On the summit, some great megalomaniac Hittitiet king ordered the construction of huge statues. Since it’s a volcanic mountain, most of the heads have fallen off due to tectonic activity, and everyone recommends to visit the site at sundown or sunrise, when it’s eerie. But hey, I have all the time in the world, right? I could just pitch my tent their, and see both, as well as climbing that mountain up and down. I’m not paying some tour company to drive me there early in the morning, just to be one day faster.

My hitch out of Adana is just perfect. I’m picked up by a gas tanker heading straight to Kahta, an ideal place to start the trek.  And I was only holding a sign to the next city. About one in a million chance, I recon, as Kahta is at the end of the a small secondary road. I’m lucky, trucks are generally great rides if you want to see the surrounding scenery. They’re comfortable, the extra meter gives you a much better view, and I don’t have to mention all the free food and tea anymore. But this time, I’m heading through steep mountain passes on a secondary road. With tens of thousands of liters of explosive fuel behind my ass. When I try to fasten my seatbelt, he clicks his tongue in the typical Turkish disapproval. I’m unsure if I just insulted his driving skill, or that in the case of a crash, it would be a better to exit through the windshield that be trapped in the cabin. The ride there is bone-jolting, jaw-dropping, and ass clenching as other drivers make even my driver clench his teeth in anger and fear. But I’m fine.

When we arrive in Kahta, I can’t be bother to dig out my laptop from my bag and do my research, so I just enter the first hotel I see. Now, Kahta is know as a rip off town capitalizing on Nemrut. I know this, because it’s on Wikitravel. Even though the entire tourist industry here can change that in about 3 minutes, many travelers are dedicated enough to keep that description on-line. When I enter the lobby, the first thing that strikes me is that they have a board detailing the daily exchange rate to Turkish liras. From German Mark, Belgian Frank, Dutch Florinths and many other exotic currencies. The manages gives me a discount on one of the rooms, but he warns me he has only a storage room left. And he’s not kidding, every hour I get interrupted by a clerck fetching blankets, their are about three full ashtrays artistically arranged in the sink, and my key is the doorknob. When I go to the toilet, knob in my pocket and flashlight in my hand, I notice even the pitcher for flushing is cracked and out of use. I’m confronted with the left overs of the last guest, cigarette butts included. When I leave in the morning, at about 6 in the morning, I notice all the doors to the rooms are open and all the beds are freshly made. I’d dub this place “the hellhole hotel'.

I catch an easy ride to a town very close to the entrance to the national park with a primary school teacher. I get out at the playground, and I make an uneasy exit with about 50 uniformed kids staring at me as if I’m the new Ataturk. The town is undecided between the identity of a hamlet or a slum. But the faces of the people are great. I walked another 2 km to the entrance of the national park. And from there, another 14 km uphill I reach the first village on the road. About 5 houses, spread over the mountain. The terrace of the second one is the roof of the first. Kids come running at me, but they hide behind a tree to shout Hello at me. And I know why. Nobody ever comes here on foot, everyone just takes a car to the summit. This place is not meant to be hiked. Even the mountain scenery is quite drab. But it’s easy for me, as there is no way but to walk straight to the mountain. I can’t take any trails, as I lack both compass and a clear bearing on the sun. And I can’t hitch, because people only go there during sundown. So I just walk and walk, down the gray asphalt road. I push myself, and arrive at the summit at 4 on, with plenty of time to see the sundown. As I’m sipping tea in the cafeteria, I learn that it’s impossible to sleep on the summit. And that they’ve got a room to share with a Japanese couple. Well, I figured that one out myself. It’s windy as fuck, but I’m smart enough to just go down a few kilometers and it will make a couple of degrees difference. But first things first. I hike up to the Eastern terrace, about half of the site. And I see 2 or 3 small heads of statues, nothing remarkable. And I wander a bit, and I realize that that’s it. My mind works in a flash, and I realize I’m an idiot. I’m stuck on this mountain. It’s Wednesday. Iranian embassy is closed on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. If I stay here, I have to spend time in the North, where it’s cold and rainy. If  I manage to get to Erzurum before the embassy closes on Thursday, I might just cut it by two days, and get back South sooner.  I careen down to the cafeteria, with a desperation of knowing every car that leaves back down could save my day. But of course, hard dice. the only ride I manage to find is from “the industry”, leaving in about an hour. I run up the other terrace, desperate to find some more tourists to convince with my sob story. Here there are five statues, and a tiny piece of masonry. This place will only ever work if it only takes you 3 hours to get here and back, with the backdrop. I feel even more like an idiot. I can’t put up any more resistance, I overpay as much as it would take to get me from Istanbul here to secure my place in a half full minibus. I arrive in the town at 7 pm, collect my stuff. The manager starts to do the “there’s no minibus anymore” bit on me, but I go to the road out and stick up my thumb, even though it’s dark. I’m just hiping for that one truck, that wonderful paradise of food and sleep. But the manager stays with me, making me seem even dodgier. When I send him away, he comes back in three minutes with some tea, so I’m distracted and he has an excuse to keep talking to me. It gets to me in the end, and I surrender for another night in this shithole. I’m up with the sun, but, once again, the owner manages to spot me before I can sneak out. And when he buys me another tee, I’m really convinced he’s actually trying to be nice. He asks me where I’m going, where I’m going to stay. And when I say goodbye, he gets really serious and implores me to write to Lonely Planet about his wonderful hotel. In fact, I should do it know, from his office. I try to reassure him that, sure, I will at some point. But that’s not good enough. He grabs my arm aggressively, and something inside me snaps. With the weight of my backpack as leverage, I push myself free. He staggers backward, and upsets a small table owner by two old men. Everyone looks at me, and him. I break the scene by quickly turning around and marching to the highway out of here. Kahta has it’s final laugh at me though, as the quick pace tips the clasp of my backpack’s belt over the breaking point, forcing me to carry it’s entire weight on my shoulders. A minor disaster.

Right now I’m in Erzurum. The weather here is shit. It’s a university town, for students that’s didn’t score to well in high school. A student gulag, if you will. I’m hosted by 5 potential veterinarians, in a typical student flat. Today I wake up at twelve, make some tea, and contemplate to join them for a game of pool at 5. I just have to wait until the consulate opens on Monday. It’s simply perfect.

If you still want to go to Nemrut, hire your own car from another city, Adiyaman, Malatya, doesn’t matter. Bring your own food. Don’t support the regime over there.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 31

Adana.

Big. Mostly suburban sprawls of generic apartment block +- 5 stories tall, the kind you can see everywhere in Greece, South of Italy and probably Spain. Also ugly.  The picture doesn’t do it justice, it’s more uniform and bland than that most of the time But a great base for me, with a hitchhikster who gives me perfect hospitality. And a great story for the ongoing series of “real things that happen to me that I embellish and turn into fiction”. Watch this space.

Water

A little change of scenery here. I’m participation in the Blog Action Day 2010. Which means I’ll write about water.

Like the thimblefull of tapwater my friend F drank in Beijing, rendering him incapable of leaving the toilet for 2 hours. Like the fountain in Skopje I talked about recently, connecting me to a local community for four hours. As well as giving them a communal meeting point for many years. Like in lake Ochrid, where we build a small raft out of empty water jugs, and tried to sail it to Albania. Like in Istanbul, where there are vendors everywhere when it’s hot, selling extremely cold halfliter bottles for nothing. Like in Montenegro, where my lived on it every day, and depended on it for transport. Like so many things in life, it’s universal. Take care of it. Flush intelligently. www.change.org/petitionswww.change.org/petitions

Nesfe Jahan, pt 30

Antep.

We get dropped off at the toll booth right in front of the city. The only reason we’re stopping there is because the baklava is supposedly legendary, and… well, it’s the best baklava in the world. So sue me for being uninformed. While we are walking up to the booth, I flash my sign at the first car to wait, and he immediately waves us inside of his car, and inside of Turkish hospitality. Aslan is a very well-educated social worker, manager of a school for handicapped children in Gaziantep (as the city is known since 1984). His English is really very good, but more importantly, he is well-read and educated. And when he learns about our mission, he immediately takes us right there, and orders for the uninformed.

And yes, it is abosultelty worth the detour. Not that it’s not a destination in it’s own right, but it’s hards to imagine doing something more important here then the baklava. Not sweet comparing to any others, but tasting very strongly of the rich flavour of pistachio. Only a small cover of flaky philo dough as a perfect feint to the nutty core. Excellent, memorable. And then the one with no filling that taste like a pastry bubble. Or the decadent one filled with EVERYTHING.

Anyway, I casually ask Aslan if there are other typical foods in Antep, and his reply is to drive us to a fast food place that specializes in chickpeas. And only that.

The only problem with Aslan is that he’s too strong to wrestle away from the cash register. He drove us back to the highway. He even offered to pay a pair of shoes my companion was gazing at. I have a lot to learn.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 29

Urfa

Our driver’s name is called Said. His smile flashes a golden tooth or two. Everything I read turns out to be true. Urfa is Arabic, Kurdish, and Turkish. You can see Syria from here. It’s also an extremely important place for a couple of major religions, as it’s the birthplace of Abraham. I drank water from his cave. It’s a crazy place, truly very different from everything I’ve so far. Tourbusses of Arabic tourists, chadors and beards everywhere. And a lot of stares for 3 blond tourists.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 28

Capadoccia.

Oh my God, Capadoccia. Oh your God too. Really. The minute you arrive. You’ll notice from the truck/bus that the landscape changes every 5 minutes. And that you’re still a way from ground zero of the beauty, Goreme national park. Green vallies, dry hills, lunar scenes, rock churches, houses, castles, everything. And not that far from each other. Cheap accommodation. Easy hitchhiking. One village has more tourists then population, 5 km further I see a big woman working the field while her man sits on the donkey observing. For 30 minutes. Some villages speak French, other German. You could probably spend years here, and many Europeans/Japanese do, and get a job in the tourism industry.

In the beginning, I got it wrong, hitchhiking to some well know sites and not really penetrating nature. But I met a Frenchmen somewhere below ground, and we went wildcamping and hiking for a couple of days and had great experiences.

The first day we got lost in the classic picture part of the region, and climbed a mountain to sleep. We got hit by a storm during the night. There was a slight hiccup because the ground got wet and some of my anchoring got loose, but we barely had any water come in and when I manage to fix it, everything was fine. I decided to name him “old trustworthy”. The next day we climbed down at some random spot, and had a good time trailblazing some unknown valley. And when we stopped for tea in the closest village, we discovered we were actually on the cover of my companion’s guidebook. We pitched our tent right at the arrow.

The second day we lost a lot of time hitchhiking to Ihlara, so we slept on the outskirts of town, facing Hassan mountain for sunrise (1922 meters from the base).

After that, it was a beatiful hike through the valley, suprisingly green with a stream running through it. 15 kilometers are developed for tourism, while another 15 km are wild and full of tiny, desolate farms. With donkeys.  At the end is Selime, where people give you tea for free and the chickens run wild.

If you’re wondering why pictures are sparse, I’m waiting for my machine for editing purposes. I’ve got tons. Rest assured I’ll annoy you with the Capadoccia ones well into 2011.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 27

Istanbul.

I’m hosted by Trevor, old time partner from the Berlin/Roskilde crowd.  And as soon as we meet up that first night, we paint the town red. Haggling over fish sandwiches, quipping with touts,  random walk.

He lives in a residential area a stone’s throw from the busiest and most infamous shopping street of Istiklal. Well, truth to be told, you’ll have to throw your stone pretty high. The tiny streets all have inclines of more than 10 percent. The pavements are claimed by tiny stool and chairs, where everyone spends their time sipping tea. It takes a couple of hours to adjust to the car dodging. In the morning, baskets are lowered from 4th floor balconies in the old-fashioned version of internet shopping. Kids actually practice this in the stairwell of the apartments.

Things go downhill from there though. Istanbul is a tough nut to crack. Tourism is ubiquitous, and outside of those neighborhood it’s difficult to find interesting corners or to get into contact. A lot of it has to do with my tendency to wander around randomly, and it simply doesn’t work there. It’s simply too vast, and too much was added during a couple of huge immigration waves to be interesting and varied. Shops and restaurants were expensive, distances big, vistas uninteresting. Not that I had a bad time, simply a difficult time. Especially in hindsight, as you will see later.

Because of this, it was great to be accompanied by my sister for 4 days and indulge in some hedonism. Mezze meals, biscuits smothered in chocolate. Pide, Efes. Gossip. All very nice. I realized then I do miss my family a lot, more than when I was living in Berlin. And it’s great to have so much uninterrupted time one on one. It makes it easier to speak one’s mind.

After she left, it was another 2 or 3 days of random sampling, And then the magic happened.

Tarlabashi is a old Greek neighborhood in the centre of Istanbul. When the shit hit the fan for the Greeks there, it was abandoned, and quickly squatted by an eclectic collection of migrants.  Every Turk will recommend you to stay well away from there. You can read more here. Desperate as Trevor and me were for some raw humanity in the city, we decided to go there for the Sunday market with his Bavarian roommate Katia, leaving our wallets and valuables behind. And my god, we did get what we asked for. No transvestites, no drug dealers, no robberies. Just a wild market with ridiculous prices, a lot of amused stares for our cameras, and a lot of ethnic diversity in the faces. the most sketch thing was a group of 30 kids wrestling to get their picture taken alone. If you’re ever in Istanbul, make sure you visit Tarlabashi market on Sunday.  Before it’s too late and gentrified.

Somewhere in the beginning, me and Trevor thought we had figured it out by saying Istanbul was “going through the motions” pf a modern European capital. Modern museum without too much originality, prevailing moroseness,  uninspired design shops, etc.. Only on nearly the last moment of my stay did I hear a much better of looking at it. Apparently, it’s pretty common in Turkey to compare Istanbul to purgatory.  A temporary hardship, neither heaven or hell. I wasn’t long enough there to see what’s at the end.