The church is one of the buildings on the other side of the valley.
� Kris Nesbitt 2005
posted by Kris @ 6:29 PM
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
The rainy, unsuccessful walk to find the farm with a Byzantine church barn.
� Kris Nesbitt 2005
posted by Kris @ 6:28 PM
Ticket crisis in Trabzon
I awoke rather early with the hopes of doing some sightseeing before I was supposed to head over to the Karadeniz campus around 9:30 or so. Over breakfast, as I munched on my Trabzon bread and mentally tried to plan my day, I started thinking about my flight back to Ankara that evening. I’d checked it multiple times on the trip, and repeated 20:05 to myself. But as I said it, I got a visual of the ticket itself – 08:05. Wait….
I pulled out the ticket trying not to panic and, to my dismay, realized that indeed the ticket was for 08:05 – a morning flight, which must have left Trabzon about a half an hour earlier. How did it happen? I tried not to freak out; I knew the original reservation was for the evening flight. That was certain. But somehow my ticket had been changed, and I didn’t realize it.
As soon as I finished breakfast, I stashed my belongings in the storage room and checked out of the hotel. I hurried over to the Turkish Airlines office and tried to explain my problem. She wasn’t particularly nice about it, and kept calling me a “no show” amidst fast-spoken Turkish that I didn’t particularly understand. She called the THY call center, and put on an English speaker who proceeded to inform me, in no uncertain terms, that I’d been a no show on the flight and that I should have let them know I wouldn’t be on it 12 hours in advance. But, I stammered, there’s a problem. I thought it was the evening flight. No sympathy. You were a no show. Can I get my money back or a new ticket? No. No change fee, nothing, simply a total revocation of the full fare price.
I was upset. Somehow this seemed unjust – there was some sort of problem with the ticket. But no sympathy at Turkish Airlines. I tried to call the agent in Ankara where I’d bought the ticket, but the good English speaker, Tarkan, wasn’t in. I explained the situation to the woman who answered, and she said I should wait for Tarkan to come in an hour. How would I get back to Ankara for work the next day? The bus was 13 hours at least…and more money.
As I sat debating what to do, the girls from Karadeniz called wondering if I was coming. I explained that I was having troubles, and, as I struggled to tell the story in Turkish I felt profoundly alone and without allies. I agreed that we’d talk later and I’d try to come around 11:30 if I could. I sat on the sofa for a few minutes in the airlines office, and then a text message beeped in, from one of the girls saying, “We feel sorry for you and can help if you need.” But what can they do? I thought, and promptly burst into tears.
I’ve only cried two or three times in Turkey, and this one produced the typical response. The woman behind the desk was rather unyielding, proceeded to fuss at me a bit about how the reason for my tears was not her fault, and then offered me tea.
After calming myself, I left, unsure of what to do next. Since I was waiting for Tarkan to call back, I headed down to the Russian market to check that out. On the way, I stopped at another travel agency. That woman was really nice and spoke English. I explained the problem, and she looked up my record. She then called the call center and had a conversation with them. Looking at my record, it appeared, she said, that someone in Antalya had made the initial reservation for the evening flight, which was still in the computer. But a woman in Ankara had changed it to the morning before issuing it. The fact that the initial record was still in the system coupled with my having not gotten on the morning flight, she explained, was fairly good proof that a mistake that I was unaware of had been made. She said to try to work it out with the agent in Ankara.
Feeling a bit better, I walked down to the Russian market, noticing a few Natasha types and some brothel looking buildings on the way down. At the market, I found, to my pleasure, one of the mosque shape ezan call to prayer alarm clocks Sue Ann told me about. I’d been wanting one, and now, for about $6, one was mine. I also bought a cook brass engraving from one of the former soviet block vendors.
Heading back up into the main area of town, I decided to go ahead and call Tarkan. Surrounded by noisy dolmuses, I made the call and managed to reach him. He’d been told of the problem, and his response was I should buy a new ticket and he’d reimburse me the money. He wasn’t sure why she’d change the ticket, but obviously she did. Filled with relief, I headed back to the second agent here and bought a ticket from the good agent.
That resolved, I text messaged one of the girls at Karadeniz and soon I was on a dolmus heading to the campus. Unlike METU, which requires ID to enter, Karadeniz was more open. Within a few minutes two of them had found me, and soon we were beginning an hour long tour. The campus was beautiful, far more beautiful than METU, and I was surprised that there was a full size mosque on campus that even did the ezan. We kept running into other friends of theirs, and I felt like the pied piper as the size of our group swelled. They took me to see their English teacher, who is American. I was surprised to see that she was dressed in a short skirt with bare legs along with a short sleeve shirt. Later they said that they don’t think she much likes Turkey. And on the bus back into town, one girl told me that this teacher likes to go out drinking with her students (mostly male) – a sin. Without thinking, I said that I thought that was unusual and somewhat inappropriate, especially under the circumstances, I thought to myself. If I were posted in that situation in Trabzon, I would dress conservatively and find other people besides my students to socialize with.
Another interesting thing about the visit was the fact that the girls had a faithful response for all my comments about the campus. “It’s beautiful here” brought a response of “All the beauty of the world is a sign of Allah.” “Look at those huge roses!” led to Hanife sharing how roses are important in Islam because they are a sign of the prophet (or of Allah -- I’m not sure which!) As I waited for the bus to leave, Hanife gave me a gift of a book in English about Allah and Islam, written by a leading Turkish cleric. I thanked her, and headed on my way, feeling strangely drained. The girl who rode the bus back with me wanted me to come to her house, but I had to decline. I needed to recoup by myself, and pick up the newly altered baggy pants.
With that aim in mind, I headed down to the market area, and spent a lot of time trying to find the store. Even though I had a card, no one seemed to know where it was, and by the bright light of day, it all looked different. It was also extremely crowded on the streets, mostly with women in headscarves. Finally, after getting three different shopkeepers to help me, I managed to find my way – the final shopkeeper took the card and walked along the stalls yelling out the name of the owner.
From there I wandered the streets a bit more, looking at the variety of textiles on offer. I also found a bread and produce area, as well as a few stalls selling building materials, including rather impressive spires for mosques. I asked if I could take a picture of them, and the men at the stall said sure, but wondered if I knew what they were. They seemed pleased when I gave the right answer.
Around midafternoon, I stopped off to get some pide for lunch, and then decided to ask at the tourist office for directions to the final site I was interested in seeing – an old Byzantine church being used as a barn on a farm on a plateau just outside of Trabzon. The tourist officer gave me instructions quite different from those in both my guidebooks, but I trusted him anyway….probably not the best plan. I got on the dolmus he described and we headed out of town, climbing up to the mountains that ringed the city.
After the other passengers got off, suddenly the driver told me that he was no longer a dolmus but was private taxi instead, and that he would drive me to the church. I protested, and asked how much. “20 million.” No way! I told him I wouldn’t pay it – and that the dolmus should go further as a real dolmus. He dropped the price to ten million but I still balked, and refused to pay any more than the dolmus fare. He said, then, that it was the end of the line, still trying to extort the money from me. I refused, and insisted on being let off the dolmus immediately. He slammed on the brakes and I got off, handing him the 1 million dolmus fare. As soon as I stepped off, he squealed away, and I looked around. I was standing in the rain at the edge of a small town. The direction he’d pointed me in seemed to lead nowhere. There were no people anywhere around. I wondered what to do for a minute, then decided to walk in the rain in hopes of finding the church. I made a somewhat poor decision as I tried to convert the guidebook directions to my lived reality in this isolated location – and took a left down into a small village area. The lack of people was eerie. I walked and walked; about 15 minutes later, in the rain, I encountered two peasant women, who seemed very surprised to see me. I asked for directions, and the answers they gave seemed to indicate that I should cut across farm fields. I decided not to follow that and walked on the road instead.
Another ten minutes later, I encountered another very old woman. At this point, the hood on my raincoat was up, and when she looked up and saw me, she immediately appeared to become frightened. She covered her lower face with the tail of her headscarf and eyed me warily. I pulled down my hood, and she seemed to relax a bit. I asked about the church, and she pointed it out to me – it was across a small valley on another hill – quite a ways away. She suggested that I walk across the fields, down into the valley and back up again. Then we talked a little bit – her accent was unfamiliar and very hard for me to understand. I wondered if her first language was Laz or one of the other dying languages from the Black Sea Coast.
I decided to follow the road a few minutes later to see if it looked like it connected again with the hill on the other side. It didn’t. As the rain increased, I decided to turn back. After a few minutes I caught up with the old woman again, and we talked a bit more about where I was from and why I was there. Then I followed my way back towards where the dolmus had abandoned me, beginning to feel a little anxious about how I would get back into Trabzon. It was about 5:30 and my flight wasn’t until nearly 10 so there seemed like plenty of time, but my anxiety was rising a bit nonetheless.
Even though I hadn’t seen the actual church close up, I’d seen it from afar. My guidebooks had described how the roof had caved in and the frescoes probably wouldn’t last much longer. But, from across the way, it appeared that perhaps a new metal roof had been added to the building.
As I approached the spot where I’d gotten off the dolmus, I heard one coming. As it sped past I tried to flag it down, and initially it passed me. But 20 yards or so along, he slammed on his breaks and threw it into reverse, and I ran to meet him. Within 15 minutes I was back in Trabzon.
I spent the rest of the early evening surfing the internet at a café and catching up on stuff before it was time to grab some dinner and catch a dolmus. I ate a light meal in the family salon of a cafeteria style restaurant, and was surprised to see that they had a female waitress, pretty unusual in Turkey.
Unfortunately, after getting on the cheap dolmus to the airport, I actually missed the stop and had to switch dolmuses (kindly on their part for free) and double back. I ended up being early for the flight, and when I finally was able to check in, the handsome ticket agent saw both tickets in the sleeve and wondered why. He spoke English so I explained, and he reconfirmed that it would be taken care of in Ankara. I suspect that if I’d said I’d paid for it, he might have done something. I was glad I’d realized the problem early in the day; coming to the airport with an incorrect ticket would have been traumatic!
Within under two hours, I was back in the flat, feeling once again that I’d utterly shifted worlds.
posted by Kris @ 6:22 PM
Monday, May 23, 2005
A Full Day in Trabzon
I did manage to get back to sleep after the call to prayer – probably the loudest of anyplace I’ve stayed but certainly atmospheric. Anyway, after a breakfast which included hunks of Trabzon bread, a more dense variety that I liked a lot, I killed a bit of time wandering around the streets until it was time for the bus to arrive.
It took about an hour to get to the Sumela Monastery, and we got stopped twice at checkpoints, which I was not at all expecting in this part of Turkey. I enjoyed seeing the cliffside monastery at Sumela, but it didn’t blow me away. The walk up to reach it was a tranquil three kilometers uphill through the mossy, fern and flower covered forest. The views of the surrounding mountains and large rushing creek below also were worth the trip. The monastery itself wasn’t as elaborate as I expected; the frescoes in the interior of one room were impressive, and someone stylistically different from others I’ve seen, but the ones – scarred by centuries of vandals – were disappointing. There is just so much art and architecture in decay.
The visit to Sumela took most of the day; we arrived back around 3 pm. I wondered what to do with the rest of my time, and decided I should head out of the downtown to visit Aya Sofia church on the coast. The man at the tourist office suggested that I could walk there in about 20 minutes. I thoroughly enjoyed my walk across a vast swath of Trabzon, but it took me more like 35 or 40. I passed the Trabzonspor soccer stadium, the old section of the city walls and decaying architecture, a number of churches converted to mosques, and various commercial districts before I finally found my way to Ayasofia, off a side street. This place impressed me in some ways far more than Sumela.
The setting, despite the surrounding concrete recent city sprawl, remained a peaceful garden, well maintained and filled with massive, vibrant flowers of many species. The church overlooked the Black Sea from its plateau, and I sat a while having a cup of tea enjoying the view and the flowers in its lovely outdoor tea garden. It was small and simple, with some good remaining frescoes – this building was conserved as early as the 1950s so it was in much better shape than some. I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent there.
As I walked back into town I decided I was tired – between the hike up to Sumela and the walk today, I was feeling a bit spent. I flagged down a dolmus, and then hopped out near Trabzon’s commercial area. I spent an hour or so strolling around the streets, stopping into several stores in search of another pair of baggy lightweight pants. The market district was bustling this early evening – and I was surprised at how outwardly conservative Trabzon seemed. Many, if not most, of the women were wearing tight silk headscarves and long tunics. Long denim tunics almost shaped like fitted trench coats seemed to be all the rage, and I went into one store with the intention of perhaps purchasing one. However inside I realized that they had the exact kind of pants I was hoping for, so instead of a coat I bought a pair of pants instead. They were a bit long, so the woman agreed to alter them and we made arrangements for me to pick them up the next day. While in this transaction, my phone rang – it was the girl from the dolmus and a friend. They wanted me to come to their house for dinner; I agreed, and we decided to meet near my hotel in about a half an hour or so.
I hurried back through the market streets in a slight drizzling rain and soon was back at the central square. As I struggled to cross the busy street to get to the hotel (I desperately wanted to wash my face and freshen up), I heard my name being called, and sure enough if was Ceyda and her young friend. Both had their tight silk headscarves on; Ceyda wore a long coat and her friend a baggy red sweat jacket.
We attempted a greeting in the middle of the street, risking life and limb, but then quickly moved to the median. Her friend spoke English quite well; it turns out Hanife was a first year student in the English teaching program at Karadeniz. We first stopped off at a store to buy some sweets for after the meal, and then headed by dolmus back towards the university. The climb up into their residential neighborhood was achingly steep – we took a short break so they could stop in a small grocery to buy an enormous tub of yogurt. There they asked if I like Turkish food; tonight we’d be having traditional food, they explained, including manti (Turkish tortellini). We continued further up the hill and into a concrete apartment building, fairly new looking.
Inside, I was immediately impressed by how new and clean it was. The flat was far larger than I would have expected for college students, and I wondered what the story was about their residing together. I never quite found out.
The initial few minutes of the visit were somewhat overwhelming, as one by one I was introduced to my various dinner companions – seven girls, three uncovered, and one of their mothers, who seemed to be doing all the cooking. I asked to use the bathroom, and managed to use the impeccably clean squat toilet quite easily.
The evening that ensued ended up being rather intense for me. The girls had a thousand questions for me as we ate manti, moussaka and pilav around the tablecloth sofra set on the floor. For most of these girls, if not all, Islam seemed to be the driving force in their lives, and many of their questions for me had some relation to that. Very early on they asked me what my religion is – always a difficult question for me and even more problematic when I try to explain in Turkish. I decided that any kind of answer that promoted my general secularism would not play well with this crowd, but I also don’t feel comfortable classifying myself as Christian. So, I launched into an attempt to describe Quakerism in Turkish. They were very concerned about whether I had been able to practice my religion in Turkey, and as I explained that in Quakerism the inner light is within you, so you can always practice your faith. They seemed to respond well to that, all nodding and explaining how similar that is to Islam. They also linked my categorization of some branches of Quakerism as being “allah” centered rather than Christ centered to Islamic faith as well.
As we ate, the ezan (call to prayer) went off at a nearby mosque, and they, quite sweetly, asked if it would make me uncomfortable if they prayed. Usually they would do a full prayer, but since we were eating, we simply paused around the table and they did a short prayer, holding out their hands in front of them, palms up, with their fingers curled. When we finished eating, we stopped to pray a second time, this one for longer. They described it as something like the Christian grace, but delivered after eating rather than before.
Hanife, the English speaking one of the group, tried her best to translate our conversation, but I’m not sure how much was getting through at the times that I had to resort to English. There was a frustrating and disheartening moment when Hanife asked if Americans dislike Muslims because of their faith. I so wanted to deliver an unequivocal, firm NO. But in could faith I couldn’t. I launched instead to a description I’ve used a lot lately, that America is so huge that there is, to paraphrase John Edwards, no One America. It depends on the place and the individual people. Unfortunately, I had to try to explain that some people are ignorant and make judgments about Muslims. But others, I tried to say, do not. And, I hope the vast majority are the latter. But anecdotally, I have to say that I think I would have had more visitors this year had my placement been in Germany or really anyplace not Islamic. The overall ignorance among Americans of one of the world’s very most prevalent religions is distressing to me, and I hope when I return I’ll be able to try to do something about it on a very small scale.
After a series of questions about Bush and his foreign policy (fairly standard ones that I get here), Hanife asked if I had any Muslim friends in the US. She wanted to hear their names. After I started saying some that I know (who aren’t Turkish and are in fact Black Muslims) I realized that this was not the answer she wanted. What she really wanted was to know if I had any Turkish friends. Now, largely it seems to me that my Turkish friends in the US would not necessarily categorize themselves off the bat primarily as Muslim. They’d be more likely to identify a national heritage rather than a religious one. This was a telling moment for me: young Hanife’s first point of identity was her faith rather than her national identity. Many other Turks I’ve met at this point would, I think, cite national identity first. I need to do a lot more thinking about this in light of many of my experiences. But religion here strikes me as such a dividing issue: a few of my acquaintances here at METU saw one of my photos from Mardin, three girls with scarves and Korans, returning from their koranic lessons. For me, as an outsider, that photo strikes me as a representation of the way some people – many people – here live. But the METU people clucked and shook their heads and showed dismay. One woman said, “They’re getting brainwashed.” Another said that Turkey was more “modern” – i.e. less Islamic – a few decades ago. The image, for them, was troubling. I just don’t know how this fundamental division will play out over the next few years in this country.
For me, my experiences at the dinner with definitely the most devout people I met caused me to feel largely the exact same way I feel when I am amongst devout Christians. Although the specific religion was different, the way I felt and the feel radiating from them was largely the same (if anything I felt these folks were more open to other faiths than some Christians I’ve met.). If only people could focus on what’s in common rather than what’s different.
After the meal, the girls readied themselves for the full prayer; they had me sit on the sofa and rest while, in small clusters, they left the room and disappeared for a few minutes. I heard the sound of splashing water as they washed themselves, and I noticed that Isil, one of the uncovered girls, switched out of her jeans and Penn State sweatshirt into a long skirt and headscarf.
For a few hours, we continued to chat and drink tea. They asked about my family and pointed out the ring on my finger, questioning it because they said the ring indicated I’m married but I’d said I’m not. For a moment I felt a bit of panic – being caught in a lie in this circumstance struck me as a bit tricky. But I honestly explained why I have the ring and told them that I sometimes say I am married to keep men from making assumptions when I am alone. They wholeheartedly approved; several even clapped. They seemed even more pleased with me after this, especially the mother. It seemed a mark of my wholesomeness – I’m not one of those dangerous, sinning Westerners.
I didn’t leave until after 10; they walked me to the dolmus and told the driver where to let me off. I agreed to call the next day and perhaps meet them on campus. All in all an interesting evening.
I neglected to mention that my first night in Trabzon, Trabzonspor won a big match, and so the main square was filled with groups of revelers and cars honking and waving flags as they cruised around. I walked out there briefly to check it out, but decided to return to the hotel when people started shooting off guns in celebration. Fenerbahce in Istanbul won a championship that same night and similar (well, larger) scenes were being shown on TV there at the same time. But the next morning when I asked the hotel owner about it, he was very firm that the celebration in Trabzon was for Trabzonspor’s win.
posted by Kris @ 4:20 PM
Sunday, May 22, 2005
The low round plants are the ubiquitous tea of the region.
� Kris Nesbitt 2005
posted by Kris @ 8:57 PM
On to Trabzon
We sped along the coast road towards Trabzon, but I got off the bus initially at Pazar, a small town where supposedly where one could get dolmus service to Ayder, another mountain village and spa area. I hoped to go the one hour journey there for a few hours of visiting on my way to Trabzon, but in Pazar I learned that because it’s not yet high season, I would have to wait a few hours for the one dolmus to head back and then stay the night, returning to Pazar at 6 the next morning. Since out of season lodgings there sounded uncertain too, I took a pass, and ate a small lunch in Pazar (causing a bit of a stir and getting a lot of stares and questions in the restaurant.)
I managed to find my way onto a dolmus to Rize, the tea capital of Turkey. On the way there, I stared out the window on the land side rather than the sea side, fascinated by the sharp green hills verdant with low rise tea bushes. The plants seemed to occupy any spare piece of land. In most fields, I spotted several women working hard to harvest the leaves, placing them either in baskets on their backs or in heaping piles on sheets spread across the bushes. On several occasions we passed collection areas for harvested leaves – heaps piled on sheets spread out over parking lots, with women kneeling in front sorting the leaves. I also saw several women carrying bundles on their backs, apparently heading to collection points.
At Rize I got off the dolmus and decided to wander around there a bit before heading on to Trabzon. Unplanned and unexpected, my stopoff in Rize ended up being fun – I shopped. I ended up in the main commercial district admiring various food products displayed for sale, including some unusual cheeses and massive pats of butter. From there, I noticed some long baggy shirts at a conservative women’s clothing store, and I ended up spending a half an hour or so with a headscarved woman selling me lightweight longsleeved shirts. I have been a bit worried about what to wear in Syria – in some parts of Turkey I’ve found my baggy red raincoat helpful as a covering device, and I think overall that my own conservative clothes have helped me not draw attention to myself in some settings. But the coat is way too hot for the coming warm weather, so I wanted long sleeve lightweight shirts. The two I bought will be great, I think, over a sleeveless shirt, and when paired with my baggy brown pants I look positively shapeless.
I also bought a bunch of linens – napkins, tablecloths, etc, as well as making a few purchases to continue my decidedly non-Kemalist tradition of purchasing a headscarf in every region I visit. I’ve got quite a collection by now. Here, the Black Sea women tend to wear bright red and black striped shawl-like scarves, and I also bought one of the bright waistcloths too. Great textiles in Rize and Trabzon, I thought. And the prices were cheap.
After working up a bit of an appetite, I had some of the local fondue at an outdoor restaurant near the museum. It wasn’t quite what I expected – far more rich than an typical fondue, fortified with melted butter and corn meal. I wasn’t quite sure how to eat it, and it was far too much for one person anyway. I managed about half, and then when I went to leave, the manager was concerned that I hadn’t liked the food. I tried to explain, and it seemed to satisfy him. After some more wandering and taking some photos in the big vegetable market, I boarded a minibus to Trabzon.
This leg of the journey was a bit bumpy at the start. The dolmus was a “love shack” dolmus, with furry white covers over all the seats and fake roses pinned up all around the edge of the ceiling. There were so many air fresheners in use that I could barely breathe. I first took an end seat next to the door, but then decided to move to a window seat on the back row so I could have air and an opportunity to try to take photos from the window.
When passengers started to fill in, the driver wanted me to move and sit next to a woman, because it would be inappropriate for me to sit next to a man. I firmly said I didn’t have a problem with it….usually I say fine and move in those situations, but I really wanted a window for the fresh air. When some men got on, they at first didn’t want to sit next to me, and then I said it was no problem, that without a window I would be ill. They seemed to accept that; however, the seats were switched shortly anyway when two very covered young women got on a few stops later.
The men moved and the girls, in their late teens, slid in next to me. I stared out the window and continued to watch life go by – tea harvesters, fishermen, people going in and out of stores – the ride was only an hour or so. After a few stops, one of the girls got off, and, left without her chatting partner, the other girl struck up a conversation with me.
Her name was Ceyda, and she was a student at Karadeniz Teknik Universitesi (Black Sea Technical University) in Mathematics. She’s from Amasya, but spent the holiday at her aunt’s in Rize. I enjoyed talking with her; she was sweet, and I haven’t had much opportunity to converse with ardently headscarved young women. I asked if she could wear it on campus, and of course she couldn’t. Sometimes Turkey isn’t very democratic, she said. She asked if people at universities in the US could, and I answered yes, I assume so.
As we drew close to Trabzon, she prepared to get off, but took my phone number and said she would call to give me a tour of campus. People often take my number in those situations, but often do not call, so I had no real expectations. Helpfully, she asked other passengers how I could get all the way downtown, and they explained that I’d need to get off this dolmus and switch to another, but that ended up being easy and quick with the help of the entire passenger corps of the original dolmus.
The second dolmus dropped me at the main square in green downtown Trabzon, and, finding an out of the way spot, I oriented myself on one of my guidebook maps. The city was all hustle and bustle, with shoppers and strollers lining the busy, narrow sidewalks. The square, filled with trees and tea houses, seemed to be a major meeting place. Without much difficulty, I located the hotel (I’d called for a reservation earlier in the day), and soon I was settling into my top floor room with a view of the mosque across the street, bustling commercial streets below, and a slice of the Black Sea on the horizon.
That evening, I ate a self catered meal in the room after visiting an internet café and walking around the main streets a little. I asked the hotel staff how I could get to Sumela Monastery on the edge of town the next day, and they said there was a shuttle for about ten dollars that would pick me up at the hotel the next morning. Easy enough.
There was no point in going to sleep until after the final call to prayer for the evening, and in the morning I had an early wake up both from the sound and then from the bright sun early in the morning.
posted by Kris @ 8:43 PM
Saturday, May 21, 2005
People getting their picture taken at the border of Georgia and Turkey.
� Kris Nesbitt 2005
posted by Kris @ 8:57 PM
The American in the Back Seat
I awoke feeling well rested and refreshed, and read a while in my room before venturing out to find out when we were having breakfast. Shortly after I began wandering around, the younger of the two boys began padding in setting out a full Turkish breakfast on the table. When he was through, he told me to sit down and start, and he proceeded to try to awake the other two guests, a Turkish couple who’d arrived late the night before. I assumed they’d driven in, and I wondered how it would be to drive that road in the dark.
My anti-social tendencies were bubbling over as the boy knocked repeatedly on the door, and I secretly hoped that they wouldn’t come to breakfast until I’d finished. I felt extremely uncomfortable for some reason. But after a few episodes of knocking – and the boy calling in that breakfast was ready – the couple emerged and joined me for breakfast.
They seemed to only speak Turkish, the woman and man, but we managed a conversation. They were from Izmir and were traveling for the holiday weekend. We ended up talking for more than an hour over breakfast and beyond; I told them of my plans to simply relax and explore a bit, and the woman explained that they were traveling some more before heading back by plane from Trabzon. We all wanted to see inside the Georgian church next door, currently being used as a mosque, so after we readied ourselves we got the young boy to agree to look for the key. We walked on over, but after a few minutes of loitering outside, the boy came and said that they couldn’t find the key. What to do next? I considered my options, and told the couple that I planned to head to another small church a half an hour hike uphill. I wasn’t sure if I really would enjoy doing that alone (as I don’t like being in rural environments by myself), but there wasn’t much to do in Barhal except walk and relax. Besides, I could be stranded there for several days so I figured I’d need to space out potential activities.
Back in the lodge, the woman – Sukran – explained in more detail what their plans were, and finally I realized that she was actually inviting me to come along. Their plan was to do things in the area like look for more Georgian churches, go to a waterfall, and then head to the Black Sea coast. They wanted to try also to cross into Georgia for a few hours, with the plan on being back into Trabzon for their evening flight. I wanted to arrive in Trabzon Sunday night also. Hmm. It was tempting. We went over their plans again, and Sukran smiled and said, “Gel.” Come. I agreed. Within a few minutes we were piling our bags onto the hanging trolley and watching them race down the steep hill. After a few minutes conversation with the owners, I found myself sitting in the back seat behind Sukran and Ahmet bouncing along the unpaved road out of Barhal in their rental car.
We passed back along the route I’d traveled the day before, along side the still raging river. From the back seat, I peered up that the abandoned castles and green hills; occasionally we’d pass a waterfall and stop to take photos from the car windows.
Our first stop, after passing back through Yusufeli, was to another abandoned Georgian church, this one called Dortkilise. The books and maps indicated that it could be found near Tekkale, another spur off from Yusufeli, and, asking directions as we passed through town, we headed out along another river to find our way. Although Yusufeli was a fair-sized town, after we passed through it became very rural very fast, and soon we were driving through forests and gorges dotted with an occasional home or village, as well as one or two more ruined fortresses. Eventually we came to Tekkale, and, stopping to ask directions several times, we took a right out of this small village of tea houses and one pension and proceeded up an unpaved road that struck me, as I bounced in the back seat, as far worse than the one to Barhal. The scenery for a stretch featured ragged, slate gray stone outcroppings; soon we were again in a forest by a rushing stream. Every time we saw a person, it seemed, we’d pull up to confirm the directions. I find it amusing – American men have such the reputation for never asking for directions, whereas here it seems that men ask directions excessively. I’ve been in taxis that stopped to confirm our route five or six times.
Anyway, the road became progressively worse and worse, and I wondered if the car would actually make it. Ahmet commented that he was glad it was a rental. Eventually it seemed that it was impossible that any guidebook would recommend that people drive to such a remote location, so we thought perhaps we’d missed a turn. Up ahead we saw some women harvesting in a field, and stopped to ask them. From the embankment they gestured that we should continue the way we were going for a few more kilometers. Eventually we saw some women and children picnicking on another embankment, and our request for aid they answered by pointing us behind a treeline behind them. They said the church was there.
We parked and headed up the hill, fording a small stream by climbing over stones. The church itself was quite different from Ishan – but its outside form looked much like the one at Barhal that we were unable to enter. This one though was wide open, as the crumbling site had no door. Inside, the soaring sense of enclosed space in the nave reminded me of some of the great cathedrals, but sadly this building seemed on its last legs. Graffitti covered all wall surfaces, and the interior looked as if it had been used as a barn (which it probably had). To the right, elaborate horseshoe arches overlapped each other in an unusual way, I noticed. It must have been beautiful in its day, but now it was barely a shell.
After taking some photos, we returned back the way we came, jostling along the impossibly bad road. At one point we had to pause for a few minutes while a shepherd tried to get his misbehaving cows out of the way. Finally, from behind the trees an old woman emerged and began to wave at them with a small bundle of sticks. This did the trick and soon we were on our way.
Back in Yusufeli we stopped briefly for lunch and then decided to head to the lake that they wanted to see. It was about a forty minute drive, initially back towards Ishan, until we took the turnoff for the road back towards Erzurum. I have to admit that at this point I wasn’t quite sure where we were headed, but the drive through the towering riverside gorge was stunning.
Eventually we passed a sign advertising the Tortum Waterfalls, and down that path we turned. That road wasn’t particularly paved either, but after some bouncing we eventually came to a crowded parking lot. It seemed that this place was a popular picnic spot for local Turks.
Indeed, as we headed to the falls, which at this point were well hidden behind trees, I couldn’t believe how many people were picnicking – so many barbecues were smoking away that there was a slight haze over the area. Kids ran around chasing each other, and people of all ages seemed to be lighthearted and relaxed. And many people were soaking wet; besides them, all around I noticed clothing laid out to dry over branches of trees, bushes, and tables. Sukran stopped two dripping-wet teenage girls and asked how it had happened. They explained that they’d been walking on the bridges by the falls. After two trips back to the car (first one to get raincoats for Sukran and Ahmet; second one to get mine since I hadn’t understood the first time), we headed down the series of walkways and bridges that provided more views of a shockingly huge waterfall. Apparently it is only partly natural, its flow accentuated by hydroelectric projects. Mist and droplets rained everywhere. And the bright sun caused the most vibrant rainbows I have ever seen. With the backdrop of the mountains, the blue sky, and the rush of the falls, the scene was intoxicating. Within a minute I was soaked through completely, the heat of the day instantly sapped away by the cold water.
We walked all around the bridges, laughing, and I found myself enjoying the people watching as much as anything else. Women in headscarves cackling with laughter as they got soaking wet fully clothed is not something I’ve seen in Turkey.
After getting our fill of attempts at photos and playing in the water, we headed back to the car to try to change clothes. My jeans were dripping water and my shoes – the only pair I had – were saturated. I put on a spare change of pants and hoped for the best with the shoe situation. At our next stop, Sukran insisted on loaning me a pair. Their backpack and its contents were drenched, and Sukran’s cell phone was leaking water. Their plane tickets were ragged and flimsy with water. My passport was slightly damp but otherwise, no damage done.
Next, we headed back along the gorge and took a stop off at a little turn down to another lake, a sparkling one surrounded by mountains. We went to a trout farm/tea house/restaurant just to use the bathroom, and on the way back the winding road encountered children selling baskets of cherries. From here, they decided to go to Ishan, and even though I’d already seen it, I felt up for seeing it again, this time for free. Of course, the cheap little part of me wished I hadn’t paid to do it the day before, but…that was water under the bridge and there was no way of knowing.
At one turn on the way there we weren’t entirely sure of the route (actually I think I knew from the day before but was having trouble making myself clear in Turkish); a car full of young men stopped us and told us which way to go. They tore off down the road honking and waving a Turkish flag out the window. In this region of the country I noticed this a lot – I’m not sure if the holiday had something to do with it, but I’d been told that it was Youth and Sports day so I’m not clear on the connection. Spontaneous nationalism perhaps.
Anyway, we crept up the narrow road leading to Ishan, and I found that I enjoyed the views even as much as I did the day before. Back at the church, several boys were using the courtyard outside as a soccer field, battling each other aggressively in what appeared to be an especially good pickup game. I was pleased to come again to Ishan at this time of day since the light was considerably better for photos on the most intact side of the building. The visit also allowed a chance to fill my water bottle from the fountain there – I was excessively thirsty. And, I noticed that you could enter the front section of the building, separated from the main cruciform area by a wall built during its use as a mosque. I’d missed that the day before.
The highlight, though, of this second trip was that on the way down, we saw the same old man with the overburdened donkey trudging his way back the six kilometer road up into the mountain village. The fact that he was doing this taxing journey a second day in a row made me wonder even more about what life is really like there.
Dusk was coming, and we still had a long way to go if we wanted to make it to Hopa that night in order to cross the border into Georgia on Sunday. From Ishan, we made our way back to the intersection with the filling station – the region’s version of a major transportation hub – and followed signs towards Artvin, the capital of the province.
This section of drive was among the most scenic I’ve seen – we followed the route of the Coruh river through a towering narrow gorge. At times the high water was covering parts of the road. Sukran was pleased to be back in an area where we could get radio reception, so she blasted Turkish pop music and sung along for much of the drive. The two of them were affectionate with each other without being annoying – and I was impressed that despite the difficult drives we’d done and the many times we weren’t quite sure where we were, the two hadn’t exhibited any couple tiff behavior. Although Ahmet drove fairly fast, I found his driving ability to be probably the best that I’ve seen in Turkey. I was worried when I left with them about what I was getting myself into in that regard, but the second they got in the car, they both put on their seat belts, which is fairly unusual here and showed me that they value safety at least to some degree. He was a great chauffeur all in all, and even as darkness fell I felt confident he would get us there safely.
The full moon began to rise, and as we flew alongside the river, dwarfed by the masses of rock cliffs, I laughed in the back seat at Sukran’s exuberant singing and wondered to myself if it gets any better than this.
It was fully night by the time we made our way up into the mountains at Artvin, so all I could see were the city’s lights. As we descended down towards the Black Sea Coast, I marveled that I’d made my way across the mountain range so easily and with such adventures. It was definitely one of the best and most beautiful trips yet.
Shortly after Artvin, we got stopped by a road closure and sat, eating potato chips and peanuts divied out by Sukran. She asked me to look in my guides for info on hotels in Hopa, and eventually, with some trying (me trying to read a guidebook in the dark in a moving car, illuminated only by the light of the cell phone display Sukran was holding, and translating the information to Turkish) we managed to secure a room. We discovered that if Sukran called, the hoteliers were a bit unreceptive (there is a big Natasha problem in Hopa and reputable places are a bit wary of women guests), but Ahmet’s requests were accepted. The room price was higher than I usually pay, and the two were great about it – they asked if it was ok in a sensitive way and said that they would happily look for something else if it was too much. At that point I was so tired though that I said let’s just go for it (it was about 35 USD breakfast included) but was more than twice what I’d paid for the lodge.
Even from inside the car, I could feel that the humidity levels on this side of the mountain were thick, and even in the darkness I sensed that the foliage would look much different if I could see it.
Slowly we descended closer and closer to the sea, and around 10 pm we rolled into Hopa – a town my guidebooks said was best skipped. Immediately, as we drove along the coast road, I noticed two pretty clear Natasha types, tall, blond and in mini-skirts and platform heels. The sight was jarring.
At the hotel, after checking in, I decided to pass on dinner since I was so sleepy (and I actually didn’t want to spend money on hotel priced food.) Soon I was asleep, but I was awakened at 3:30 a.m. by loud drunk people returning to their rooms from a night out, and then the bass vibrating from the hotel disco kept me from settling again quickly. Seems strange to me to charge expensive room rates and then blast people out with dance music till all hours.
The next morning, we’d planned to meet for breakfast around 8:30 to discuss plans for the day. I was debating whether to try to go into Georgia or not. I wanted to, but I knew that Americans usually need a visa in advance from the consulate, whereas Turks do not. I thought perhaps that the presence of my Turkish residence permit might classify me differently, and I thought it was perhaps worth a try. I was also enjoying the couple’s company too.
Over breakfast I explained my concerns and then told them that I’d try, but if I couldn’t I’d just get a bus back from the border. We agreed that it made sense to give it a shot, and soon we were heading our way down the coast road along the Black Sea, towards the border at Sart.
We came upon it more quickly than I expected, only 20 minutes or so away. Ahmet parked the car and we gathered our day packs, and walked through the gates into the border zone. With some asking, we finally found the area where you had to check yourself out of Turkey, and after waiting in line for a few minutes, the clerk took a look at all of our passports. He then explained that I would have to go to the Georgian consulate in Trabzon to make my way across – I was denied passage at the border. “What do we do now?” Ahmet and Sukran asked. I assured them it was no problem for me to head by myself on the bus, so they walked me back out of the border zone, got my stuff from the car, and then bid me farewell at the minibus stop.
They asked and then explained to me that my choices were to pay 20 ytl for a taxi or else wait up to two hours for a minibus to fill. I decided to wait for a half an hour or so at the border to see if anyone else came across to split the 20 fee. Sure enough, within fifteen minutes a group came. Initially – amidst a chaotic scene that included outbursts of yelling, throwing luggage back and forth, and cars squealing in and out of the area – I was placed in a taxi with two different groups, both of whom then decided that they had too many people of their own to fit in. So the driver would take my stuff out of the trunk and then wave me out of the cab. I was starting to get annoyed, especially since the second time this happened, the guy that replaced me was most definitely not with the rest of that group originally.
Finally I found a group willing to include me. Five heavily made up, well dressed older Georgian women piled into a small taxi along with me and the driver. I was “small” so they let me join. We were all partially sitting on each others laps, and the cab quickly filled with intermingled scents of perfume. Speeding along the coast road, listening to their Georgian banter overtop the blaring Laz Black Sea music the cabbie was playing, I had to keep myself from laughing out loud about my role as the random American in the back seat.
At the bus station in Hopa, we prepared to pay the fee – when I asked they said I owed $2. Dollars? Sure enough, the women plucked wallets from their purses, revealing wads of US greenbacks thickening the leather. I myself fumbled in my underclothes passport holder, wondering if the American in the back seat was going to be the only person not able to pay in US dollars. I did have some American cash tucked away, and they handed me a five and three ones in exchange for the ten I handed over. With some difficulty, we untwisted ourselves out of the cab, and within a few minutes I was surrounded by more Georgian women on a minibus headed west.
posted by Kris @ 6:58 PM
Friday, May 20, 2005
View from the road to Ishan -- uou can see the road snaking up in the bottom left.
� Kris Nesbitt 2005
posted by Kris @ 10:10 AM
Into the Mountains
I came close to meeting my goal of being up and out early. My breakfast was fairly lengthy (delicious kaymak (clotted cream) and honey – actually one of the better breakfasts I’ve encountered at the cheap hotels, and then I headed over to the bus station, only a few blocks away, to register for the Artvin Express, which would have me to my destination in the mountains in about three hours. The desk clerk at the small bus station stand told me to be back in one hour, and I left my bags with him before taking off for a short walk around the neighborhood. I wanted to take a few pictures by the better light of this sunny day, and also try to check out the Russian orthodox church I’d seen from the taxi window.
My inability to get a gist for the grid street plan continued, and I found myself fairly concerned about getting lost and missing the bus. I kept my guidebook map out and followed my way block by block. In the initial stretch, I encountered a store selling items for shepherds, and I asked the owner, who was out front getting his shoes shined, whether I could take a photo of the massive green shepherds robe he had hanging from his window. He seemed pleased – so pleased in fact that he hopped up and insisted on modeling it for me.
Further along I admired more cheese and honey filled windows, and about halfway to the church, I stopped to look at the window of a yarn shop. The owner came rushing out and was insistent, in an excited way, that I look in his store. Even though I was feeling a bit pressed for time, I wandered in, and decided to purchase a headscarf of the local ilk for 5 ytl. He had his daughter model it for me, and finally I managed to get on my way. By the time I found the church/mosque, I felt like I only had time to take one photo and then rush back to the bus station, unfortunately, but it was worth seeing again anyway. Now called Fatih Camii, the long, one-storey but tall ceilinged building looked straight out of the 19th century, giving a feel of the Crystal Palace. Above the main door, a scalloped dormer (though windowless) featured three arched inner forms, giving the central part of the building a flourish that reminded me of a peacock’s tail or a flower blooming. The minarets, obviously, were added later, at the corners. After snapping a few pictures, I debated whether or not to go in, but when I realized it was the Friday holy day I decided against it. Besides, I didn’t want to miss my bus. As I began to head back to the station, an old woman stopped me and wanted to know why I was taking pictures. It was a curious rather than accusatory question, and I told her I thought the mosque was beautiful.
I got back to the station with a few minutes to spare, and the manager served me tea while I sat in the waiting room with an older woman with two small children. We talked a bit – they were very serious, and as I looked at the woman I wondered her age. She seemed so old, but the children were hers, it seemed, so she couldn’t be that advanced in age. Sometimes I think the difficulty of some lifestyles here really ages people, especially women.
Soon a bus had arrived and was honking its horn. I boarded, and asked for the window seat I’d requested; the host told me to wait, and perhaps later they’d find me a window seat. We cruised around Kars for about a half an hour picking up other passengers, then headed towards the main bus station outside of town. On the way there, we passed through more rural suburbs on Kars’ edge, and had to stop in the street so that a massive pack of sheep could get across the road.
From the bus station, I called to the pansiyon where I hoped to stay, and secured a reservation. The initial young man and I were having some trouble communicating – he put his brother on the phone, who explained that they had plenty of room for me, and that the dolmus driver who would bring me to the small village was their uncle.
As soon as the bus took off, the host – a red haired, blue eyed young guy – gestured for me to sit in the front seat for the best window views. This I fully appreciated during the course of the three hour ride to Yusefeli; all though at first the scenery was simply more of the spring green rolling hills that I’d encountered on the way to Ani, over the course of the entire journey, I felt as if I encountered multiple climate and growth zones there was such a variation in what we passed.
First, there were a series of small villages in the rolling green hills, all that same low style of architecture with dirt roofs. Livestock grazed throughout the region and some lingering snow drifts dotted the hillsides with patches of white. Occasionally we’d pass a small twisting stream making its way through the landscape, and the dolmus continually had to slow or stop to allow cows to pass.
Soon the terrain became more mountainous, and at times it felt as if we were cruising through a small canyon. Then, we passed through an area where on one side were rugged, barren mountains, on the other a pine forest with a rushing stream. Amidst the jagged rock outcroppings to my right were occasional homes, built low to the ground and conforming to the contours of the landscape.
Then, we passed through another low basin, where the mountains seemed more distant. Here, we passed many local people going about their daily routines; many carried crops and other goods in baskets strapped to their backs like backpacks. Some homes had low stone walls that hugged the ground. There were cows everywhere, and just as many sheep.
At one point these distant mountains glowed in the morning light with bands of ochre, gold, grey, and pink, a contrast to the green of the land in the foreground. We drove closer and closer to these mountains, and suddenly I felt engulfed by the rugged bands of colors. A rushing river appeared, and we followed its path further into the mountains; soon the landscape of color became one of stark gray, with craggy mountains featuring peculiar vertical striations that added to the jagged appearance. We trundled along next to the river, and I noticed that occasionally a precarious looking bridge spanned the rushing water. Also reaching across the current were occasional systems of rope and pulleys, carrying small carts that would be used to carry goods (and sometimes even people).
I tracked our journey on one of the maps in my book, and I soon realized that we were approaching the turnoff for Yusefeli, the small town where I hoped to get a dolmus to the mountain village where I planned to spend the night. We pulled into a gas station, and the bus host got my luggage from the cargo area and directed me to a small dolmus that was heading to Yusufeli. I piled in, and shortly we were heading up a badly paved road with sharp twists and turns. Two extremely old women were curled up in the front seat, and over several of the bumps they cried out in pain at the jarring. The road followed the curves of a large, rushing river the Coruh, known as a great place for rafting. I didn’t imaging that it would be so raging – far beyond what I expected, and I wondered how safe it would be to raft on it. Later I found out that it was very dangerous this year – lots of snow and spring rain led to some of the strongest rapids ever. Actually, it looked as if the entire river was a series of rapids in fact.
When we arrived in Yusufeli, a town right along the river, I felt a bit overwhelmed. It was surprisingly crowded, with far more hustle and bustle than I expected. Soon a dolmus driver was taking my stuff and insisting that in a couple of hours he’d go past Barhal, the place where I planned to stay. After a few minutes of trying to communicate with him (he wanted to speak English, but his English was much more limited than he realized) another man approached, and identified himself as the pension-owner’s brother. This was the driver I wanted. He retrieved my things from the other guy, and then we all tried to communicate about my desire to head back down to the main road to see Ishan, one of the abandoned Georgian churches nearby. The only way, it seemed, was to hire the same dolmus driver to drive me there, for almost the same amount of money it took to get to Ani. The advantage was that he would be the driver who’d take me to Barhal, so there was no danger of missing the dolmus. Also, I would not have to kill a few hours until the decidedly indefinite time for the dolmus’s departure. (Whenever I repeated my question about when they would leave, they said in a few hours – no more specifics than that.) And I’d get to see a Georgian church. I decided, once again, to dish out the money. Off we went, back the route I’d just come, back to the filling station, and back towards Kars.
As we drove through the stunning barren, rocky mountains again – so different from the greener forms surrounding Yusufeli -- I chatted a bit with the driver. He seemed to be a pretty nice man. He explained that the music he was blasting from the stereo was Laz or Black Sea music, and seemed rather amused that I liked it. He explained that the dolmus leaves the village around 6:30 in the morning to go to Yusefeli. Then it returns in the afternoon. I’d either have to leave Yusefeli the next morning or stay two nights and wait til the next day. I suspected after all the effort to get there that leaving the next morning would be a bit silly. But then it occurred to me to ask if the driver would go to Yusufeli on Sunday too. He paused a second, and then said, “Inshallah” (God willing.) The next time I asked, later in the afternoon, he said “90%”. I’ve been in Turkey long enough to get that a combination of Insallah and 90% really probably means “no.” So I began to mentally prepare myself for getting stuck in Yusufeli for an extra day, putting a departure, unfortunately, to Monday morning. But there wasn’t much of a choice.
About 15 minutes away from the filling station, we made a left turn onto a small gravel road, following signs for Ishan. I asked how far it was, and the driver said “six kilometers.” The road didn’t appear to continue that far – it seemed to disappear into the mountains, and the mountains were so steep it hardly looked like a car could go up there. But we did. The road, if one can call it that, was a series of elaborate gravelly switchbacks squeezed along narrow ridges that snaked up the mountainside. Often, from the passenger side, I could have reached out easily to touch the rock ledge on one side; on the other it was usually a steep drop into the valley. Creeping up the hill in the dolmus made me a bit nervous, but the driver was experienced and I was considerably distracted by the captivating views, which seemed to get more remarkable as we ascended.
Once atop the mountain range, we suddenly were in a tree-filled, quiet little village. Old men sat sipping tea and fumbling with prayer beads on stools by the main intersection, and crease-faced old women with their hair tied back in scarves peered out at us from behind curtains in their small, simple homes.
We wound our way through the village for a few turns, and then I caught my first glimpse of Ishan church, its cone-shaped, tiled roof emerging from the tree line. We circled into its simple parking lot, and the driver promptly hopped out and opened the hood of the engine to let it cool from the climb. He then found a seat by the fountain and told me to take as much time as I wanted.
The church, a relic when the Georgian empire was ruling Northeastern Turkey, was built over four centuries beginning in the 700s. When there were no more Christians in the area after 1923, changes were made to use it as a mosque, which disrupted parts of the building considerably. In more recent decades, after a neighboring mosque was built in the town in the 1950s, the building was left to decay. Much of the roof has collapsed, so the dome sits perched on its support columns, towering more than forty yards into the air. Some frescoes still linger – though they are quite faded. Outside, elaborate relief carvings embellish the arched doors and windows, and the exterior of the dome boasted intricate carvings and decoration. It was an exquisite find, and I was glad that I’d paid the money for the drive up there. Even just the views from the small road had made the trip worth it.
I strolled around the grounds a bit, and soon encountered a small blond, blue-eyed girl jumping rope. We talked a bit, and I took a few pictures of her – she grinned happily when I showed them to her on the digital camera.
Then I found the driver and we made our way back through the village to begin the descent. The light had completely changed, and if anything the mountains looked even more beautiful. As we rounded one switchback, my eyes bugged out when I saw an old man climbing up by foot, with the most overladen donkey I have ever seen. All through Egypt and Turkey as well, I’ve tried to get a photo of one of these beasts of burden in action, but I never have quite gotten it (not the kind of thing easily captured from the window of a moving vehicle. But this time, as we paused to let him clear the donkey to the side, I snapped one out the front window. It utterly amazes me – this man was walking six kilometers up hill.
Winding our way down, the driver and I chatted some more; at one point we had to stop again while a shepherd shooed some cows out of the narrow road. Back through the mountains, back along the river, back into Yusufeli we drove. We’d leave for Barhal in a while, he said. He had to pick up some items to carry up there. These items turned out to be a hot water heater, several other boxes, and four mattresses, which he and a few other men rigged firmly to the top of the dolmus. After about a half an hour it was time to go – and suddenly the dolmus was carrying, in addition to me and all the items, six men, who all seemed to be great friends. We continued down the road for a while, following the line of the raging Barhal river, through vibrant green hills covered with trees. Small houses dotted the area, and they looked remarkably like Swiss chalets. On several occasions, the driver stopped the dolmus along the one lane road and the men pointed out to me the remnants of Georgian castles perched atop mountain ridges and promontories overlooking the river. They made sure I took photos, and seemed quite proud of their region. After about 20 kilometers of this, we entered a small village, and the men decided to break for tea. They invited me to join, but I said I wanted to walk a bit. The driver told me which direction to walk and said that he’d pick me up along the way.
I headed up the road past a vintage logging mill and followed the course of the river for a ways towards the end of the village. The paving on the road stopped here, and instead of being on a bank above the river, I stood even with its churning, fast moving white water. I noticed a woman washing her clothes from the bank – the wet ones hung to dry from a line between two trees. Further along, I ran into an old woman with a sheep. We exchanged a few words, and then her grandson came along and, despite his young age, he tried to speak English to me, with a coy grin. The grandmother beamed.
Soon I heard a honk and the sound of an approaching vehicle – the dolmus was coming. More passengers had boarded: a few more men and a 14 year old girl in a sweatshirt and baseball cap. She’d taken my seat, and patted the place next to her as I got on. She immediately began to talk with me; her teacher, a mustached man who looked older than his years, urged her to speak in English, but, giggling, she declined, holding up a hand to her face in embarrassment. Just on the edge of the village, a man ran from a house and waved down the dolmus. We stopped, and despite being full, we picked up another man and an old woman carrying a baby. They cleared a seat for the old woman next to me. The baby, about nine months old, was strapped to her back with blankets and cords, and she gently lifted her off with the help of the man. I took the woman’s bag onto my lap, and we smiled at each other as she sat down. Her clothes, brightly colored with mismatched prints, her wrinkled face, and pale blue eyes captured the look of other women I’d seen from the window earlier in the day. She thanked me for holding the things, and the fourteen year old and I made a fuss over the baby, who promptly fell asleep despite the rather intense jostling of an overfilled, mattress-topped dolmus on an unpaved road.
So thus we settled in for the hour jaunt up to Barhal. As we drove, the passengers occasionally called for the driver to stop to show me something out the window, the girl next to me asked me a thousand questions about my life, and the old woman tapped me occasionally to retrieve things from the bag I was holding for her. Just your average, everyday dolmus ride to a remote mountain village.
Then, as we rounded the umpteenth curve, the men squeezed into the front seat shouted out, the driver slammed on the brakes, and we all lurched forward, skidding into a car speeding the other way -- a head on collision on the one-lane road. Luckily the driver had managed to slam on the brakes. No one was hurt, we didn’t slip one foot to the left and over into the ranging river, and the dolmus was still drivable. But all the men piled out of the car, and a huge argument with the other driver ensued. They all seemed to know him, and it was fascinating to watch the interactions. A few men seemed to be trying to mediate, others seemed intrigued by analyzing the damage at length, and others seemed more content to yell, even if no one else was listening. The three females on board – the fourteen year old, the old woman, the baby, and me, remained dutifully in our seats watching the spectacle. The girl and I exchanged shrugs and eye rolls as the chaos went on …and on…and on. Eventually the old woman fell asleep, her head slipping down to rest heavily on my shoulder. There we sat.
Eventually the teacher got back on board, and said the damage was fairly minimal. But it needs to be talked about, he said with a shrug. Then he struck up a conversation with me, wanting to know if I think Turkish culture is European or not. That’s a complicated question….and I didn’t really want to get into it. But we were trapped, so I explained that I think some things are similar and some are different. Turkey is a big country, I tried, with many different parts that are all different. They seemed to take that as a sufficient answer.
After about 45 minutes, the men finally climbed back into the car and off we went. They’d taken the other driver’s keys, moved the car for him onto a ledge off the road, and left him on the roadside, far from either village. The dolmus driver told me later that the man is from Barhal and has a drinking problem. So that was part of the reason so much time was spent in a quasi intervention.
When we finally made our way into Barhal, it was the last lingering hour of the day. The light was fast fading. We dropped off passengers in the town, and then stopped the dolmus by the river while the men got out for more tea. The girl and I took a short walk, but a few minutes later they beckoned us back, and we climbed back on and headed off further through the tiny town. We passed, after a kilometer, the pension where I’d stay the night, but they didn’t stop to let me off. Instead, the driver beeped the horn multiple times and we drove on. Another kilometer or so along the rush of the river we came to a small cluster of homes, and there the other passengers all got out. The men unloaded the mattresses, the hot water heater, and all the boxes. I said goodbye to the girl – this was her neighborhood. And soon we were heading back into town. I expected to be dropped now at the pension, but the driver simply honked again and drove past. A bit confused, I spoke up and asked where we were going, and the driver explained that we’d go back to town, pick up more people and then take them to another village. He said it was beautiful in the mountains so I should come. There wasn’t much of a choice at that point, so along I road, bouncing around in the now empty dolmus.
It wasn’t empty for long though. Back in town we stopped again. While passengers loaded down with plants, groceries and other assorted items piled in, yet another group of men gathered to assess the damage to the dolmus from the accident. Everyplace we paused, a small group gathered and we had to discuss and retell the events. Once everyone was assembled in the minibus, we took off back following the river out of the village, this time making a right over an impossibly tiny bridge and heading up a road – more like a path – that made the one we’d been driving look as slick as the autobahn. The dolmus bumped and rumbled over the series of muddy dry ridges that led to a village high in the hills. Although this mountainous landscape was lush and green, with cherry trees in bloom and breathtaking expanses overlooking the Barhal valley, the road we charted reminded me of the path up to Ishan, narrow passages hovering over sheer drops to the valley below. It took more than twenty minutes to trudge our way up the steep slopes. When we arrived in the village and dropped off the passengers one by one, it was initially hard for me to see where their houses were. Tucked either above or below the roadway, the homes involved steep climbs up or down to reach. The passengers piled their belongings into hanging carts like the ones I’d seen for use crossing Coruh river, engaging pulleys to lower or raise the trolleys to their homes. I asked how much snow they get there, and the driver told me two meters, but people remain in their homes. I can’t imagine what life must be like in wintertime there.
Alone in the dolmus, the driver had me move to the front seat and he was patient along the way, stopping so I could take pictures whenever I asked. Unfortunately, the light was such that they didn’t turn out at all, but my memories of the Altiparmak (six finger) mountain, grey with snowy peaks, and the Kackars, hovering above the massive valley in which Barhal sat will stay with me for a while. I didn’t feel like I was in Turkey – I felt like I was in an alpine environment. That’s what continues to amaze me more and more about this country. There is such diversity in landscape and environment.
We bumped and jostled our way back down to Barhal, stopping to fill water bottles from a mountain stream spigot. Then we stopped in the center of town so the driver could buy groceries. He introduced me to his brother the pension owner, who was playing cards at the tea house with several other men. We had a conversation with a friendly teenage boy who was clearly developmentally delayed. He seemed to be a hero of the town – everyone I saw interacting with him treated him like their best buddy. As we pulled off in the dolmus, the driver described the boy as “az” – less, or little. But he seems very happy, I offered. And the driver agreed, grinning.
Finally we returned to the pension. The driver continually honked his horn until two boys in their late teens or early twenties appeared. The older one – who seemed a bit sharper too – was stunningly handsome. I thanked and paid the driver, and the boys helped to carry my bags up the hill – a steep climb. The pension itself was a simple lodge, with a central open space like a deck, with tremendous views of the river, the forest, the mountains, and the old Georgian church a few meters away. The older boy gave me a room, saying that the linens had been changed but that they didn’t look good because the children did it. I said no problem. The bathrooms were outside the common area, as was the shower. My room had a wonderful view of the mountains and from there I could also look directly into the two storey chalet where they seemed to store goods for the winter. All in all the setting was captivating. Since it was nearly dark, I settled in by resting a bit, and then headed out into the common area, where I encountered another tourist, a French guy who lives in Istanbul. His girlfriend was downstairs. He asked if I was a Turk, in Turkish, and when I said no, we struck up a conversation in English. We ended up all eating dinner together and discussing our Turkey impressions. He said they deal with a lot of questions about the French not wanting Turkey in the EU. I found hearing their perspective pretty interesting. Dinner, included in the room price, was quite good – especially the soup that began the meal.
I slept remarkably well in the lodge, with the rushing of the water below creating white noise only interrupted occasionally by particularly loud chirping of birds. All in all a peaceful place.
posted by Kris @ 9:49 AM
Thursday, May 19, 2005
This church, tucked away down a hill on the city's edge, was my favorite.
� Kris Nesbitt 2005
posted by Kris @ 9:36 AM
Entrance gate to the medieval Armenian capital Ani, a rainy day.
� Kris Nesbitt 2005
posted by Kris @ 9:33 AM
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