Part 7, Turkey 2011: Across the Mighty Euphrates and into Kurdistan
It almost didn't happen.
At the last minute, the evening before our private guide was due to pick us up at Nemrut Dag to take us into Kurdistan, our agent in Istanbul called to say the guide, Mehmet, had fallen gravely ill at the last minute. Sean was considerably more panicked than I, suffering an acute dose of Stranger-in-a-Strange-Land syndrome, stuck in backwoods Turkey along the border of Syria with not an English speaker or group of tourists with whom to hitchhike in sight. I, on the other hand, had faith that the agency would come through. They were, by all accounts, quite reputable and even if they didn't, the boundless generosity of the people would see to it that we would survive, even if it meant roughing it and forgetting Kurdistan.
Fortunately, at the last minute our agency found a man willing to drive all the way from Van and take us deep into the remote East. Armed with few words and a wry smile, at first it seemed that Remzi loathed us (and everyone else for that matter) for this unplanned sojourn. But, as I settled into the back of his little hybrid Toyota and surveyed the endearingly vintage tourist literature about Van, I began to relax, assured we were in the capable hands of a native Kurd who knew his homeland well. Well, I relaxed until he began careening down the highway at 120 MPH into oncoming traffic. Such is the style of drivers on Turkish highways -- mercurial beings in-and-of themselves which transform from asphalt to dirt, four-lane to no-lane with no rhyme or reason.
He was rushing to ensure we made the ferry on time. One that would take us across the Euphrates and into the East:
(on the boat!)
Today was set to be and long day of travel, ending in Mardin. In Eastern Turkey (Kurdistan), military checkpoints, poorly maintained highways, and vast distances make travel tedious at best. The payoff lies in seeing what few Westerners ever have or will and in meeting people who have preserved much of their culture and history despite great persecution.
The road to Mardin was dotted with half-built cities, walls and foundations only, frozen in time. Within them people lived and worked and small cafe owners served their best dishes and bathed your hands in sanitizer as you walked out the door. It was depressing, alien, and fascinating all at once. Yet, after hours of this I longed for a proper town, and just as the late afternoon sun began to hang low we arrived in Mardin:
(young boys stand atop the Madrasa overlooking Mesopotamia and Syria in the near distance)
Dramatically situated on a rocky perch above Syria and the Mesopotamian plain, Mardin dates to the 12th century AD and is a beautiful example of the cultural diversity of the region. This is evident in the heavy use of Syriac and Aramaic languages (yes, it's still alive):
And the strong Arabic influence on stunning buildings like the post office there:
Mardin is also exceptional because it gives the sensation of being transported back in time. Here, people still carry load on pack mules (which is practical given the winding, cobbled streets) and horses, with their elaborately decorated saddles and blankets -- are still a common form of transportation, sharing the road with cars, tractors, and mules alike:
A stroll down the street yielded friendly shopkeepers eager to share raw chickpeas from their dirt-caked hands (you take them and eat them, accepting the risk. We were fine) and a plethora of exotic goodies like kohl eye makeup and chocolate-powdered and dried chickpeas (which are beyond yummy). There were also amusing things left and right to remind us that we weren't in Kansas any more. Take, for instance, this portrait studio which offers soldiers a chance to make their parents proud by depicting them in the most Rambo-esque light possible:
With the sun hanging low and the nonexistent nightlife is quiet, the evening was spent sipping chai and watching the sole English TV channel which was, thankfully, Al Jazeera.
The next morning, as we departed for Kurdistan's capital of Diyarbakir, we hit one of Mardin's most ancient sites. Just on the outskirts of the town is one of the oldest monasteries in the world and the only one that is still functioning in Turkey: the Syriac Orthodox Deyrülzafarân Monastery.
Built in 439 AD, this monastery has been a refuge for the Syriac culture and Aramaic language. It's also a pilgrimage site for Christians from all around the Middle East. Though hot and dry, it was impossible not to feel a sense of calm here as the monks strolled through the courtyard in their heavy black robes:
Everything held a sense of the ancient, from the dark burial crypts:
To the detail on the heavy, original bronze doors:
As we departed Mardin, we stopped by one of the oldest, largest, and most complete Selcuk bridges in existence. Straddling a turquoise-blue tributary of the Euphrates, it would be a monumental tourist attraction in Europe. But here it merely acts as shade for shepherds and their cattle and stands as a demonstration of how the majestic and mundane are so closely married here.
At the last minute, the evening before our private guide was due to pick us up at Nemrut Dag to take us into Kurdistan, our agent in Istanbul called to say the guide, Mehmet, had fallen gravely ill at the last minute. Sean was considerably more panicked than I, suffering an acute dose of Stranger-in-a-Strange-Land syndrome, stuck in backwoods Turkey along the border of Syria with not an English speaker or group of tourists with whom to hitchhike in sight. I, on the other hand, had faith that the agency would come through. They were, by all accounts, quite reputable and even if they didn't, the boundless generosity of the people would see to it that we would survive, even if it meant roughing it and forgetting Kurdistan.
Fortunately, at the last minute our agency found a man willing to drive all the way from Van and take us deep into the remote East. Armed with few words and a wry smile, at first it seemed that Remzi loathed us (and everyone else for that matter) for this unplanned sojourn. But, as I settled into the back of his little hybrid Toyota and surveyed the endearingly vintage tourist literature about Van, I began to relax, assured we were in the capable hands of a native Kurd who knew his homeland well. Well, I relaxed until he began careening down the highway at 120 MPH into oncoming traffic. Such is the style of drivers on Turkish highways -- mercurial beings in-and-of themselves which transform from asphalt to dirt, four-lane to no-lane with no rhyme or reason.
He was rushing to ensure we made the ferry on time. One that would take us across the Euphrates and into the East:
(on the boat!)
Today was set to be and long day of travel, ending in Mardin. In Eastern Turkey (Kurdistan), military checkpoints, poorly maintained highways, and vast distances make travel tedious at best. The payoff lies in seeing what few Westerners ever have or will and in meeting people who have preserved much of their culture and history despite great persecution.
The road to Mardin was dotted with half-built cities, walls and foundations only, frozen in time. Within them people lived and worked and small cafe owners served their best dishes and bathed your hands in sanitizer as you walked out the door. It was depressing, alien, and fascinating all at once. Yet, after hours of this I longed for a proper town, and just as the late afternoon sun began to hang low we arrived in Mardin:
(young boys stand atop the Madrasa overlooking Mesopotamia and Syria in the near distance)
Dramatically situated on a rocky perch above Syria and the Mesopotamian plain, Mardin dates to the 12th century AD and is a beautiful example of the cultural diversity of the region. This is evident in the heavy use of Syriac and Aramaic languages (yes, it's still alive):
And the strong Arabic influence on stunning buildings like the post office there:
Mardin is also exceptional because it gives the sensation of being transported back in time. Here, people still carry load on pack mules (which is practical given the winding, cobbled streets) and horses, with their elaborately decorated saddles and blankets -- are still a common form of transportation, sharing the road with cars, tractors, and mules alike:
A stroll down the street yielded friendly shopkeepers eager to share raw chickpeas from their dirt-caked hands (you take them and eat them, accepting the risk. We were fine) and a plethora of exotic goodies like kohl eye makeup and chocolate-powdered and dried chickpeas (which are beyond yummy). There were also amusing things left and right to remind us that we weren't in Kansas any more. Take, for instance, this portrait studio which offers soldiers a chance to make their parents proud by depicting them in the most Rambo-esque light possible:
With the sun hanging low and the nonexistent nightlife is quiet, the evening was spent sipping chai and watching the sole English TV channel which was, thankfully, Al Jazeera.
The next morning, as we departed for Kurdistan's capital of Diyarbakir, we hit one of Mardin's most ancient sites. Just on the outskirts of the town is one of the oldest monasteries in the world and the only one that is still functioning in Turkey: the Syriac Orthodox Deyrülzafarân Monastery.
Built in 439 AD, this monastery has been a refuge for the Syriac culture and Aramaic language. It's also a pilgrimage site for Christians from all around the Middle East. Though hot and dry, it was impossible not to feel a sense of calm here as the monks strolled through the courtyard in their heavy black robes:
Everything held a sense of the ancient, from the dark burial crypts:
To the detail on the heavy, original bronze doors:
As we departed Mardin, we stopped by one of the oldest, largest, and most complete Selcuk bridges in existence. Straddling a turquoise-blue tributary of the Euphrates, it would be a monumental tourist attraction in Europe. But here it merely acts as shade for shepherds and their cattle and stands as a demonstration of how the majestic and mundane are so closely married here.