Holy Carp, a Handgun Wedding, and the Devout East

Everyone wants to know about the holy carp. Okay, I'll get there soon. In fact, skip this next paragraph if you need to know now.

I've been reading a book by Turkish Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk, called "Snow." Early on, the protagonist visits a devout eastern Turkish city and gets drawn into a heated conversation with some students about love and faith--so it wasn't a surprise for me when I rode into Sanliurfa, a devout eastern Turkish city, and got corralled by a team of young students who wanted to ask me pointed questions about love and faith, repeating the dialogue almost word-for-word. Fortunately, I had just read that chapter in "Snow," so I knew all my lines. For several hours, I walked with Ahmet and Muhammed and Murat through the markets, up and down the alleys, in the bookstores, talking about God and girls. I'm inexpert in both, so I just counseled faith in God and patience with girls. Or maybe faith in girls and patience with God. There were some translation issues.

Feeding the holy carp

The holy carp: The prophet Ibrahim--that's Abraham to the Western world--was in town, prophesying, making trouble, preaching monotheism. King Nemrut--Nimrod to the Western world--sentenced him to death on a burning pyre. God intervened in a nicely dramatic way, turning the fire into water, and the coals into fish. Now, the holy fish reside in a lovely reflecting pool in Urfa's large city park, and visitors feed them endless dishes of fish pellets, bought poolside for a few cents.

Urfa is a Kurdish town. The women, and many of the men, wear lilac, lavender, purple headscarves. Spangly bright green and red mirrored gowns, nose rings. Kurdish people are proud of their heritage and announce it first thing in a conversation. Nuri, the guy who sold me a kebap and some chai, made a point of his Kurdishness, as did the fishfood man, the woman at the city's historic castle, and the hotel owner. We always moved on to other topics--America, politics, the weather--but Kurdishness is first.

Prime Minister Recep Erdogan was in town, making a campaign stop in advance of the June 12 elections. As I walked through Urfa's bazaar, men and women sat on low stools watching the broadcast, halting the frenzied business of buying and selling for a while. The bazaar is a warren of alleys, branching off into hans, or old imperial storehouses, accessible through narrow passageways and opening up into stone courtyards framed by arches and balconies, variously converted into chai gardens, textile or spice bazaars, even motorcycle repair stalls. The chai men clacked their metal saucers like castanets, calling chaichaichai chaichaichai.

From Urfa, I took a late afternoon bus a few hours east across endless farms to Mardin. I wasn't happy about it, but there was no way across farmville except the superhighway. (I was also cranky about the bus departure time. The details aren't important, but let me say that the assholes in the Urfa bus station run that place with a combination of sneakiness and mob-style omertà that should put them in jail.) The bus dropped me and my bike in the dark, two kilometers from town. It didn't help with my bad mood. I emphasize the cranky part, because it frames the next part of the story.

Across the street, in a dusty lot between two concrete buildings, a few hundred people gathered for a wedding under a strings of lights and danced to live music. Purple scarves, spangly robes, Kurdish songs. I rode by, stopped to watch on the edge of the party. Not a minute later, Ahmet (a different one--there are a lot of Ahmets here!) found me and led me upstairs to meet the men, drink chai, and watch the national championship soccer match. In the smoky room, I asked if this was a Kurdish wedding. It was like walking into a New York bar mitzvah and asking if, like, this is a Jewish thing. Laughs all around, hearty claps on my back--and for the next few hours, I was introduced to everyone as the American who asked if it was a Kurdish wedding.

Ahmet and his pals pulled me into the line dance, following a young man waving a colored scarf. We circled around the bride and groom, who sat in the middle at a table, looking a little tired. The lone musician played an electric saz and sang tunes everyone knew. That sounds folky, I know. In fact, it he rocked the hell out of it, playing through a distortion filter and accompanied with hard disco beats from a drum machine. Later, word came that the favorite soccer team won the match, leading to wild celebrations up and down the street. Cars and semi trucks streaked by, waving flags and honking non-stop. It was a lot to celebrate, so when the young guys started firing pistols in the air, it seemed appropriate. I ducked instinctively, though, so I started getting introduced around the party as the American who asked if they were Kurds, who also didn't know a thing about guns. (See a video of the wedding here.)

The next day, I walked around Mardin, high on a mountaintop above the Euphrates valley, and only a few miles from the Syrian border. Mud-brick houses mix with modern buildings and 5th-century Christian churches and 12th-century mosques. Many people here grow up speaking Arabic. As I was leaving one mosque after evening prayers, a man gently tapped my shoulder, offered his hand and a said a gentle "welcome." His friends gathered around as we put on our shoes, all giving me handshakes and welcomes in Turkish, English, German, and Russian. Later, I spent some time fixing kids' bikes with Karem and his father Munir at their auto-body shop, using none of the right tools.

Take your shoes off before entering the mosque.

Yeah, you too, buddy.

From there, several wonderful days riding through deserts and oasis towns, following streams and valleys planted with poplars and deep-green crops. This morning, I crossed the Tigris river on the way to Batman (holy history!), thus completing our 9th grade unit on World Civilizations.  

In next week's installment, I'll write about my visit to Hassankeyf, a castle and town occupied since the 4th century, soon to be lost forever under the dammed waters of the Tigris. Also, a basketball game with village kids (my team won--serious ballers, yo), and my efforts at high-five cycling.

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As usual, bridge traffic is terrible. I-90 is your best bet

 



Folly in the Mountains

Readers of last week's installment will recall that Kemal at the Malatya tourist office said that it was just not possible for a cyclist to go up to Mount Nemrut, and that it was pure folly to think of going over the top and down the other side. I'm glad to report that he was wrong, mostly, about the impossible ascent. It was terrifically hard, though; I'll have more to say about that in a moment.

Dinner with English teachers

Before we arrived in Malatya, my Aussie cycling friends Greg and Dorothy had made contact with an American English teacher who met us with some of her local friends, helped us find a hotel in the middle of a torrential rain (about the foul first rooming house we saw, Fatma said "I think this is not a good place." It was kind of an understatement, and I appreciated her saying what we all thought), and took us to dinner across the street. The gang of English teachers, young women from around the country who had been sent there by a placement agency, toured us around the city's restaurants (many) and bars (one), and they took us to English Night at their primary school, where students performed sketches and musical bits. The women all hated the city: provincial, they said; nothing to do; boring; dusty. But I really liked Malatya, especially the apricot market.

When you buy Turkish apricots anywhere in the world, they come from Malatya. The city has devoted a special bazaar to apricots, and when we were drawn into one shop by his offer of chai and a seat in the shade, the owner made a point of emphasizing that the dried fruit has the benefit of being a natural Viagra. He mentioned it eight or nine times. Maybe it's my graying hair. 

Cycling folly

We cycled out of town after waiting out some terrible weather, heading up to Mount Nemrut with Kemal's warning echoing in the wind. There's no easy way up to the top of the 2000 meter mountain, but we'd picked a particularly hard way, climbing for two days through villages almost as high as the summit, and then descending into a deep valley, only to do it again a few times before the top. The road was mostly torn to pieces by an endless construction project.

Naturally, because this is Turkey, we stopped for chai and food with villagers and shepherds along the way, and every truck driver honked and waved and yelled encouragement.We stopped to rest at the top of one pass and were mobbed by a group of school kids who'd traveled two hours to Malatya to see a movie. The principal ran over, shook our hands, and took pictures. Kids swarmed us with hellohowareyou! and whatisyourname! Sweaty celebrities.

Still folly, but at least
the sun is shining

Finally, chased by rain and hail, and with lightning in the next valley, we made it to the top and enjoyed a happy rest at the Gunes Motel, a rocky redoubt in a green valley just below the official summit. Lonely Huseyin and his pal Murat looked after us with a warm meal and a fire, and, of course, chai. We were pretty shattered by the ride, and slept soon after dinner. 

Mad King's Folly 

Mount Nemrut is capped by a 50-meter tall burial mound of rocks (technically, a "tumulus," which sounds kind of dirty) left over from the construction of enormous monuments to King Nemrut and the gods, more than 2000 years ago. It wasn't even discovered until the late 19th century. Historians have a pretty good understanding of who the egomaniacal King Nemrut was, but I've been made so dizzy by the parade of Assyrians, Hittites, Turks, Ottomans, Hatti, and Arabs, that it's not really clear any more. Here's what's clear: the place is amazing. We were alone at the top for about half an hour before the inevitable parade of Germans came through, diminishing the scene not one bit. 

We coasted down from the mountain, on a winding gravel road that made our ascent look like a four-lane highway, through a deep rocky canyon with shepherds and goatherds and cowherds and only one car in 15km. They stopped and shook our hands, took some cellphone photos. An absurdly steep climb into another village led to a long conversation over chai with ex-tour-guide Fatih about the history of his village and the decline of its tourist trade, with the building of a new and improved road to the summit. (Note--we never found that road.) (Also note: I screwed up reading the map and led us up the hill to Fatih's village. It was not on the way to anything or anywhere. Total mistake.)

Middle East Analyst / Shepherd

Two nights later, we camped in a forest above the Euphrates river valley, which is very 9th-grade history, minus the quizzes and bathroom passes. A shepherd (yes, there are a lot of shepherds this week) came by and talked to me and Greg for a few hours. Mostly, it was a one-sided lecture about American interventionist politics and the follies of the Bush government's involvement in Iraq. But he had some strong words about Obama's middle east doctrine, too. Anyway, that's what it sounded like he was talking about. There's a good chance he was just describing his neighbors and their damn dogs who won't shut up at night.

Two more days of hard cycling through the sunny Euphrates valley and its vast irrigated farms, and we arrived in Sanliurfa, home of holy carp. More about that next time. Also next time, a full report on my continuing efforts in High Five Cycling. Tomorrow, Greg and Dorothy return to Istanbul, and I'll continue riding east towards Mardin and--here's the best part--Batman. 

Yes, Batman.

English Night! Note the American costume with cowboy hat.

Hellohowareyoooooooooooooo!

Local cookie and tea providers

Fatih tells us about the neighborhood

Follicles covered by sculptural folly

Graves of cyclists who didn't make it to the top

A Visit to Low Walley

After a few weeks in and around the coast, freshly shorn by the kind barbers of Antalya, I though it was time to take my new Turkish look inland--to see Konya, home of the whirling dervishes, and Capadoccia, the desert region that either was, or was not, featured in Star Wars as Luke Skywalker's home planet. (It depends on who you ask, and I asked plenty of people. Consensus: maybe, but it's hard to tell with all the computer stuff, plus also Yoda was a distraction.)

Rumi, the founder of Sufi mysticism and an all-around holy man, something like a saint in the Muslim world, got his start in Konya and developed a religious practice that involved meditative and trance-like states in a search to unite with the divine. In other words, he encouraged his followers to spin around like tops, whirling for hours, until they knew God. Rumi also died in Konya, I think, and tens of thousands of Muslims travel there each year on a pilgrimage to his tomb. They also go to the gigantic stadium where actual dervishes whirl, each Saturday at 8:00. I don't have any good pictures of the whirling (I have some videos, which I'll post next time), but here's a shot of the crowd. 

Two things to note about the show: 1) The women/men ratio in the audience was something like 80/20. I don't know why, but it made for a great display of colorful headscarves; 2) The whirling--and here I don't want to insult a religious tradition several times older than my own country, but here it is--is pretty boring. Accompanied by live music, twenty young men bow, one at a time, to each other. This takes five minutes. Then they whirl about, heads tilted, arms spread wide, long white tunics spiraling around. After five more minutes of whirling, the music stops, they get back in line, the theatrical lights change color, and they go again. The cycle repeats four or five times. An object lesson in how personal religious devotion can only entertain a crowd for so long: by the time the lights had gone from blue to red to green, half the audience was gone, like Mariners fans leaving a 7-1 game in the sixth.

From Konya, I took a bus to Capadoccia, Turkey's geological answer to Utah. For centuries, monks and others carved churches and homes into the rocks, starting some time in the 11th century. The Seussian landscape of "fairy chimneys" (the euphemistic name for the 100-foot tall phalluses of Love Valley), cave houses, and undulating waves of rock is now tourism central, and few people actually live in caves any more. Fortunately, a 50-meter walk away from the buses takes you into the country, and away from 98 percent of the visitors. I biked and hiked all day, from one valley into the next, passing only farmers tilling the sandy soil.

Capadoccia is also home to a gigantic hot-air-balloon fleet, which takes off en masse every morning at dawn. I hadn't planned to go (expensive, and what's the big deal anway?), but found a good deal and got myself up early to fly with Captain Nuri. Though we were one of the last balloons in the air, Nuri took good care of us and flew us deep into Love Valley (the Turks pronounce it Low Walley) for a treetop glide past the towers. When he sensed our interest was flagging, the captain cracked wise: "Everyone is have fun? First time balloon? Is me, too." And "Okay, is time jump. No one jump? Okay, I go." 

Aside from a few kilometers between bus station and town, and a nice day ride in Capadoccia, I hadn't been on the bike much in several days. So the Aussies and I were happy to ride out of town under blue skies, to Kayseri, where we'd catch a bus to the east of the country. It was a perfect day of cycling: getting lost on a dirt road that looked like a good detour, but wasn't; pushing our bikes over fields and goat paths; getting surprise help from a young man in a car who saw us lost and confused, from across the river, and raced to our aid, driving 15 kilometers out of his way down rutted roads and across faraway bridges, to make sure we could find our way back to a paved route. 

It wasn't a great week of personal connections with Turkish people, but the small and unexpected moments like the helpful driver have stood out--unsurprisingly, the best experiences have come when we're riding our  bicycles, in and between villages, far from the big roads. We continue to drink tea everywhere, with everyone. And Malatya, where we are today, has been a fantastic place to meet and befriend locals. More about that next time. 

Tomorrow, we're pedaling south into the mountains, to see Nemrut Dagi (google it!). Friendly Kemal, in the Malatya tourism office, says,  "My friend, it is impossible to go there by bicycle! It is too steep. Too far!" Then we ask if cars can go there, and he says, Of course. So no problem. And then we ask, Can we go over the top, and down the roads to the other side? "My friend, it is impossible!" So we're going to give it a try. After that, maybe Sanliurfa and Mardin, but who knows?

On the Coast, Sort Of

disappointing finish

When last we met, gentle Reader, I was in Fethiye, a coastal town full of British tourists and expats. The English-language newspaper offers columns of legal advice for potential landowners, tips for those seeking the best traditional English breakfast, and news from back home; last week, it was all about the royal wedding. You can also find carpets, trinkets, and a surly guy who wants to charge 20 Lira for a half-assed tour of the local ruins. In case you're reading, Mister Unpleasant, "Why you want make trouble?" isn't a great pitch for more of your limited services. Fethiye was playing host to the finish of a stage in the Presidential Cycling Tour of Turkey. The results weren't what I'd hoped, but I'll train harder next year. 

wild-eyed sunstroke-victim cyclist;
friendly but disappointed villager

After a brief rest there, it was time to head east with my Aussie friends, to cities and villages farther down the coast. Turkey doesn't make it easy for the cyclist: because we wanted to avoid the main highway, every morning included a long, steep climb out of town and then a rollercoaster ride into the next valley, only to repeat four or five times before we reached the coast again. At the top of a long climb one day, we were waved down by old men parked in plastic chairs in front of a small house. Most of the village was there for lunch, in advance of a wedding that night. They poured us tea and soda and coffee--and we had to talk them out of feeding us, since we'd had a big lunch. Kids posed for photos with our bikes; the old men chatted amiably with us about the weather. (Weather, by the way, is a great conversation topic for these meetings. My whole Turkish vocabulary is nouns and occasional adjectives. Sun, I say. Yes, they answer: Water. Party?, I ask. Wedding. Married?, they ask me. No--bachelor. Women walking by cluck and shake their heads and frown. This takes about 10 minutes and by then it's time for more tea.)



Another family stopped us for a picnic between Kas and Ucagiz, on a hillside with olive trees, goats, sheep, and beehives, far above enormous plastic greenhouses of tomatoes and peppers. Their car stereo played traditional Turkish music. A little weather talk (Rain? Maybe.) and we shared bread, olives, cheese, roast red peppers. Grandma encouraged me to taste the fresh green peppers. Sure--how spicy could they be? I'm from Texas, right? The family assured me they're not hot. Better to let the pictures tell the story of my three bites of green pepper:



Pepper bite 1. Left to right: friendly, curious, bored



Pepper bite 2. Left to right: amused, amused, amused



Pepper bite 3. Left to right: bemused, mocking, amused, amused

Grandma pushed the bread my way, made me eat yogurt dip. A few cousins tried, politely, to keep their laughter under wraps.

It turned out that the old man's son-in-law runs a pension near the harbor, and that Telemen is a good cook. So we pointed downhill to Ucagiz, also known as Kekova, also known as Simena, with bags full of peppers, tomatoes, bread, cheese, and olives (Grandma wouldn't let us go empty-handed) for two days of hiking and eating. In Ucagiz (a.k.a, etc.) we had a short boat ride with Mehmet the fisherman to see the famous Sunken City, which fell into the sea after an earthquake in the 5th century. Verdict: exactly like all the other ruins, but wet.



Warrior of lost maritime tribe,
 in traditional paint-sanding
costume



As we made our way down the coast, the towns, tour boats, and buses were smaller and smaller--but there's no undiscovered corner here, no hidden gem, only places more or less overrun by big-bus and big-boat tourism. On a long ride in to Antalya, I spun past enormous Las Vegas style hotels and towns completely given over to resorts. The prediction is that nine million Russians will take their holidays this year on the Mediterranean.

Here in Antalya, I got a haircut and shave, which isn't really a great story, except that: 1) the young guy cutting my hair spent an hour carefully snipping and shearing and straight-razor shaving, and then I got the standard shoulder and scalp massage with three or four different skin-tightening agents, with a cup of chai after, all for about 12 US dollars; and 2) after I left the barber, the nice folks at the restaurant next door fawned over my new Turkish look. The chef kept asking me if I'm Muslim, and if I like Barack Obama. He was eventually satisfied with No and Yes. For years during my youth in Texas, well-meaning Baptists would ask me, What are you? Greek, Italian? Lebanese? But it's been a long time, as my transformation into run-of-the-mill White seems complete. So it's a great relief to recover some long-hidden ethnic identity, even if it's not my own.



A new Turk

Tomorrow, a bus to Konya, home of the Sufi mystics and whirling Dervishes. Then, probably, another bus to Capadoccia, where I'll (finally!) explore Love Valley.

Jokesters, do your worst.