Turkey Part 2: Trains Planes and Colder Climes

After Cappadocia, our next destination was Antakia, a bustling town just a couple hills away from the Syrian border. Our hostel, it turned out, was closing down and we were the last guests. The conflict in Syria had put a major damper on tourist traffic between Syria and Turkey. Nevertheless our host was jovial enough. We helped him carry some mattresses to storage and in return he cooked us a delicious feast of a lunch the next day. We visited the spectacular mosaic museum and St. Pauls church, an ancient place of worship carved into the rock with secret tunnels and passageways so that the small enclave of Christians could keep their practice secret from the Muslim majority. The Antakia region is also well known for its delectable pastry chefs and I have accepted that on September 9^th I tasted the best Baklava that I will ever taste  in my life and I enjoyed all 29 delicious seconds of the experience to the fullest extent. Many things in life (I hope) will just keep getting better, but the taste of Baklava will not and that’s okay.

Trying to make up for the way he looked in the scooter helmet

Antakia is known for many great things but I'm not sure
that the river running through town is one of them

Taking in the treasures of the mosaic museum

Incredible works of artistry from the 4th century!

Late night at the hostel

Travel weary?

Our informal guide to the hidden tunnels above St. Paul's Church

The only way out of the tunnels was this chimney

After a frustrating confusion, really more like a lying through the skin of the teeth highway robbery that resulted in a faulty bus ticket and an entire lost day of the trip, Martin and I finally did manage to make it to the town of Diyarbakir.

Diyarbakir in the far East of Turkey is the heart of the Kurdish region. The Kurds have been in a long and sometimes bloody struggle for independence from the Turkish state and later when I told Istanbul locals that I had visited Diyarbakir they frowned in disapproval. However, the city itself was fascinating. We tried Kurdish coffee, which is a pistachio infused elixir with a much milder version of it’s Turkish cousin, with less straining grounds through your teeth, and we walked along the park beneath the towering city wall where kids were building castles of mud. But in a place that has hardly been touched by tourism, where distrust toward the government runs high and unemployment is rampant, we also felt an underlying tension. Many people were warm and welcoming but off the main streets there was a certain uneasiness in people’s body language that said, “this is our home, what are you doing here?” and so we didn’t wander too far afield.

Just your standard tractor in a bank on Main Street

Some friendly boys showing off their mud castle

Martin’s plan was to travel south across the border into Iraqi Kurdistan and I needed to make it all the way across the country to Istanbul where in a few short days I would be bound for Ireland. The cheapest, albeit slowest, way to get there was by train, so I booked a ticket on the Guney Express. This aging train line would carry me 837 miles in 36 hours (yep that’s an average of 23 miles per hour with many many many stops along the way).

A young boy names Azan followed me along my walk to the train station asking for money. He dutifully matched my strides the whole mile and a half route in the hot sun so I bought him a bottle of water at the station. He kept sticking around so I taught him a card game. My Turkish was about as good as his English, in other words not very good, but we still managed all right. He wanted to follow me all the way to Istanbul and when I finally found my train car he just waited outside until nobody was looking so that he was suddenly standing at my compartment with a wide smile. Now I was afraid of getting in trouble and causing a grand confusion so I told the train official and Azan was kicked off the train for good. He walked alongside as we pulled away, still smiling , and he stayed with me throughout the evening as I wondered where he would be sleeping that night.

With my new friend Azan at the train station

Waiting for the Guney Express to Istanbul

Made lots of friends waiting for that train

The train moved at a snails pace when it wasn’t outright stopped, but that gave me plenty to see through my window. I had my own sleeper compartment with a little fridge and a fold down bed with fresh sheets. I read and read and wrote and read again and played solitaire and mostly watched the whole of Turkey passing by my window. Most of the other compartments had families of four or five and the atmosphere was a festive one with little kids running around and more than one passenger offered me bread. It was nice to relax and catch up with myself a bit after such a torrid travel pace.

Crawling along through the mountains

Morning moonset somewhere in the middle of Turkey

One of many sheep herders along the way

I read many many pages on the 36-hour journey 

My bed was as comfortable as any on my journey and when I woke the fields were glowing with sunrise and a full moon was setting over the far hills. Goat herders and railway repairmen and women hanging the laundry watched us travel by, some waving and some throwing rocks.

My only problem came when we arrived in Istanbul several hours late at 12:30 a.m. Istanbul is a confusing enough city to navigate in the daylight but with darkness and limited public transportation still operating and a sketchy hand drawn map to the hostel that made much more sense when I first drew it, the task became even harder. With generous help from another commuter I found a bus across the Bosphorous strait to the European side and from there I gave in and took a taxi the rest of the way.

Two days on the train had exhausted me in the way that makes you just want to walk all day and so that’s exactly what I did. I wandered (waded really) through the chaos and craziness of Istanbul peeking my head in gigantic mosques and getting utterly lost in the Grand Bazaar. I no longer had the kind of energy to wait in line for the Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofia but I did visit the underground cistern, which was a cool respite from the hot city.  I bartered for new shoes and jeans in preparation for the much colder rainier climate that awaited me in Ireland and I sipped Turkish tea and watched the city happen all around me. It was only on my second to last day writing in my journal in a park that I noticed all the dead leaves piling up. I held one up for the older man sitting next to me on the park bench with a gesture that said “how the hell did fall sneak up on me like that” and he shrugged right back with the same incredulity.

The New Mosque

The first signs of fall

The cistern (something like 350 columns)

These guys caught good looking fish right from the bridge

The constant crush of humanity on Istiklal Street

Boats on the Bosphorous

On my last morning I walked down the hill from the hostel with a new friend Guyom from France for a final gaze across the Bosphorous to Asia. Guyom takes pictures for a street art magazine in Berlin and so he shared his incredible work with me and I shared a couple poems in return. It was a special hour reflecting on travel and where we each were in our lives.  We were almost complete strangers sharing so much, both transfixed by the power of the moment. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to end my time in Istanbul and in Turkey.

My french friend Guyom

My flight took me back to Budapest (three months after my first visit with Marah) and then after a lengthy delay finally to Dublin. I had already missed the last bus to Limerick so all that stood between me and luxurious food court booth of a bed for the night was the immigration official.

Well, as it turns out, these innocent and entirely honest answers are not what the immigration official was looking for:

Immigration Guy: What’s the purpose of your visit?

Me: To visit my girlfriend who’s studying at the University of Limerick

Immigration Guy: When are you returning to the U.S.?

Me: Not sure exactly, about a month from now

Immigration Guy: How much money do you have in your bank account?

Me: _________dollars (feeling pretty good that I even had that much after 4 months travelling)

Immigration Guy: (Eyebrows raised with a bit of a frown) Well I’m going to have to send you back to Budapest on the next plane because you don’t have sufficient funds to enter the country and there is no reason for me to think that you won’t just stay and try to find work.

So with the panic rising I was given one final chance to prove that I wasn’t planning to stay and find work and I’m not quite sure what I said but after looking me up and down and weighing his mood the guy finally (reluctantly) agreed to let me in!

After my nap in the food court it was getting toward morning, even though it was blacker than night with a violent rain storm raging outside. I put on almost every layer I had and trudged to the bus stop forgetting how cold it gets in the non-Mediterranean world. And after the final adventure of watching the elderly bus driver zig and zag as he nodded off at the wheel, and after several brilliant rainbows and signs pointing out mountains that were shrouded in mist, I finally arrived in Limerick and into Jo’s waiting arms!

Reunited at long last!

Jo with my recreation of Turkish breakfast

Ummmm...

What a happy reunion, to be together with Jo in this mystical verdant paradise. How far away from home we are but how familiar it all feels, walking hand in hand to the milk market and wandering the brilliant green fields along the Shannon river swollen with Autumn rains. What wonderful comfort and joy waiting at the end of my travels.

Much love to you all!

Sam

Turkey Part 1: From the Coast to Cappadocia

The month I spent in Turkey was so rich and full, it’s hard to capture. The time allowed me to enter more fully into the culture and the landscape than I did in any other country. The sights and smells and tastes are so distinctive and the warmth of the local people is really something special. From the moment I arrived I felt that warmth and a willingness to share the food and rituals and history of the place. Not to say that Turkey was all the same because the feeling of the Mediterranean coast in the West and the desert highlands of Cappadoccia and the Kurdish cities in the east and the frenzied madness of Istanbul are all so different. But still there is a unifying sensory memory that I will always associate with Turkey.

That memory includes: the sound of the call to prayer (sometimes a soothing chorus in the distance and other times a much more jarring scream in my ear starting at 5 a.m.), the taste of ripe figs oozing with nectar in the August heat, the smell of that pungent black tea brewing and the accompanying sights of cafes with old men tossing dice across a backgammon board. Turkey is never short on color, in the spices and hand woven carpets and headscarves and mosaics, it is just such a vibrant world, I miss it already.

Turkish Delight and spices at the market in Kas

My time began outside the town of Kas (pronounced Kaash) in Cuckarbag village (pronounced Chu-kur-baag). I made both of those pronunciation mistakes within minutes of my arrival and realized that I had a few things to learn about the language. In Cuckurbag I was staying at an Eco-Art camp of sorts called Eflatun but I had no idea what to expect. My host Aydin and his wife Ebru and their 6-month old son Ata greeted me with a cup of tea and a tour of the property. In just a few years they have restored an old collection of crumbling buildings into a charming guesthouse with 10 rooms where visitors can participate in art workshops or yoga classes or hiking excursions. Almost all the food served comes directly from the sprawling garden and as I soon learned, Ebru is a magician in the kitchen. I also met, Jing Jing, another volunteer from the states that had just graduated from Dartmouth in the spring. A few days later, a third volunteer, Martin from Australia, arrived and so for a good portion of my two and a half week stay it was Martin and Jing Jing and I, weeding and harvesting vegetables and watering the trees at the almond plantation up the road.

The Gates of Eflatun

The view may not be as nice, but this is definitely an upgrade from my cave

The meditation (nap) area

Untamed basil going wild

The spicy kick in all our Turkish meals

Looking down toward Kas from the cliffs above

We had busy days. Between preparing and serving meals for guests and keeping the whole property looking neat and tidy, we were usually working from 7:30  a.m. to 9:30 p.m. with a couple hours to rest and shower in the afternoon. The lifestyle was full and challenging, but rewarding. The routine of work and food and sleep, with some relaxation and Turkish tea and card games in between, was beautifully simple. Martin and Jing Jing and I bonded filling big barrels with water and driving an old Toyota with no power steering up a frighteningly steep dirt road to water row upon row upon row of young almond trees. The fig trees provided a happy distraction on some of those scorching afternoons. And on our days off we hung around Kas sampling the many things we had no access to during the week such as: ocean swimming, internet, Turkish ice cream, meat, and beer.

Martin and Jing Jing walking to the bus stop

My partners in crime and a delicious lunch

The lovely Ebru and Ata

Watering the almond plantation

My favorite cow (notice the evil eye on the halter)

Ebru, Ata, Martin, Jing Jing, Me and the indomitable Aydin

After a while, the lifestyle at Eflatun all became a bit exhausting and I was eager to explore other corners of Turkey so Martin and I (we became fast friends) plotted our next move. We decided to head inland to the wild honeycombed rock formations of Capadoccia.

After a final morning of sweeping and cleaning and washing the now flea-infested dog Badum (a nice parting gift of a chore) we packed our bags and started a long afternoon and then overnight bus journey to Capadoccia where we arrived with the sunrise.

From the pictures I had seen, I was expecting Capadoccia to be something akin to Monument Valley in Utah: there would be a limited number of cool formations that we could hike to and check out and that after a couple days we would have seen the main attractions. But what I realized when I got there was that Capadoccia isn’t a place, it’s a region, spanning a 60 mile radius around the central town Goreme.

Wait but those kind of look like...no they don't, get your mind out of the gutter

As soon as we stepped off the bus we were bombarded with offers for tours and hot air balloon rides and everything you can imagine.  In reference to a particularly arrogant and embarrassingly typical American tourist I met in Prague who after two days said “I’ve pretty much seen everything”, Martin and I had a running joke that we would just ask for the all inclusive “everything” tour.

In reality, like almost everywhere on my journey, we realized we would only be able to scratch the surface. So in order to avoid the sites that 95% of the visitors were heading for on their bus tours, Martin and I rented a motorbike (more like a scooter) and picked the first dirt road we could find to get lost in it all.

On our way to somewhere

Right before we hit a jump and landed our first backflip

We were like 6 year-olds who, after living their whole lives in isolation, were released into the biggest coolest jungle gym ever. We were hooting and hollering running down passage ways and clambering along sharp ridges of soft rock, picking grapes from the vines we ran past and filling our shoes with dirt. Our scooter performed marvellously and as Martin demonstrates in the pictures below we looked really cool the whole time!

Martin, heel-clicking his way through Cappadocia

Storm trooper in a dress shirt riding a scooter...good look Martin

Late into the afternoon we ditched the bike to wander down into one of the many canyons. Think Utah slot canyons with towering red rock and narrow passages and then imagine that in the wider section of one of those canyons you come across a thriving farm with fruit trees and donkeys and a little teahouse with a barefoot farmer smiling widly, this was the Red Valley Tea Garden.

Farmer in training with the shirt tucked in and everything

It’s incredible that after decades of promotion on the front of guidebooks, Capadocia still has so many hidden passages and places lost to time. Martin and I felt so fortunate to get just lost enough to find such magic. Over the next couple days we applied the same philosophy of wandering aimlessly but faithfully. Sometimes our efforts were rewarded with wonderful surprises, like when we hitchhiked to the town of Neveshir and then followed a random dirt road to a farm house where we were treated to tea on a small carpet in the grass.  And other times the surprises were less rewarding, like the time when I led us a long trailless  and precipitous way down a canyon only to be dead ended by a large cliff. But we decided that if you are searching for unexpected things then you certainly have to be prepared for unexpected things and that by not knowing what you are looking for you take whatever the universe offers up in stride. At least I decided that, Martin may still be cursing my name about the detour we had to take after the dead end canyon.

Turkish hospitality at its best

On our last morning we watched the hot air balloons fill the dawn sky and soaked in the beauty of the moment.