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“Rome? This is the first time I've ever heard someone compare Yerevan to Rome,” our new friend from the bar laughed at my comment. The Armenian capital is just that classy. Probably due in part to living in the crowded chaos of Istanbul and not knowing what to expect from Yerevan, I was totally enchanted. Case in point:

Republic Square

Yerevan was largely built within the last five to ten years, and Liz pointed out that she didn't get a feeling for what exactly Armenian culture is from the city. It's a bit like Seoul in that regard. Modern and sophisticated, but what does that mean? The wide, tree-lined streets were clean and Armenians friendly, stylish, English speakers (except, oddly enough, the no less than three cab drivers who we asked to take us to the genocide memorial- even when we had someone translate it into Armenian they didn't know where it was). Maybe this language/modernity is due to the large Armenian diaspora that comes and goes in the city; I wonder how many residents of Yerevan were born and raised there. One of the young guys working at our hostel was a refugee that fled his home near Azerbaijan during the Nagorno-Karabakh war in 1992, and the aforementioned bar friend is an Armenian-American who currently works in the city. Even with a Turkish salary it was easy to live comfortably in town, where we could indulge in chic restaurants and cafes at a very inexpensive price tag. Ringed by mountains including the Ararat of Biblical fame and with a city square surrounded by museums, banks and hotels built in the classical tradition, it's pretty damn elegant. There was also a small but lively pub scene located largely underground, literally subterranean (thanks for the tips Marjiorie ;)).

Yet almost immediately upon leaving the city center the landscape and vibe changes. Traveling by mashutka to the 1^st century Roman Garni temple and mountainside Geghard cave monastery (featuring extraordinarily well-preserved kachkars, Orthodox Christian crosses carved into stone), we passed modest villages and quiet countryside that had a similar energy to those in Georgia but looked completely different.

 

Gheghard Monastery

Yerevan is small, you can walk from one end of the city center to the other in about 20 minutes, and the surrounding sights are interesting but few in number. As we found ourselves on the last day with an entire 24 hours to get back to Tbilisi, we figured why not take a longer trip than the insane one we arrived with to hitch a ride back to Georgia. The first guy to take us to the freeway entrance spoke perfect English and told us all about his passion for Armenia, which he's channeled into a film on the country's nature and sites: Unknown Armenia. As we drove he pointed out the Soviet housing blocks on the outskirts of the city that were erected to read “USSR” from an aerial view. “But the Soviet Union collapsed before they could build the 'R,'” he chuckled.

Our main driver, however, turned out to be quite different. Iago, a Georgian semi truck driver who spoke not a word of English (and I seriously mean not a word), is a 30-something single man who likes to drink chacha (Georgian grape vodka) and listen to Russian techno (sigh). That's about all we were able to ascertain from the seven hours on the road with him, but an interesting ride it was. While I look back on him fondly, he was a bit odd and I can't say I knew what he expected from us, he probably didn't know either. Upon starting our journey he pulled over to buy a bag of apples for us all, and offered chacha from a coke bottle with the label torn off. “Khorosho,” he insisted (“good” in Russian, the only word I figured out the meaning of). I sipped; it was just as gnarly as you can imagine chacha from a plastic coke bottle would be. He bought us a couple beers and would sometimes try to pinch our cheeks or put his arm around us, but we clearly put an end to that and Liz even said it seemed at times paternal. My conclusion is that he has a pretty lonely existence, and getting a glimpse into the trucker lifestyle was indeed a bit depressing. He pretty much lives in his semi, which he kept very neat and adorned with crucifixes and other Orthodox odds and ends. We examined each others passports, and he was fascinated by the stamps across Asia in mine and the Middle East in Liz's. His was filled with page after page of Armenia-Georgia-Azerbaijan-Armenia-Georgia-Azerbaijan. While I wish we could have communicated more, it might have been a blessing to keep each other at arm's length. For us though, there couldn't have been a better way to travel. Laying on the bunk bed and watching the breathtaking scenery roll by is something I won't easily forget.

 

the open road from our perch in the semi

After the border crossing we parted ways in a town outside of Tbilisi, where he tried to set us up with a taxi. Nobody was understanding each other as a mix of English, Georgian and Russian flew around. I began to type out numbers on my phone when we heard “otuzbeş.”

I looked up. “Türkçe biliyor musunuz?”

“Tabii,” the driver replied. Yes! Seven hours on the road communicating with the driver in only hand gestures and pictures (I had resorted to drawing a map of the US with our cities as well as a stick figure family) was exhausting and it was so nice to be able to speak again. With that, we bid Iago adieu with a single Georgian cheek kiss and hopped into Türk babası's taxi for Tbilisi. Türk babası, however, turned out to be Azeri babası, and had never even visited Turkey, his whole family residing in Georgia. “How do you know that guy, anyway?” Azeri babası asked us of Iago, laughing when I responded that we didn't. In any case, we had been freed of the shackles of Russian techno only to have it replaced by Tarkan. “Does he actually like this music?” Liz wondered, and when I asked him, he gave me another quizzical “Tabii!”

Thus I learned more about hospitality, taxi/mashutka/truck drivers and human rights theory (thanks Liz) than technical facts about the Caucases in our whirlwind week. It's certainly a fascinating region that's incorporated so many curious cultural tidbits from the centuries of Roman/Byzantine/Arab/Ottoman/Persian/Mongol control not to mention the USSR, though beyond the pervasive Russian spoken I didn't feel that influence as much as say, in Poland. Now I'll definitely have to seek out the Caucasian restaurants of Aksaray soon...

Like a bat outta hell

Just when ya thought I’d forgotten about this blog. I’d flirted with some posts over the past few months though it all seemed a bit contrived. Fear not, inspiration has struck! Everyone said one week to get to both Georgia and Armenia was laughable and to remain vegan there impossible- done and done, easily. So let’s get to it.

gotta love the Georgian script

Tbilisi is a bit derelict and has no rational urban planning whatsoever, all part of its crumbling charm. It feels as though there aren’t many identifiable neighborhoods or districts, but we were staying in the Old Town with our lovely CS host, a German artist working on ceramics in the city. The arterial Rustaveli avenue runs from the central Freedom Square, which is adorned with a resplendent St. George statue of gold that replaced a figure of Lenin torn down in 1991. Aside from the pretty promenade of Rustaveli, there’s no real organization to the city. The architecture is very odd, with post-Soviet housing blocks jutting out around the edges of the city and Tbilisi proper comprised of both aging, at times gothic stonework and science-fiction-like warped metal and glass defying gravity. Churches dot the city, and we were amused to pass a Catholic church that had been converted into a basketball gymnasium under the Soviets.

I wouldn’t say Tbilisi is beautiful, but its graffitied streets have their allure. The views from the cable car up to the fort and Mother Georgia statue (wine goblet in one hand for guests, sword in the other for enemies) were perfect on the clear day, and we enjoyed perusing the Dry Bridge flea market where a variety of Soviet paraphernalia, jewelry, prints and other tchotchkes are hawked in the nearby park by serious-looking grannies. It’s certainly a calm city; the streets were quiet on the weekend evenings and locals seem to prefer chillin from the hatchback of their cars (a seemingly popular place to play cards, have a picnic or just drink and people watch).

 

There was no shortage of art studios and creative work going on

Liz (a veteran strict vegetarian) and I (vegan within reason) were thrilled with Georgian food. Our new vegetarian friend Petra took us to a great spot called Racha in Old Town (essentially a brick basement oven tended to by some Georgian grandparents), where we feasted on a completely vegan, completely traditional Georgian meal. We had eggplants topped with ground walnut paste, sautéed mushrooms, lobio (black bean soup with raw cilantro and onions stewed in an earthenware pot), çoban salad, the famous Georgian lavash bread (food, especially, shares several cognates with Turkish) and a big recycled vodka bottle filled with tap water (fresh enough to drink in both Georgia and Armenia). To my delight, garlic permeates every Georgian dish. Of course we also had khinkali (dumplings) filled with mushrooms, potato and veggies. Khinkali etiquette dictates never to cut them but stab the doughy handle, which is not eaten, with a fork before nibbling or just go at it with your hands). Any plant-based diners in Tbilisi also have to check out the generous portions at Ben Chelero, a vegetarian spot with a to-die-for fennel vegetable ragout. Café Gallery is another great spot for drinks and enormous gourmet salads. Most beers in the city go for about 2 to 3 lari (roughly equivalent to the lira) a pop and food as little as 5. And where to begin with the wine…! Our luggage was weighed down heavily by bottles ;)

Wandering home we saw a parked SUV with a US Navy and George W. Bush bumper sticker. Odd. The next day while perusing a thrift shop there was a rack of dubya t-shirts, and later we saw a sign directing drivers toward George W. Bush Avenue. Say what? Apparently he was the first sitting U.S. president to visit the country and provided a lot of political and economic aid to Georgia, as well as having a close relationship with President Mikhail Saakashvili, who assumed power post-Rose Revolution. Even stranger than seeing Ronald Reagan square in Krakow, which at least is more understandable.

The next morning we hit the mountains with Petra en route to Kazbegi, a few hours north of Tbilisi by mashutka (dolmuş). We wanted to see more of the countryside as well as travel up the infamous Soviet highway dotted with curious and imposing statues. The Georgian mountains are sharp and unforgiving, albeit beautiful. As we bumped along toward a monastery something peculiar began to materialize in the distance…a jalopy of sorts and, wait, is that a camel??

“What a coincidence! This is my French friend!” Petra cheered as we pulled over to say hi. If you looked up bohemian in the dictionary there’d be a picture of this guy, wrapped in a variety of multicolored rags and an old military jacket. I’m not entirely sure how Petra knew him but he’s been traveling the world for years in his wagon with eight dogs, a couple goats and a camel. He’d just been turned away at the border to the 5k no-man’s land between Georgia and Russia because – for future reference, folks – it’s not permitted to cross this territory on foot. What exactly he does for a living was also unclear, but he was friendly enough and knew some Turkish. He apparently scraped together some pennies as a curiosity at summer fairs in Istanbul

“I love Istanbul! What’s the name of that big street? Fıstıklal? Oh, Istiklal. I just had fıstık on the mind, ‘cause you’re a fıstık,” he winked (fıstık is literally pistachio in Turkish, but also slang for babe). He claimed to have a herd of camels in the KRG. A downright eligible bachelor!

monsieur bohème

On our way back down the mountain we realized that the mashutkas had stopped running for the day. No way were we trying to stay up in the mountains overnight, so we hitched a ride with a Turk driving a freight vehicle to Düzce and later picked up a passing mashutka. All was well until we turned a corner to a huuuuuge backup of vehicles. Keep in mind this is a tiny mountain road, the only one going down to the city. A police vehicle was blocking the pass and he informed us that we would have to wait until 6pm to proceed as there were avalanche warnings in the region. Were they waiting for temperatures to drop? We had no idea but there we sat for three hours, huddled with the other truckers around cups of strong, grainy but sweet Georgian coffee and lavash bread that our mashutka driver was kind enough to buy for us. There were a good dozen people in this tiny, impossibly smoky room with a bearskin on the wall and one laptop circa 2004 where someone was playing solitaire. Slow going to say the least. Finally 6pm rolled around and the exodus of vehicles tore out of the pass. Naturally, this was the exact moment that the heavens opened up and a blizzard decided to hit. Suddenly torrential winds, hail and snow began to pound the mountain and almost immediately several cars got stuck (I was fully expecting to see one slide off the edge of the narrow cliff roads). Visibility was horrible, the roads didn’t even deserve to be called such a name and we were tossed like etch-a-sketch sand in the back of the car. I had visions of the Donner party dancing through my head. So this is what the Westward expansion felt like. The mashutka driver, however, was incredible. He was passing cars on the snowy rocks left and right and never once got stuck, maneuvering the gears like a boss, all the while blasting the same Russian techno CD on repeat (this would become a recurring theme throughout the trip). 

Somehow we made it back to the city shortly after nightfall, but had missed the last train and mashutkas to Yerevan, posing a problem as well. We opted to try our luck at the bus station, parting ways with Petra (and hence any Russian communication). No sooner had we arrived at the station that a burly Georgian – let’s call him Meatloaf, for reasons that will later become apparent – offered to take us to Yerevan for US$100, a laughable proposition. He wouldn’t let it go, however, and after calling his English speaking friend (who spoke next to no English), complaining about how many lari the phone call was taking, arguing back and forth about the price, we got him down to 100 lari for us both. Not cheap but not bad considering we were in our own private mashutka leaving at exactly the place and time we wanted. We agreed. Meatloaf, however, began to become increasingly agitated over the course of the trip. Maybe in hindsight he was frustrated with the price we’d settled on, but he raved in Russian about gas prices and this and that, all the while the speedometer on the mashutka ticking up higher and higher. Half and hour in and he’d already smoked a pack of cigarettes, now starting to chew tobacco (or god knows what) in addition to the smokes. It was pitch black and we had no idea where we were going except that we were going a consistent 120km and hour and the roads were getting worse and worse as we left the populated areas.

At the Armenian border, Liz realized she didn’t have any money of any kind to buy a visa. I only had enough for the mashutka and my own visa, and Meatloaf was certainly not going to be any support. It was time for some eyelash-batting. The border guards on duty in the middle of the night looked no older than 25 and were clearly really excited to have some foreign girls passing through. One of them, who escorted us past the crossing, spent a good 30 seconds deciding whether or not to don his ostentatious uniform hat (Armenians, we learned, love a good hat). After much apologizing, playing dumb and big smiles, they let us through with zero problems (“Welcome to Armenia! You are beautiful!”). Sometimes it’s not too bad being a lady.  

Our troubles were not over, however. Yerevan was three hours away and the nicotine and narcotics weren’t enough for Meatloaf on this drive. He needed inspiration; inspiration in the form of eardrum-bursting (you guessed it) Russian techno. Is this how the Israelis psychologically torture people? I don’t know, but I lost all sense of time and space with my brain permeated by the electronic bruhaha, clutching the car handle to keep from flying through the windshield. I literally thought we would die. I mean, was there any other way this could end as we screamed like a bat out of hell (see what I did there?) through mountain roads in the middle of a storm? To his credit, I don’t think anyone in the history of mankind has gotten from Tbilisi to Yervan faster than Meatloaf took us that night. He covered, in 4.5 hours, what is roughly 6 by mashutka and 11 by train. I have no idea what secret route he took as it was pitch black outside, but I probably don’t want to know.

Finally we pull into the outskirts of Yerevan onto a casino strip of neon lights. Meatloaf makes a few furious-sounding phone calls and inexplicably pulls over. A few minutes later a black vehicle pulls up behind us. Without a glance or a comment, he pulls out a black bag from under his seat, hops out and begins to discuss something in rapid Russian with the driver of the other vehicle. All I understood was the word “Dubai.” When he gets back in the mashutka he’s bag-less, but a wad of cash richer, which he quickly counts before taking off again into the city center. Had we just witnessed a drug deal? Human organ exchange? Some questions will never be answered, but I was so ready to get out of that car and as far away from Meatloaf as possible. This would also prove tricky, as when we finally, finally pulled into the city center he declared that it would be 120 lari instead of 100. Of course we didn’t have one extra lari to our name nor even a second of patience for this guy. Oddly enough he still gave me his card, which is just a stock photo image of a taxi with four phone numbers on it and what I assume is his name in Russian. Yeah, not calling this one back up.

A la Kurda

Turkish buses are already a circus but the one into Mardin was particularly absurd. Never mind the number of actual seats on the coach, we picked up anyone and everyone who wanted to hop on and- this being the peak holiday season- that was a lot of families. With children. Some puking. As obnoxious as it was to keep stopping and have everyone pressed up against you, there was something sweetly communal about it all. Back in the States they'd probably be greeted with scowls and complaints, but here children freely crawled on our laps while snacks and drinks were shared around the bus. Despite being literally in the middle of nowhere (not a village to be seen, just 360 degrees of prairie), I felt like part of this dysfunctional bus family bouncing through Turkish backwaters. 

Eski Mardin looks like the city from Aladdin, all baked adobe bricks, dusty ancient browns and oranges with a labyrinth of alleyways leading who knows where- like one giant 胡同  you could say. My first 15min in the city I passed an old man riding a donkey, a pack of young boys brandishing plastic assault rifles and a streetside shed where I witnessed my first of two Kurban sacrifices- a pen of sheep were milling about as one of its brethren was limply suspended by its hind feet, a young man slicing off its skin in sheaths. Yes, it was as horrible as it sounds. 

My couchsurfing host B's home was a first for me. Outside the city and located in an abandoned elementary school across from a military base, it's a collection of cement structures in a field. As we approached one of the gated structures, a family was outside skinning a sheep (sacrificial witness #2, also interesting because though Kurds are generally devout, it isn't a religious requirement for them to carry out a sacrifice- however like any holiday around the world, commercialization has made it increasingly popular and each city bus station I visited had cows, sheep and goats for sale for anywhere between 400 and several thousand lira). Inside the gate is an outhouse (wooden walls placed around a hole in the dirt with a bent-nail latch). The home is an unadorned cement room with four off-rooms, two of them other cement rooms similarly unfinished or furnished, a kitchen-cum-shower and finally one room tiled, painted and made more homey with rugs and şark köşesi (Kurdish futon/couches) . Modest, to say the least, but of course I was so thankful for the hospitality and generosity. Later in the afternoon a man stopped by to drop off a bag of Kurban meat fresh from the slaughter. Apparently the former tennant here was a destitute old woman who used to regularly receive handouts. "She's moved away," B said to the man, "I'm a student." "No matter, students need handouts too," he responded good-naturedly and thus several pounds of sheep meat came into our possession.

B knew all the best viewpoints and hidden bazaars, and I was again blown away looking out across the magnificent panorama into Syria. We explored mosques and Syriac churches, hob-nobbed with shopkeepers and drank mırra (a face-scrunchingly bitter, molassesy coffee native to the region) with them. Mardin has a strange energy, it's a bit spooky and unsettling to me perhaps because of how remote it is and how deserted it was due to the Bayram. Being a city girl at heart, it was a comforting breath of fresh, exhaust-riddled, urban air to set foot in Diyarbakır. I can't believe I almost skipped out on actually visiting Diyarbakır as it now takes the place of my favorite Anatolian city after Istanbul. It's so lively, with ciğer (liver) kebaps roasting on every street-corner and the rush of commercial activity. Despite being a generally conservative area there is a definite sense of rebelliousness in the air, perhaps to its self-proclaimed status as the "Kurdish capital" (I later learned that there'd been a protest in support of the ongoing hunger strike, so maybe that was the reason). Anyway, everyone seemed to understand my çatpat Turkish which is always encouraging. Diyarbakır felt right.

I met another new friend, N, and we went to Sülüklü Han for çay. Hans (also known as caravanserai) are old roadside inns with rooms on generally two levels laid out in a rectangle around a central courtyard. There are many beautiful ones in Diyarbakır featuring shops and restaurants, but this one was particularly gorgeous with the full moon illuminating the courtyard trees and not at all reflective of its name (sülük are leeches, which apparently were once gathered from the place for medical treatments).

I eventually ended up at Mahya Kahve Evi. The cafe and its owner H are somewhat of a Turkish couchsurfing institution. The coffeehouse is a dark, dusty, bohemian playground full of young arty types whispering presumably intellectual things over strong brews. H has hosted literally hundreds of people in Diyarbakır and thus in high demand perhaps due to his semi-guru status, but had agreed to host me within a few hours notice when I decided to come to the city. With a huge white beard, wild hair and Lennon glasses, he looks like a cross between Gandalf and Einstein and as eccentric as that image might suggest.

The next day N and I took photos around the Old Town. There we picked up some other Turkish travelers and became a band of four trawling the interconnected alleys, photographing and playing with children. 

our new friends, photo by N

Particularly impressive was the Ulu Cami, the fifth holiest site in Islam and a former pagan, Jewish and Christian place of worship, each group leaving its mark on the building's architecture. But my favorite place had to be the Virgin Mary Assyrian Church. It was all locked up but after ringing the bell a little boy let us inside where a small community was gathered for Sunday services. As the doors of the chapel creaked open you're immediately hit with the musty smell of age. Two beams of sunlight cut through the thick dust casting a romantic glow across the pews, illuminating the 400+ year old paintings of typical Christian stories. They were depicted in an artistic style unfamiliar to me and a bit reminiscent of playing cards, you know, the cartoonish block-y kind of primary colored images. Very cool. The alleys eventually spilled out to the impressive ancient city walls, second only in size to the Great Wall of China. It was my luck that the watchtower we arrived at (one of 82), had a çiğköfteci inside, so after a breakfast of my favorite Turkish food we climbed the wall to have çay on top and take in the clear day. 

old city walls, photo by N

I'll be the first to admit that my knowledge of the Kurdish situation in Turkey is not intimate, but this trip in particular brought to life all the political mud-slinging that I edit at work. Yes, the subject is extremely touchy, and I can only examine the situation as a third party observer. I would never advocate violence under any circumstances, but the sophisticated and systematic oppression of the Kurdish people is quite real and pronounced. As recently as 10 years ago the use of the Kurdish language was forbidden in public and today public education or court defenses still cannot be undertaken in the language. My new Kurdish friends are all very perceptive and open-minded people who wish for peaceful autonomy but understand the system that they are working within. While many of them have problems with the PKK, they generally attest to the fact that the organization (recognized by Turkey, the US and the EU as a terrorist group) had a role to play in the legalization of Kurdish as a spoken language and gave Kurds some of the confidence to continue their struggle for rights. That being said, fatal PKK attacks occur almost daily and for me it's impossible to justify or sympathize with methods of terror.

A Kurdish friend in Istanbul once lamented that their situation is (iho) in some ways worse than blacks in America during the Civil Rights Movement, "Here you can deny the existence of Kurds. At least in America if you're black, you're black. There's no hiding it and issues must be addressed. What can you think about a people that don't exist?" After I left Diyarbakır, clashes broke out between police and protesters in the city and surrounding regions regarding the ongoing hunger strike and a boycott of work and school that took place a few days ago. Needless to say it's a pretty intense situation. The weight of history and politics aside, I met some of the most warm-hearted people in the SE that only further cement my faith in humanity. The region is magnetic and fascinating, a place I hope to return to soon.

Hasankeyf

Several months ago my friend Chris was, as per usual, in the teacher's room on google images. This time he was scrolling through photos of an ethereal place like none I'd ever seen. "Hasankeyf," he explained, "In the east." This was the planting of a tiny seed of interest that grew to fruition last week with my first trip to southeastern Turkey. 

This region of upper Mesopotamia is home to some of the oldest civilizations of man- and also some of his most volatile tendencies. You could say I was apprehensive; I was traveling alone and people told me all kinds of crazy things. If I wasn't going to be bombed by the PKK I'd be shelled by an errant Syrian mortar or mistaken for a Kurban sheep, skinned and distributed amongst the poor. Fortunately, none of those scenarios played out. In fact, I felt not only completely safe but overwhelmingly welcomed by strangers and hosts alike.

My journey began in Batman, to which I dolmuş-ed after landing in Dıyarbakır (and also during which I witnessed a man smoke an entire cigarette in less than 40 seconds). I relied heavily on couchsurfing for both accommodations and guidance, and was to meet someone in this town. He was running late and had his friend meet me at the otogar. A friendly guy in his mid-50s, he is the president of one Hasankeyf preservation association. We conversed to the extent that this was possible in Turkish, but I was able to gather that it was too late to visit Hasankeyf that evening (the rainy skies were already beginning to darken). Instead he suggested we watch a film at a nearby theater until S arrives. This film turned out to be an arty Romanian piece about psychologically disturbed nuns (Beyond the Hills, if you're interested) and was utterly incomprehensible to me (we also entered halfway through). Of course five minutes after we sit down the chick is topless and rubbing oil on herself and I'm marveling at the absurdity of the situation.

Eventually the film is randomly turned off before its conclusion and S shows up. He's an incredibly kind and intelligent 21-year-old whose passion for Hasankeyf and the region is apparent. While currently in university, he too works with his friend at the preservation association. We drank çay, ate watermelon seeds (a Kurdish specialty) and chatted with their many friends coming and going (apparently this cinema is the place to see and be seen in Batman- "We Kurds are emotional so we like dramatic films," they laughed). Several of them were Yazidi's as well- interestingly they were German emigrees who spoke perfect English. Everyone was eager to share Kurdish culture and discuss the issues surrounding it. As evening fell they even put me up for free in a friend's hotel.

The next day we bused to Hasankeyf, following the Tigris river. The surrounding flat plains were brown from the sun and harvest but the banks of the fertile river shone brightly with greenery. I was reminded of just how much life and civilization she provided humanity. Contrary to photos, the village was a taupe brown, reflecting the season. Nonetheless it was a beautiful accent to the toasted clay of the minarets, towers and tombs. The first thing you see driving in are the remnants of the ancient bridge. Built in 1116, it was historically significant as it controlled access to Iraq and areas to the southeast (in those days the Tigris was a real force to be reckoned with- not that it isn't today to a certain extent- more on this later). The original bridge had two levels, the lower for animals and the upper for humans, which was long since destroyed by both the Mongol sacking and the sands of time. At one point some 25,000 people lived here, though today only 3,000 or so call it home.

It's a distinctly rural area, and we frequently passed old men tisking and tutting at their small herds of sheep and goats, urging them down into the valley. This only adds to the absurdity of the "development" of the new Hasankeyf, which boasts a shopping mall and movie theater. It's a highly controversial and politicized situation in this small village which can be neatly summed up in a description from this excellent blog run by a Californian transplant in the village:

"Hasankeyf is now a small hamlet in southeastern Turkey, but for centuries it was a regional hub, home to Romans, Byzantines, the Artukids, Ayyubids and Akkoyunlu, before its absorption into the Ottoman Empire in the early 16th century. Remains from all these conquerors can still be found in the city. Within the next 10 years, Hasankeyf will be inundated by the floodwaters of the Ilisu Hydroelectric Dam, currently under construction on the Tigris. At present no internationally recognized scheme for the conservation, preservation or relocation of the ancient site is in place."

Why is the dam being built? Officially, for "energy" purposes, though it's purported that it would produce a negligible amount of energy vis-a-vis the area's needs. Some other motivations behind the project include strategic "national security"- controlling the Tigris' flows into Iraq (to which the US gov is lending its support, as Turkish control of the Tigris is also unfortunately within American interests)- and attempting to fragment Kurdish territory and destabilize PKK stronghold areas.  

The castle was closed at this point but it was no matter for S. He led me to a mountainside cafe where we passed through a rear exit and onto a "trail." It looked like nothing I'd ever identify as a trail but I followed him down into the valley. "This path is better," he explained, "You can't see many of the caves from the castle because they are behind you." The path was flanked by caves and soon the mountains were pressing up against us on each side. Side-stepping pools of water from the recent rains, we literally climbed up through this former mini-waterfall. At one point our climb disturbed a torrent of frogs who slipped down over my feet to safety, chirping anxiously. I'm not gonna lie, I was a bit nervous clambering up into those deserted caves and valleys. There wasn't a soul (or evidence of former souls) to be found. Keep in mind, as I slipped and slid my way around S was climbing in a suit and dress shoes, periodically smoking. The 25min climb wasn't extremely strenuous but my heart was beating and I'd never have opted for a cigarette in these moments. 

Finally, we crested the hilltop and Hasankeyf lay before us in her otherworldly glory. To my left, the collection of cave dwellings that once housed such a diversity of people. They even had a rather sophisticated irrigation system that brought water into the high cave homes. Before me lay the humble Tigris and further in the distance the new settlement established by the Turkish government to relocate locals post-dam. "Of course you cannot move this," S gestured bitterly at the cave dwellings, 85% of which will be destroyed once the dam comes to pass. To my right, 4 hours away, lay Northern Iraq and behind me, 3 hours away, Syria. All this and yet it was the most peaceful and dead-silent place. I hadn't experienced such an all-consuming silence in a good half-year. We took it in, I awestruck and he stoic, puffing away on a cigarette pensively. "I always come here. It is a pleasure for me," he stamps out the butt, grinding it into the prairie grass with the toe of his now-muddy dress shoe.

Back in the town, S proffered sweets and chocolates from his suit pocket for the children curiously following us, a Bayram tradition (indeed the whole trip children would run up and declare, "Bayram kutlu olsun!" (happy holidays) in expectation of some goodies to come). I spent the night in a small inn which was deserted come morning. I left a note and 25TL and crept out past the ducks, chickens, rabbits and cows milling about the inn to board a bus bound for Mardin...  

Little Houses made of Ticky-Tacky

As fall creeps up I've been fitting in warm-weather activities while I still can (like getting lost in the enormous Belgrad Forest, a spectacular piece of wilderness within the city limits). The Asian side as well is home to no small amount of charming neighborhoods, particularly as the Bosphorous creeps northwards. The shoreline is dotted with expensive wooden mansions, yalı's and Ottoman homes that make up districts like Kuzguncuk and Kanlıca. Favored by film directors for the cute and colorful houses nestled between tiny cafes and boutiques, Kuzguncuk has a history not unlike Tarlabaşı (its northern seaside locale however, might be the reason why it developed into a pretty day-trip destination instead of a dubious hovel). The similarities lie in their multicultural past. Two large churches (Greek and Armenian) and a synagogue right in the middle of the neighborhood are remnants of populations past. Apparently Kuzguncuk was the first place in Istanbul that Jews fleeing Spain put down roots.   

Kanlıca can be found further north past the second bridge. Famed for its blended cow and sheep-milk yogurt, it too is a quiet and picturesque seaside quarter. Strolling past pomegranate trees dripping with fruit and a playful litter of puppies, we eventually made it to Mihribat Korusu park to take in the views before a relaxing lunch. However, whatever amount of chillin we got to enjoy was offset by the sweaty bus commute back to Kadıköy. While returning from Kuzguncuk I realized that the minibus driver was blind in one eye, yet still speeding and driving with one hand. -_-

Last weekend I attended my first Turkish wedding with my flatmate. The bride was from the Black Sea, so it was a rambunctious affair. When we arrived, the couple was receiving guests at the front of the salon. A winding line of family and friends waited to pin 50-100TL notes to the bride and groom's clothing as well as gold coins, bracelets, and other jewelry. They were covered in cash! After a quick wardrobe change the band set up and everyone hit the dance floor. People were tearing it up like crazy, amazing since there wasn't a drop of alcohol served. I did a little çatpat dancing with the band but once the traditional drum, zurna (flute) and tulum (Turkish bagpipes) showed up we cleared out for the horon. Old covered ladies linked arms with women in sexy mini-dresses, little children and burly, mustachioed men to hop, skip and jump their way around the room...for two hours. My flatmate came back eventually drenched in sweat with her feet literally bleeding from dancing so long in stilettos.

All this playing has been on my schedule because I'm starting a new job next week...

"saç"ma mı?

I'm about to discuss hair. If you can't handle some real talk, please move along. Turks are obsessed with hair (body hair, that is. I'm not touching headscarves right now, or the plethora of Arabs that come for cheap hair transplants at Taksim hospitals). This is one of the most hairless cultures I've ever experienced. East Asians are naturally not so hairy but don't care to manage any of the hair that naturally exists. In North America, unrestricted body hair on women is pretty aesthetically unacceptable, though it's been an evolving social convention, not so much a deeply ingrained cultural practice.

When I first came to Turkey I was dazzled by the different hair-removal options on every street corner- waxing and threading and lazer epilation, oh my! While this is readily available elsewhere in the world, it's not nearly as pervasive as it is in Turkey. Some of my Turkish friends try to tell me it's a religious thing, that anything more than 1cm in length of body hair is haraam. Indeed personal hygiene is important in Islam, and hair removal is one aspect of this (why then, though, do the men on public transport smell so f-ing rancid? Some questions will never be answered). I'm not sure how religiously motivated this is, particularly in light of my recent visit to the very Muslim and very hairy Bangladesh, where many women don't wax their eyebrows because they don't believe in altering the body god gave you (or I once heard because Muhammad's wife didn't wax her eyebrows).

Anyway, women almost exclusively wax in Turkey (it's a little tricky finding ladies' razors) and grooming facial hair is almost as important as brushing your teeth. I guess I could liken Turks' obsession with body hair to Americans' obsession with dental perfection. Certainly it's not only women that prescribe to this grooming commandment; men generally shave their pits and guy friends have told many a tale of the barber burning off their ear hair (a standard part of a haircut). Yet women are expected to be completely hairless (barring head and eyebrows), to be otherwise is literally repulsive (FYI there's only one kind of bikini wax here: the Brazilian). However, it seems to me that in Turkey body hair removal is practiced primarily to please men and husbands. 

 

Now I'm no second-wave feminist- threading, shaving, waxing, lazer epilation, been there done all of that. And yes, it's largely driven by social conventions. But there's something more than aesthetics at work in this country. What drives Turks' passion for body hair removal? Like any good college grad I turned to JSTOR ;) Enter Stanford University's Carol Delaney on "Untangling the Meanings of Hair in Turkish Society."  She writes,

“Because the significance of hair in Turkey is at once sexual, religious, and political, it becomes entwined in different ways in different contexts for different people.” (blogger's note: every time you read "entwined” or “untangling,” drink) “The fact that the removal of pubic hair is rationalized in terms of cleanliness suggests that it carries meanings of dirt and dank sexuality that might entrap men with its cloying tendrils. Women's sexuality is not allowed to run rampant, or to be displayed; instead it is covered and put under strict control...Women's hair is a highly charged symbol of the power of female sexuality; men's attempts to control the latter may be symbolized by their attempts to control the former.”

Am I cherry-picking what supports my own perceptions? Maybe. So much can be said about hair and cross-cultural conventions but I'm only here to point out what affects my daily life- the expectation that women are shorn sheep. Is it time for us to throw out our razors 'n lazers? Let's be real, I probably won't. But I think we can agree with Delany's conclusion that whatever choice is made by women in regards to hair, “we are still being defined by our bodies in ways that men are not.”

‎国破山河在

I'm living in Asia again. Kind of. After 9 months on the European side of Istanbul I've finally settled in Kadıköy, a more relaxed neck of the woods. My new flatmate is a chill and open-minded Turkish chick. She's also dating a Kurdish-Armenian with a Christian-Alevi Muslim background. Damn. That's like being an American of Mexican-Choctaw heritage with Mormon-Muslim parents.

Kadıköy seems to be the home of some small degree of counter-culture. I see metal-heads roaming the streets sometimes, so it's unsurprising that Istanbul's first ever tattoo convention was held here- literally 3 blocks from my place. While perusing the booths I met Han Xiang tattooing a beautiful orchid on a girl's leg. Based in Paris but originally from Hunan Province, Xiang was one of just a handful of foreign artists at the convention and the only Chinese. I've wanted a line from a 杜甫 poem done (states fall, mountains and rivers remain), but was never comfortable with a Westerner inking Chinese characters- the risk of error or misunderstanding was just too high. As soon as I showed Xiang the slip of paper I'd been carrying in my wallet, he laughed.

“How about something more optimistic? Like 'the state is rich, the heart remains'. Which state are you talking about, anyway? China or America?” Oy ve. Thus began hours of discussion about life in Istanbul, Paris and Beijing (he knew D22! hah). His forward-thinking and creative perspective was refreshing, though it makes me wonder, 伊斯坦布尔的中国人在哪里?

新刺青