by Jeffrey Vonk
In fact, during my second night in the city three police officers break into my hotel room by forcing in the door for an abusive cross-examination! Although my heart skips a beat I manage to stay surprisingly cool. They’re a bit off guard by me, only wearing a towel around my waist since I just had a shower. That turns out beneficial for me as I see a chance to quickly cover my right arm that they don't pay attention to. Namely this one has a tattoo with Hebrew writings on it. If they would detect the black ink characters, allowing them to irrationally profile me, that would surely mean my death sentence. However, they do check my passport thoroughly and my backpack goes inside out. After a while they seem to lose interest due to their poor knowledge of the English language. With echoes in the hallway and with one of them walking down the stairs I get the strange feeling the entire city knows that I’m staying here, more or less making me an easy target. Let me tell you that something like that doesn’t make you particularly feel safe.
In days to come the questioning in the streets continue up to dozens of times a day. They are willing to accept that I am from the Netherlands, but me being a carpenter is unacceptable to them. At one point I get so annoyed by the ongoing persecution that I decide to play along with their little game. Call it genius or call it plain stupid but I tell a few people that I’m an arms dealer in the vicinity to trade weapons with Hezbollah. Believe it or not but from the second I do this not a single person asks me anything anymore for the rest of my whole time being here. How about that?
To keep a low profile, I visit the fort at the edge of town almost on a daily basis. The serenity is ideal to update my diary. Rustle in the dry grass makes me look up and to my surprise I see children approaching in worn-out clothes. Apparently, I’m igniting the fire with my presence. The golf ball size stones they throw at me are missing my head at mere inches! Instinctively I’m activated into self-defense mode. Quickly gathering a handful of stones myself I start throwing back, launching a counter-attack. Perhaps not the wisest decision but hey, what can you do, right? Provocatively they run past me trying to snatch my belongings. Overlooking parents are of course nowhere to be found.
Seemingly in need of goods I return the next day with a bag full of coloring books, pencil leads, and a great mood. Like lined up meerkats gazing across the savanna they notice me from afar. This time not attacking when cautiously closing in. Rascal eyes are fixated on the bag, almost bursting from curiosity and impatience. When I start handing out the gifts they yank it straight out of my hands. Even fighting each other over it, ripping the bag apart in the process. Greedy and ungrateful attitudes leave me contemplating. It is rather unsettling to see these uncontrolled critters filled with so much jealousy, this reaches far beyond random poverty. But then again, you just know that they were taught this behavior by example.
A small girl gets nearly trampled by the group before they run off to their huts and living spaces. Crouching down to her eye level I stare into black irises that don’t blink a single time. Mirroring the soul, I cannot begin to imagine what those little irises have seen. No words leave her mouth, but an intense and empty glare screams from the inside out, to take her away from that place never to return. I sympathetically pat her on the head as I get up to head towards the way I came from. Fifty steps down the trail I turn around to check if I’m still safe. To my surprise the girl is still standing there in the middle of the yellow dirt road. Presumably wondering why I leave her behind like everyone else seems to do. Quickly I walk back and kneel in front of her, meanwhile scouting the perimeter in fear of retaliation of what I’m about to do. When granted a moment all alone in the universe I hold her in my arms and give her the most loving hug I possibly ever gave another human being. Overwhelmed by emotions she tries hard to receive it by absorbing a part of that energy. Slowly but steady her thin hands find the courage and comfort to squeeze back. How I would love to relieve this child from the agony and rescue her from the bitter situation she’s in. Saying goodbye for the second time she knows she’s the big winner of the day. No coloring book or pencil lead can match up to what she has been given. I kiss her on the forehead and my heart just breaks for leaving her behind in a world where she knows nothing but rejection. Learning to let go becomes a necessity when backpacking. No matter how dearly we desire to save the world we sometimes just can’t.
* * *
Van City is not a very beautiful one. For instance, it can’t be praised for things like sophisticated architecture, well-maintained parks or progressive businesses and startups. However, what it does have is a store that sells motorcycles. Seeing it by chance I can’t contain my lust for adventure. Being a realist in nature I know my finances won’t allow me to purchase one, but still, it won’t hurt having a peek inside. Walking in the smells of brand-new rubber and iron almost put me into a trance. Four guys in their early twenties are hanging around the shop, surprised to see white skin in this part of the world. They all owning motorcycles themselves it’s easy for us to connect. Before I know it I find myself on one of their rides having won their trust. Cruising streets up till the outskirts and beyond they reckon it their task to show this stranger around. Unintentionally I obtained free tour guides!
In the course of weeks we become inseparable. Every free moment the boys have they take me out to eat baklava, the super sweet Middle Eastern delicacy that makes your gums turn pale, or to have some soup and fresh fish in local restaurants, where you can spend without limit and still have money in your wallet at the end of the night. Another interest we equally share is checking out pretty girls at the romantically lit up promenade in the harbor at night. For the first time in months I see women with their hair hanging out again, as no one here cares about the hijab. And that is an interesting fact since a large majority of the population is Muslim, together with a small percentage of Yazidis, and the remaining few are Christian. As the proverbial cherry on the pie we also visit one of their more distinguished bathhouses where we have extended conversations in steam-filled quarters. I’m certainly not used to being butt-naked with other men for longer periods of time, or less long periods of time for that matter, but it definitely is an experience. Something else in the section of local unusualness is that men, as in guy friends, kiss each other on the cheeks. Doing this as a way of greeting one another is still manageable, and I actually quite enjoy the amicable gesture on account of learning customs of distant cultures, but the holding of hands while strolling the streets, oh my goodness! No offense, but how can any straight man get used to walking hand in hand with another man as if nothing is wrong? Yet here everyone does it. Essentially the act itself displays a childlike innocence and is in fact quite charming.
On one of the following days we drive through the East Anatolia province. All the way up to the shorelines of the lake being close to the Island of Akhtamar. For a nickel and dime we take the ferry, frequently going back and forth, to visit the mystical enclave. Situated at an altitude of almost two kilometers, the island’s only inhabitants in sight are tortoises and seagulls. From off the rocky cliffs, about eighty yards high, the view is nothing less than breathtaking. In spite of the haziness, colors are bright as ever. Khaki mountains in the distance are mingling with the nearer darker ones as well as the endless pink flowers on the island itself. Evidently, the main attraction is the Holy Cross Cathedral, a fascinating piece of century-old Armenian heritage. Engravings on the exterior walls showcase biblical tales intertwined with folklore producing controversial giants and dragons. Understandably causing much debate among scholars. Another thing much debated, and swept under the rug on a, for lack of a better word, global scale, are the surplus of bullet holes. Sadly enough, the violence against the Armenians, leading up to the genocide with an estimated million and a half civilians systematically put to death, is still not recognized by Turkish sovereignty today. If that wasn’t enough I press a wrong button on my digital SLR camera for some unknown reason, accidentally erasing most of my pictures from Syria. To anyone who has had this hap
pening to him or to her you know how devastating that can be.
By the time I start receiving compliments that I would make a good Muslim I figure it is about time to move along. To secure a revenue I had the intention to teach English at a downtown high school, yet after a few times in front of the class I find I do not quite relate to one of the other teachers, making the decision to leave easy. In a way that is disappointing because bizarrely enough I became a respected member of society here. Some shop owners actually bought a Turkish-English dictionary only to communicate with me. How lovely is that? Such a one hundred and eighty degree turn compared to the paranoia when I first arrived. I never imagined that a moderate version of Islam could exist. Instead, people here refuse to speak and learn Arabic, abolished merely a hundred years ago as the official language, and a thing required by conservative and fundamental believers alike. Still, keeping in mind most locals still think I am a notorious arms dealer maybe I should hit the road again.
After I board the bus at the bus station, my Kurdish biker friends simultaneously wave farewell. Prior to this, we exchanged handwritten notes with our contact information. When I leave a place I always wonder if I will ever return. How easy is it to dwell on the memories of people that you shared wonderful moments with? I wonder if we will ever see each other again. Because the more you travel, the more people you get to know, and you simply can’t stay friends with hundreds of people at the same time. In any case it is important to me to leave a good impression behind. Especially when you can achieve this by staying close to yourself. It is a remarkable thing to consciously grow as a person.
The wavy scenery shows off deserted farms which are the only things breaking the dry sands, even a small patch of fertile ground is nowhere to be found. Hills gradually turn into medium-size mountains. Heat of the sun increases by the minute, its brightness making me pinch my eyes. When sweat starts making its way down my back it seems the concept of wind is not invented yet. Wheels of the bus rolling along, this area is teeming with concrete roadblocks, check posts, sandbags, camouflage nets and barbed wire. Heavily armed police forces and the military alike find it necessary to storm the bus pretty much every fifteen minutes or so. Every passenger has to exit the bus to empty their bags, followed by a severe time-consuming screening. Little did I know we had just entered a zone on the brink of war: in fact, just weeks away from Turkey deciding to invade northern Iraq by an incursion, blasting the area to shreds hoping to push back the PKK. No wonder the authorities are edgy.
Having endured much hostile craziness as the only Westerner in the vicinity we finally reach a large iron gate that seems to appear out of nowhere. In big dunes behind the green-painted gate, I detect a huge billboard with a projection of spiritual leader Ayatollah Khomeini. The summer months of the year have by now turned into high season, and I suddenly realize that while my friends and former colleagues are probably standing in a traffic jam right now on some French highway, which is pretty common for Europeans in the summer I suppose, I stand here at Customs on the border of Iran! I am very anxious to see all the hidden treasures the vast plains of this country holds. The passport check takes place in an office that is partially outside and unshielded. Out of nowhere a very dark cloud appears in the clear blue sky. Up until now, I do not think I have ever seen a single cloud forming like that. Before it entirely disappears, the cloud throws down an insane lightning bolt crashing into the asphalt, just yards away, accompanied by one enormous deafening thunder. We are about twenty-five people in total and every fearful soul ducks away for protection. Even now many years later describing this I do not know the exact meaning of this wondrous event, but I do know it speaks as a predicament over me since I get coldheartedly refused. Trying to get to terms is utterly useless with these armed uniformed folks. I even lower myself to begging but it does not win them over, this time it seems I am really screwed. One meter away from prehistoric lands it becomes evident I won’t set foot there. With no plan B, I feel blindsided and restless. Due to my partly Calvinistic upbringing, I cannot escape the idea sometimes that everything has to have a purpose. Many things come to mind before I accept a radical resolution has to be made.
Lost in thoughts I begin to walk back to the city of Van. A short time after, a coach slows down beside me full of illegal goods from Persia, as I find out later. When the driver asks where I need to go, I answer somewhat nonchalant while pointing towards Iran: “Anywhere but there!” Five other strangers and I climb on board to sit ourselves between stacks of packs of sodas, packs of chocolate bars and a multitude of other food products. This journey has officially come to an end. With certain pain in my heart I leave the contingency behind. Onset dusk and the bobbing of the road make my eyelids heavier than ever before until I dare to close them completely, surrendering to the comfort of not having to walk anymore. This time I won't be visiting Göbekli Tepe, presumed to be one of the oldest archeological sites known to men, nor the sites of the Seven Churches as mentioned in the Book of Revelation, as I did a few years ago.
With a rumbling stomach and a sweat-drenched long-sleeve, I finally step off the smelly bus. A very deep sigh exits my relieved lungs. Twenty-seven hours in that deteriorating chair was quite the challenge, merely surviving on chocolate bars and an occasional catnap. When the driver opens the dust-coated side hatches, he leans against them as if the hydraulic springs are too lazy themselves to do the job. After a small inspection amidst the rubble, I find my backpack before I let it rest on my aching shoulders again. By now it has morphed into the shape of my back. Incessant prayers from multiple tall slim minarets fill the old hilly city of occupied Constantinople, better known as Istanbul.
High bridges are packed with consecutive rows of fishermen. Due to reflecting sunlight the blue water glimmers like thousands of stars across the surface. Shoe-shiners with their copper instruments monopolize every street corner, keeping an eye on all passing footwear. I receive some distasteful looks when they detect my flip-flops – it’s just one tourist less to scam. Accompanied by a dainty aristocratic fountain and encompassed by green lawns with bright flowers lies another eye catcher, the Hagia Sophia. This former cathedral later turned into a mosque, now being a museum under the protection of UNESCO. Inscriptions on a nearby obelisk keep me intrigued for half an hour, for whenever you see an obelisk outside of Egypt, it is placed there with a very specific reason. Being back in the profusion of city life after months of natural solitary confinement gives me an in your face kinda feeling, but change is good they say. Another colorful attraction is the Grand Bazaar, a large covered market place where you can find anything you can imagine ranging from hardware to rugs, toys and souvenirs, and from clothing to spices. Here you can exercise your bargaining skills. About every ten feet, salesmen and customers are fighting real price battles. Most amusing to watch. It takes courage and experience but the more shameless you are the more profitable it gets.
Going around town in a minivan, I connect with some Turkish fellows who invite me to spend the night at their house. Because I am exhausted, I actually would have preferred to go to a hotel instead. For those of you who know me by now you’ll understand I end up at their apartment anyway. Sometimes my unquenchable curiosity costs money, at other times it saves money. In the evening, we are all eating rice with our hands from the same large platter. By now, I am used to living rooms without furniture so once again I have to sit on the floor. After supper, they take their razor-sharp sabers off the wall to swing them about and play with them, even pretending to cut me in the neck to chop my head off. I don’t really know what to make of it.
In the splendor of the morning I am not the only one getting up early. Streets are already filled with people. Using public transport, I am on my way to the international airport. Only three days away from my promise to give a phone call to the all-American girl I met last year in Nepal. Semi frequent email traffic has Maggie, who lives in Saint Louis, thinking I am still in some deserted desert. In a crazy turn of events I decided to n
ot give her a call after all, but actually show up at her doorstep as a surprise! With the little financial resources I still have, I purchase a flight ticket to the New World. So long Asia Minor. Cruising above the Atlantic Ocean at a six miles height, I slowly doze away. Occasionally, the turbulence has other passengers look at my startled face. When awake I am white as a sheet, for I am at least twenty percent more afraid of flying as the maximum authorized quantity.
About ten petrifying hours later we touchdown at the O’Hare airport of Chicago. Here awaits anything except a warm welcome. After being picked out of the line a heavy interrogation follows in a small room at the militarized Immigration office where everyone is exceptionally rude. It seems that they are freaked out by my multiple visas of Islamic countries. They turn my whole life inside out while noting every detail down in a notebook. Even threatening to call up the girl I’m about to surprise – almost ruining the whole thing! Meanwhile big broad-jawed security guards nervously walk back and forth, armed up to the bone with automatic machine-guns. Many uncomfortable hours pass before this enemy of the state finally gets a stamp in his passport.
Once released into the land of the free and home of the brave, I incoherently stroll through scenes of Gotham city, with its many famous ornate bridges, recognizable from the many movies shot here. Because airplane meals do not provide sufficient nutrition, I get a meal at a Panda wok, which is a Chinese stir-fry restaurant. If I ever had a culture-shock, I have one now. On account of the season, there are girls in hot-pants everywhere, leaving nothing to the imagination, women in bikinis with long uncovered hair, and shirtless runners going about as if it was normal. Perhaps it is not completely unjustified that men from certain far-away regions view the West as immoral. There is so much exposed skin, I can hardly believe my eyes. And where are all these women coming from anyway? I can wear what I want, leaving my tattoos uncovered, and I can even say what I want, without any fear of ending up behind bars, or worse. And that is a liberty to cherish. It is beyond me, the differences between everyday life here and in the Middle East are major, and takes serious time of getting used to.
