Out of Istanbul

by Bernard Ollivier

  There’s no question that—with my red backpack, my blue, wide-brimmed canvas hats, my misshapen vest with pockets full of everything but the kitchen sink, and my shorts with gusseted pockets—my outward appearance is, to say the least, out-of-the-ordinary. My unusual look, almost shocking in a country where less-than-careful attention to one’s dress is frowned upon, is exacerbated by the fact that I hold a walking stick. I carved it yesterday upon entering the forest from a branch of hazelwood. I carry it not so much for walking, but to help protect me from dogs—every hiker’s worst nightmare. And in Turkey, people have told me a great deal about Kangals, a breed of ferocious dog popular among shepherds, who use them to protect their flocks from wolves and bears. The customers seated at this outdoor restaurant all seem to be sporting the same uniform: dark pants and a white shirt, and most are wearing a tie. The more venturesome—in anticipation of the summer, which has yet to begin, and given today’s glorious sunshine—have put on short-sleeved shirts. These fine people like conventionality, normalcy, conformity. Each one has a car parked in the shade of the lot next door. Since I don’t, some of them look over at me inquisitively, others in disapproval.

  As I finish eating some lamb ribs roasted to perfection, the manager, having softened up, comes over to talk. I saw him in conversation with several of his customers who were looking me over indiscreetly. They must have asked him about me, and he wants to be able to satisfy their curiosity. I delight in taking revenge for his initial disdain by pretending not to understand his questions. In reality, the few words that he pronounces, such as “Nerede?” (Where from?) or “Nereye?” (Where?) are quite clear. But he will not know where I come from or where I’m headed. I later regain my ability to speak Turkish to ask whether, in the villages I show him on the map, there are any hotels. “Yes,” he says, “in Kömürlük.”

  My stomach full, I strap my gear back on and leave behind the busy Istanbul-Şile (shee’-lay) Road that I had taken for seven or eight kilometers (4 miles). Almost immediately, even though there’s no signpost, I find the small dirt road that disappears into the forest, heading east. Spotting an inconspicuous grassy area, I go over and lie down, out of view. What a relief it is to unload my pack, since not only are the straps slicing into my back but, due to the sweat, the back-and-forth of the wide waist belt is chafing my hips. The hot spot I felt before breakfast is now a much more precise pain, my muscles having cooled down during the break. A quick check reveals that the top layers of the epidermis are gone. The skin is red and stings. After an hour-long nap, I set off again. My hips hurt, but by adjusting the tightness of the straps, I’m able to prevent any rubbing on the sensitive spots.

  I head down a hill with a bird’s-eye view of an ocean of dark thickets when, farther down, an army jeep suddenly emerges from a side road. It begins to take the road off to its right, but then comes to a sudden stop. I see the occupants’ faces turned toward me. Everything I have read and everything people have told me over the past few months, the numerous army zones and barracks that I saw on my way out of Istanbul: it all reinforces the idea that the Turkish army is indeed very powerful, even omnipresent. I was told not to be surprised if soldiers were to prevent me from traveling certain roads, and if I were frequently stopped and asked for my papers.

  The jeep’s engine goes silent. The passenger riding shotgun steps out and takes up position at the front of the vehicle, just to the right of the hood, eyeing me all the while. From the position of his arms, I can tell that his weapon is aimed in my direction. His finger is no doubt on the trigger. A false move on my part, and he has only to raise his machine gun slightly to have me in his line of sight. I do my best to look as relaxed as possible, which probably robs me of whatever remaining naturalness I have left. There are six of them, their faces tense. I try to smile, but it probably appears strained. Ever so cautiously, I head toward the other side of the road, preparing to walk past the soldiers at a distance, when suddenly, one of them, seated behind the driver, opens his door and motions me to come over. He’s the only one not wearing a helmet, and he has a pistol on his belt. The men are all in camouflage. They each hold either a machine gun or an assault rifle. I cross back to the other side of the road. The commander, cold as ice, howls, “kimlik!” (papers), and then, since I’m obviously a foreigner, he adds another, more international word, “pasaport.” I take it from my pocket and hand it to him.

  One of the soldiers asks, “Do you speak English?” “Yes,” I answer and begin to explain where I’m from. But that one question was apparently all the English he knows. He doesn’t catch a single word of my reply. It’s up to me, then, to call upon the full extent of my Turkish. “I am French,” I declare in the language of Atatürk, “and I am walking along the Silk Road from Istanbul to Erzurum.” Surprise replaces suspicion. Where did I start this morning? Where am I going this evening? They want to know everything. “Polonez, Kömürlük.” They know these places, and that reassures them. Finally, when the commanding officer reads on my passport that I live in Paris, he beams a broad smile. One of the soldiers, swooning, repeats “Pa-ree, Pa-ree.” The soldier positioned to the right of the jeep’s hood lowers his weapon and, without waiting for a word from his commander, climbs back inside the vehicle. In the rear, obeying a gesture from the officer, a soldier scoots over. Pointing to the open spot, they invite me to hop in. They’re heading to Kömürlük. I decline the invitation with a wide grin: “Thanks! But I’ll walk!”

  Incomprehension. They drive off. I watch them leave, then sit down by the side of the road, rump on the ground beside my pack. The May sun is delightful, and my first contact with the terrible Turkish army really wasn’t so bad. Later that afternoon, I spot the jeep on patrol two more times; the soldiers wave their arms at me in recognition of our special bond, and I wave back.

  By the time I arrive in Kömürlük, it’s five o’clock. Surrounded by forest, the village is composed of squat, grimly painted houses roofed in faded red tiles. In the dirt streets, piles of petrified cow dung hold the imprint of tractor wheels. Trickles of water flow here and there. It’s a drab scene, broken only by the figure of the white mosque. As soon as I enter the village, kids come running up and encircle me. Looking up at this odd foreigner, they waver between curiosity and fear. Past the mosque, on the small square, I make my way to a sad-faced shop. From behind a plank on which stand several bottles of fruit juice and a handful of cucumbers, a man sporting a three-day-old beard and who’s as grubby as his shop sits watching me. Above the door, the word bakkal (grocer) is scrawled in clumsy white letters. He returns my greeting, a little wary:

  “Where is the hotel here?”

  “Otel yok.” (There is no hotel.)

  The manager of the restaurant this noon, in telling me a fib, has succeeded in giving me a taste of my own medicine. Here I am, all alone in this village, my legs shot after thirty kilometers, with nowhere to spend the night. However much I tried to prepare for eventualities like this, it comes as a hard blow. Where will I eat? Where will I sleep? The weight of my pack was a determining factor: I brought along neither tent nor cooking gear. Too heavy. Dictionary in hand, hemmed in by an increasing number of kids buzzing around me like flies, I ask:

  “Is there a hotel in a village nearby?”

  “Hayir.” (No.)

  Two or three men come to my rescue. One of them tells the children to give me some breathing room. They back away about a millimeter and a half. A discussion ensues, and everyone has something to say. There’s a lot of jabber of which I catch nothing, and then one of the men tells me that there’s a hotel in Şile on the Black Sea coast.

  “Is it far?”

  “No, close by.”

  I take a look at the map: it’s thirty kilometers to the north, in other words, a full day’s journey. As a longtime hiker, I’m not very surprised. Ever since the car became king, our sense of distance has been skewed and is now expressed only in terms of kilometers per hour. The walker has to know how to reinterpret expressio
ns such as “not far,” “close by,” or “in ten minutes.” They are statements made from a motorist’s point of view. “Ten minutes,” upon scrutiny, translates as ten or twelve kilometers, or two hours on foot. That a person on the street in France should respond that way is understandable, but in Turkey, where owning a car is still the exception not the rule; well, that’s something for lovers of slowness to think about.

  When I explain that I can’t get to Şile, the men’s distress kicks up a notch. I’m a hot potato, how can they get rid of me? The grocer declares that he has to tend to the sale of a handful of cherries and loses interest in the question. The other adults suggest that I push on to the next village.

  “Is there a hotel there?”

  “Otel yok.”

  Out of the flow of children, which has now reached high tide, I hear “What is your name?” in bursts, like gunfire. It’s an expression kids try out on tourists the world over and is followed up by “My name is” Mehmet or Mustafa. The adults start conversing again. What are they going to do with me? A man who had disappeared a few minutes earlier comes back and tugs at my sleeve, smiling. He has the sunburned skin of a man who works in the fields, a short white beard, and bushy eyebrows so black you’d think they were colored with kohl. A smart-looking lace skullcap doesn’t quite cover his bald spot. He tells me his name, Zeki, and asks me to follow him. I don’t understand much of what he says except that he has solved my problem. So I follow in the footsteps of his massive frame, and I, in turn, am followed by the entire village, both young and old, all circling and chattering. In all humility, I do believe that I’ve become the day’s main event. As we approach the mosque, a man steps toward me, his hand extended, a large smile on his lips.

  “Welcome,” he says, in a generous voice.

  I answer in English, but he stops me with his hand. His vocabulary must be as limited as that of the soldier I met at noon. He’s a strong man, his hair, brows, and beard like coal against a swarthy complexion, and the skin of a healthy baby. Ibrahim is the imam of the mosque. He guides me to a stairway in front of which the entire village gathers, loudly discussing the affair. Ibrahim, myself, and an old man go up to the second floor. They remove their shoes with a quick motion of the foot since they’re wearing slip-ons, or at least shoes whose heels have been so crushed that they’re like open-back slippers. It takes me a long time to unlace my boots, as my new friends look on. With my pack still heavy on my back the entire time, it’s quite a feat.

  We enter a rather large room with a view of the village through large bay windows. A carpet on the floor, a few books on the shelves, a table, and a sofa bed; the place is minimally furnished. This is, Ibrahim explains in a mix of English and Turkish, the classroom where he teaches religion to the children. And it will be my room for the night.

  Zeki, who had disappeared once again, returns with cold meat dumplings, tomatoes, a cucumber, and a large bowl of yogurt. I say that I ­cannot thank him enough and take out my millions, but they beg me to put them back. Someone brings Ibrahim one of those “practical” Turkish-English phrasebooks, intended to facilitate international conversations. He thumbs through it for a long while as I eat, but all he comes up with are those silly stock expressions whose use is always highly improbable, such as “How long will it take to repair my car?” or “I would gladly have a second helping of this delicious dessert,” which, in the present circumstances, will probably do little to further dialogue between the imam and myself. When he finally gives up, we fall back on sign language and consult my pocket dictionary as needed.

  I tell him I would like to visit the mosque. Ibrahim agrees, but first he motions to a young man, who disappears, only to return a few minutes later with a pair of sweatpants, which he hands me. I don’t understand. Ibrahim points to my bare legs. There is no way I can enter the religious building dressed like that. So out of my pack I pull a pair of leggings that zip to my shorts, and I slip my boots back on . . . which, five minutes later, I have to pull off again. I do have a pair of light sandals that I brought to give my feet a break during stopovers, but there wasn’t enough time to dig them out of my bag.

  The mosque is huge. The floor is covered in carpeting from one wall to the other, featuring a motif of small rectangles. Like the alveoli of a beehive, they designate the spots where the faithful are to take up their positions when the building fills with men for Friday prayer. The women, who clearly participate in far smaller numbers, have their place on high, in a small balcony overlooking the main room. The imam, very proud of his domain, shows me the mihrab, a kind of niche in one wall, oriented toward Mecca, from which he leads the faithful in prayer five times a day. Next to it is the pulpit, which he climbs up into by way of a long wooden staircase and from which he gives the Friday sermon. Not very familiar with Muslim religious practice, I express my astonishment that women are not allowed to worship alongside men. With a show of great patience, Ibrahim explains to me that if women and men were in the same area, then when the women bow toward Mecca, the men behind them might be disturbed by unwholesome thoughts. My vocabulary is too limited, and so I hold off on the question that I’m dying to ask for some other time: aren’t the women, high up in their gallery, disturbed by the countless rear ends of which they have a fine view from their gallery? Further on, in a tiny room, the imam of Kömürlük shows me the sound system he uses to broadcast the call to prayer five times a day without having to climb the steps of the minaret. Given how stout he is, he would benefit from the workout, and so I find it rather unfortunate that technology lets him off the hook.

  They lead me back to the building where, as village guest, I’ll be spending the night. Before taking leave of me, Ibrahim volunteers that he is Kurdish. Then he shoos away the remaining kids blockading my stairway. I roll out my sleeping bag on the sofa, go back downstairs to quickly wash up at the spigot used by the faithful to perform their ablutions before prayer. As a large crowd watches on, I wash—or rather, rinse—the undergarments I wore today: T-shirt, boxers, and socks. Having opted for parsimony, throughout the journey, one set will have to dry while the other is getting drenched in sweat. Back in my “bedroom,” I once again examine my hip, dabbing the sensitive spots with Mercurochrome so that the wounds dry more quickly. My feet hurt a little. There is some redness around my toes, but I don’t give it a second thought: possibly a mistake. I lie down and fall asleep straightaway.

  That is one of the virtues of walking: in Paris, it takes me two hours of quiet time before I can fall asleep. Here, when Ibrahim’s amplified call to prayer blares at 11:00 that night, I have no problem going right back to sleep. The Islamic sound system is also what wakes me at 5:30 the next morning. I get dressed, go down to the tap, where I splash cold water on my face and shave. The T-shirt I washed in the evening is still cold and wet. I pin it to my bag; it will dry along the way.

  It is 5:45, and the sun is coming over the horizon as I head out. On the square, I meet one of the village patriarchs as he’s leaving the mosque. I don’t understand everything he says, but his gestures and talkativeness speak a good deal for themselves, and so I interpret his little speech as follows:

  “What is this all about? If you really want to travel, buy a car like mine.” He points to it and then continues: “You are too old to be walking. All right then, come have a cup of tea . . .”

  I beam him a big smile and head off toward the rising sun, which has set the minaret’s aluminum roof afire in glimmering red light. The first village that I traverse, still very much asleep, is called Kervansaray, but there is not (or is no longer) a single caravansary anywhere in the area.

  As I exit the village, I notice an impromptu campground set up by the roadside in an empty field. About ten people are busy at work surrounded by three tents, two of which are constructed out of a clear sheet of plastic stretched over some logs. Out in the middle, an old woman is attempting to rekindle a fire. One of the men catches sight of me and beckons me:

  “Gel, çay! (gal, chai)”
(Come, tea!)

  I walk over. The man in charge of this group smiles, showing all his decayed teeth. He goes to get a cushion, which he places on a rusty old metallic mattress, and invites me ceremoniously to have a seat. His son helps me take off my pack. Off to one side, a stockpile of partially assembled brooms reveals what the clan does for a living. There are three men, four women, and a baby. In addition to the baby’s mother, three unmarried women live here. They are young and attractive, wearing scarves covering only their hair, and they are cleanly dressed despite their precarious living conditions. They are, from the looks of it, treated as the men’s equals. The head of the family, out of that sense of fraternity that exists among travelers everywhere, tells me how honored he is to have me as his guest. I spend a pleasant half-hour drinking tea with them, and I take a few photos of the group. Unfortunately, they have no address where I can send them.

  The sun is already high in the sky. Every so often, I have a hard time figuring out which way to go, given that my map is not very detailed and, as a rule, there are no signposts at crossroads. After hiking for two hours through a dense forest, I’m completely lost. I haven’t the slightest idea where I might be. I ask a countryman I run into how to get to Darlık (dar’-luhk). In my mind, it must be to the north, but he motions me to go south. He then launches into a long monologue of which I understand absolutely nothing. And now, when I go back to my map, I can no longer even find where I left off. How could I have gone so far off course?

  I arbitrarily continue going north and walk for about another hour before I come upon a group of picnickers from Istanbul. They invite me to join them for lunch. The women, in European dress without headscarves, take two large tablecloths and some edibles out of the trunks of their cars. We eat in two groups, the men in one, the women in the other. They are charming, but they are of no help to me in finding my position on the map, nor can they tell me how to get to Darlık. So I blindly wander back into the forest.