“I am training them for a profession,” he says, very teacher-like.
I cut the visit short, pick up my gear, and turn down with what energy I have left the chess set that the industrialist-teacher eagerly wants me to accept.
In Sakarya, also known as Adapazarı (ah-dah-pah’-zah-ruh), I appreciate the anonymity of being in a big city. I can finally look around without drawing everyone’s attention. Plenty of soldiers crisscross the streets. On the sidewalks, girls—who always walk in groups, or at least in pairs—are, for the most part, in Western dress, and nearly all are not wearing a chador. No short skirts, though: they hide their legs under long dresses or in pants.
Starving for a bit of comfort, I delight in a hot bath after having dropped off a few pieces of clothing to be laundered at the three-star hotel where I checked in. Since I didn’t first inquire about the price of this service, they charge me as much as the room. This is a lesson I must not forget: in villages, I find hospitality; but here, I am just another tourist to be gouged.
There is nothing graceful about the city of Sakarya. Farther south, the river of the same name was the scene of a violent battle against the Greeks during the War of Independence. Before launching a massive counterattack, Mustafa Kemal, the future Atatürk, used a sneaky tactic. He needed to bring together his high command in preparation for the attack but feared that spies might catch wind of their plans. To prevent anyone from knowing what was going on, he gave his generals their orders during . . . a soccer match. He also made each general lead his own troops into battle and not remain behind back at headquarters. It was a victorious counterattack, the enemy was caught off guard, and half the Greek army was taken prisoner.
Having eaten and slept, and my wardrobe like new, I get back on the road, walking at a good pace. After Sakarya, the countryside changes. A vast plain of vegetable fields is bounded on the distant horizon by a chain of mauve mountains trembling in the hot, hazy air. My next stop is Hendek. I expect to find a few vestiges of caravan traditions there. I take a small road parallel to the highway linking Istanbul to Ankara. A beverage salesman’s truck passes me from behind as I head out of town. A little farther on, I see it parked, waiting for customers. It passes me once more, and then I come across it yet again, farther down the road. Our little game goes on two or three more times. When I enter a small village, the salesman is standing in the middle of the street, having called together virtually every woman, man, and child, as well as any of the able-bodied elders. It’s a bona fide welcoming committee. And they are all very curious. Smiling and intrigued, they come running over. By now, I know the questions by heart and can provide the answers with ease.
Around noon, I have lunch in a small nearby restaurant. The owner, who heard my story, only charges me a third of what I owe. A little later on, I have tea with an astonishing eighty-six-year-old man still mourning the recent passing of his mother, who was over one hundred. Old in his mind, he is nevertheless physically young, and I’m sure that, given how fit he looks, he could follow me with unfaltering energy. A little before Hendek, I take a short rest at the foot of a monument honoring those who’ve died in accidents on the road. In light of the way Turks drive, this probably concerns a significant percentage of the population.
Etymologically, Hendek means “inn.” It’s the first town where I stand a chance of finding a few reminders of the Silk Road. In the seventeenth century, it was an important stopover point with no fewer than four caravansaries. Ahmet Muhtar Kirval, a medical doctor and author of a monograph on the city’s commercial history, confesses that no buildings from the old days remain. The last one was destroyed in 1928, and a bank was proudly put up on the spot where it once stood. A few years ago, having looked into the question, a German researcher managed to locate the path that the caravans once followed. It was demarcated with stones that he had unearthed. Shortly after his discovery, the stones were stolen. With the exception of mosques or religious structures, the Turks clearly don’t give a hoot about the architectural remains of their extraordinary history. The caravansaries, just like so many pretty Ottoman houses, are at risk of succumbing to wrecking crews.
Although I don’t feel all that tired, I force myself to take a day off and stay in a comfortable hotel. In this small city’s central square, young men are dancing to the sound of a drum and bugle. They are conscripts who’ve just received word that they’re fit to serve. The army enjoys enormous prestige in Turkey. Performing one’s military service is considered an honor. Any man who makes it past thirty without having fulfilled his military obligations will have a lot of trouble finding a job.
A day off from walking has been restorative, and my wounds, which I’ve been tending to with dedication and commitment, have begun to dry out. My morale is as high as ever the following day as I head out to face the usual difficulties. I spend nearly an hour looking for the little road to Yeşilyayla (yay-shee’-lee-eye-lah), which I had located on my map. No one, at this early hour, has even heard of it, and I cannot find a city map anywhere. After two or three attempts ending either in people’s yards or in the middle of a field, I tire of the game and head for State Road 100 that crosses Turkey from west to east with insane traffic. Noisy cars and trucks force me to hug the ditches for ten kilometers. I finally find a small road running south, toward the peaceful countryside.
At noon, a peasant farmer approaches me and offers to give me some water to drink. I’m happy at the idea of a break especially since the gentleman seems to want to chat. We go to his house. He tells me about his trade. He grows hazelnuts and harvests a hundred tons a year. He tells me many other things, but I think I quickly lose interest, because I’m no longer able to make sense of what he’s saying. Meanwhile, his brother has made lunch. We eat outside, on the patio. The weather is gorgeous, although a little hotter than I like. I thank my kind hosts for their country hospitality, but I need to be on my way. For whatever reason, I get lost once again. I’ve gone five kilometers too far. I have to double back.
To switch out of my sweat-soaked T-shirt, I drop for a few minutes into the shade of a bridge under the railroad. A minibus with six soldiers on board suddenly pulls up out of nowhere. They spot me after overshooting by fifty meters or so and throw the vehicle into reverse. Three soldiers sporting bulletproof vests leap from the vehicle, weapons in hand, and surround me. They each hold a maching gun pointed at my feet, a finger on the trigger, and for them, this is clearly no laughing matter. I’m not laughing, either. A young, chubby man in civilian dress, stinking of cheap cologne, suddenly bursts out from behind them.
“Papers!” he says, as though looking for a quarrel.
Speechless, surprised, and startled, I hand him my passport.
“You’re coming with us,” he tells me, before even opening it.
He seems very jittery, mean-spirited. In a sudden burst of anger, I protest: “I’m a tourist, my papers are in order, you have no right to stop me.”
He wavers, heads over to his vehicle, and phones his higher-ups. In a long, painstakingly slow exchange, he explains the contents of my travel permit, which he angrily flips through in every direction, no doubt looking for some indication that I am, in fact, a terrorist. They must be calming him down. I don’t understand a word he says, but the attitude of the other soldiers is telling. Two of them get back in the vehicle; the third remains in front of me but rests his machine gun on his forearm, his index finger no longer on the trigger. Their leader finally hangs up, hands my passport back to me, and asks what I’m doing. He adds that people called them about me, saying I looked suspicious. In this country at war, both civilians and soldiers are afraid. And everyone is suspicious of everyone else.
Reliable indicators of my psychological state, my aches and pains all come alive at once. The road seems endless, and I crawl along miserably at four kilometers per hour. In a field, keeping an eye on two meager cows grazing in an equally meager hollow, a mother is seated in the grass, her little girl on her lap. The child is clutching h
er, one hand on her mama’s thigh, while the woman picks lice out of her child’s long black hair. I’m tempted to sneak a photo of this enchanting scene, decide against it, and instead wave my camera up and down to let her know that I’m going to take a picture. With a smile and a graceful back-and-forth of her head, the woman tells me “no.” Too bad, I won’t get the photo, but in my mind’s eye, even today, that heartwarming scene is still as clear as ever. My memory of it is likely even more vivid for having failed to get the picture.
A little farther on, two men are mowing a prairie by hand. They follow each other, slightly staggered, working the blades of their scythes together in one motion. As if they were driven by the same clockwork. I haven’t seen men cut a field by hand since my childhood. A short distance away, sitting barefoot in the grass, a third man is pounding his scythe in an attempt to restore its sharp edge. These two scenes of rural tranquillity, which call to mind a world of a distant past, frozen in time, perk me up a bit.
There are no restaurants to have lunch in along these small country roads. I nibble at a piece of bread bought the day before yesterday. Once again, I’m lost. The sun is beating down hard. My feet and hips are painful, and my back is dripping with sweat. As if that weren’t enough, I’ve reached a point where dirt roads head off in all directions to provide access to the hazelnut orchards. None of them, of course, appear on my map. I advance blindly, vaguely heading east as indicated by my compass. I finally arrive at a village, and an old man comes up to me.
“What country do you come from?”
“From France.”
“Our two countries are friends. Come have a drink. Where are you going?”
“In the direction of Hacıyakup (ha-djuh-yah’-koop).”
“This is the wrong road; my son will put you back on the right one.”
He offers me a chilled drink, ayran, a mix of yogurt and water. Never have I had such a refreshing drink. So I give in to the moment, in the presence of this generous old man, savoring old-fashioned pleasures that only walking off the beaten path can provide. His son, Hassan, starts up a motorized cultivator, hitched with a small trailer. Three kids, delighted to go for a ride, hop in with us, and suddenly we are rolling along through plantations of hazelnut trees. The trailer bounces over the ruts. The children laugh. Then we make for a hill covered in low-cut grass bursting with the vibrant colors of wild rhododendrons. Hassan drops me off on a knoll and points down below to the road that I have to take. I had been advised against walking after five or six o’clock in the evening, but time is passing quickly, and I’m still far from any possible layovers.
I head down into a very damp valley planted with thousands of poplar trees. Tired and achy, I ponder the thought that if things aren’t soon on the mend, I’ll have to stop for several days until my wounds are fully healed. It’s after seven when I arrive in a small town called “Gölyaka” but which, on my map, is strangely renamed “Gülkaya.” Another army ploy to throw off the enemy. There’s no hotel. Another town, Hacıyakup, appears on my map six or seven kilometers farther. I’m going to try to make it, too bad if at this hour ambushes are possible. Heading out of Gölyaka, I come to a fork in the road. Is it to the right or to the left? Some young people playing soccer in a field come over and form a circle around me.
“You’re going all the way to Hacıyakup? But that’s far, at least fifteen kilometers.”
“My map says seven.”
“It’s wrong.”
As far as that goes, I’m hardly surprised.
“Is there a hotel in Hacıyakup?”
“No, I don’t think so. But it’s late. We would be honored if you would be our misafir . . .”
And they seem so pleased at the idea, and I’m so tired and depressed, that I agree. They live in a hostel for students of various disciplines, funded by a religious foundation. The students are all devout believers. The daily schedule is austere. When class is in session, rise and shine is at 5:30 a.m. In the evening, studies until 10:00 p.m. It’s a spacious building, and, since school is currently out of session, many students have returned home. Thrilled, my hosts show me to an empty room.
While I take a shower, the cook, who had already put away his pots and pans after the students’ supper, prepares a meal for me. As I eat, the students bombard me with questions. There are quite a few rough patches in our discussion, but between my imperfect Turkish and their rudimentary English, we manage. We then spend some time in the large common room, delving into topics that get the discussion going again. They lavish me with their attention, pampering me, and I go along with it all. The most obliging one is Hikmet, a management major, who serves as house supervisor here. He’s twenty-four years old and has three years left before two years of military service, as required by a militaristic, warlike culture.
Hikmet, as much my protector as Mostafa was in Ambarcı, has his companions ask their last questions, saying that I need to get some rest. In the morning, when I wake up, he is already busy getting everything ready so that I can make an early start. We all have breakfast together. Hikmet walks with me into town to help me explain to the pharmacist what I need: some healing powder so the wounds on my feet recover more quickly. Then I heave my load onto my back, and my host accompanies me all the way to the road. He’s endearing. When I’m ready to go, he gives me a hug, and in English, he says:
“Thank you, Uncle Bernard.”
Thank you for what? All of Turkey can be summed up in those words. Imagine if we were to shift this same scene to some small French town, like Vesoul or Montauban. Would you ever hear: “Merci, tonton Hikmet”?
From there, I think of Ibn Battuta, the famous Arab voyager, who speaks in his journal of the Akhiya. The Akhiya was a sect that specialized, six centuries ago, in accommodating travelers: “Nowhere on Earth,” he writes, “is there a people more concerned for the well-being of foreigners and more ready to provide them with food, and satisfy their desires.”* And he tells how, in a city not far in advance of Antalya, two groups of Turks offering accommodations to foreigners actually took up scimitars and prepared to do battle just to have the honor of welcoming the voyager and his companions. Through arbitration and drawing lots, it was finally decided that the travelers would spend four days in each of the two abodes where they had been invited.
After Cırcır (djur’-djur), a village where I’m invited to spend the night, a schoolteacher tells me that, in the old days, every village maintained a house or room just for visitors.
Although this tradition is today a thing of the past, the warm welcome I’ve received in villages since leaving Istanbul by no means does injustice to the legend as it is told.
* TN: Located in the mountainous Massif Central region in south-central France. The chief city is Le Puy-en-Velay.
* Voyageurs arabes, translated into French from the Arabic by Paule Charles-Dominique, “Bibliothèque de la Pléiade,” Paris: Gallimard, 1995.
CHAPTER IV
DOUBTS
I have to travel east on an unpaved road, but I come to a fork in the road. I hate forks in the road. Near a bus stop, there are two men sitting on a bench, under an awning. I greet them.
“Is the road to Beyköy (bay’-kuh) to the right or to the left?”
The two men, both perfectly self-assured and with comic effect, point in opposite directions at exactly the same time.
“They both lead to Beyköy?”
“No,” they both say simultaneously. And then they argue, each one claiming to be pointing in the right direction. Two cyclists out for a ride join in—in Turkey, as soon as a conversation gets underway, everyone rushes over to join in—and set the gentlemen straight.
“We are going to Beyköy,” they tell me. “Come with us.”
The road to the left was the right one. The cyclists are charming. One of them hitches my bag to his bike rack. I suddenly feel light and the sun seems glorious. In a village, the sound of accordions playing for a country wedding attracts our attention. A dozen men are
dancing in a circle in the middle of the farmyard, to the strains of a small orchestra. Orchestra is perhaps an overstatement, since there are only three musicians, but what virtuosos they are! A fat, beefy, mustached man is sweating water and blood as he coaxes throbbing notes from his Zurna that a short, quicksilver accordionist grabs from the air and uses to embroider a dancing tune, tempered by a maudlin violin. I’m entranced. Is this a special piece, just for marriages? It is far more than just oriental; the music is above all universal, the transcription of all that comes into play on a day when two destinies join forces. The carefree days of youth are about to give way to a life of responsibility and hard work. But, if it is a ponderous moment, it is also a joyous one, for what could be more cheerful than two hearts beating as one? A short distance from the men, a few girls spin around in circles, their hands stretched out toward the sky. Are they praying for it to send down to them, too, the man of their dreams? The bride—a serene young girl who seems almost surprised that all this should be happening to her—no longer has that to worry about. She has been made to sit on chair from which she reigns, like an empress, over a court of ancestors dressed in somber clothing, planning, no doubt, to give yet her a few final words of advice. Advice from the wise is indeed vital when one is still little more than a child. All the others are busy stuffing themselves with sweets. An ice cream salesman has dropped by the square on his tricycle. We are asked if we want to sit down and have something to eat, but we turn them down.
At the entrance to Beyköy, the cyclists continue on without me. It’s Sunday, and, just as they do every Sunday, after their bike ride, they return to their families. My bag comes off the bike rack and back onto my shoulders. I drink a cup of tea seated out on a teahouse terrace and I wonder: should I press on, or should I spend the night here? Beyond Beyköy, a vast forest awaits, and the terrain is rugged. It’s already late afternoon, and to leave now might be risky. Two taxi drivers chatting away at the next table assure me that the road is easy. They draw me a map. I would have three turns make. They estimate the distance of each leg of the journey: five kilometers, then two kilometers, and finally three kilometers. After that, it’s a little complicated, but people will tell me what to do. Reassured by such detailed explanations, off I go.
Out of Istanbul Page 7
