Out of Istanbul

by Bernard Ollivier

  “No, I have four sons and five daughters.”

  Girls don’t count. A fact that doesn’t spare them from hard labor. Two of them are crouched in front of the fireplace, stoking a few embers as they help their mother prepare the meal. Before long, Sati, the youngest, sets some sort of high tripod in front of us and places a large platter on top of it, followed by the food. Cracked wheat, tomatoes, onions, and yogurt are served with traditional flat bread, warmed in the hearth. Göz serves the tea, which he draws from a samovar. At the end of the meal, Sati, holding a jug of water, plants herself in front of her father and holds out a wash basin and a towel. Without getting up from his seat, her father washes his hands and mouth. He invites me to do the same. I refuse, as in my eyes this forced servility is humiliating to the young girl and I’m reluctant to have gentle Sati serve me in such a manner. I’ll wash up on my own . . . if I can find a fountain, that is.

  I don’t find one and head out after dark on a risky expedition to the toilet, out behind the house. I finally manage to grope my way to the wooden outhouse perched atop a few wet and slimy steps. The roof must have blown off in a storm, so I can contemplate the stars, my buttocks poised over the manure pit.

  I sleep in a bedroom opposite the sitting room where Göz first welcomed me; it also serves as his bedroom. The house, just like all others in the village, has five rooms: the kitchen is in the middle, and the four other rooms are at the corners. The central room, heated by the fireplace, is where the cooking takes place and is also used to stow various agricultural implements. The four other rooms, all rather cramped, have rough lumber floors covered with linoleum, and two of them have rugs. Everyone is constantly removing their shoes as they go from the kitchen, with its bare dirt floor, into the side rooms. There is a minimal amount of furniture. The bed is a bunk with nailed slats on which a mattress has been set. A very narrow board has been attached to two of the walls about two meters up. It’s the clothes rack. It’s spiked with nails: these are the coat hangers. Carefully folded away in a corner is a pile of blankets that no doubt come in handy during the four months of winter, since the fireplace is the only source of heat.

  Like their houses, everyone in Kervansaray wears identical clothing. The women, beneath sweaters, some bright-colored, wear long dresses made of heavy, off-white material that drapes to the ground. They wear headscarves. I’ve noticed that the older women cover their mouth and nose in front of me only. Göz and the old man who paid us a visit, like all the men in the village, wear a cotton or wool vest over their shirt. The son is in a shirt without a vest. Although in cities it’s commonplace for men to wear a tie—Turks are not very fond of the casual “French look”—here, shirts are worn open-necked. A low rubber shoe, like a snow boot worn barefoot, is the rule. Last, all the men wear caps. I’m definitely not sporting the local look.

  Göz knows a few things about the Silk Road. Caravans heading south to Sivas by way of Zile used to pass this way so as to avoid the paşa’s heavy-handed tax collector in Tokat. He doesn’t know, however, where the caravansary was that gave its name to the village. It’s clear, however, that the distance from Amasya to Kervansaray, after the thirty-six kilometers I traveled today, would represent a demanding stage for caravans—demanding because of the 800-meter (2,625-foot) change in elevation.

  At dawn, Göz walks with me to the edge of the village. The next town, Yaylayolu, was formerly called Bacul (bah’-djool). The houses, based on a design like that of farmhouses in the Alps, are built atop the stable, such that in the winter the herd does the job of a furnace. The village was inhabited by Greek Christians for half a millennium. They left around 1550, according to what an old man from the village tells me. But is information like that of any real use to me? And what is its source? How many details were changed, how many were lost until finally, when telling his village’s story, he would come to sum up the life there with this bit of information? And what went on during the second half of the millennium? Does the man have a clue?

  Bacul-Yaylayolu has probably changed little since, in 47 BCE, Pharnaces’s troops traveled through the village on their way to battle. In a courtyard, I take a photo and chat with two women who are weaving a kind of long kilim with a loom that must have been from around forty-seven years before Jesus Christ, too. The rug, which must be at least twenty meters in length, is attached to a stake at one end of the courtyard. On the other end, a woman seated on the ground is pulling on the heddle so as to keep the threads tight. In the middle, the piece is suspended from a rudimentary tripod consisting of three long poles. The weaver is crouched down, sliding the shuttle to the right and to the left on the loom itself: two simple pieces of wood.

  I photograph two other women as well, superbly hieratic holding their large, four-handled platter. I had already seen this kind of object—carried by two men and covered with victuals—in a painting, The Peasant Wedding by Brueghel the Elder. The women have piled onto this stretcher of sorts an impressive stack of large galettes. It’s the entire family’s bread for the week, which they’ve been cooking in the oven since dawn. Everything, in this place, seems immutable.

  An hour later, I’m sitting on my rump in the grass on the undulating plain between erstwhile Bacul to the north and the village of Yünlü to the south. My altimeter reads 1,335 meters (4,380 feet). It’s here that, on a day like today perhaps, warm and gray, a famous battle took place. A half century BCE, Pharnaces, king of Pontus, set his mind on reconquering the territory—encompassing Armenia, Cappadocia, and Galatia—over which his ancestors formerly reigned. He declared war on the Romans, who occupied a part of the territory to which he laid claim and launched his campaign. Caesar, residing at the time in Egypt, was ordered by the Senate to go with his army to bring this impudent upstart back to heel. It is here, on this mossy stretch of land before me, that the two men battled it out.

  Looking out at the empty landscape, my back propped up against my bag, I daydream and let my imagination go. Pharnaces, who traveled the very route that I walked yesterday on my way from Amasya, his capital, took up position to my left. Caesar camped in the village of Yünlü and arrived from the south, from my right. The sun peers out over the horizon. Over there, to the east, the form of Mount Kocababa (great papa) emerges from the mist. The undulations in the terrain thereabouts allow the rivals to conceal their reserve troops. A mountain breeze shivers its way across the low grasses. The order is given. The Roman legion begins to advance in tight formation. And then Pharnaces unveils the terrifying weapon he invented hidden behind a fold in the terrain: carts with wheels fitted with scythes. The results are dreadful. The small, scrawny, and high-strung horses, like those grazing here near me now, lashed by their charioteers, charge into the ranks of the foot soldiers, carving furrows that flow with blood. For five hours, the battle is merciless. The men are exhausted. And then Roman Knights triumph. And Caesar, writing to the Senate, has his men engrave on a tablet the shortest and most famous battle report in the history of warfare. On this field where so many of his men died, he simply dictates: “Veni, vidi, vici.”

  These rolling hills, having witnessed the flash of naked swords and heard the cries of men casting themselves into the jaws of death, the moans of the wounded, the snarl of arrows and the crack of whips, have, for the past two thousand years, known calm. Today, the silence is broken only by the sound of the wind rushing over the steppe and the trill of larks climbing high into the sky. I sit dreaming for a long time before picking up my bag and getting back underway. As for the cunning idea of fitting scythes on the wheels of carts: it has a great career ahead of it in Hollywood B movies.

  Yünlü, the other village to witness the battle, is located off the main road to Zile, on the hillside. You get there by leaving the paved road and onto a dirt one. I happen upon two old men out for a walk. Once I’ve satisfied their curiosity, they inquire, staring at my bag: “In any case, you must be well armed. Rifle or handgun?” The question strikes me as absurd, so I answer with a loud laugh.
But to them, it’s no laughing matter.

  Down a side street I come across Hüseyin. As much as I’d have preferred to avoid him, there was no way: he’s seated on the ground, his head in the shade of the wall of his house and his dirty bare feet out in the sun, blocking the road. With a sharp adze like the one Ahmed the carpenter had, he’s carving very strange pitchforks, shaped like tridents with prongs that curve inward. They’re unlike any I’ve ever seen. They have three large opposed fingers: below, the index and the middle finger, slightly curving upward, and facing them, the thumb, curving downward. In order to engineer such shapes, Hüseyin guided how the shrubs grew in the hedges bordering his field for three years, then he clamped them and let them dry to get the right shape. Once the points are fully sharpened, all he’ll have to do is attach a handle.

  Hüseyin joyfully calls out to me, taking a break from his work. I take a picture, as I’m fascinated by antique agricultural tools. And these particular tools have been made in the same way from time immemorial. Hüseyin invites me to lunch. I’m hoping to reach Zile early, and so I decline his invitation, but he won’t have it: in a friendly but firm manner, he grabs me by the arm and drags me—then pushes me—into his house. In no time at all, I’ve set down my pack, having been led manu militari into the reception room. There’s no resisting Hüseyin’s cordial hospitality. It envelops you, it warms you up, and any reluctance you may have melts away. He wants to know everything. From the kitchen, the women listen in, taking turns coming back to the sitting room to glean bits of information and then reporting back to the others. There exists, in this house, an air of simple happiness, delightful images we can sift back through whenever the world fills us with despair.

  My host suddenly asks me to get up from the bench chest I’m seated on, lifts the top, and from a cage takes out a partridge that he has domesticated and is raising in his house. It parades about the room, coming over to steal a few leftovers from our plates. Hüseyin is happy to host a foreigner, and his joy is contagious. He touches my arm. He pats me on the shoulder. He seems to want to connect. If he let himself go, he would take me in his arms, hug me, and give me a kiss on the cheek. He’s a generous, caring man. A brother. A kind spirit. And when I pack up my gear, he insists on walking with me for some distance.

  The rocky road descends abruptly, full of ruts from passing storms, it’s rough and so steep that only those on foot can travel it. Our feet roll over the loose stones, skidding on the dry earth. Five hundred meters farther down meanders a mountain stream. The road to Zile follows it slavishly. Hüseyin walks next to me, taking my arm in his, as though fearing I might fall or leave him behind. It feels awkward to be in such close contact, but I’ve often seen Turks holding one another this way. And I’m moved by his show of affection. This man’s friendship is tactile. We reach a kind of outcrop with a view of the rest of the path leading to the main road. I continue the descent alone, but, for a quarter-hour, each time I turn around and look up, I see Hüseyin, looking very small atop his rocky perch, waving his arms to bid me farewell.

  All warmed up inside by this very spontaneous and freely offered friendship, I rejoin the main road, which, sloping gently, leads me all the way to Zile. In the narrow valley, two men high up in a cherry tree invite me to join them in their feast. I gorge myself on the fruit. In Yaylayolu, 500 meters (1,600 feet) higher up, the cherries were still green.

  Zile has managed to preserve its beautiful Ottoman houses. From atop the ramparts of the citadel that overlook the city, looking out to the east in the direction I’ll be headed tomorrow, I count six villages scattered over a broad cultivated plain. In town, I fail to find an internet café. But, after a lengthy search, some young people I ask lead me to the house of a photographer, Ihsan, also a computer enthusiast. He lets me use his computer. In my inbox I find, among other things, an invitation to Rémi and Rabia’s wedding, to be held on August 6. They’ve speeded things up, since back in Istanbul, Rabia told me it was on their mind but that nothing had been planned. Well, on August 6, I’ll probably be somewhere between Tabriz and Tehran. So, in my reply, I simply send them my best wishes. While I was reading my mail, Ihsan called one of his friends, Haydar Cuhadan, a correspondent in Zile for the daily paper Milliyet.* He interviews me for an article and films me for the regional television station. This is a role reversal: after a life spent asking the questions, for the first time, I’m the one answering them.

  The following morning, as I head out on the road, Emre catches up to me on his bike. He’s twenty years old with the face of an angel. He’s unemployed but will soon be leaving for seasonal work in a seaside resort on the southern coast. For ten kilometers or so, he dreams aloud about his future life, and he’s optimistic about it. In fact, this summer, he hopes to win over a rich Englishwoman and marry her. He’ll then be able to make his dream come true: to live on the green Isle of Albion with no need to work. I congratulate him on getting such an early start on a successful career as a gigolo. Miffed, he turns his bike around and deserts me. At noon, there’s not a single restaurant in sight. I ask a gas station attendant who confirms that I won’t find anything for another fifteen kilometers or so. He has nothing for sale, neither juice nor cookies. I’m about to get going again when he calls out to me.

  “But I have my lunch. Come on, we’ll share it.”

  * TN: Published in Istanbul.

  CHAPTER VII

  ONE THOUSAND KILOMETERS

  With hundreds of eyes staring at me, the appropriately named “Main Street of Pazar” feels endless. My arrival coincides with the exodus from the mosque after Friday prayer. The city is teeming with men who just attended the service. The sidewalks are overflowing, so I opt to walk in the middle of the street. No one greets me, no one says anything. People fall silent at my approach. Patrons in teahouses and shops step outside to stare at me. I’ve walked thirty-five kilometers in the heat. My shorts and T-shirt are soaked, as is my blue canvas hat, on which the sweat has traced white stripes. A man on his cart stops his horse to have a better look at the Ostrogoth who just arrived. I feel like a Martian with antennae and a flashing nose.

  The expression on the faces looking me over is neither stern nor inquisitive; it’s mostly one of stupefaction. With several variations on the theme. Young people elbow one another and laugh. Adult men try to wear an expressionless mask. Older people throw me an unabashed look of disapproval. I recall something that took place in Amasya. I was touring the city in shorts when a storm blew in. I put on my large rain poncho and got into a bus. While seated next to an old man wearing the cap of a pious Muslim, a section of my poncho slipped, revealing my knee. My neighbor, with an imperative gesture, lifted my poncho back up to cover up the patch of skin he didn’t want to see.

  As I slowly make my way up the oh-so-very long and dusty Street of Pazar, I come to a decision that I’d been putting off for several days, and that is to no longer go out in public in shorts. Yes, the heat will be harder to bear. But since I intimately share in the daily life of the people I meet or with whom I stay, it’s important for me to respect their convictions. The fact that I’m here surprises them, I can’t change that. But if the sight of my legs shocks them, then I have to do something about it. In any case, it’s good preparation. For I’ll soon be in Iran, where it will no longer be an option. No matter how hot it gets, I’ll have to walk with my arms and legs covered or risk being arrested by the formidable “komiteh”—the police officers in charge of enforcing Islamic law.

  Pazar is where I come across a municipal hotel for the first time. It’s inexpensive, clean, and has a perfectly functional shower, and with hot water, to boot. A triple stroke of luck. Spruced up, wearing clean clothes, I hurry off to visit the Seljuk caravansary at the edge of the city. The massive, square-shaped structure is made of large blocks of red granite. From the outside, the high wall is smooth, without windows or doors, and is flanked at each corner by an octagonal tower. The entrance is extraordinary. A very tall first door rises to a cla
ssical arch, topped by a keystone. But immediately behind it, a second door, although not as tall, is striking because the Roman arch above it is made of finely-carved stones with chiseled edges. It has no true keystone. The stones are a perfect fit down to the millimeter, following a broken line pattern. I tilt my head to the right and to the left, trying to figure out what design these zigzags might correspond to, but it doesn’t resemble a thing. Then I get the idea of looking at the blocks upside down. So I turn my back to the structure, lean forward, and glance up between my legs. Each design very clearly stands out as the profile of a man’s face. I count fourteen profiles perfectly aligned in a circular arc. That’s as far along in my examination as I get when I notice a man watching me, astonished at my posture. I straighten back up and smile at him, but he takes to his heels, convinced that the tourist he happened upon has lost his mind.

  The decaying interior gives an idea of the structure’s strength. Massive pillars of large, beautifully carved stones support gargantuan Romanesque arcs. In spite of one thousand years of stormy weather, the structure, overtaken by weeds, still stands. And with a little preservation work at the top of the walls, it could easily survive another thousand years. But will someone see to it?

  In the evening, having gotten to know several teachers who are delighted to practice their English and invite me to dinner, I’m surprised how proud locals are of their caravansary while nevertheless letting it go to ruin. The only response I get from my interlocutors, philosophers themselves, is a shrug of their shoulders. Inşallah.

  Along the road the next morning, a hunched-over old man is gathering grass, stuffing it into a large jute bag. He has a small goatee and blue eyes so clear that against his weathered face, they seem to be illuminated from within. We chat and walk for a while; him with his large bag cutting into his shoulder and me with my satchel heavy on my back. A pickup truck, piloted like a racecar by some young dandy, screeches to a stop to offer us a ride in the back. The grass man, surprisingly limber for his age, hops into the bed after tossing his bag in first. The show-off driver is displeased when I don’t follow suit, and, to show how annoyed he is, he takes off again gunning his engine and angrily spewing exhaust fumes in my face.