Out of Istanbul

by Bernard Ollivier

  The tractor has caught up to me. The man who tried to take my camera, seated on the mudguard, leans over and grabs my backpack, trying to pull it off. He can’t do it, since the hip belt holds it to me securely. But he throws me off balance, and the tractor’s large tire brushes up against me. The driver steers even farther toward the ravine. This time, I can’t go any farther without falling headlong into the abyss. The tractor stops. The man on the mudguard is still holding my bag. I’m trapped.

  Then, out of nowhere, a car pulls up from behind us. The man lets me go. I straddle the tractor’s front wheel and make a run for it. It’s too late, unfortunately, to stop the car that has already zoomed past. I’m out of breath because of the sprint I pulled off a little while ago. I can hear the tractor starting back up behind me. They’re going to try again, and this time . . . But to my great surprise, they drive right past me. I quickly see why: a short distance away, at the foot of a small hill, is a beekeeper encampment. All I’d have to do is call out, and they’d hear me. The tractor heads off and disappears. Phew! I’m saved.

  I sit down on the side of the road. I can barely feel my legs. The bastards! They almost had me. From day one, I’ve kept a careful eye on my gear. I never leave it in my hotel room unless the key’s in my pocket. Otherwise, it’s always within reach. At any moment, I might need one of the small objects it’s carrying: ointments and remedies, my miraculous Swiss knife, my water jug, and above all, my maps, books, notebook, and scratchpads. The only object thieves would be interested in is the camera, but it would be a fool’s prize: it’s a very new model, one not yet for sale in Turkey, and a special process is required to develop the film.

  Once my heart rate is back to normal, I head off again, but not without waving to the beekeepers, to whom I owe a great deal of thanks that I’m still in one piece. Unaware of the role they played, they wave back but keep right on working. They’ve come from the Black Sea coast to make their full year’s salary in just three months. So, just like their bees, they’re relentlessly busy.

  I head up the small hill at the foot of which sits their camp. I reach the summit, and, just ahead, in a curve in the road, I see a shadow, that of a man or animal, hiding from me. More cautious now, I come to a halt. An opportune hillock to my left should serve as a mirador. I climb to the top, making sure that the “shadow” cannot see me. Then I rediscover the moves and tricks I used as a child, when we pretended we were Indians hiding from the enemy. And the enemy is really there, ready to ambush me. One of the three cowboys has his eye on the road, the other two are smoking. They’ve hidden the tractor behind a rock.

  I don’t want a war—especially since I’m not up to the challenge—and so I choose to head back and have a chat with my beekeepers. I don’t really understand what they’re doing, relentlessly nailing little wood trellises that miraculously seem to fit into the hives, but what I do understand is that I’m a bother to them. They of course offer me tea. I tell them about my journey, wanting to stall and, above all, to avoid being alone. After a half-hour, the situation gets complicated. There are long spells of silence. Should I tell them about my three bandits? I’m not sure. Around us, the bees are swooping by, and I find myself absorbed in idle contemplation, as if the study of apian species were my favorite way to relax. In fact, it’s getting late and the youngest one, who must think that I—the old man next to him—am friendly but slow-witted, shows me his watch and tells me what I’ll translate here as: “If you want to be in Alihacı this evening, you’d better get moving. In an hour, it’ll be dark, and it isn’t smart to walk alone around here after sunset.”

  Or before, for that matter, judging by the attempted robbery a short while ago. So I give in and blow the whistle on the three shady fellows waiting for me around the bend. The boy is a valiant soul: he suggests either that I share in their meal and sleep here tonight—under the stars, he advises me, since their tent is rather small—or he’ll drive me to the village. I opt for the second alternative because that way, even if they call off the siege, at least I’ll have my three attackers behind me.

  Climbing into Mustafa’s van, I’m furious with myself. In Istanbul, I vowed that I would walk from the former Turkish capital all the way to the former Chinese capital, without skipping a single kilometer. And now here I am, being driven like grandpa in a minivan. Sure, my safety is at stake here, and if I’m robbed, it could well be the end of the journey. But nevertheless: although I’m choosing the better of two bad options, my self-esteem takes a major hit.

  It hasn’t been long since my assailants broke camp, and we pass them not far from the spot where they tried to jump me. I can’t hold back a bras d’honneur as we go by. The stocky one with the beard laughs; at least he’s a good sport.

  In the village of Alihacı, Mustafa calls a young boy over and tells him to take me to the muhtar; then, in a hurry, he heads off again after having refused the money I handed him to pay for gas. The muhtar’s not there: I’m told that he’s away on a trip. His daughter, who promptly looks me over unceremoniously, asks the boy about me. “Misafir,” he replies. She frowns. Clearly, she does not like taking in transients, as they must mean more work for her. I take off my pack and decide to calmly wait to see how things turn out. Experience has taught me that it’s usually a matter of patience; it takes time for news to spread throughout the village. So we wait, the silent kid and I, in the shade of a line of poplar trees. The air is slightly warm; farmworkers are silently returning from the fields, exhausted from a full day’s work in the hot sun. Since the start of my journey, I never saw a village so glaringly poor. The houses, crammed one next to the other haphazardly, look the worse for wear. Over here, a roof in poor condition likely lets in water; over there, an inhabited house is partially caved in; leprous walls are everywhere. Dark-faced, shabbily dressed kids play on the dirt roads where a little stream has turned cow dung into mud, and it runs off as yellowish ooze. Slurry pits lie alongside the houses, and the stench of manure is heavy in the evening air.

  Finally, the muhtar’s son arrives: he’s a little man, thin as a rake, and his elusive eyes don’t make me want to trust him. But he asks me to follow him, and I comply, noticing, however, that he doesn’t head in the direction of his father’s house. We traverse some of the village, and little by little the whispering crowd dwindles. In a nook that must serve as the village square, two men are waiting, the muhtar’s assistants—village councilors of sorts, if I am properly deciphering the introductions. My guide takes a key from his pocket and opens the door of a small construction that opens out onto the square. In the first room we come to, a tiny space with a cement floor, we take off our shoes and then go into another room, hardly any bigger, where the floor is covered with rugs. On the left, a large bunk with a few sorry pillows on it occupies most of one bare wall. That’s where I take a seat.

  With the exception of the girls who are systematically made to leave, men and boys pour into the entrance room. With a seating capacity of about ten, it soon holds thirty. There they are, rowdy, packed like sardines, all wanting to see the marvel—me—and to listen as the mayor’s son clobbers me with questions. I’m seated at one end of the bunk seat, with my pack next to me. Several kids, with the help of a nasty-looking fellow, plant themselves right beside my gear, and, without delay, little hands are trying to open the zippers. I do what I can to stop them, explaining as best I can what’s in it. At the room’s only window, all the little girls who were not allowed to come in are elbowing one another trying to get a look at the stranger, but someone chases them away, like flies.

  It’s now 6:30 p.m. A resourceful-looking kid made some tea, and the little tulip-shaped cups are filled over and over with the lovely amber liquid. They let fly with the questions. No one in this village speaks a lick of English or German or heaven knows what. Dictionary in hand, I do my best to answer the avalanche of inquiries, wondering what kind of a certificate I might be entitled to if I pass this test. A place to stay tonight, perhaps? But, although I f
ail to grasp all the subtleties and quibbles of these impromptu sophists, I notice one word that everyone is interested in: para. Do I have money? How much? How do I make my money? What’s my salary? Do I have a car? How much is it worth? Am I rich? How much will my ticket cost to fly back to France? And every time, the word para is accompanied by a gesture understood the world over: the thumb sliding over the index finger. Am I armed? According to them, I ought to be afraid. The word “terrorists” makes the rounds. Accompanied by a nasty smile, there it is again, that other universal gesture: the pointed index finger moving from left to right under the chin.

  There are constant comings and goings. Generally, village elders reach out their hand and bid me welcome, then someone gets up to make room and they sit down. Someone tells them who I am, and inevitably they react by asking yet another question, always connected to money. Irritated, I finally ask:

  “But is money all you are interested in?”

  “It is because we are so poor, so very poor . . .,” replies a man with a large mustache sprawled out at the back of the room, lighting one cigarette after another.

  It is enough to have walked through the village or to have a good look at the people assembled here to believe it and know that these people lack absolutely everything. Even air is rare in this room, and if they continue to pile in and harass me, I’m going to die of suffocation. I make it clear that I’m tired, hoping they’ll focus on something else . . . And since I’m starting to get grumpy, and the crowd has had enough entertainment, little by little, they all give up on me and begin talking among themselves. The tiny, overcrowded room erupts into a brouhaha. People start shouting to one another: someone asks a question, setting off a volley of thirty answers. Everyone has something to say and insists on saying it.

  Not upset that they’re leaving me alone, I lie low and busy myself with the day’s notes. Two events—crossing over the one-thousand-kilometer mark and the attempted robbery—are still very much on my mind, and I don’t want to forget any details. A good half-hour has gone by without me paying any attention to the conversations, when the muhtar’s son comes over, followed by two musclemen, looking just as unfriendly as he does.

  They want to see my passport too, but I’m adamant:

  “I will only show it to the muhtar, when he arrives.”

  The son doesn’t insist. The able kid has already put away the teacups and the samovar and, in a few trips, has brought the victuals that it was the women’s job, ousted from the room, to prepare. A meal is served on a large platter in the middle of the room. I’m invited to sit with the muhtar’s son and two elders. The scene evokes that of the king of beggars eating with his councilors at court. I’ve positioned myself so that I can keep an eye on my pack, hardly a pointless precaution given that everyone has a hankering for it. Never has a backpack been so coveted: groping hands caress it, lifting it up to see how heavy it is, greedy eyes leer at it. Then, all of a sudden, a burly fellow, whose voice I have not yet had the pleasure of hearing up to that point, plops himself down right in front of me. It would seem he’s on an important mission. He must’ve been asked to speak on behalf of them all: he has been delegated to tell me that I’ve passed muster, and, ultimately, it has been decided that they like me just fine. Did I understand that correctly? Before going back to his seat, with everyone looking on in approval, he throws me a hint of a smile. Maybe I did get it right after all.

  By now, it’s dark out. I walked thirty kilometers today, from Çırçır to my friendly beekeepers, and the day’s emotions have drained me. I’d like to be left alone so that I can rest. But where will I sleep? I still have no idea and am waiting for the muhtar to come to settle the question.

  The man lying down, the mustache man who said they were poor, now comes forward and plants himself in front of me. Everyone stops talking. And, in total silence made all the more eerie by the earlier brouhaha, it’s the start of a surreal interrogation, one that would I would find quite amusing if I didn’t have the feeling that how I answer has a bearing on my safety. If I were to transcribe the main points of the exchange, it would go something like this:

  “What’s in your bag?”

  “A first-aid kit, clothing, food, a sleeping bag, a notebook, a few books . . .”

  “Do you have a map?”

  “Yes, I have a map.”

  The man triumphantly turns to the crowd and repeats in a loud voice:

  “He has the map!”

  The crowd responds in unison with a satisfied, “Ah!” Just what are they thinking? Sensing some kind of misunderstanding, I clarify: “I have a roadmap and a compass. What are you talking about?”

  “You have the treasure map.”

  I’m dumbfounded.

  “The treasure map?”

  “The Silk Road treasure. We know that there is treasure hidden along the Silk Road.”

  The suggestion is so preposterous that I cannot keep from laughing. But I’m alone in this. Their faces are grave. They stare at me unsympathetically.

  “Show us.”

  I take the roadmap from my pocket, or rather a piece of my map. To keep it in relatively good condition, I cut each fold out separately. I’ve often handed my map to peasants so that they could show me where I am. Each time, it was the same scenario: the sheet was handed from one person to another, everyone wanting to touch it. Up till now, no one ever took it for a treasure map! It’s pretty clear that if I give it to him—when you’re given a treasure map, you don’t give it back—it will go around the room and finally disappear. In this completely unfamiliar territory, I cannot get by without my map, its imperfections notwithstanding. I ask the fellow to sit next to me, and I produce the leaf of paper as if concealing it beneath my cloak, trying to attract his attention by tracing with my finger the route I’m taking, pointing to the villages I’m traveling through. His hand, as if beyond his control, convulsively grabs at the document, trying to snatch it away. Each time he tries to take it, I pull it away, knowing full well that I’m only making things worse, giving substance to the idea that I really do have treasure to hide. After endless explanations, he returns to his seat, seemingly appeased. But as the evening wears on, I have the impression that what was not said, what was misunderstood, and what was implied are gaining ground.

  Around 10:00 p.m., five people, whose attire gives the impression that they’re part of the slightly less destitute class, enter the room. Silence once again settles over the assembly. The two women aren’t wearing chadors. I’m introduced: they’re the schoolteachers. They’re from the area around İzmir. They’re not interested in my travels—everyone has filled them in on that—but in . . . my profession. At least what I say I do. From the outset of my journey, as I said earlier, I’ve been introducing myself as a teacher. I’m therefore a colleague. I say, in a sincere voice, that it’s a difficult profession, and then I shower them with questions so that they don’t ask me any. One of the women can utter a few words of English but is unable to understand. We go back to speaking Turkish, which means that I’m limited to very rudimentary discourse. They divulge that they’re not happy here. That life here is very difficult, and that it’s hard to practice their profession. They dream of returning to their hometowns, but before they can do that, they have to serve for several years in this remote burg.

  When they leave, it’s 10:30, and the woman who spoke the most with me takes my hand saying, with great feeling and as though overcome with pity for me:

  “I wish you much luck, much luck.”

  Her statement reminds me of what Can, the banker back in Istanbul, told me: “You will need a lot of luck.”

  Up till now, I can’t complain, I’ve had my fair share of it. But her merciful tone has me worried.

  No sooner have the teachers closed the door behind them than the muhtar’s son steps forth once again, still followed by his two thugs, and the ensuing interrogation might, once again, be transcribed as follows:

  “I want to see your passport.”

>   “Where is the muhtar?”

  “He’s not coming.”

  “Where am I going to sleep?”

  “Here.”

  One of the two guard dogs insists:

  “He is the muhtar’s son, it’s the same thing. Show him your passport.”

  I can no longer stand my ground without the situation getting out of hand. I agree to take out my passport, but only to the short, spindly man. I don’t want my passport to be handed around the room: I’d never get it back.

  So I ask him to sit down beside me. The onlookers are all there, circled around me, shoving one another to get a better view. Without letting go, I open my passport to the page that shows my identity so as to prove that it really belongs to me, then to the page with the stamps from Turkish immigration. Above our heads, thirty pairs of wide eyes peer down. The mayor’s son takes the booklet, thumbs through it for some time, wants to know the meaning of all the other stamps—from Japan, China, the United States, and Africa, in connection with my recent travels—and then stares at length at the Iranian visa that takes up an entire page. Breaking his promise, he hands it to someone next to him. That man riffles through it in turn. I’m as taut as a bow stretched with an arrow. It’s now or never. At the moment when the man, having looked at it for a long time, is about to pass it on to a third thief, and with thirty other hands stretched out to grab it, I literally throw myself into the scuffle and snatch it as it flies past. I put it back in my pocket, which I carefully zip shut, while a hostile silence takes hold, laden with the frustration of thirty onlookers. I’m furious that they broke their promise and am ready for this inept charade to come to an end. In a loud voice, I declare that I’m tired and would like to get some rest. No one seems to hear. They’ve regained their seats, are lighting up cigarettes, and the deliberations start up again, plausibly fueled by wild speculation of which it’s probably best I can’t understand a thing.