Out of Istanbul

by Bernard Ollivier

  Pasinler is a town known for its thermal baths. The hotel, catering to spa-goers, is comfortable. I’m unfortunately not able to take advantage of the water—which, I am told, is quite miraculous—for tonight is women’s night. High above the town, one of three walls of the former fortified castle has been cobbled back together. A modern must: the crenellations were rebuilt in cement masonry. The effect is bizarre, like a papier-mâché stage set, only looking real from several kilometers away. The bakeries of Pasinler sell a peculiar kind of bread, like a soft, flat baguette over a meter long. I tucked one away in my pack, and it lasted me several days.

  The following day, I decide to do an in-depth exploration of the Kurdish homeland. I haven’t had much news, but Öcalan’s sentencing doesn’t seem to have resulted in any serious incidents. My understanding is that the affair had the effect of sparking a polemic within the PKK itself. Öcalan, during the trial, indicated that he was ready to seek a negotiated settlement to the Kurdish question, going so far as to consider asking his supporters to lay down their arms. Some are heeding his suggestions, advocating an end to hostilities in the hopes that their leader, whom they fondly refer to as Apo (Uncle), might be granted some measure of clemency. Hardliners, on the other hand, point out that the man was drugged and undoubtedly manipulated during his trial, so no one can take his orders seriously. For them, the guerilla war has to be stepped up and brought to the country’s largest cities. They claim that only a renewed offensive would allow them to negotiate from a position of strength so as to help Apo avoid the worst. Images of attacks in Istanbul and Ankara are already flashing across television screens.

  Heading south out of Pasinler on a small dirt road that runs straight across an irrigated plain where early season fruits and vegetables are grown, I’m hardly reassured. But I want to see, to know, to touch the land of the Kurds. My first observation is that agriculture is the prevailing activity here, but that it’s carried out using antiquated tools. On Pasinler’s public square, I noticed more horses than tractors, and out on the plain, I see nothing but carts. The women and some of the men I come across are working the ground hunched over—I’m certain, though, that they see me—and they don’t return my greetings. I tell myself that it’s going to be tough making contacts, and I tackle the steep climb, somewhat on my guard.

  Yastıktepe is a mountain village that rises in terraces for one kilometer on both sides of the road. Half curious and half afraid, intent on covering as much distance as possible since I have set a far-off target, I decide to traverse it without making contact with the inhabitants. I have to avoid saying anything, not even hello, as that would be to open the floodgates for questions. So I do my best to return their glances with a smile, but one that’s not too approachable. There they are, ten, then twenty, then thirty, just standing there silently, watching me as I approach. I come up Main Street, avoiding the puddles of water or horse manure that have, in spots, turned the ground into sticky mud. I reach the village’s very last houses, but then, huffing and puffing, a man comes galloping in my direction and catches up to me. He’s very angry:

  “Where are you going?”

  Obstinate, I keep right on walking, but I have little choice but to answer him.

  “Payveren.”

  “That’s the wrong road.”

  “But my map shows that it is to the south.”

  “Yes, but you’re wrong. Anyway, come have tea.”

  “But I’m in a hurry, Payveren is far . . .”

  “Come have tea!”

  The invitation is nonnegotiable. His tone may not be aggressive, but it’s firm. The rascal pulls me by the sleeve. As we head back down, he holds onto my arm to make sure I won’t get away. A veritable committee of somber men is there, waiting for us. The rascal introduces himself. He’s the bakkal, and he invites me into his store. The usual interior. Very little in the way of foodstuffs, but three benches. Here, as elsewhere, you go to the grocer’s primarily to talk. The committee piles in behind us. A tall boy prepares the tea. The mood lightened up as soon as I set down my pack. Certain, now, that they’ll have answers to their questions, they’re happy and smile. They address me in Turkish but discuss among themselves in Kurdish. When I discover that it’s the grocer’s son who readies the tea, they laugh, since, with his twelve children, the bakkal is not about to prepare the tea himself. They offer to take me to Payveren in a tractor, since to cars the road is impassable. I turn them down, but, before leaving, I ask them if they’d like me to take their picture. All the men present walk outside. Some of them don’t want to be in the photo and go their way. They all wave good-bye to me until I finally disappear. This first contact in a Kurdish village is encouraging. No one brought up Apo, no doubt as a matter of prudence.

  The high trail is difficult to follow. I was told to go “straight ahead.” Except that, every two kilometers, there’s a damned fork in the road. It’s the perennial question: straight ahead to the right, or straight ahead to the left? My only option is to inquire, should I be so fortunate as to run into a peasant farmer, since they are few and far between at these altitudes. After walking for about one hour, a man on his tractor towing a trailer of milk jugs banging about, making rhythmic metallic music, confirms what I was beginning to sense: I’m going in the wrong direction. At the first fork, I should have gone straight left. He offers to take me back there.

  We’re rolling along a road cut through the rock, near the edge of a precipice. The jugs are bouncing about with renewed vigor, making a charivari to wake the devil. There’s no point trying to converse. While still driving, the man turns around in an attempt to reposition his seat cushion, which has slipped. My eyes follow his, for the cushion in question is covered in a stylish silk cloth that doesn’t match the rest. But as he keeps fiddling with his seat, I look back and scream. The road suddenly veers to the right, so we’re headed straight for the abyss. As soon as I scream, the man, even before turning back around, instinctively turns the wheel hard to the right, in the mountain’s direction. The front left tire nearly goes over the edge.

  His legs like taffy from the fright, he stops his doggone machine. He slowly turns to look at me. His eyes are full of terror at what might have been. His face has gone white, and I’m probably as ashen as he is. Then, all of a sudden, we burst out laughing. A hearty, liberating laugh; a resounding fit of laughter that echoes back to us. Then, as our hilarity finally dies down, there’s silence once more. We look at each other, then at the road, and then at the ravine where death was lying in wait, one hundred meters below, in a jumble of craggy rocks. And once again, we erupt in a fit of laughter. Good God, life seems wonderful when death, an idiotic death at that, has brushed past us. But what death isn’t stupid?

  We say nothing as the man puts the engine in gear and starts his tractor of doom rolling once again. At the fork in the road, I’m happy to get off and feel the solid ground beneath my boots. Still a little too shaken from the scare to start right back out, I sit down and let a good quarter hour go by. The path heads down into the valley then traverses a hamlet made up of a handful of sad-looking shacks. A man is shearing sheep in the shade of a high wall. Some snotty kids stop their games and stare at me. My reckless tractor driver told me that the people living here are Shiite Kurds. I decide to cut across the fields, since, a distance off in the valley, I spot the paved road I’m looking for.

  My map shows that I have to take a drivable road to the east. Eureka! I find it, but then, three kilometers on, two schoolteachers in a car tell me that I’ve once again gone off course. They offer to give me a lift to the right road. In their view, the Kurds are very angry. Since yesterday, there have reportedly been several attacks, and a veritable arsenal of armaments was found in Istanbul. They beg me to be careful and warn me that should I come across an army patrol, they’ll prevent from traveling the route I mapped out from one village to the next all the way to Ağrı (ah’-ruh).

  The dirt road near where they drop me off climbs along a gentle hi
ll. With sweeping motions, men are mowing grass by hand, and children, in the stream, are looking for crayfish while keeping watch over a few cows and horses. How could there be danger in such a bucolic setting, where cilantro and licorice grow on the wayside?

  Around five o’clock, some beekeepers from the Black Sea, of whom there are many in this region, hail me. “Gel, çay!” One of them beckons me into the portable hut they live in. Six loaded rifles are mounted on a rack. We walk around the outside of the tent. A fearsome Kangal, ears and tail cut, is chained nearby; at first it growls, then barks ferociously at my approach. I keep my distance. They tell me that they let the dog run loose at night:

  “The terrorists can come, they’ll find someone to talk to,” the older one tells me, his face as wrinkled as a baked apple. This will be his last season at high altitude.

  I’m starting to tell myself that the least I could have done was buy a gun in Erzurum.

  The village of Payveren is two kilometers farther. It suddenly comes into view as I round a bend. The earthen houses tucked away against the slope are grouped around two white buildings the setting sun has turned pink: the mosque and the school. On which door should I knock? Before leaving, I’d gone to see a representative of the Kurdish community in Paris; he, too, gave me a warning: “I’d feel better if you’d board a bus in Erzurum and not get off until you reach the Iranian border. But I suppose that’s not what you plan to do?” I’d confirmed that that was indeed the case, and, after I explained that I wanted to avoid the main road and get to know the villages, he continued:

  “All right. In Kurdish villages (he drew me a sketch), you’ll see that one house is larger than all the others. This is the ruler of the village. Knock there. If a woman answers the door, simply say, “I want to see the master,” and nothing more. In his house, you’ll be safe. And tell your host where you’re headed the next day. There’s a distinct possibility that he’ll let the entire clan in on your journey. That way, you’ll be more or less safe. And above all, don’t forget: never speak to women!”

  I look around for the largest house in Payveren. There isn’t one. Proof once again, as if I needed it, that reality likes to throw you off track and defy whatever you think you know about it. For after all, in Paris, things seemed simple: the ever-so-simple landmark of “the large house” where you’ll receive a warm welcome and where any difficulties that lie in wait down the road will be resolved was a nice thought, easy to keep in mind whenever I felt worried. But here I am, and Payveren—no doubt the exception that proves the rule—has decided to mess with me. After many unanswered questions, I get a taciturn fellow to agree to take me to the muhtar’s house. His shack is no different from any other, with a satellite TV dish on the roof. I knock. A young pregnant woman opens the door. I ask to see the master. Without saying a word, she goes back in the house. Several moments later, a string bean, hairy as a monkey, stumbles out. His face is bloated and his eyes cloudy. Is he still asleep, drunk, or stoned?

  * TN: CNRS—France’s “Centre national de la recherche scientifique,” or National Center for Scientific Research.

  CHAPTER XI

  . . . AND THIEVES

  The man, perhaps in his early forties, is at least twenty centimeters (8 inches) taller than I. With his disheveled mop of hair, his three-day-old beard, and tufts of black fur poking out of the open collar of his shirt, he’s the spitting image of an Ostrogoth. He immediately barks: “Papers, papers!”

  I take out my passport, which he pockets without even looking at. Then, he opens the door, which serves for two houses, and his invitation to step in is more like a shove. We set foot in a vast reception room. I’m surprised by the comfort of the dwelling, which is out of keeping with the appearance of these Kurdish houses. On the exterior, they’re cubes of gray masonry, without any visible windows, covered by a flat, dirt roof overrun with sunbaked weeds. The interior is cozy. The carpet and paintings give it character, and a small window lets in muted, yet sufficient light.

  Is it distrust or fear, or perhaps discomposure due to some unknown alcohol or drug? In any case, my host is agitated, nervous. I think back to my arrival in Arif’s house. Is this guy going to do like him and call the jandarmas, before even knowing who I am and what I’m up to? Against the backdrop of civil war prevailing here, and especially after Öcalan’s conviction, I’m not surprised that people would seem nervous. But I’m confident: I’ll fill him in, we’ll have a conversation, he’ll calm down, and everything will work out fine.

  No sooner have I set down my pack than the man grabs it and tries to open it. He probably has the same fears as the villagers in Alihacı. For him, this unfamiliar object must conceal a weapon or some untold danger. I’m ready to reassure him, but I won’t let him rummage through my things: that’s something I can’t stand. So, to gain his trust, I start taking out the little plastic or canvas bags, one by one, announcing what they contain: clothing, first aid kit, food, sleeping bag. He has sat down on the ground next to me and takes a quick look at all my “treasures,” then sets them down nearby, barely paying attention to them. Once I’ve emptied out main compartment, he wants to see what’s in the side pockets. I empty them as well. The first object I take out is a ballpoint pen. He quickly pockets it, saying, “for me.” At best, I find that his reaction is lacking in courtesy, but, then again, if he wants it, let him keep it. My knife goes down the same path, but this time, I take issue. I need it, it could prove handy in case I’m attacked or have an accident. But not wanting to provoke the beast, I take from the pocket my battery-powered lamp—which has never worked—and hand it to him.

  “Not the knife, no. But you can have this.”

  Just as he’s about to snatch it, I step back, asking first for the knife. He regretfully hands it over, then examines the lamp, which he tries in vain, and for good reason, to get working. I explain that the batteries are dead and that it needs new ones. But while he’s greedily examining the object, the mystery suddenly clears up. It seemed to me that the fellow was a little too young to be the muhtar. All those I met until now were mature men, sometimes even quite aged. And his behavior—the proof is right in front of me—has nothing to do with his fear of terrorism: he wants my knife and my pocket lamp.

  “Are you the muhtar?”

  “No, my brother is the muhtar.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In Erzurum. He’ll be back this evening.”

  “So give me back my passport, I’ll show it to him when he gets back.”

  “No, tomorrow morning.”

  And he goes back to toying with the pretty little—albeit perfectly useless—lamp. He wants to know what else is in my pack. But I put an end to inventory taking, glad that I didn’t open the pocket with my camera. Now that the search of my bag has come to an end, he puts his hand in one of my vest pockets. I quickly pull away and scowl. I try to act tough and intimidate him, but I know all too well that I’m at his mercy. All the more reason why I have to assert myself. I put everything back in my pack, despite his protests, reassuring him all the while. When his brother is here, I tell him, he’ll be able to look through everything. I wish I had first asked about the scoundrel’s identity. I also realize that he has brought me into the muhtar’s house, but that he lives in the adjoining dwelling with the pregnant woman I saw a short time ago.

  He sits down a short distance away, takes his lamp and pen out of his pocket, and caresses them with such pleasure that his face lights up with glee. His wife, glaring at me and full of curiosity, has entered the room and begins to make her way over to me. The scoundrel gets up, shoves and jostles her, trying to force her out. She resists. He gives her a poke in the shoulder, and she finally decides to back away. Over the next two hours, she comes back ten times, and each time he chases her away just as viciously.

  “Is that your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you hit her?”

  He doesn’t answer but goes over to my gear. Everything is finally becoming c
lear. He’s not drunk nor drugged, he’s mentally unstable. It remains to be seen whether he’s a gentle madman or a malicious madman. He gives me the willies: no doubt because he’s so big, but especially because of the hazy look in his eyes. And the brutality with which he treated his wife could, if I’m not careful, be used against me, too. And I’m trapped here, stuck for as long as I can’t get back my passport.

  An old woman comes in. He treats her with great respect. It’s his mother. In Kurdish, he sums up for her everything I told him about my journey. In any case, that’s what I imagine he says. She doesn’t try to talk to me, and recalling what I was told in Paris, I refrain from saying anything to her. Two kids, about twelve years old, exploit her entrance by slipping in, too, silently planting themselves in a corner. Once his mother has left, the macaque goes over to the children and shows them the “treasures” he managed to get from me. One of the kids wants a lamp, too: do I have any others? No.

  The brute takes my passport out of his pocket and hands it over to the other kid. I realize that the reason he hasn’t looked at it yet is that he doesn’t know how to read. The kid tries pronouncing the foreign words. I go over to the kid, putting on an air of innocence:

  “Do you want me to show you where the stamp from the Turkish police is?”

  He doesn’t say yes or no, but I authoritatively take the document from his hands. I show him the stamp in question, then the colorful page containing the Iranian visa. Now’s my chance: it’s all or nothing. I close the passport shut and slip it posthaste into my pocket, and carefully button it closed. The macaque rushes over.