by John Higham
Katrina turned a chair toward the wall. I heard a sniffle and saw her hand dab at her eyes.
“Jordan,” I said, “Omar wouldn’t pester you if you simply gave him a smile.”
Jordan looked up. With ferocity in his eyes, he growled, “Sometimes it’s no fun being a kid.”
Later, when September and I talked about this incident, we agreed that Omar’s motivation was innocent and he was merely trying to be friendly. We had observed that open gestures such as this were part of the culture. But at home, picking up a child of an acquaintance and placing him on your lap might land you in jail. Nevertheless, the situation had become so uncomfortable for us that we couldn’t stay, and we made arrangements to leave earlier than planned.
A few hours later we were on a fourteen-hour overnight bus ride to the interior of the country. We stepped off the bus at four in the morning in the tiny town of Göreme. The gray sandstone towers gave the landscape an alien feel.
“Ramadan starts soon,” I commented.
“Your point being… what?” September replied.
“Back home, the terror alert is being raised to orange because unrest is expected.” I paused. “My mom thinks we’re nuts being here during Ramadan.”
“Funny,” September replied. “My mom doesn’t think that at all.”
“What’s Ramadan?” Katrina asked.
“Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar. To Muslims, it’s a holy month marked by fasting.”
Katrina looked surprised. “Wow. I don’t think I could fast a whole month.”
“When the sun goes down at night people can eat all they want, and when the sun comes up in the morning, the fasting starts. This goes on every day for a full lunar cycle.”
Katrina looked confused. “I don’t get it. You mean people at home are nervous about a bunch of hungry Muslims?”
“It’s human nature to be afraid of things you don’t understand,” September said. “Remember Dilara, who we met on that island before we came to Turkey? She was afraid to visit the United States because she saw news clips about gang violence, but we think of the United States as safe. It’s the same kind of thing.”
“I still don’t get it,” Katrina said.
“Some believe that during Ramadan Muslims become more devout, and therefore, terrorists act more extreme,” I said.
“But not all Muslims are terrorists!” Katrina protested emphatically. “Nor are all terrorists Muslim! Everyone we’ve met here has been so nice!”
“You’re forgetting about all the Mr. Patty-Heads,” Jordan said, scandalized. “They are not nice!”
Isn’t it interesting, I thought to myself, how we can share the same experiences, and reach such different conclusions.
• • •
Göreme is in the heart of the vast Cappadocia region of Turkey. Large towers of rock adorn the landscape. The canyons are riddled with tunnels, caves, and spires of stone. The stone is actually volcanic ash, solidified into soft sandstone that has eroded over eons leaving behind tall, chimney-shaped rock formations. Many homes and dwellings are dug out of the rock, as was our hostel.
Just a few steps from the front door of our cave hostel a gentleman named Karim tended his shop, where he sold fruits and vegetables. Karim could frequently be spotted sitting outside his shop making small talk with passersby; even when he wasn’t, it was impossible to walk by unnoticed. He wanted to know all about our trip, where we had been and where we were going, and how we liked his country. Karim always had a piece of hard candy for each of the kids, and always had a pat on the head or a pinch on the cheek for Jordan.
Karim explained that the popular thing to do in Göreme is to go hiking in and through the weird rock formations. As Katrina was still walking stiffly, he suggested an easy walk from our hostel into Göreme National Park and into “Love Valley.”
That afternoon as we started out our hostel door toward Love Valley, Jordan protested. “I don’t want to go outside the hostel.”
“Just put on your baseball hat and sunglasses,” I said, “and come along. Remember to smile if Karim talks to you.”
“I already smiled once today!” Jordan protested, but he dutifully grabbed his hat and sunglasses as we headed out the door.
Love Valley is so named because of the three-story-high phalluses that nature has made out of the sandstone. Surveying the arid landscape from the road above the valley, it looked as though nothing could grow here. As we descended into the little valleys between the rock outcroppings we were surprised to find an abundance of wild grapes along the valley floor, despite no evidence of water.
We stopped for lunch. “Don’t you just love this place?” September asked, grabbing a handful of deep purple grapes.
“Yes!” Katrina responded. “Turkey has the friendliest animals. Jordan and I love to feed all the stray cats.”
“I meant right here in this place—Love Valley,” September said. “It feels like a whole different world. I love the feeling of being lost, wandering around these stone towers. We should come back here in a few years and spend more time exploring—”
“We should plant these apple seeds!” exclaimed Katrina, cutting September off, holding an apple from our picnic lunch.
“I think one long-distance apple tree is enough for one family,” September said.
As we left Love Valley we walked past homes that appeared the same as they would have a thousand years ago—conical towers of stone excavated to make a living space, then sealed with a simple handcrafted wooden door and window.
I was studying one of these homes when a woman opened the door and smiled at us, then beckoned us in. While from the outside the house may have looked the same as it would have a millennium ago, inside the floor was covered with wall-to-wall Turkish rugs, and the home’s one room sported a big-screen satellite TV.
Jordan’s eyes bulged. “Wow, Dad! Can we get a cool TV like that?”
Our host then announced, “I wove all these carpets myself. Where are you from?”
I groaned. We had been asked that question at least once an hour since arriving in Turkey and I had long since begun making up home countries at random. It seemed that no matter how we answered, the would-be salesperson had either lived there or had a cousin there. “Namibia,” I answered.
“Oh, I’ve never heard of that place, where is it?” the woman replied.
I was suddenly embarrassed for being so flippant. I also wasn’t entirely sure where Namibia was. Luckily, September came to my rescue. “On the west coast of Africa, bordering South Africa. Your carpets are beautiful, but I’m afraid we have no way to carry them with us.”
We all came out with several Nazar Boncuk stones to ward off the evil eye. The “stone” is actually a blue glass bead set with a white “iris,” and a black “pupil” in the center. Our host was aghast when she realized we weren’t wearing them.
“You must wear one so it is visible at all times!” She exclaimed. “It is our tradition.”
As we were returning from our walk, Karim surprised us by sneaking up behind and pinching Jordan. “Argh!” Jordan screamed.
Karim held out two pieces of hard candy, one for Jordan and one for Katrina. Jordan scowled, but took the candy anyway. As we walked away Jordan removed the Nazar Boncuk from his belt loop. Handing me the stone, he scowled. “This doesn’t work.”
• • •
“Make it stop!” I groaned. For all practical purposes it was the middle of the night, the silence shattered by the now-familiar call to prayer.
“Why so early today?” September asked. “Mr. Singy-Person wasn’t up so early yesterday.”
You would think that the room in our hostel, carved into solid sandstone, would be impervious to Mr. Singy-Person. You would be wrong. “Today’s the first day of Ramadan,” I croaked. “It’s time for the feast before the fast. Go back to sleep.”
Mr. Singy-Person does the call to prayer and the call to begin the Ramadan fast based on local sunrise and sunset
. I couldn’t help but wonder if the less devout ever moved north of the Arctic Circle during the summer, when the sun doesn’t set for weeks. I would make a lousy Muslim.
We enjoyed several days exploring the sites of Cappadocia, such as the underground cities and second-century churches, using Göreme as a base, and learned to love the friendly people, inexpensive food, and other-worldly towering stone landscapes. Eventually it was time to move on and we took the opportunity to comb through our belongings, culling items no longer needed and packing them to be shipped home.
I took a fairly large package to the fairly tiny Göreme post office. The lone postal clerk looked up from his crossword puzzle. I made the internationally recognized hand signal of mailing a package surface mail to the United States, which consists of pointing to the address on the label and then using an imaginary pencil to draw a boat.
We went through the motions of mailing a package. As the clerk made to weigh the package, I noted that the scale was a modern-looking digital unit, and that it needed to be plugged in. After plugging in the scale, the clerk placed my package on it, noted the weight, and proceeded to fill out a bunch of paperwork, leaving the package sitting on the scale.
I watched the clerk for a few moments while he filled in the forms. Suddenly the sound of a gunshot ripped through the silence. The clerk gave me a look of abject horror and put his hands up as if he were surrendering. My ears were ringing from the blast. The sound clearly came from the direction of the scale … or from the package sitting on top of the scale? A few seconds passed that seemed to stretch in an unnatural fashion. The clerk gradually began to realize that the Göreme, Turkey, post office was not under siege by a lone American. Ever so slowly, he put his hands down.
He gave a quick nod toward the package sitting on the scale and with a quizzical look, it was clear that he wanted to know just what in the hell I was mailing. My mind raced as I tried to think of what item in the package could have exploded like that, but I just couldn’t fathom how our REI Four-Man Half Dome tent could spontaneously combust. Plus, the package looked perfectly tranquil sitting atop the scale. I shrugged, a gesture I hoped was universally understood as “beats the heck out of me.”
It wasn’t long before we understood it was the scale that had exploded. To the casual observer the scale looked perfectly innocent, but it had weighed its last package.
My time in Göreme convinced me that for an American family, Turkey was at or near the end of the safety continuum. We found most Turks friendlier and easier to talk to than Europeans, but, curiously, they were cautious about talking freely about the United States. It seemed they did not wish to offend us by discussing the current state of affairs back home or the war in Iraq. My experience with the shaken postal clerk reinforced the notion we had gotten from Dilara: that we Americans were viewed as approachable, but also as quite possibly hazardous.
With our package in the mail, we were ready to make our way to Istanbul. It had taken fourteen hours to get to Göreme on the bus. It would take another fourteen to get back out. At the appointed time, we left our hostel in our familiar formation: Dad, Katrina, Jordan, and Mom, walking with our suitcases in tow to the bus station. Seemingly out of nowhere someone streaked in, swooped down, and hoisted Jordan into the air.
“You are mine now!” came the familiar voice.
It was Karim.
“I have three lovely daughters at home, but no sons.” Karim put Jordan back on the ground but held him by the shoulders. Karim turned to me. “I will trade you your son for all three daughters!”
I knew Karim wasn’t serious, but Jordan didn’t; he was fighting back tears and not doing very well at it. The situation was very awkward, as I thought of Karim as a friend. He had been very kind, reaching out to us in his way, but it just didn’t bridge the gap in the cultural divide, especially not to an eight-year-old boy who was still trying to find his place in the world.
I told Karim I was tempted, but I would keep Jordan with us. And with that, I took Jordan in my arms and carried him the rest of the way to the bus station.
• • •
Perhaps the most historic place in all of Istanbul is the site of the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia. The Blue Mosque, which isn’t blue, and the Hagia Sophia face each other across a large public park.
The Hagia Sophia was built and destroyed a few times before the current structure was dedicated by the Byzantines in the year 537 A.D. It remained the largest cathedral in the world for roughly a thousand years, despite suffering from the occasional earthquake. After the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans in 1453, the cathedral was converted to a mosque. Across the street from the Hagia Sophia is the Blue Mosque, which was completed in 1616. In 1935 Turkish president Kemal Atatürk concluded that the good people of Istanbul didn’t need two massive mosques across the street from each other and the Hagia Sophia was secularized and turned into a museum. Both structures are impressive and historically important to Christians and, more recently, to Muslims. Shortly after we visited, the Pope visited the Hagia Sophia. All the buzz on the news was about what would happen if the Pope decided to genuflect while at the Hagia Sophia.
Since the Blue Mosque is a place of worship it has specific dress codes, especially for women and for girls over eleven, who must cover their heads. We weren’t in the Blue Mosque very long when Jordan grabbed my arm. “That lady over there isn’t wearing her head scarf!” Soon we saw another woman sans scarf. Jordan’s little body quivered with excitement at the thought of someone openly disobeying the rules. Soon, he was clutching his notebook while darting in and out of the crowds, creating a tally of all women without head scarves: forty-two in about thirty minutes.
The entire area surrounding the Blue Mosque had been transformed while Jordan busied himself with his Naughty Tally. It was approaching dusk when we exited and families had put down picnic blankets covered with towering plates of food. On their faces people wore eager expressions and were poised to pounce on their dinners. Folks kept glancing at their watches and as soon Mr. Singy-Person shattered the silence, there was a great blur of elbows as the picnickers broke their daily fast.
John’s Journal, October 13
In a few hours we will leave Turkey for someplace altogether new and different. Although Jordan may disagree, Turkey has been a high point of our trip so far. Not just because of the friendly people and the stunning sights, but also because of what we have learned about ourselves. I’m embarrassed that I was nervous to travel here. There were no mobs trying to find us because September wore shorts, and Mr. Singy-Person aside, Ramadan at the Blue Mosque has been more like a carnival than a terrorist recruiting ground. My preconceived notions were completely off mark and I’ve never been so pleased to be wrong.
Upon leaving Turkey, I felt much lighter, leaving behind prejudices I had brought with me. As travelers, we were starting to walk the walk.
www.360degreeslongitude.com/concept3d/360degreeslongitude.kmz
Sunset at the Blue Mosque was livelier than a tailgate party at the Superbowl, only more family oriented. The carnival like atmosphere of Ramadan was enhanced by the mosque’s minarets, which were lit up like, well, like Christmas, for the occasion.
11.
A Dangerous Place to Be a Chicken
October 13–October 18
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
“Breakfast is until four? That’s nice, we can sleep in and still eat.” We reached our hostel near the Dubai airport just before 2:00 a.m., and the price included breakfast. The receptionist was in the process of explaining breakfast hours, but the gravity of what he was saying didn’t make it past the throbbing temples that result from sitting on a plane for several hours.
“Oh no, sir,” the receptionist replied. “Breakfast begins in just a few minutes, and continues for only two hours until 4:00 a.m. If you want to sleep in, I suggest you get your breakfast…”
I stood rooted to the spot, swaying slightly, trying to process this information. Ah, ye
s. Humor. He was making a joke. That’s okay, I can do humor, even with a 20-pound headache.
“… now. Breakfast hours have been moved up to accommodate the Ramadan fast. You are aware that Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset during the holy month of Ramadan?”
He wasn’t joking. We were given our meal tickets and were escorted to the cafeteria, where, at 2:00 a.m., we found many people dressed in white robes, reading newspapers and eating their breakfasts.
Not surprisingly, none of us felt much like eating. We collected our breakfast and took it to our room so we could enjoy it cold and stale after we woke up.
• • •
“Trust me.”
Those were the words uttered by a well-traveled friend in California when he was trying to convince us to stay a few days in Dubai instead of just making a plane connection on our way to Africa. “If you don’t believe me,” he continued, “just type ‘Dubai water park’ into the Google search box and then click ‘I’m Feeling Lucky.’“
Our ersatz travel agent had been trying to convince us that Dubai had the world’s best water park, and that we should pay it a visit, but a layover there made me nervous. “Don’t they paint a bull’s-eye on the forehead of every American as part of clearing customs?” I asked.
“It’s not like that at all. Trust me.”
So, we did.
The promise of the world’s best water park brought us to Dubai, yet nothing was more important to the survival of our little troupe’s emotional health than going to Chili’s. Yes. That Chili’s.
You must understand that the “molten chocolate cake” from Chili’s is a necessary dietary component. We knew at the outset it would be one of the things we missed most during our travels. A few days before we stepped on the plane to Iceland we were having what we thought would be our last molten chocolate cake for an entire year.
“I have a bit of news,” September announced. “I did some research on Chili’s locations worldwide and compared the list to our itinerary.”
Spoons stopped in midair. Everyone held their breath.
