This meditation flows from the writings of Mevlâna Jelaleddin Rumî. The twirling has an unlikely origin: Mevlâna, which in Persian means “our guide,” was a thirteenth-century mystic renowned for his poems and philosophical musings. It is said that his excitement with his own words often sparked him to whirl in public, even on the streets of his adopted town of Kona, in the Turkish Sultanate of Rum.
The ritual is a religious testament. Readings from the Qur’an are a necessary part of it, delivered in the context of a prayer. Halim had emphasized the importance of the recitation of the Fatiha. The end of the dancing must not be seen as the completion of the event; only the Fatiha could conclude the service—which, Halim had explained in our drive here, “should not be mistaken for a performance.” This part recognizes the memory of all believers, religious martyrs, and prophets from the time before Mohammed.
A whirling dervish ceremony. The swirling, twirling dance is a tribute to God by believers (the dervishes) for whom this Sema ritual is part of an individual spiritual journey.
When the Fatiha concluded, the lights were turned on. Although some visitors had unpacked their cameras, nothing of the whirling remained to be photographed. Halim had returned and met me outside. We drove away under dark skies lit only by the maturing arc of the moon. Our conversation during the drive turned to talk of the guests he’d hosted in his cave rooms over the course of a year and how they differed. He frowned on those he suspected only visited Cappadocia to cross off their accomplishment as though they were working through a prescribed grocery list of life-things to do. The triteness of their motivation bemused him, and he admonished me to remember the Seventh Advice of Mevlâna: “Either exist as you are or be as you look.”
FOUR
THE VAN GÖLÜ EXPRESS
“For it is commonplace that every voyage is an exploration and every journey a discovery of the true self.”
—Kildare Dobbs, Away from Home
Encountering Mount Ararat on his way to Asia in the latter part of the thirteenth century, Marco Polo wrote: “In the heart of Greater Armenia is a very high mountain, shaped cube-like … It is so broad and long that it takes more than two days to go round it. On the summit the snow lies so deep all the year round that no one can ever climb it.” Others before me had proved Marco Polo wrong on the latter point, and I hoped to join their ranks. But first I had to extract myself from my lodgings.
Halim had promised to drive me to Kayseri, an hour away, where I could catch the overnight train to Tatvan. While squaring up the bill for lodging, I noticed an entry for “transfer.”
“What is this?” I asked.
“It is for the taxi,” Halim replied. “You have the train station to get to.”
“Yesterday you said you’d drive me,” I reminded him. Prompted by his blank stare, I added, “All the way.”
“Did I?” His eyes peeped inward as though ogling his mind to find a posted note. Then: “I did.” He handled a cup of coffee, which looked very small in his large hands. He made as if to sip it, but set it down. “Let’s go now.”
He scrunched my oversize pack into the back seat of the compact car and sprang into a conversation about politics as we drove off. “These are better times in Turkey, but the outside world does not see. You are going where it is unsettled. You should stay here. The Kurdish part, it has terrible fighting near where you head. Think about this. Climb your mountain but don’t stay longer. Return to Cappadocia.”
I took it as a warning as much as an invitation. The day before, I’d had a brief look online to check the latest travel advisories. One US advisory stressed that “travelers should avoid public transportation in eastern Turkey, particularly on inter-city routes.” That made me wonder about how best to handle the ten days that were open to me once I was off the mountain. Should I travel north to Armenia rather than attempt southeast Turkey and its possible access to Iraq? Despite Halim’s warnings, I felt the desire to be where I should not go.
“That,” said Halim, waving his hand in front of my face as we drove along, three fingers pointing as one to the south, “is Turkey’s second-highest mountain. “We call it Erciyes Dağı. You will attempt to climb the highest at Ararat. This is more beautiful.”
“It looks stunning,” I said. “And that makes it all the more intimidating.”
“Mount Erciyes is the backdrop to Kayseri, which is city I will show you. First go to train station in the town center. Check for sure we have time.”
The train station was set back from the street to create a stately arrival point. Large letters designated it TCDD, the Turkish railway. We entered the station, encountering more noise than people, a testament to the level of Turkish conversation. An old woman sat on a bench, slouched over, her neck perched on the crook of a cane. I wondered if she was here to greet someone or to bid farewell, or if she was on a lonely tour of her own. At the other end of the long pew was an aged man with a sad disposition. A gentleman, I thought. Noticing his clothing, I reconsidered: a farmer. At the base of his forehead was a unibrow, once undoubtedly dark but now a single stitch of gray. By the looks of his shoulders, his was a life spent working the land.
Halim took my ticket and led me to the ticket booth. He spoke directly to the agent on my behalf. What might otherwise have been a prolonged discussion on my own became a blunt, “Train’s late.”
“How late?” I asked, concern slowly rising in my throat.
“Not much. Only four hours.”
“Ask him please if I’m booked all the way to Tatvan on the train.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “That’s where the train goes.” I took his assurance; it backed up my suspicion that the Istanbul rail agent had been wrong. As a traveler I tend to seek information that reinforces what I want to believe, correct or not. According to Halim, the train on this day was running freely all the way. I asked no further questions. Why would I, having heard the answer I had wanted?
Hesitant, Halim turned to the agent. When their banter had ended, Halim faced me, saying, “Maybe they will stop train in Elazig. It seems uncertain. If you get off, be careful there. They will smile while shitting you.” It was a phrase I didn’t understand, yet its caution was implicit.
Turning to more positive considerations, he smiled. “You must now have the best sausage there is. In the world. It is here in Kayseri. Special. I will take you.” I’d expected him to disappear after depositing me at the station. “Leave your big bag here. Check it. Then we drive. You can walk back here. Time is your friend.”
Our car argued for its right of passage in traffic around a large square, circling twice so that Halim could orient me. “The market. That you do. After I leave. It is right there.” His hand flashed in front of my face. “But first we find sausage.” His nudging of the car into a parallel parking spot was a feat accomplished by near misses but done with finesse.
“There,” he said. I followed his stare toward a storefront window displaying stubby links of meat, none of them looking obviously special to a visitor like me. Inside, a horizontal case held a sequenced exhibit of black to increasingly lighter colored tubes of foodstuff.
The butcher smiled at a compliment from Halim—there was humor in the air. Within a minute, four different types of cooked sausage, each shortened by previous slicing, were pulled from the display. With his knife he slivered pieces from three of them and a much thicker ration from the fourth. Halim popped two into his mouth; chomping away quickly while advising me, “Go slow. Taste.”
By the time the fourth slice was in my mouth, I was wishing for bigger bites of the spicy lamb and herb-imbedded beef. I could imagine the sizzling smell of it over a grill. It was enough to make me believe this actually was the best sausage in Kayseri, maybe the best in the world.
“Goodbye, Rick,” Halim said as I was buying supplies for the train trip. “You can get bread around the corner.” He was getting ready to leave. “Walk. You have to walk. But first get the bread. Then walk. Take extra for the train.” He then forgot
to leave, instead taking me to find cheese to go with the bread I was yet to find and the two days’ worth of sausage varieties I’d purchased. Soon my daypack was stuffed with provisions.
“Sweets.” Halim pointed me to another storefront. “Go there.” Gripping my hand in a farewell shake, he was gone. He pulled his car out of the cramped parking spot with one sweep of the steering wheel. Three fingers waved goodbye. Now I was truly on my own.
Arriving at the sweet shop, I took two bite-size chunks of what is internationally dubbed “Turkish delight” but in Kayseri is Locum, a solid-if-jellied inside of corn flour and sucrose dusted with icing sugar. While I was strolling to the market eating one of them, I heard a voice behind me: “Where are you from?” It was a youngster’s come-on, a greeting as bright as it was disingenuous. Before I could answer, the boy said, “I will show you around. It is best that way. Come with me.”
I demurred: “I’m fine. Thank you, no.”
He would not let go of the verbal chain, ignoring my continued refusals, that I soon realized were hurting my case, as they kept him tied to the conversation. Even after I said, “I’m walking away now, so you go too,” he stayed in my field of vision. Although it is rude to say, “Go away,” to someone who is saying, “Welcome to my country,” I sensed that the boy’s offer of help would only lead me to trouble, or at the very least a lightening of my wallet. The duel became a matter of which one of us could maintain polite rudeness the longest. When the crowd movement was favorable, I darted inside the market, around two quick left bends and as many to the right. I turned into an alcove, and he was nowhere to be seen.
One problem solved. But now I was lost.
My dawdling since arriving in Kayseri had only taken an hour or so. A stall near me offered a diversion, an array of colors for nazars, the talisman worn to stave off the curse of the evil eye—an antidote to the various ills my Istanbul taxi driver had warned me about. The malicious stare from an amulet can bring on a variety of maladies, inflicting jealousy and sickness. Counteraction is required. Wearing a cross is said to work, as might carrying incense, a nail, or other distractions that convey strength. In some countries it is socially acceptable to thwart this superstition’s damage by a pinch on the endangered person’s bum. That seemed to me an imprudent gesture from a visitor. The symbol hanging on the post before me, looking near exactly as the threatening one I’d seen in Istanbul, was correspondingly called an evil eye. The necklaces and earrings were pretty. I left without one, relying instead on the invisible travel gods that look after ne’er-do-well rovers like myself.
Halim had left me with a general sense of direction to get back to the train station. Making my way out of the market, I wound along a street, cornered into the main plaza, and saw my erstwhile “like to be your guide” youngster charming a middle-aged pair. I had to admit that he certainly worked for his money. With time still on my side, I succumbed to the lure of nearby side streets. That’s when I saw the barbershop.
I find barbershops irresistible (this is not as hyperbolic as you might think; I once journeyed days through West Africa en route to Timbuktu in Mali, all ostensibly so I could get a haircut there). There are few more honest places to hang out than where one’s hair is cut. Prices are usually set and posted, so tricky wording does not enter into the encounter. You want a cut; you get a cut. Deal. In barbershops, the music is what the owner wants to hear, and usually the music is local. It is also here that televisions are frequently on, giving you an indication of life in the surrounds. Mostly, though, it’s the other patrons who set the scene with their clipper-and-clippee repartee. Once, in another country, I’d sat in stunned silence as two barbers argued over my head as to what haircut I should be given. One grabbed the scissors away from the other and began hacking away at the hair on my uncut left side to demonstrate why the already-cut right side had been clipped in the wrong style. As they yelled at one another, there was a push and a shove. A razorblade whooshed in front of my eyes. To demonstrate how he felt, the knuckle of the man holding the razor hit the side of my head to punctuate his yelps at the other guy.
As I entered this Kayseri shop, the barber was busy with a balding man who was having his sideburns trimmed. Keeping his head down, the barber said “Buyurun” in greeting. His eyes glanced up, shifting to indicate another patron ahead of me seated on a side bench. The waiting man smiled his indifference and pointed me to the empty barber’s chair, then waved to indicate I’d jumped the queue with everyone’s consent.
Barbershops are like theater stages. People walk on in brief cameo appearances, then exit. The next act appears on the same stage in a peaceful, orderly sequence. I was on.
The barber clipped me up nicely and massaged my shoulders. Nearly done, he casually bowed over the glass countertop, reaching for a tumbler with a narrow mouth filled with some unknown liquid. Beside the tumbler was a stack of cotton swabs and a cigarette lighter.
Into this calm came fire. The barber was a self-assured craftsman, not one to give short shrift to an out-of-town customer. He would provide the Turkish finish for a haircut. He picked up the cotton swab, dipped it in the liquid, and let it drip—most of it evaporated as I watched. He took the lighter and lit the end of the swab, which then passed in what seemed slow motion in front of my eyelashes. The barber’s flame moved beyond my peripheral vision, but I had the mirror in front of me and could see him bring the burning stick close to my right ear. My startled eyes tracked his action. He blew the flame into the hollow of my ear and quickly clapped his hand in a slap over it to extinguish the fire, blocking my eardrum just as the heat reached it. The wax had melted, presumably expunged. Unwanted ear hairs had burned away. The barber took a wet cloth, wrapped it around my ear and poked inside with his little finger, removing the wax and gliding away burnt hair. That task completed, my fear abating that I might claim an eyebrow or two as barbershop casualties, he singed the other ear.
Done, I stood with a slight imbalance. His goodbye, more felt by my ears than heard, was warm. I had a train to catch.
“Vangölü Ekspresi,” the public address system blared as the train neared, followed by, “Van Gölü Express,” for those of us who were linguistically challenged. It was dusk. The announcement raised my hopes of reaching Tatvan. I went in search of a bathroom, walking by the same weary farmer I’d noticed here earlier in the day. His face was lined with stories but not worries, or so I thought when he looked my way. Unfamiliar, contradictory smells came from the bag he held on his knee. The smells intrigued and repelled, and I ultimately was glad to gain distance from them.
Freshly arrived from Ankara into Kayseri, the Van Gölü Express was a smooth-looking train, white with striking red doors. The coach livery was striped low down, with a narrow red and slightly wider blue line running the length of the consist (as the train set of railway coaches is known). Attached to each coach, rather than painted on, was a metal sign proclaiming, “Vangölü Ekspresi.” Turkish Railways call this their “classic train,” to differentiate it from the high-speed trains that link Turkey’s major centers.
Train arrivals often spark a flutter among people suddenly repacking luggage that has sat dormant for hours. An older couple hugged an also-weeping younger pair as though they’d never see one another again. A strapping man rushed to the station’s food counter to buy packets of food, preferring what he could see in front of him to the mystery of what he might find on board. One family of five swapped emotional hugs, seemingly engaged in the saddest goodbye—and then all of them boarded the train together. None of them got off before the train left Kayseri.
Turkey’s cross-country, eastbound train, in English the “Van Gölü Express,” promises the eventual destination of Tatvan, on the western shores of Lake Van.
The bustle organized itself as everyone moved to the coaches. The lone platform agent glanced at their tickets and answered their questions. He gestured toward sleeper cars as if to indicate, “Over there, silly.” When he looked at my ticket, he brisk
ly pointed down the line. Was it my imagination that I heard him say, “Over there, silly foreigner”?
My pack was laden with mountain-climbing gear as well as lighter clothing for any possible time in drier lands. I had over-packed, as is my wont, and was now predictably regretting the size of my bag. Climbing into the vestibule between two carriages, I leaned into the designated one, slunk along the aisle, and spotted my assigned quarters. Shouldering open the door, I dragged my bag in behind me, whiffing a suddenly familiar odor. And there, on my bed, already made down for the night, sat a sprawling man. It was the elderly farmer from the train station, his various foods arrayed. His unibrow scrunched into an arch as he watched my arrival, conveying his own disappointment at having to share space.
“Rick,” is how I introduced myself, strangely feeling like I was his inconvenient companion.
“Ick.” He smiled, offering his hand.
“Rick,” I corrected, taking his grip.
He smiled. “Ick. I, Murat.” He said this with a mouth full of cheese and held out a napkin with a chunk of it for me to sample. It was off-white and dry. Against my impulse, I accepted it, but was rewarded: a tentative nibble brought forth a gush of a lovely, salty flavor.
With night coming, Murat was at meze, the early stage of a meal between the appetizer and a starting point. He was well into his eighties, I thought. His clothes hung on him as if reluctant to be seen. Mine probably looked the same. His face was a gray-brown brindle with hooded, friendly eyes that conveyed understanding, though his sideways glances showed he was confused about my presence. The makings of his meal were strewn over a towel on his side of the compartment. He’d been preparing for his own on-board of privacy. The towel held slices of red pepper and bread crusts that had been pulled apart. Resting against the backboard of his (my) bench bed was a little cup of floating yogurt threatening to spill the moment the train lurched.
Full Moon over Noah's Ark Page 6
