Diyarbakir is the capital of Kurdistan, but no Turk will let you call it that. The Kurds express all too clearly that they have long wanted to establish their own state, and in response the Turks ban the Kurdish language and music and build military bases with large Turkish flags fluttering red and bold above them. All across Turkey, Kurdistan is known as a land of bandits and terrorists. But I know it isn’t so. Two years ago I was there with friends.
I am much more worried about the Turks. I have heard one too many unappealing reports about the behavior of Turkish drivers towards women traveling alone. Though the reports have been mainly about Turkish truck drivers working in Russia; and everyone knows it isn’t right to judge a whole nation based on those who come to your country to make a living.
I’ve finally found my way out of enormous Trabzon and am now on my way to Erzurum. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I don’t even want to. I should look at the map but I don’t feel like it. I better figure out how to wave down a car, why bother? I just want to walk and walk. To look around me at the pink and blue five-story houses and breathe the special smell of Turkey which I know so well and which awakens sensations, ideas and experiences I gained during my trip two years ago.
I feel so fine that I decide: “I won’t go by car today. I’ll just walk.” Hitchhiking is not really so easy: you have to talk with the driver in who knows what language. I did write down a few Turkish words in my notebook but that’s not really enough.
A big truck with a trailer, slow and tired, stops in front of me. The door opens and a 40-year-old Turk with a black moustache asks me something in Turkish.
“Erzurum, Diyarbakir,” I say the only words that come to mind.
He waves his hand inviting me to get in the car.
In the cab it turns out there are two drivers. The one who hailed me moves to the sleeping area — a place in the back of the cab where the drivers sleep. The other, in his sixties with a grey moustache and a three-day growth of beard, sits behind the wheel. The truck moves swaying slightly. I look ahead at the road and it feels like I’m still walking, except that now someone is carrying me.
The drivers calmly continue their trip as if a young foreigner with a big backpack hadn’t just joined them in the cab. Where is she going? What for? They picked me up not out of greed (which I fear), not out of some other personal interest, but simply because why should someone walk when you could give her a ride. Indeed, very simple.
I open my notebook to tell them who I am and where I’m going. “Russian” in Turkish is Rusum, “to travel” is gidiiorum, “road” is yol. The drivers become curious and then concerned: am I maybe hungry?
You know, sometimes it seems like you’ve never eaten anything tastier. This is probably what happens when you’re truly hungry. And maybe when the food is simple and natural, for instance, cheese, fresh bread, olives. And maybe, when you share this meal with people you met just half an hour ago and for some reason feel that there is no one dearer people to you in this world.
A hair of the Prophet Mohammed
I’m walking again, now on a road trodden through the snow. Tall, wind-swept snowdrifts, and no more smell of the sea. The sea is far from here, this is mountain country.
It’s already dark when my mustachioed companions bring me into Erzurum. Plaintively furrowing their eyebrows, they pleaded that under no circumstances I hitchhike to Diyarbakir. They even took me to the bus terminal. And what did I do? I immediately went to the edge of town and I’m now standing by the roadside, hitchhiking fearlessly and without success. People rarely pick up hitchhikers in these parts and there is no one hitchhiking anyway. For some reason, no one wants to go to “the land of bandits and terrorists”, especially not at night. Yet, here I am.
Eventually, a car stops in front of me. Yes, I’ll make it to Diyarbakir today after all! I’m in a hurry: the goal of my trip is to get to Jordan and Egypt, and I need to get across Turkey and Syria as quickly as possible. Pleased with my success, I get in. The driver is a 25-year-old Turk. He understands quickly that he won’t get anything out of me besides ben gidijorum Diyarbakir — “I am going to Diyabakir.” He starts the car and drives back to Erzurum! Oh well… I won’t make it to Diyarbakir tonight.
It happens often when you’re travelling that a local offers to help, asks a lot of questions and then, having satisfied his curiosity, discovers that he can’t actually do anything to help you.
This guy has already spent twenty minutes trying to understand why I’m going to Diyarbakir, why on my own and in what capacity. Soon he’ll make me learn Turkish. With the help of my notebook I’m learning the language quite intensively. Five times I wrestled with the thought of just leaving him there. I’m annoyed: I want to get a ride not a chat. “And why does he care? So annoying! He isn’t even going to Diyarbakir! Is he just interested in talking to a foreigner?” I’m pressed for time: today I should already be in Diyarkabir. In the end, the guy calls someone and passes me the phone. I hear the voice of a man speaking Russian:
“Hi! Where are you going?”
“First to Diyarbakir, then on to Syria.”
“On your own?”
“On my own.” I sigh and shrug my shoulders expecting warnings to start falling on my head.
“And what is the purpose of your trip?”
“Are you with the police or what?”
“No, no…”
The Turk takes the phone back and listens carefully to his Russian friend, while I cast an eye towards the door handle and then back to the Turk. I notice his eyes: serious and slightly sad, those of someone who is genuinely concerned. I forget about the door… What drives this guy? Why didn’t he just let me be? Did he not believe me in the end when I said that I know what I’m doing? Why didn’t he leave me, why didn’t he just go home to his family, to warmth and dinner?
The guy tears himself away from the conversation and looks at me, a look full of compassion and care, concern and anxiety. I can’t hold back — rays of happiness replace the lightning-bolts of anger on my face. In response he breaks into a luminous smile that chases away the storm-clouds of anxiety.
I take the phone back.
“The guy who picked you up,” says the translator, “is inviting you to his home for dinner.
“And then he’ll bring me back here? It will be even harder to find a ride later on.”
“No, he’s inviting you to spend the night at his house. Tomorrow he will take you back to the road, if you like.”
“OK.”
The Turk immediately starts the car. At last we introduce ourselves. His name is Nurula. Before he starts the car he turns to me with the words:
“Mama, baba…”
Baba in Turkish means “father”.
He shows me the ring on his finger. He is married. He does this to dispel my concerns and fears, unaware that he’d already done so wordlessly.
Several women came out to meet me. At first it was impossible to figure out who was related to whom and in what way.
On the way home Nurula picked up his elder brother Ahmed from his antiques store. In his long beige coat and a checkered sweater Ahmed looked impressive and impeccably elegant.
The women help me take off my backpack. As I unlace my shoes, I look out of the corner of my eye and can’t see all the way to the end of what looks like a huge apartment. The women stare at me point-blank unceremoniously.
They lead me along the corridor. The living room is at the other end. Nurula goes in with me, while the women remain on the threshold. The living room is skillfully and tastefully furnished with a table of dark wood, sofas and chairs with elegant gold-painted legs. The walls are bright yellow. Three men are sitting there. The oldest of them is about 55, the second one around 40, the third very young. They are busy with their own conversation; I sit on an unoccupied ottoman and pretend to observe my surroundings.