Rewind- Mardin

The rest of the people on the bus were going further on, somewhere nearer to Syria and Iraq. The bus driver and attendant were talking, trying to figure out where to drop me. They decided to drop me out of town, guess the others’ interests won over the tourist’s. That’s fine, guess it should be that way if any.

I walked for half an hour up into the hillside town of Mardin. After a while, it became obvious it was gonna be a while, so I decided to ask a taxi for a ride into town. It turns out he was just dropping off and was still hired out, but the nice woman who had hired him offered to take me with them. For the next half hour, she stalled her plans and helped me find a hotel. The first two were much too expensive, and she had the idea to go a little out of town for a better price. On the way to the next hotel, she told me of the people I’d find in Mardin. Syrian Druze Christians, some of whom still used Aramaic, the language of Jesus, in their religious services. Syrian and Iraqi Muslims who spoke Arabic. Kurds speaking…Kurdish, and Turkmen who spoke the country tongue, but there weren’t many there she said. She was Syrian and Muslim, she was married to a Kurdish man, and she could speak English, Arabic, Kurdish and Turkish. “Can you speak any other languages“, she asked? “No” I had to reply, with some shame. (Along with the general language barrier on this trip, reminding me of ours at home, interactions like this finally drove me to start to learn Spanish.) When we arrived, she went inside to make sure of the price for me, and then bid me farewell, not accepting any money for the taxi. The smiles were genuine; Never did she get exasperated at her time being wasted. It was an extremely generous act. During these great times as a traveler, you’re treated as a fellow human, in fact, an honored guest. Different yes, but with respect, that never has to be a troublesome difference, it can be something that both people learn from.

After cleaning up, I took the bus back up into the white sandstone of Mardin. The town is famous for it’s architecture ornately carved from the soft white stone found in the region. There were dozens of intricately carved mosques and buildings, and the sight of these buildings and spires spilling down the hill into the endless view of the Mesopotamian is unforgettable.
While walking down the main street, I eyed a sign for a café, so I followed the narrow passageway between buildings till at the end it opened up into an unbelievable view onto the never ending plains. I plopped down, the sound of Arabic orchestras playing on the stereo- a sign of what was to come- and ordered a tea. I sat there as long as I could, staring at the green sea of land and all it’s history. Past the white spire of the Camii into Syria and beyond, as the sun sank and the muezzin called out into the fading light.

Mardin Muezzin Mesopotamian from Jason Williams on Vimeo.

I laid down 2 Liras for the tea and tip, and ventured back out into Mardin. I strolled and looked at the food in the restaurants. If you looked into a restaurant in Turkey, invariably someone would yell c’mon, or what sounded like “bweedung“. It was an invitation, a plea, a demand. Basically they wanted you in there. I got pulled in by a man with his family milling around what looked like delicious food. It was, and it was nice talking with them as much as language would allow. The son started playing music over his phone which sounded nice, so I asked him who it was. I wrote the name down in my notebook by the dozens of other recommendations I had gathered from people throughout the country. I can’t wait to start hunting down their music on the net when I get home, rediscovering the amazing sounds I heard in Turkey.

On my way home that night I passed by a shop whose steps dropped down into an area dominated by a blazing hot brick oven. The men had an operation going. One kneaded the dough, one used the long wooden paddle to place the dough in the oven, one waited for the finished bread and prepared them for sale, and another rushed off with the bread somewhere. No matter what time of day, it seemed bread places were busy baking. And once made, steaming bread would often be shuttled off to a nearby restaurant or store. The rest was sold at the shop, again, usually to shop owners coming to get bread for their store. Bread was no joking matter here, and all places needed fresh bread to serve to their customers. This place was making an oblong, flat, pizza style bread. The men, seeing my curiosity, waved at me to come in. While keeping busy and smiling, they asked me where I was from and joked with me, calling me San Francisco for the rest of the few minutes I was there. They gave me a fresh piece right out of the huge brick oven. “Hey, San Francisco, for you, beaucoup, beaucoup.” I shot a quick video of them while they worked and joked, and started chompin’ on the hot bread. It was amazing!

She's a Brick...Oven, Mardin from Jason Williams on Vimeo.

I thanked them as they joked, and finished the whole piece of bread on the walk back home, even though I had just eaten a full dinner. Some things you just got to have, right then, even if you pay for it later.

The next day, after exploring the uppermost part of the town, underneath the Citadel, I made my way back through town. I passed a CD shop where one man was playing baglama and the other singing and drumming. I doubled back, nodded to them as they sang, and shot a video. The man sang soulfully, and the song was memorable, so much so that I was humming it even as I left town.

Mardin Music from Jason Williams on Vimeo.

When they finished, I asked them if that was some of the music from around Mardin, which I had been told was revered throughout Turkey. They said yes, and pointed to a CD of Kerim, a Mardin musician. The same, they said. I bought it, and it’s one of the best Cds I picked up on my trip. The music is based around the idea of a geceleri, a tradition found in the southeastern part of Turkey, in areas with a more Kurdish and Arabic influence. It essentially means night music, but the tradition comes from groups of men gathering around at night and taking turns singing songs they know. The sessions can go all night into the morning, and it takes on a hypnotic feel. Although it strongly reminded me of nighttime sessions of folk musicians in the rural parts of the U.S., I think the difference is the essence of the music played. The example of a geceleri that I saw was also about getting into the feeling of the moment, and a singer could improvise as long as he wanted or needed, singing one word over and over. It was almost meditative. This expressive, plaintive aspect is actually something that struck me about Kurdish music in particular.

Farther down the road, there was a little instrument shop with uds, baglamas, a cumbus, even a violin. The only person there was a teenage kid. After I tooled around a little, he wanted to help me. We took turns playing all the instruments. I would attempt to play them first, then he would, with a real sense of command, pluck something out that sounded about as bad as me. It cracked me up though after I played some violin for him. He didn’t seem so pleased with my ability, and grabbed it from me and scratched some sounds out. This kid was on it. And not the only kid in town that was on it-
Earlier that day, I had asked about bus tickets out of town. I thought if I planned one day in advance I’d be alright ‘cause you could usually get a ticket for the same day without a problem. At 10 in the morning, the man at a major company said there were no tickets for tomorrow, and that the day after would be the soonest I could get on a bus. He said it dismissively though, and so I wondered what was up. As I checked bus company after company, all told me the same, but it seemed like they were answering really quickly, not even checking their log or computers. So I decided to ask later in the main part of town, the more touristy part. I saw a ticket office for the same major company I had checked before, and decided to try. I went in, but a kid of maybe 11 or 12 was at the desk. I asked if the owner was in. He said no, but he could help. He smiled, as I thought that I wasn’t gonna have any luck with the buses that day. I told him I wanted a ticket for tomorrow to Sanliurfa. He said one moment, called the main office, made sure there was room, and sold me a ticket. I was in disbelief, but laughed at the ridiculousness of it and gave him a high five. In Turkey, it was turning out the most capable people were kids. Even many of the kids I met on the street had a comfortable, easy confidence and would approach me just wanting to talk, to find out what I was doing there. They were the nicest and often the most helpful if I ever needed directions, and I guess the best at selling bus tickets… and playing violin of course.

Rewind- Diyarbakir

I took the bus from Rize, through Trabzon again, and for another 10 hours or so into Erzurum, in the middle of the eastern part of Anatolia. It was 5 AM when we arrived and dead cold. In the steely shadows of first light, I could see the outlines of mountains. As I learned later, this was the hilly part of Turkey, and people came here to go to a famous ski resort nearby. As it was 5 AM, there was hardly anyone in the bus station, and no bus companies were open, but I was supposed to transfer there to be able to get into Diyarbakir. I waited around for about an hour in the cold, unwelcoming hall, then the companies started to open. I got a ticket, then headed into town to try to get breakfast. I was only able to spend a few hours in Erzurum, but the view of the open plains into the mountains from the viewpoint of the old kale, or fortress, was unforgettable. It reminded me of pictures of the steppes and plains of the Silk Road, with landscapes of vast, open stretches of land. This makes sense, because this area of Turkey, with access to the Persian world, would have been on that route. I know for sure that part of the Silk Road network of routes went through the Black Sea area (including Trabzon) to the north. And possibly to the south, where caravans coming from the Arabic routes, through the Mesopotamian plains in present day Iraq and Syria or following the Mediterranean, might enter into Anatolia.

After a few hours I headed back to catch the bus, and after another dull, numb 6 hours later, I found myself on the outskirts of Diyarbakir. On the way into town, the bus pulled up beside a tank and swiveling gunner, who had his gun at the ready. It seemed some of the problems of the past between the Kurds and Turkish government had left some lasting effects. In addition, it was noticeably different than any of the other towns I had been in throughout Turkey. I had been told it was more Arabic, so that’s what I noticed first.

In retrospect, there were so many things that I experienced in this Kurdish part of the world, and this was my first view, my first experience with them. Diyarbakir is considered by Kurds to be their de-facto capital, and the Kurdish population spreads from this southeastern area of Turkey into the northern parts of Syria and Iraq. So the population fluxes within and through, with Diyarbakir serving as the major city.

The food was supposed to be very good here, and the kebab plates were supposed to be famous throughout the country. I have to admit, they were good- Kebabs of beef, lamb or chicken served with rice, char grilled peppers, onion, herbs like cilantro or mint with tomato, and hot, fresh bread. The dessert shops were very good here too, and I made up for lost time by eating as much baklava and related desserts as possible. For some reason, up till then, I hadn’t rocked the desserts.

I was approached during a meal by two guys who were very friendly, but just a little too friendly. It became obvious they were guides trying to make some money off of tourists. But they were nice and interesting guys, and both were named Merhat. One had worked in the Green zone as an interpreter, and kept joking with me, saying American colloquialisms- swearing a lot of course, saying things like “what‘s up man?”- He thought it was funny, so it was. The other Merhat was a charismatic guy that liked to joke around too, and during the conversation he let it be known that he could take me around the city the next day as a friend (guide, of course). We agreed to meet up around 9. I figured it was a little too nice of him to want to take me around the city for free, so I expected it when he started talking about price. He said he was a full time student, but in his off time he did tours for foreigners for some extra money, as his English was pretty good. I told him he should have mentioned that the night before, and that it’s fine, so I agreed to pay him 30 Turkish Lira($20) for a few hours around town. I didn’t want to be taken around to the mosques and tourist sites however, so I asked him to take me to a barber, a CD shop, and the Dengbeas house- a place where old Kurdish men sang- a place that he had mentioned the night before. He was noticeably thrown by this (I took this as a good sign), and was a little ticked for the rest of the time we hung out, trying to quicken up the pace so he could get to another tourist and his established routine, but I didn’t care much. To find great Cds with a local’s recommendation (music I‘m listening to right now), go to a cheap barber in the cuts of the souq, and wind up listening to old men recount tales while singing was extraordinary. Definitely worth it even if he did cut out early, telling me he’d meet me later. He didn’t of course, but oh well.

The barber experience was great. Merhat was able to tell him in Kurdish what I wanted, but it still turned out with a definite Kurdish look. And we joked that I should leave a mustache, to look like a real Kurdish man. Instead though I got an open razor shave, for the first time in my life. I said a whole hearted goodbye to the nice man as we left- maybe there’s a trust gained and a friendship started when somebody has a sharp blade to your throat and they don’t kill you, but rather make you look better.

The men at the Dengbeas house were something to see, and hear. They would interchange between singing and talking as if they weren’t different things at all. As I learned, this lone, a cappella singing is a Kurdish tradition, and usually reserved for the older men. Because Merhat took off after a only a few minutes, I had no translator there to know what the men were saying, but they made me feel comfortable anyway. They gave me tea and just continued singing and talking, sometimes as if I wasn’t there. We tried to talk, but the men knew it was futile, so we just joked a little, and they went about their business. What that did was allow me to be an observer, or spectator for something special, while actually being there in the moment. When they talked, I was able to notice the rhythm and music of it, and when they sang I could sit back and be in wonder, losing myself in the exotic sounds. I shot a few videos of them. Here they are talking:

The Rhythm of Talking from Jason Williams on Vimeo.

And singing:

Aww Dengbeas! from Jason Williams on Vimeo.

At the Dengbeas House from Jason Williams on Vimeo.

After a while it was time to leave. The nice man who was serving tea there wouldn’t let me pay for the tea, and I shook all the men’s hands on the way out. That experience gets even better as I look back, it was lucky to be able to see them.

The majority of the rest of my time in Diyarbakir was spent getting lost along random city alleyways and neighborhoods- stopping to eat at least once an hour- and getting a superficial glimpse of how they lived there. Kids playing outside the houses with the women watching from the doorstep, old men in the baggy, Arabic style pants on their way somewhere, me trying not to take pictures and move seamlessly, almost un-noticeably through. That was of course impossible, but I was always greeted with a smile or a quick non-judgmental glance before they got on with their life.
In the afternoon I walked along the huge Roman era city walls that extended for 6 km around and through the current city. A truly impressive site, and there was a nice park on either side of the walls with shade, trees, benches and playgrounds. As I sat, wrote and observed, I saw men quickly making their way through the park carrying glasses on a platter dangling from wires. I had seen this before in other parts of the country. It turns out it’s tea, and they were making runs through the park from local cafes. Damn, if that country doesn’t know how to do tea, I don’t know who does. It seems you could be anywhere and a guy with a glass of tea would pop up. Fuckin’ great concept- you don’t always need to go into a café for a quick cup of tea. In this case, if you’re thirsty when he makes his round, he would give you the glass, you pay, he leaves, and if your done before he returns you just leave the glass on the bench and he picks it up later. I’d love to bring this concept of tea and coffee to the U.S.- in a park might be pushing it, but cheap, good, smaller glasses of caffeine in a café would be a nice answer to the over-caffeinated cup of coffee, the super-sized coffee to go, and especially the latest tea bag from a box, served to you with some hot water in a paper cup. But this is highly dependent on the culture. People in Turkey enjoy tea like this 3 or 4 times a day. In small doses, a sweet glass of tea affords a break, or a pick me up, and it’s also an appreciated and ingrained habit in their culture. I don’t know if it would work in the states- we have our ways.

It was in this park, after some tea and while taking a damned picture of the walls, that I dropped my camera right on the lens. It was to doggedly hang on for a couple more towns, before crucial pieces of the lens housing started to fall off. But really, that doesn’t tend to be good for cameras, combining it with concrete.

So the next day, after a night of more eating, including much more baklava and delicious desserts, I made my way out of town, towards a city called Mardin. At the dusty, back alley bus station, while waiting and sipping on some tea from the café attached (of course), I noticed the people. It definitely seemed to me like some of these people were Iraqi. I realized that in heading to Mardin, I was heading towards an area not too far away from the Iraqi border. Also, Diyarbakir was sure to be a nexus of activity for Kurdish Iraqis, and many other Iraqi refugees for that matter. I thought this might be the closest feel I would get to Iraq. Crazy to think of, of course, and an incredibly heavy feeling.

So out of Diyarbakir, and across the expansive and endless plains of wheat. The post harvest clearing fires burning in the hazy distance, we made our way towards Iraq and Syria and the plains of the Mesopotamia.

Rewind- Rize

I took the bus, a one hour ride into Rize in the late morning, expecting a small town with tea fields surrounding it, the moist leaves glittering in the sun, people playing kemence and tulum while they pick tea berries. Why wasn’t anyone waiting with a cup of tea for me when I stepped off the bus?
Instead I was greeted with reality- more urban sprawl, and the bus dropped us off at a central location, with the lunch crowd coming and going- me lumbering down the sidewalk with my heavy backpack and violin, running into people and things. I was unpleasantly surprised, and started looking for a hotel. Rize wasn’t in my guidebook so I had no map, but I had assumed it was going to be easy to find somewhere to stay. After looking around for 30 minutes with no luck, I decided to take a break, put my things down, and just grab something to eat. This had become a habit of mine when I got into unfamiliar towns. Get something to eat, relax for a second, then ask the people working there for advice, or how to get to my next destination. But it was during that lunch, on a bench in a park, that I decided to bolt. The money was starting to go fast on this trip, and I came to Rize because I thought it was a small town that I could easily find music in. Instead it was more of the same city atmosphere. It would have taken much more concerted planning and money to get into the mountains where the traditional Laz culture and music was, but from a park bench, not possible. Of course, the more time spent somewhere the more you discover, but I was trying to reconcile this idea with a limited amount of money. So after a think, I went to the bus station and got a ticket for that night at 8. I would start heading down into eastern Anatolia overnight into the next day. But that meant I had all day, so I could explore Rize a little…

With all my things, I headed back into town, and with a little luck saw a tourism office. The nice man there gave me a few suggestions. I asked about music shops, and he pointed me towards one around the corner. As I walked in, the karsilama music thumped- two men were listening to a CD they might buy. It was the fast-paced, danceable kemence driven music, frenetic and repetitive. So far, I had noticed two distinct types of horon (the traditional Laz dance) music in the region- the more lyrical, with one person playing and sometimes singing, then the very fast paced kind with a full band or programmed loops laid down for extended 20 or 30 minute songs. This was definitely the former playing. I had also heard a form of music called havalari, with electric baglama carrying the lead in long, almost hyper songs. One young lady jokingly said it made them dance like crazy people, and that they loved it. It might have been like the rock music of those parts. This particular shop had instruments, mostly baglama and a few kemence. As with most other stores, the kemence were cheaply made, but playable. I took a look-see, but I had made my mind up to get one online later. So I hung out for a while, checking out CDs and enjoying the music overhead. Eventually, I asked the owner for his recommendation, and ended up with two great traditional tulum and kemence Cds.

I decided to take tourism man’s suggestion next and head out of town a little to the organic tea gardens. After waiting for the bus for a few minutes, I figured why not try and walk it up the hill, I needed some exercise. On my way up, I saw a small place with “Turku Keyfi” spelled out in lights. It also said baglama e guitar, so I figured it was a music venue. Looking inside, it was dark; must open later I thought, so on up the hill I went. It was a workout to say the least, but I was rewarded with great views of the surrounding hills around Rize. Every possible piece of land was covered with tea plants- around trees, houses, up the steepest incline, entire hills were terraced and cultivated. I got a real sense of the importance of tea in this region. Apparently, the tea is grown in the mountains and Rize serves as a center of processing and selling the finished product. Or it was that way, however now it seems Rize has also taken on a life of it’s own.
While I was in the gardens it quickly became overcast and it started to rain heavily- it seemed to fit the place perfectly. I looked out onto the Karadeniz (the Black Sea), and the gray clouds, dark blue water, trees and tea plants all made sense. I grabbed some tea and enjoyed the rain under cover of the café there during the storm. I noticed the tea kettle they used was like Basak had used in Canakkale. It had the steeped tea on a top section, with extra water in the bottom that you could reheat and combine with the tea in someone’s glass when serving. Brilliant, I was loving the different ways of serving caffeine in this country.

After a while, there was a break in the clouds, so I decided to head out. As I made my way down the hill, it started to rain again suddenly, and hard. I went from awning to tree to awning, and on my way down I passed the music place again. I saw a light on, so I went nearer to look- I saw people, but no one playing. As I turned to leave, a guy popped out to use his cell phone. He saw my violin and said “You play?”
“Yes, but I was just looking.”
“Come in, come in.”
Why not I thought, maybe the music would start in a second. What happened in the next hour or so was great. All the conversations were limited, but we got basic ideas across. The guy outside was Caglar, and his friend was Murat. They were the musicians that played there, Caglar on guitar and Murat on baglama. There was also Caglar’s dad, a woman in her 30‘s, and a couple younger guys working there. They asked if I was hungry, and ordered me a pizza from next door and got me a water. They explained that the music didn’t start until 7, but they said we should play something in the mean time- so I broke out my violin. They asked if I knew any Turkish songs, so I tried to play the few that I knew. And after I asked about the kemence and tulum music, they asked me to play some of my country’s dancing songs, so I played some up tempo bluegrass, foot stomps and all. They liked it.

The woman working there was very charismatic and had a great smile. She seemed very funny, and she was trying to tell me something, but the language barrier was too big. She was interacting with us all, telling jokes it seemed, while keeping busy with her work preparing the bar, but when we all starting playing music, she came over and started to sing Turkish songs. When she sang, she looked directly at me, not averting her glance from my eyes. I was drawn into the song, to her eyes. I had to peel away my glance a couple times out of habit. But unlike home, there was no fear there, or any consequences to looking someone in the eyes. She was just whole heartedly singing a song to me. It was enchanting, I’ll never forget it. How much this attitude of hers has to do with the Laz culture, I don’t know. While the ethnic makeup of this region is very diverse, the Laz are a majority. I was told the Laz were less strict in their observance of customs like veils for women, etc.. Whether this more relaxed attitude played into interactions between men and women, I don’t know, maybe. But I do know that the Laz culture is where most of the musical traditions come from in this area. It’s another pocket of culture, truly different than any other part of the country. And that variety, in turn, is what makes this country so interesting.

The guys wanted to play one of their songs. I think it was Caglar’s, he carried it on classical guitar. It had a driving, almost flamenco rhythm, but his singing had a soulful, Turkish feel. Murat interjected with baglama runs in the singing breaks. I filled in whenever it seemed appropriate. They wanted to shoot a quick video to put on their facebook page, and I took the chance to shoot one myself. I posted it on a previous post, check it out. Then, that quickly, it was time for me to go in order to catch my bus. I thought about staying and sticking with the experience, but they had a show to play, and I stuck with my original plan. They insisted on driving me to the station, delaying their show a little. How f’n nice those guys, a great experience. And I think back now- if I hadn’t been on my way out of town, with all my crap, violin included, this experience wouldn’t have happened. I took it as a sign that I was supposed to leave, and that it was supposed to happen that way. So like that, I left Rize and the Black Sea Coast, on my way into the completely different worlds of eastern and southern Anatolia.