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.