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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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