Home, Near and Far

As I move the dirt around, trying to get it level, I hear the put-put of the sampon’s motor coming my way. He does his rounds about every hour or two. Because I live at the end of the road by the field, he turns around and gets two glances at the bule building his own porch before he moves on. Most bules would just hire someone to do it for next to nothing, but I enjoy it and don’t care. After a wave, I look back down to my project. I move the dirt around again, trying to get it level and ready for the next brick. Every action, whether it’s scooping dirt, leveling the sand or laying a brick, is accompanied by other thoughts. It could be a fragment of a song or a lingering memory of home both near and far. Or it could be a new thought about this place I’m in, my mind slowly making sense of this strange, different place. But...

...is it strange? Is it really that different? There are times when it’s perfectly familiar- when the smell of the soil, a person’s smile, the taste of some food seems like a nice memory from the past. Sometimes my mind stops reeling from the new and grasps onto something nice, timeless- maybe the view out onto the Puncak hills over iridescent green fields of rice and fruit; or the shifting gray and black clouds competing with the blazing sun to form another afternoon thunderstorm, thunder rumbling in the distance. Or it could just be that everyone you talked to on the way home from work understood what you were saying- in Bahasa- and you understood them. Sometimes things seem to be falling into place a little. Times when your mind can gain perspective, and you think maybe this is turning into a place you can call home, but that’s the second someone will see you and shout “Hey bule!” or “Hello mister!” as if they want to remind you how different you are, that you‘re not from here. Then that happens 5 times in the next 2 minutes and it seems everyone’s staring or laughing and your thoughts of home turn back to frantically dealing with the difference again.

But! You’ve learned to quickly shrug these thoughts off, because there are plenty of reasons why you should. There are reminders everywhere of the reality of the situation. Of how different you are, of how different this place is, and why that’s ok, be it good or bad. It could be any number of things, but it’s hard not to be touched by things here. The toothless grin of the bapau vendor as he wheels his cart into place, like he does every day. The warm smile from the lady working the counter at the store. Or the trash men grinding away down the road with their cart loads of scrap to sell. Or kids playing in the street, making funny, charismatic faces so knowing you thought only an adult could muster them. It’s endless really, these things, it’s all how you want to look at it. And most of the times the only way to look at it is: you’re not from here and you’re better off than most people here. Who gives a damn if you feel comfortable or at home, they have a life to live and it's not easy. There’s no doubt, sometimes you can’t help but look at things and say “whaaat the fuuuck!?” with a restrained exasperation, or maybe just… “why?”; but it has to be turned around. I’d be missing the point if I didn’t.

Warung Water

As the water slowly drips off the sagging tarp, a bucket waits for it below. This might be necessary if we were indoors, but we aren‘t. It doesn’t surprise me though- there's no wasting things here in Indonesia, and this warung is no exception.

I step under the tarp, say hi to the vendor and check out the food displayed. This guy’s selling Sundanese food, and the dishes are laid out on a makeshift table. 3 kinds of fish, 4 chicken dishes, 5 different vegetables- with eggplant, potatoes and local veggies made in creative and tasty ways. The man grabs a plate of rice from the steamer, I tell him what I want, then sit down on one of the wooden benches surrounding the table, followed shortly by my food. I grab some of the fresh herbs laid out to accompany the food, spoon some sambal (sweet spicy ketchup) onto my plate and dig in. As I eat, the man brings me some sweet black tea, an Indonesian staple which comes with almost every meal, and it does well to wash down the savory food.

I look out towards busy Pajajaran street during a break from eating. A constant string of motorbikes whizzes by, the riders paying us no attention. We are in just one of dozens of small warungs that pop up at night along this street- a tree in a forest of food. I glance over again at the bucket catching the water off the tarp and let out a little laugh. Now I’m pretty sure the tea I’m drinking is made from that water, and he surely uses it to wash the dishes. Why not!? It’s clean and free.

I love how quick I can get and eat the food at these places. It’s no bullshit, no frills eating, my favorite. I can be out and on my way in 10 minutes if I want. Sometimes a friendly local might talk to me, trying out their English or to see how much Bahasa Indonesia I know, but most times Indonesians will leave the bule to his own devices. However, as with all the other times I stop at these roadside warungs to grab a bite to eat, I am the main attraction. People will steal a glance at me whenever possible, their curiosity getting the better of them. It feels like they’re analyzing me, waiting for me to give them a sign of how crazy I am, but of course it’s more innocent than that. The truth is I’m probably one of only a few bules that’s ever bothered to stop and eat there. For that I don’t know why, because the food is beautiful and cheap, and the experience makes me glad I came here to Indonesia.

A New Thread

It’s to where I’m starting to get used to things here… and maybe taking the difference of it for granted. Talking to Mom was a nice and solid reminder of home. It was familiar. So the moment I hung up, I was reminded how different things are here…

On my way out of the house, heading to work, I turn off the lights. I flip the switch up; that still seems weird to me. Hopping on my bike and starting down the road, I glance back at the Puncak mountains, shrouded by clouds today and setting the backdrop for green fields of rice and fruit. As I glide into town, the stares start. A bule on a bike!? Wha? I turn down the road that heads through the tightly woven kampung. Street bumps- or sleeping policeman- slow me down every 50 feet or so, they’re everywhere. An effective but annoying way to slow cars and mopeds down and protect the dozens of kids and hundreds of people walking on and across the winding road.

Along the road is a house, followed by a tiny Sunda restaurant, followed by a house, then a warung- a tiny shop selling the daily necessities. Then I get whiff of livestock somewhere and to my left I see a chicken coop and a goat stall tucked in between the houses. A quick searching peak down the alley in between houses reveals a labyrinth of sidewalks laced through the kampung. I see a simple but elegant mosque set back from the street, calling no attention to itself. And after I pass, there’s a break in the houses momentarily revealing Mt. Salak, the impressive, sleeping volcano looming over the rolling valley outside town.

“Hey mister bule!”(hey foreigner!) I look around- it’s a kid yelling from the local school as I pass. Everybody watches for my reply…by now I know, it’s best just to smile and keep going. Rolling on, another sleeping policeman and more stares as I approach an intersection. But it‘s a frickin goat looking at me! What the hell!? Him and a dozen others are tied to street signs along the crowded intersection and will be bought and sacrificed for Id Adha, the Muslim holiday coming up.

As I cross the intersection to a quieter road with no bumps, I start a nice glide down towards town. I spot a construction site off to the left, the men working busily. But none of their tools are recognizable. Their shovel is inverted compared to an American one, they use a basket type scoop instead of wheelbarrows, and a man pats down a fresh concrete mix with a board tied to a string, pulling up and releasing, pulling up and releasing. And even though the street is quieter, it isn’t long until there are tiny carts lining the road, selling buber ayam(chicken porridge) or bakso(meatball soup), fruit stands selling mangos, papayas and bananas, and other warungs selling drinks, cigarettes, coffee, medicine, snacks, whatever...

Before I hit the true chaos of the main road, I take the chance to think back to my talk with Mom. I realize then what a regular and ordinary thing that was. That’s what was nice about it. It seems though, the regular and ordinary is becoming less regular and ordinary now. I wish I could explain this place to people, and I guess I’ve just tried, but it will fall short of the feeling. That only comes from being here... in...

Strung Outbound

Instead of concentrate on where I am right now, I’d rather concentrate on where my backpack’s been.
This bag has had quite a run. It was given to me by a friend who got it for free at work- luckily she worked at North Face. I started using it on a day to day basis because I had no other decent bag to go to and from work with- that was in San Francisco about 4 years ago. Since then I’ve used it practically every day… and in the meantime it’s been around the world. Like a close friend, I’ve trusted it with my most important possessions, and it‘s helped me carry the load hundreds of times.
It’s been throughout California and Oregon with me and my bike, trekked through Yosemite, flew to New York, Chicago, traveled to Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Singapore, and now to Indonesia.
It was the sole bag I used on a 3 month trip through the Middle East, barely fitting all my clothes, a laptop plus all the random things you need and pick up on a trip like that. And it’s carried loads of groceries, laundry, tools, and many other things way too big and heavy for it, but it always fits in there somehow.
And this whole time, with all the abuse it has taken, it has held up, albeit with a few minor repairs and stitches. So I thought I should write about it, because nothing, and no one else has accompanied me as often for the last few years, weird as that may seem. It has helped me, and I’m grateful.

Native String

A string tied to home has been let out. As if tied to a kite, it becomes taut or slack in the wind. A small tug here or more string let out. Perceptions change, and the string fluctuates from old fishing line to sturdy cable- but for sure, that string is tied to home, held there by people, places and feelings; and memories of people and places, feelings.
...the kite stays aloft because of that string, tied to home.

Gravity

Cold... colder than you last remembered.
Your frigid mood betrays even your most guarded fear.
You might as well befriend it, cause it has already done much worse, and can hold you at it's mercy.

No logic guides it, and it is as much caused by the warmth and comfort you reveled in yesterday.

The string is held from above and is pulled down, but everything has it's opposite. For some it seems unbearable, and inconceivably long. For others, laughable.

Hawk Medicine

A spiritual motivation. Words fail, left behind to do their damage.

To cry out, only one can hear.

For no reason a joy surfaces, the sounds that spurred it take on new meaning. The ability to reach beyond presents itself. But the choice is always there.

Let all pervade and I lose myself. Let the past present and future pull with their temporal powers, I am here no more.

To have tasted it after so long fills the void that was there. It seemed unending, now it is vanished. I will know myself when I am there.

Every time it washes clean, it grinds down the filth I put there. Every time I renew and see the lies and the truth, the possibilities, the endless choices. The only solace lies in that moment.

Born in the U.S.A.

Strung Out

San Francisco

It's the street after street filled with damp cars parked outside all night -- streaming ships of the city unable to find a harbor . . . It's the dreamy silence of Pier 44 on a sunny mid-afternoon -- where customs officers, white-capped longshoremen and shipping officials quietly play cards over a counter to prove that men can get along with each other . . . It's the endless rows of cabs lined alongside the places where people gather -- Yellow feet for the ones tired out in the work of having fun . . . It's the 7:30 p.m. flurry of humanity around the tiny neighborhood movie houses -- tinsel palaces of escape for those who slave by day in the temples of Big Business.

It's the smoky, all-night pool parlors of North Beach -- fraternity houses for the lonely brothers who've been black-balled by life . . . It's the Saturday tea dansant at the Palace -- where the most beautiful girls in the world gather under one roof not to be admired, but to admire Artie Shaw, who only looks the other way . . . It's the Old San Francisco restaurants -- with their ancient waiters serving the same old food in the same old way because tradition is their master and an increasingly cruel one, too.

It's the cold, refined handsomeness of outer Pacific Avenue, which picks up its skirts daintily and stares haughtily in another direction as the street swings into a less correct district . . . It's the frenzied burst of activity on the city's playgrounds each Sunday morning -- the people joyously breaking their backs on the Day of Rest, losing their heads in an escape from six days of headaches.

It's the parade of Willkie buttons in the noontime eating places -- men wearing their political hearts on their sleeves . . . It's the blind, hatless banjo player feeling his way smilingly along Post in the afternoon sun -- making tinny music for the ears in the midst of women making silky music for the eyes . . . It's the indescribable conglomeration of beauty and ugliness that makes San Francisco a poem without meter, a symphony without harmony, a painting without reason -- a city without an equal.

-Herb Caen

Petit Savanne

There’s something universal about how people take information in. And even more universal is the language of music. I was reminded of this again while visiting Dominica, when my Mom and I had the chance to visit the Petit Savanne elementary school in Delices. I only hope that the joy and inspiration we got from sharing in their lives for a day was equal to what they felt.

The kids were forthcoming and had very generous personalities, and we all learned from each other. They had plenty to tell us, but that day, sounds and smiles were enough for a thousand words. Now it's a picture's turn.

Musica Puertorriqueno!

I've been listening to Puerto Rican music for years, and I finally got to see some up close, live. The rhythm of the clave and drums in the tropical air made a little more sense. The bassist danced and smiled as he kept melodic time. Horns harmonized, the singer improvised, the dancers floated on feet tied to the elastic, ecstatic sounds of Puerto Rican salsa. Si!

New Music From My Turkish Friends

This is a recent concert including Filiz Kaya Bodur, a Klasic Kemence player whom I met while in Canakkale, Turkey. She played a few songs for me then, an outstanding, rare experience. The Klasic Kemence is an Ottoman era instrument, played by stopping the strings with the nails instead of the fingertips. I am drawn by it's vocal, singing quality, and it's nice to hear her beautiful playing again. The gentleman is playing the baglama, a lute derived instrument in wide use throughout Turkey and the Middle East.

Grup Fuzuli - Zeybekler from Onur Türkyılmaz on Vimeo.

The Sounds of Dominica

I’m back from an island that captivates, so green and mountainous, it truly evokes the idea of paradise. Volcanoes seethe underground, sending boiling water and steam into the tropical air. Bubbles escape into the turquoise waters around impossibly colorful fish. Dozens of birds talk in the canopy of the forest. It’s par for the course on Dominica, and the locals have found ways of living that fits with the natural idea of the island and it’s bounties. For the most part agriculturally self-sustainable, growing everything imaginable under the sun, farming plots cascade down the hills- the pineapple, banana, noni, grapefruit, nutmeg and cinnamon plants hardly noticeable to an outsider compared to the gigantic green ferns and palms growing alongside.

My sister and her husband decided to have their wedding in this setting, lucky for the families. We hiked through the volcanic remains and lush rain forest, snorkeled through reefs and ate the best locally grown food. The ceremony was on the beach and the reception on a cabana overlooking the ocean. That night, we listened and danced to great local music. The jing ping and bele concert, with the French derived accordion melodic influence mixed with African and Caribbean drumming and harmonies, was fascinating and reminded me a little of cajun and zydeco music from the southern U.S..

After talking to one of the musicians, I learned there was a man in the band that played the banjo. This was extraordinary, since the banjo would have appeared here at about the same time it did in the states. I was introduced to Hans, and he said he learned to play the banjo from his father, who was gone now. As far as he knew, he was one of the last players on the island, he hadn’t seen another. He couldn’t even find banjo strings and used mandolin strings instead.

As it was, he was a policeman, and could hardly find time to play shows at night, but he still played the banjo by himself once in a while. I promised to send him some strings and peppered him with questions. It turns out he plays a modern style instrument with 4 strings, but that his father played a handmade instrument. It sounded as if he used a stroking style, like the clawhammer style in the states, but I can’t be sure- I only got to talk to him for a few minutes, his kids were calling for him and he had to leave.

The link between the evolution of the banjo and the way it was played in Dominica and in the states was evident to me as I talked to him, but it wasn’t until later that I grasped the amazing relevance of that link. In the states, the banjo was often synonymous with the best and worst historical developments. It transcended mere musical influence and came to represent different ethnic groups at different times for wildly different reasons. Of all American instruments, it is the one most weighed down by history, and at the same time, made more rich by it. For some of the story, check this out:
http://nativestring.blogspot.com/2009/03/banjo-american-instrument-part-1.html

To get the chance to see how it progressed in Dominica and the surrounding islands would be amazing… maybe one day. In the meantime, I found a picture of another man still playing banjo on the island as well. A Mr. Pascal in Grand Fond.

Metis- Native Fiddle

Video Proof of De-Evolution

Cajun Stories

New Turkusu.

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.