Pakistan/Iran/Turkey - Part 3
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1
INTO TURKEY FROM IRAN
"I'm from Pakistan. I’ve got a
lot to declare", said I entering Turkish Customs. "Musheriff eldum",
replied the officer. (He meant he was honoured.) "Gule, Gule." (go
laughingly), he continued and I was out in a wink with my backpack
remaining un-zipped.
I went to a road-side shack and
said loudly, "Salaam aleikum". Words of "Waleikum es salaam" echoed
back. Muslim greetings had been exchanged. I was overjoyed to see
that people were having curry with red chilies like us. I sat there
for a while and got a free cup of kahve (thick, heavily sweetened
coffee). With sign language, I was told that nearest town was
Dogubayazit and a dolmush (mini-bus) would take me there in about
two hours.
The dolmush ran swiftly on the
asphalt road, skirting the outer flank of Mount Ararat. The
mountain had a cone-like peak rising to 17,000 ft. It was
sunny, warm and dry. The terrain was endowed with natural beauty. I
saw lot of movements a little beyond the road. Being summer, whole
villages were moving to pastureland to find fresh grazing for their
herds of sheep, goats, cattle and horses.
Dogubayazit was a small town.
The population was mix of Turks, Armenians and Greeks. In the
evening, I went to an open-air cafe famous for its donner kabobs.
The glittering snow-capped Ararat was in full view. I had a good
chat with a Catholic Priest. Pointing out to the mountain, he said,
" Surely you know about Great Floods. Over there, Noah's Ark came to
rest ". I remained unmoved and un-interested. (As per our Holy
Book, Koran, the Ark was resting on Mt. Cudi (pronounced Judi), 240
kms southwest of Ararat.)
Next morning, I took a bus for
Erzrum. The road was bumpy with tight hairpin bends. A truck had
slid off the road the night before and was being hauled back. The
bus crossed Tahir Pass at a height of 8,122 feet. At one stop,
school children surrounded the bus and demanded pens. Some
threatened to stone the bus but that was just a bogy. They looked
smart in uniforms with military peaked caps.
ERZURUM
Erzerum was built at an
altitude of over six thousand feet on a hill. Towering mountains
surrounded it, many over 10,000 feet high. The climate was
refreshing. I took deep breath to store as much oxygen as I could
muster. A double wall surrounded the city. There were plenty of
mosques and churches. Its bazaars were large and well crowded.
Called souqs, they provided scenes described vividly in the folk
tales of "One Thousand and One Nights". The streets were narrow, one
could touch the walls on both sides by stretching arms. No
fixed prices but whatever the seller could get through cunning,
cajoling and conniving. The shops were piled with olives,
herbs, spices and handicrafts. Worth seeing was shoemaking with
tapping of the hammers on leathers - embroidered for wealthy and
crimson for poor.
In the afternoon, I boarded a
bus bound for Trabzon. On the way, the bus was frequently stopped
and searched. Foreigners were required to flash their passports -
blue, green or pinkish. Local held out their IDs. Kurds had their
IDs marked with a red stamp. Many times, they were singled out for
intense questioning. (Born unlucky, they are spread in Turkey, Iran
and Iraq and are fighting a losing battle for a separate
homeland).
TRABZON
Trabzon was located in
lush-green forests on the coastline of Black Sea. Blue and Green
colours mingled well. In the city, many historical building stood
like old guards amidst unspoiled beauty and splendor. Narrow
streets, small earth-roofed houses were still medieval. Raised
gardens and landscaping gave a dazzling view. The beauty was
enhanced by contribution made by a nearby University of Architecture
& Landscape. Other things which jacked Trabzon to glory
were: birthplace of Sultan Süleyman The Magnificent, a top football
team (Trabzonsport) and fine golden bracelets made by its
artisans.
In the evening, I went to
suburban areas. I walked by vineyards, apricot orchards and
melon fields. Mustafa Pasha (who wanted to sharpen his English)
joined me. He must have regretted it as my accent was horrible.
Nevertheless, he remained glued as my name was a like a magnet
to a Muslim. (Hafeez is one of the 99 names of God). When I
told him my plan to go to Ankara, he reacted sharply as if stung by
a bee. "Ankara!! A cluster of modern buildings!! Is this you came
for? No dear no, go to underground towns. Get to the heart of
Turkey. Go Cappadocia (pronounced cup-uh-doh-kee-uh)." He was so
insistent that he changed my mind. I asked him to draw my itinerary
in his language. He started scribbling in Roman alphabets, emitting
words like Erzincan, Sivas and Kayseri as if in a trance.
Next morning, I went to an
Otogar (Bus-station). I stretched the hand-written paper towards a
bus operator. "Murhaba", he uttered and personally led me to a front
seat on a bus to Erzincan, 330 km away. What was written was so
appealing that I became personal responsibility of whosoever read
the massage: always front seat, convenient route and time. Many
places, I was asked to wait & take rest as it was
cumbersome to proceed on. Pushed from one bus to another, at long
last I reached Kayseri at 5 in the morning, half-asleep, covering
770 km since Trabzon, in 13 hours of bus rides. Luckily, every other
hour, the busses had been halting at brightly-lit cafeterias
affording me an opportunity to shake the swollen ankles and have
tea.
CAPPADOCIA
At first look, I was
disappointed. There was nothing except brown hills and rocks. Soon I
realized that they looked like Ku Klux Klan. These were conical in
shape, which resembled hoods & head to heal garments. They had
windows or ventilators looking like dark eyes. On reaching near, I
noticed openings leading inside. It took me some time
to realize that Cappadocia charm lied beneath the
surface.
Tourist-turnout was
astonishing, many had come from cities as far as Istanbul. Mostly
were in groups with prepaid packages escorted by smart English
speaking guides. Perhaps, I was the only solo traveller, without a
package, with no one to turn to in case of distress. I followed one
group and listened to the guide narratives. I changed the group
before being noticed. In pieces, I got the whole story without
incurring a dime.
A place called Goreme was
really a sight. Its had eight levels going down. The passages were
lit with bare light bulbs. Tourist voices echoed inside the
hollowness. It got cooler & cooler as I went down. At the
bottom, I felt reasonably cold and wished I had my leather-jacket. I
had to crane my neck to look up to see the sky, eight floors
above.
At night, I stayed in a
cave-lodge to have taste of the history. Everything looked normal
except the insects and flies. Luckily, I had plenty of
insect-repellent. I applied it well over my body. It was so
effective that even the housekeeper dared not enter. Next morning, I
had to wash my body three times before joining others for
breakfast.
"Anyone for Konya?" I asked
around. No one stirred except two young Turkish girls. They turned
out to be research scholars writing a paper on Sufism. They told me
in Hitler-accent that I could accompany them. Who would
not? They were such striking beauties. The only problem was that if
I tried to speak to one, the other also chipped in. It reminded me
of a pizza shop in Pretoria, South Africa where they said, "Buy ONE,
get ONE free."
KONYA
The taxi was heading towards
Konya, the home of the Whirling Dervish. The first dervish was
Jalaluddin Rumi, a renowned scholar. One day, walking by the
goldbeaters’ shop, he became enchanted by the sound of hammers. As
he uttered "Allah, Allah", he heard it echoed back. In a mounting
state of ecstasy, Rumi began to turn and whirl.
The two girls, Nilufar & Lale, were engaged in
heated discussions. For my benefit, they translated in English, a
message of Dervish:
Even if you deny your oaths a
hundred times, come!
Our door is the door of hope,
come! Come like you are!"
In the evening, the taxi
reached Konya. While the girls headed for the shrine, I scanned the
area to secure a place to stay at. I got a room above a cafe. It was
Sunday evening. The café was jammed packed with Turkish men watching
a foot-ball match on TV. They were crying, singing and jumping on
tables. "Football-mania" was going on live.
Next morning, I went to the
shrine, which had a mosque, dance hall, dervish-living quarters,
school and tombs. In the dancing hall, the dervishs were whirling.
Drums, violins and flutes were pounding out an insistent rhythm.
Dervish skirts were swirling horizontally, higher and higher. With
their faces rapt, they seemed to free themselves from the gravity.
When the skirts spun above their heads, they slowed down to let them
fall, symbolizing material sacrifices and surrender. Right arms were
raised and left arms lowered down, a gesture of reconciliation
between heaven and earth. Across a brief silence, there were cries
of "Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!" (God is Great!)
In the evening, I went to a
lokanta (restaurant). There was a wide variety like sav tava
(grilled lamb, tomatoes, onions, bell peppers and garlic with rice
pilaf). This could be washed down with ayran (a salty yogurt drink)
and finished with a dessert, borek (cheese filled pastry). Indeed,
Turkish foods were very tasty.
I stayed at Konya for two days
and took a bus for the next town. The ultimate destination was
Ankara. Travelling by bus was much more pleasant for non-smokers
like me. Smoking was banned on all
buses nationwide. From the bus window, I saw summer homes and summer
grazing of herds of animals. I stopped at two places.
This afforded me an opportunity to look around the nearby villages.
It was very pleasant to see rounding up animals for milking and
weaving of carpet in artistic designs. There were goats in large
number, famous Angora-breed, looking majestic as if they owned
the place. People were working in the fields with families. They
would call me over to share lunch or have a cup of tea. A young
man from a wedding party ran out and invited me to join them in
their ceremonial dance. Women picking cherries forced me to have
some. None spoke English but conveyed his best wishes and prayers
through body language.
ANKARA
At first sight, Ankara was a
pleasant surprise. Lush-green, it was like a Western Metropolis.
Later, I observed that the city was surrounded by strings of shacks,
shanty and cardboard houses.
Central area was clean and
tidy. There were a number of museums and Mausoleums especially of
Mustafa Kamei Ataturk at a hill-top. Chankaya, a residential area,
had a panoramic view. It was a rich-man world. Buildings constructed
on rolling hills were marvel of modern architecture.
One fine morning, I braced
myself for long and straight walk. It turned out a travel through
time-tunnel. The modern buildings gave way to old architecture;
streets became narrower and crooked. There were many wooden mansion
of Ottoman style. Some were converted into restaurants. A little
further down, I could smell the stink. I was entering Gecekondu,
houses built over night with all types of construction materials,
wood, asbestos, iron rods, cardboard and what not. They had survived
because of a centuries old Ottoman law stating that houses, one
erected, could not be demolished by anyone. The life was miserable
devoid of any amenity. It really pained me to see that benefits of
economic development had not trickled down to poors. Kids were
playing football on the road with their little bare feet. Some were
flying kites standing on walls and risking their lives. Women
were also standing on the make-shift walls waving a huge carpet up
and down. They wanted to get the dust out to make it
marketable.
With heavy heart, I returned
back and got lost in the bazaar. Every street was specialized in
some item: clothes, hardware, copper, carpets, spices, fruit and
veggies. In abundance were small restaurants (All-male preserve,
full of smoke). In the evening, I went to a hairdresser. He just
didn’t cut my hair, he also gave me a good look by shaving my face
and cleaning my ears and nostrils. Next, he directed me to a nearby
hamam, a Turkish steam-bath for sweating out all toxins. When I
walked after the bath, I felt light. Gone was the dust gathered from
slums around the Capital City.
I was now longing for Istanbul,
a city in the two continents. I boarded a bus of Turkish
Tourism. The inside looked like an air-bus with reclining
seats, hostesses and music. Fragrance was distributed every two
hours for rubbing face and hands. Turkish music was
soothing to ears letting one forgot the long haul. Sulman
Oghlo, the man seated next to me, was a teacher. He seemed
very happy as teachers were well-paid besides having free
accommodation, duty-free import of cars and last pay as
pension.
ISTANBUL
"In Istanbul, ask for Aya
Sofya" a French tourist said to me as a piece of worldly wisdom. It
turned out to be a windfall. There were lot of dormitories, rooms
and lean-to available for around one $. Some hostels offered
free belly dancers twice a week.
Istanbul was great except for the taxi rides. The
drivers used to make turn without indication, dashed in one way
streets, climbed up footpaths, changed lanes without warning.
Indeed, until one travelled in a Turkish taxi, one hadn't really
tasted Turkey.
Facing Aya Sofya was the world
famed Blue Mosque. On a busy day, it gave a bit of a Disneyland feel
with a large number of tourists milling around. Blue Mosque
had blue tiles and 6 minarets. Another popular site was Topkapi
Palace. It had large collections of crystal, silver and Chinese
porcelain. I got into a queue lasting one hour to get into the harem
( wives and concubines rooms )to gawk at the luxury of the
Ottoman Sultans. Baghdad Pavilion was another sight. One room was
devoted to silver stuff, one to pure 24-CT gold ornaments, one to
emerald ones and one to diamonds. I recalled having seen a film,
Topkapi, wherein a diamond studded dagger was stolen and
subsequently recovered.
Among the religious relics, it
was a lifetime chance to see tooth and footprint of the Great
Prophet, his clothes and his banner. These were enclosed in a golden
case and could only be viewed through a thick and protective
glass.
In
the evening, I took a bus to go to a ferry stop in the Black
Sea. Known as Hyder Pasha, the area was a living display of
true Turkish Culture. A large number of local people were
resting along the edges of the sea. Tea sellers were
paddling tea to the exhausted customers. There many stalls selling
fresh fish fired in a number of ways. Sitting in an
open-cafe, one could view the sea as well as the skyline full
of minarets with ship sirens in the background.
I jumped into a ferry
which cruised through the Bosphorus, giving an enchanting view of
palaces, old wooden villas, and mosques. An old bridge, Gulta, had
two layers - traffic up and pedestrian down. On return, I
passed by Pera Palace, an 1892 building where passengers
of "Orient Express" used to stay. In fact, Greta Garbo had
stayed here, Mata Hari and Dame Agatha herself who wrote 'Murder on
the Orient Express' . One could have a meal plus wine in the
most exclusive place in town for Ł25.
Istanbul was a city with a
character that invited attention or embraced visitors with
warmth. Too much of its historic fabric had been shredded
by new construction but a lot remained to see. The beauty
of the city was enhanced as it stood on seven hills. Turkey has
two faces: modern and old. Those living in big cities imitated
western style. In rural areas, people still lived in the same way as
at the time of Ottoman Empire. Little boys still wore skullcaps
and women continue to drape themselves in non-revealing
clothes. The villagers were hospitable and welcomed guests with open
hands. In one village, I had a chance to see famous Angora Cats
flowing with beauty. (Muslims love cats as the Great Prophet
approved it.) I patted a blue eyed female and an odd eye male. These
were said to be natural breed with original Turkish lineage.
Slightly larger, they had unique appearance.
RETURN
I had been out of country for
over two months and got home sick. It was time to head back.
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