“Ueaahhhkkk…” Out came last night’s lentil soup. Dribble. Cough. Spit. “Urrgghhh…” More of the same. Retch. Nothing I hate more than falling ill while alone on the road. I guess my luck has finally run out. The one day I did not drink any ayran (yogurt drink), I get the runs the morning after. Just dandy.
Will have to spend one more day here to recuperate then. Good thing I have my own (nice!) room and can lie in bed all day if I want to. Although, I’m certainly not looking forward to running to the toilet down the hall every time something feels like it’s about to spurt oh-so-forcefully from within. Well, at least the man who thought I might be a prostitute has checked out. Don’t think I could have managed the runs while trying to avoid him, not at the rate I’ve been skipping to the loo.
I need to go out. Want some drugs. My body feels wretched. It’s time to hunt down one of those eczanes (pharmacies). I’ve seen so many around town, I’m almost glad I finally have a reason to step into one. If only I can remember the exact location of one – any one. My only worry is that I’ll have to do the 500-metre dash back to the hotel toilet in record time, and in my weakened state too. Have spent the past four days in Van but I don’t recall ever seeing a public toilet. The wisdom of adult diapers and vomit bags suddenly dawns on me. Right now, medicine for diarrhoea and nausea will suffice.
I feel green as I step out into the glaring sun. My knees tremble a little with every step I take, and I find that it is so much harder to ignore the stares and the twenty “Hallo!”‘s when you’re walking at this pace. My eyes are open wide, searching for the “Eczane” sign, seeing none. I could have sworn I saw one on every street while I walked around town a few days ago, so I persevere on my eczane quest.
I see a crowd gathering two blocks ahead, and my curiosity takes over my frailty as I head towards the buzz. There is a big yellow banner strung across the street, the words “HADEP” in bold black letters beneath a picture of a big, black butterfly. Smaller yellow flags with the same imprint are visible everywhere around that block. As I turn the corner, I discover the source of all the excitement. There, in the middle of the street, is a small truck bearing yellow cardboard signs of the same black butterfly and “HADEP”, lively music and an impassioned voice blaring from its loudspeakers.
Everyone is just standing around, so that’s what I do too. A row of five women and two girls march past me, dressed in such finery as I have never seen before. They effortlessly weave through the crowd of men, and head towards the corner where all the women are gathered, with me on their tail. I suddenly realize that all the women there are dressed in that same, elaborate attire.
Despite the heat, they are all adorned in black velvet gowns that reach down to their ankles. Each black gown is uniquely decorated with colourful sequins and brightly-coloured, delicate embroidery, as are the headscarves they wear. I recall reading somewhere that this is the Kurdish traditional dress.
It is such a delight to behold one woman dressed in this exquisite costume. Being in the middle of a whole group of them, I suddenly feel like a kid in a candy store. It’s all I can do not to reach out and run my hands over the smooth velvet. Heck, it’s hard enough not to be caught staring. Then again, the staring is really a mutual affair, for in this crowd, I stand out more than ever in my grubby T-shirt and pants.
Ten minutes later and everyone is still just standing around, so I resume my eczane quest. A young man with a plaster cast around his arm comes up to me and wants to chat. “Practise my English,” he says. “I walk with you, okay?” Mehmet is a student at the local university, and had broken his arm in a traffic accident. We walk together at a pace slower than my usual, turning heads as we stroll to the end of the street.
“Are you here for the demonstration?” he asks. My heart races. I’ve only witnessed one march in my twenty-two years of life, and cannot wait to see another. I love to submerge myself in the energy…the passion…the camaraderie of the underdogs. I had already sensed all these from the individual Kurds I had met. Put them together and march ’em down the road, the result will surely be explosive.
As we turn the corner, I see that the authorities have realized this possibility too, and are visibly worried. From the corner of my eye I notice a man, much like any other man, complete with moustache and woolen vest, standing on the street corner. The only thing that makes me take a second look is the semi-automatic rifle casually slung across his shoulder. But other than that, he could have been anybody, just standing there smoking and watching the world go by, as Turkish men are wont to do.
Still no eczane in sight and I begin to wonder if the ubiquitous “Eczane” signs I saw yesterday were all mirages. Meanwhile, I pump Mehmet for more information about the demonstration, and he is all too happy to practise his English. The Kurdish minister from Ankara, who sits in parliament (I think), is here in Van today. “Hadep?” I ask, and he is impressed that I know the name of the Kurdish political party. Thus, I discover that I know the name of a Kurdish political party.
The demonstration is supposed to take place on Inonu Cadessi, Van’s main drag. On any other day, Inonu Cadessi is one of those roads where you can get your daily dose of adventure by simply trying to cross it. Today however, it had been turned into a pedestrian mall, with little armies of policemen stationed at either end to divert traffic. Young people and families promenade up and down the road, licking dondurma (ice-cream) or munching on nuts and scattering the tarmac with shells. There is a carnival-like atmosphere in the air – if you ignore the armoured tank and police cars parked on the road.
I look up and see salvation at last – the sign above the shop says “Eczane”. Yipee! I bid Mehmet goodbye and suddenly remember that I had left my phrasebook in my room. Not a problem. I have great faith in my acting abilities. Fifteen minutes and six hilarious sign-language attempts later, I emerge triumphantly – and somewhat red-faced – from the store, armed with dramamine and an anti-diuretic. Like a child with a new toy, I can barely wait to rip open the box and sample its contents. Besides, I begin to sense the start of an urgent need for the toilet, deep in my troubled tummy.
Heading back to the hotel, my gaze lingers on a group of young policemen gathered under the shade of a tree. They stare back at me. Unnerved, I look the other way and discover that the crowd that had gathered around the truck earlier had grown exponentially. The truck itself had moved, and was now playing music from its loudspeakers.
It’s simply too tempting to ignore, iffy tummy or no. Besides, I argue with the voice in my head, it is on the route back to the hotel. So, ignoring advice from all the “How women can travel alone safely” books I have ever read, I squeeze my feeble body through the tightly-packed throng of jacketed, mustachioed men and make my way to the women in fancy dress. The music has gotten louder, its rhythm is pounding in my head.
No sooner do I find myself a nice, shady spot from which to observe whatever may come, a young man comes right up to me and tries to chat me up. “Hallo, remember me? I spoke to you and your friend yesterday.” Hmm, so did thirty other men. “Where is your friend? Is he your boyfriend? Your husband? Where is he?” Trev had left Van that morning, but for some measure of respectability, I told him that my husband was resting back at the hotel because he had fallen ill. However, I suddenly felt guilty for enjoying the spectacle before me while my poor, convalescent, imaginary husband lay alone in bed, missing out on all the fun.
The old woman on my left barks a question at the young man, who does not seem to mind her tone at all. He replies in a smooth, charming voice, and it soon becomes apparent that they are talking about me. Surprisingly, she suddenly breaks out into a smile and starts questioning me. I answer those questions I understand, arousing even more interest as heads turn to watch this yabanci (foreigner) struggle with her Turkish. The little girl on my right smiles at me and ventures a question. How old are you? “Yirmi-iki” I say, and notice a small sea of nodding, smiling, wide-eyed heads.
My body abruptly reminds me that I have the runs. Uh-oh. I desperately need a toilet, right now. My linguistic prowess vanishes as the only word my brain will process is “toilet.” Where did you come from? “Tuvalet” Where are you going after Van? “Toilette” What do you think of Kurdish people?” “W.C.” Of course, I know better than to say any of this out loud.
Instead, I simply stand there smiling constipatedly, and shake my head. The young man begins to translate the curious crowd’s queries. He also volunteers information about the Kurdish cause, the struggle for their own country. With bright, teary eyes, he proclaims “The police…they don’t love us,” He says “lowe” instead of love. “They don’t want Kurdistan. They don’t love us.”
“Spaaz,” I tell him, thanking him in Kurdish. They all get really excited now, and ask where I learnt Kurdish. From people, I reply in Turkish, and the young man teaches me how to say that in Kurdish. Before I know it, I’m getting an English-Turkish-Kurdish translation lesson, right on that street corner, in the middle of a political demonstration. “Tuwalet?” I ask hopefully, but they giggle and think that I’m merely asking for the equivalent in Kurdish.
Ooh, I really need to go. My audience cum teachers are still subjecting me to a barrage of questioning, and in the state my troubled tummy is in, this experience almost feels like the Kurdish Inquisition. A small ring of men have formed in the middle of the crowd, and as they begin to dance, my audience’s attention thankfully shifts to them. However, so does mine.
I still need the toilet. Really badly need one by now. But the action before me is simply too compelling for me to tear myself away from the scene. About eight men have formed a circle and are jumping, hopping and skipping in unison. Their hands are clasped behind their backs, and they seem to be doing a milder version of the can-can. Sometimes the whole group will skip sideways together, and they all seem to know just when to do so.
Random men from the crowd join in, and the circle slowly grows to about fifteen men. No children, no women, only the men can enter the circle. The dancing men are in everyday clothes – jackets, shirts, and berets. The music from the truck’s loudspeakers seems to fuel the dancers with raw energy, as they bob up and down to a song that never ends.
The expression on their faces absolutely fascinates me. Not at all those smiling, carefree, cheeky visages one tends to associate with the can-can. Rather, each man wears a look of intense concentration, a focus that never breaks as long as he remains in the dance. Some are even frowning, others appear positively enraged. It’s a curious contrast – serious, irate faces on bodies dancing jauntily to rhythmic, merry music. Then again, it could be that they all desperately need the toilet too.
A friend of the young man spots him and comes over. They greet each other the way Turks often do – a firm embrace and a kiss on each cheek. Even after four weeks in Turkey, I still delight in watching grown men greet one another so affectionately, and do not bother hiding my interest. Introductions are made, I try out my newly-learned Kurdish greetings, tripping over myself in the process, and drawing some laughter from those still listening in.
As the two men invite me to tea, I spot my opportunity to leave, at long last. I politely decline, and with profuse thanks to all (in Kurdish of course), I force myself to withdraw from the crowd. One last look at the dancers, their faces still frowning, each one deep in concentration, and then I turn and run. I run like the wind. After all, they don’t call it “having the runs” for nothing.