Andrew Walker heads off the tourist trail, and fin
"Each tourist is an ambassador. The nationality of tourist is not as important as their happiness. A tourist is a white dove of peace. A tourist with happy memories is the voice of Turkey. Tourism is a fresh flower of old world. A tourist is an unexpected guest who brings new ideas and different culture. Kemal says, come let’s know each other, let’s make things easy, let’s love, let’s be loved. This world will remain to no one.
P.S. Contact with Kemal for spending your holiday in Turkey, even for shopping."
– From the Tourist Information "brochure" in Malataya
July in the high steppe of eastern Anatolia can be sweltering. While the mountains of the Kackar, usually remain cool and inviting anything east of Erzurum might as well be the heart of the Gobi. With my circumnavigation of Turkey into its third week, I turned south and westward, away from the Iranian border and the Ararat valley. The initial destination was Van, the Kurdish market center and regional capitol of southeastern Turkey. The east is virtually tourist-free. Although the "war" between the Turkish government and Kurdish separatists (the PKK) was officially over, security remained a concern, and most travelers chose not to venture into these parts.
I was frequently mistaken for a German journalist. Many of the people I met out here were curious about why I should want to visit, but without exception Turks and Kurds were kind and hospitable. The people here live with much less than the people in western Turkey, but I would not call them poor. I saw no poverty or destitution here, just simple people with simple lives.
The paradox of eastern Anatolia is apparent to the visitor, however. It is a place where villages comprised of rudimentary stone houses have satellite dishes on every roof, and shepherds carry mobile phones. People live and die by their livestock; sheep travel as cargo or passenger, depending on how full the dolmus is. And there is the ubiquitous white molded plastic chair, the kind you can get at Wal-mart for $6.99, which can be found in abundance in the tiniest of villages.
My intention was to breeze through Van on my way back toward central Anatolia, but I was seduced into lingering for a while by the tea gardens and the bustle of the market. It was Friday when I arrived, the Muslim holy day.
There were a lot of families out that evening, strolling the bazaar. I joined them in walking around the streets of the city, stopping occasionally for a kebab, a cay, or a game of backgammon. Speaking the local language was apparently unimportant. There was an outdoor concert at the central mosque. A few groups played traditional Turkish – and what I think must have been Kurdish – music late into the evening. It was quite a carnival atmosphere.
The following morning after a market-bought breakfast of fruit and fresh, hot pide, I made my way to the otogar to catch my coach into the interior.
Typically, Turkish busses are sleek, efficient wonders, complete with comforts that would put the airlines to shame. The care and hospitality with which coach attendants treat their passengers speaks to the traditions and heritage of their nomadic ancestors, and I am happy to be their "honored guest." Today the cerulean blue waters of Lake Van taunted the passengers from the (unopenable) windows of the un-air-conditioned coach. Occasional reprieves from this agony were granted were by a series of military and civilian checkpoints. We were stopped seven times, four times by army checkpoints, three by civilian police. On one occasion, the driver slowed as he pulled up to the guardhouse, the bus attendant hopped out, handed the policeman half a bottle of Orange Fanta, hopped back on the bus and we drove away without fully stopping. The policeman, obviously pleased, waved us onward. Strange sort of bribe, really.
Military service in Turkey is compulsory for young men, who must serve 18 months in one branch of the service. I was told by one soldier riding the bus with me that they receive their assignments based on an inexplicable set of parameters determined by a computer in Ankara. Fisherman’s sons from Marmaris are placed in artillery units in Kars, and herdsmen from Konya are assigned to naval ships. With the security situation in the east, many young soldiers are posted in places like the hinterlands between Van and Malataya.
At each checkpoint, all the men of a certain age were required to present their red laminated ID cards for inspection. As someone who was obviously neither a Turk nor a Kurd, I was never hassled. Each time I presented my passport, the guard just smiled and waved that "no problem" wave. I was passed off as the harmless foreigner.
At two of the army stops, all the men were told to get off the bus to have our bags searched. On neither occasion did the guard care to search my pack. They seemed to be content to know that it belonged to me. The first time bags were searched I took my camera out and snapped a few photos – the machine gun-toting 19 year old in charge was not pleased. With the expectation of having my camera confiscated, I apologized as best as I could, promised to put the camera away, and got off with a slight reprimand.
After 11 hours I melted off of the bus, into the shiny new lobby of the Malataya bus station. It could have been the Garden of Eden. After replenishing my water bottle and taking a quick, if illicit, dip in the fountain, I was off to the town center by dolmus. All of the cheap hotels were within a few blocks of each other near the town square, and I had taken advantage of my confinement on the bus to select the one that I would most likely crash for the evening.
As a backpacker, I already stood out against the colorful citizenry of Malataya. Attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible I stepped behind a bank of phone boxes to consult my map. Too occupied with determining which was Atatürk Caddesi, I did not notice the two men approaching.