Stone Walls to Palm Trees.

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It is time to leave South Eastern Turkey and go to South East asia. But even that takes time, and takes me to some of Turkey's most hospitable people; who just happen to be Kurds.

I arrive in Diyarbakir on Sunday. It is quiet. Not a plane to be seen. It is strange, more Turkish spoken is spoken here than in Mardin, I hear very little Kurdish. An ancient Renault 12 drops me at the Hotel Derya. The receptionist warns me “The terror has gone but the thieves are here- watch your stuff” “What a pain” I think.

It is warm, I stroll down the main road towards the Mardin Kapi. I stop at a Grey and White stone Han. Then I find myself Walking around Diyarbakir in the midday sun, up onto the high walls, Foolish but who cares. On top of the walls I meet a boy who has just finished his military service. We have something in common- we are both familiar with the Dogubeyazit Border Post. (Gate in Turkish).

“Where did you do your military service?” I ask him.
“In Dogubeyazit”
“I know that place, I was there in May last year, but I did not go over the border, I went to the meteor crater”

(See: http://www.travelblog.org/Middle-East/Turkey/Eastern-Anatolia/Dogubeyazit/blog-401038.html)

“That’s where I was- I guarded the crater”
“What the sentry in front of the crater?”
“No- I guarded the stone tower”
“But there were only two riflemen, a machine gunner and a dog there?”
He looks at me strangely, pauses and then says: “I was the machine gunner”

We talked of smugglers and the weather while the sun beats through the grey clouds. I look up as I sweat,
“Have you no umbrella I ask?”
“Sure we have one but the sun is not strong so we don't put it up.”

Other Turks sit on the walls with not a care in the world.. Legs dangling over the edge, looking at the Tigris. When I say Turks, I mean Turkish citizens, along with my hosts, they may well be Kurds, but this is not important to me. I take my leave, walk around the base of the walls and notice the greenery and parks that abound. A taxi driver takes me to the 10 fingered bridge. Workers are working on it. I go back to the han, sit and drink tea and Turkish Coffee. Eventually I find a restaurant, where the head waiter’s Turkish is un-understandable. He rips me off for a one and half portions instead of one. I pay, but tell the Derya to not recommend them to travellers again. They are thieves. But this is Diyarbakir- a city which shares the cut throat nature of Istanbul, but without the charm.

On my last day, I wake early- Run from Dag kapi to Mardin kapi, then round and back for breakfast.
“What a lovely cool morning.” I think. I listen to BBC radio 4 on the internet before getting my taxi to the aerodrome. The terminal is a building that would do a small town proud. But Diyarbakir is a city of 1,250,000 people. It amazes me that Turkey’s second largest airbase and capital of the south east, access point of Northern Iraq, is served by a wriggly tin shed!

The civilian jets seem to be held in a bunch and then allowed to take off en masse, waiting for something. With a thunderous roar, the first Turkish Air Force jet of the day takes off. Many F16’s follow it. I stare up at the empty wings. These aircraft are flying training missions; they are not here to drop bombs on anyone. Peace has most definitely arrived in South Eastern Turkey. During a lull in the military flying, the civilian Aircraft are allowed out in batches. I strap myself into my seat, turn on the air conditioning and two Kurds sit next to me. A tough looking father and his slightly more educated son.
They have been living in Bodrum for 30 years. One is the head of security at a disco in Bodrum. The other is a student in Baku. Could not get into a Turkish university. As part of the Kurdish (Turkish) middle class they are over the moon with the current Turkish Government. As supporters of the current prime minister, they seem to feel the need to go on and on about it. Not being overly interested in politics it becomes so boring after a while.

I write “The flight is atrocious because of the Bull SH*t. I can neither work nor sleep as I am subjected to political diatribe.”

Added to this, the boy keeps nicking my armrest. I would curse them if I had the time. Of course I am shamed by the two Kurds. As soon as we land, they insist on giving me a lift into town. They tell their friend who has come to collect them, that I am a friend and need saving from the grim the taxi drivers. Arriving at Yusufpasa, I hop on the metro; and ride into town. The whole experience saves me 40 lira. I gratefully exchange email addresses and phone numbers with the boy.

Istanbul has become expensive. I do some shooting, see two friends, one foreign and one Turkish. And then it is time for the next journey. I check my bags in Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport and walk towards the gate for the midnight flight to Bangkok.

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