In the Shadow of Halep

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In the shadow of Halep,
A journey’s to Gaziantep and Turkey’s dusty but charismatic south

I have always been a train buff. Not someone who can tell the difference in locomotive horsepower, or when a steam engine was made, but someone who likes the slow clattering laid back way of moving across the world. Of course some trains are filthy and unpleasant, and some are “super deluxe” as the Indians would say. Turkish Railways’ great achievements date back to the 1870’s when Sultan Abdul Hamid ordered that a line be built to Mecca to transport Muslim Pilgrims in safety to Islam’s holiest Shrine. The line got as far as Medina, but this was only 350Km short of Mecca. The railways continued to be in use until the motor coach and the Turkish Airlines Dakota slowly strangled the ancient network. By the time I was a child, Turkish trains were at best functional, usually west of Ankara, and grim, slow and basic where the line ran east of the capital.

In the early 1990’s an effort was made to re-habilitate the railway network with the introduction of the blue train. Pullman seats, a restaurant car, and clean first class only carriages were the standard of the “Mavi” Servis. First Ankara, then Konya were served by Mavi Trenler. This breathed life into the system, and soon there were four overnight sleeper services to Ankara and first class trains to almost all parts of the country. The east, however was still lacking, that was until 1997 and the introduction of the Dogu Mavi. The “eastern blue”, a train that takes the traveller from Istanbul over the central plains through the mountains and into the forests of Kars. (Available in Cornucopia date: .....) . But I had already ridden and written about the North East, and I had a hankering to see the part of Turkey that is akin to Arabia. Our plan was to take the Ankara Ekspresi to the capital. Stay with a friend, and then carry on to Malatya by the Guney Ekspresi. From there, we were only four hours bus ride from Gaziantep. In order to put a timeframe on the journey, I pre bought an air ticket for Cisca from Gaziantep. I wanted to prove to myself, that the East of Turkey is enjoyable, even within a finite period of time.

The ferries in Istanbul are being changed. The old sleek lined Italian designed models are slowly being replaced by a utilitarian boat that looks like a small warship with windows. The diesel internal combustion engines chug loudly, in contrast to the smooth rumble of the old oil burners. Wood has been replaced by metal or worse, rubber matting. Health and safety keeps the doors closed as they sail, but they do have more outside open space.

Our boat was crowded, full of commuters who had worked late. I found us a place on the stern and we cheerfully leaned against a chest of lifeboats and waited. I have done this journey so many times before and yet again, I find my eyes drawn to the old city of Istanbul. The Sun is setting and different shades of red are wondrous. What is it about Istanbul, that draws the traveller again and again. A fully addictive city, and yet a gateway to the east. A tea boy came round and I ordered two cups. The prices are held at half a lira to allow everyone the chance to have cup. And with that, the diesel motor clunked and banged, and we were pushed away from the shore. The engines built up revolutions and we weaved gracefully between the super-tankers and across the Bosphorus straights.

Haydarpasa Railway station has its own ferry quay. Once the domain of smelly diesel locomotives, dirty carriages and thousands of commuters, it is now clean and green with flowerbeds between the tracks. Designed by a German architect, the station has the look of a Teutonic castle with its conical roofs, that sits between the buzz of Kadikoy and the historic Galata Barracks. The Turkish Army’s Istanbul headquarters. We had arrived early to eat at the station restaurant. A chilled beer and some meze are always welcome before boarding a train. As usual, the restaurant was packed with travellers, some local some foreign, and the waiters carried bottle after bottle of beer and glasses of raki to the various tables. None were free and so were were bunked up with a smart looking gentleman who was having bread, white cheese and a stiff raki. He had the air of a retired military NCO. Indeed he was, and was on his way to Ankara to take part in the democratic process. We ordered kebabs, cacik rice and salad. We ate our food slowly, taking in, the commotion around us.

The Ankara Ekspresi is billed as being the most comfortable trains in Turkey, but in all sleeping cars (Yatakli Vagon) in Turkey are of the same high standard. The cabin is clean, the beds firm and the sheets soft. The difference between the “Ankara” and other trains is that the service caters for the high expectations of Turkey’s political and business elite. The restaurant car never closes, and the yatakli attendants pay more attention to their charges.

“I missed my mother” says the thin, devilishly handsome, businessman opposite us. His hair is the same colour as his charcoal suit. He looks a cross between an movie star or retired commando, but he is an architect. He sips an enormous beer. “So I just hopped on the train” He looks at Cisca and says in English: “I miss my mummy- so I go to see her” . It is past midnight and he is impeccably dressed, the knot on his tie is tight and his hair swept back as though it is the start of the business day. He is also quite sober.

“I was in Cyprus today”

“Really”

“ A business opportunity. I had flown already- so why fly again, the train is so much more convenient. Well enough from me- I need to sleep. Enjoy your journey” and with a flush of lira bills to the chef de cabin, he is gone.

Dawn breaks on the Ankara Ekspresi. I look from my bed out at the green rolling hills. The similarity with Tibet is clear. Rolling green landscape and gorgeous colour.

I get up and look for tea. “We are late” says the conductor.

“Why?”

“It’s the high speed train; they use our tracks and they take priority.”

“So if we are 10 minutes late we have to wait an hour”

“Exactly” he stated.

“Can I have another tea then?”

“Yes why not” he said; and went off to get one. An hour and a half later, with a screech and a bang, we halted at Ankara Gar. The headquarters of Turkish Railways.

Ankara station is a marble monolith. Modern in the 1930’s and lovingly maintained in this style; it makes a statement as being the nations’ capital. Our hostess is waiting for us.

“Come, she says breathlessly, we need breakfast.” And leads us away.

“There is nothing to write about in Ankara” An editor once said to me.”No interest...” his voice drifted off. For a Turkophile he clearly did not think much of Turkish capital. But Ankara reminds me so much of South Korea. It is clearly the political Powerhouse of the nation, the home of the republic and who can forget Turkey’s much vaunted armed forces. Yet Ankara is also home to a trendy young culture of literature, film and cafe society. Not quite as Bohemian as Istanbul, but driving through Ankara reminds me of a pre-war German city. Firmly stuck in Asia, Ankara is as European a city as Vienna. Suited bureaucrats run shoulders with Ambassadors and wealthy businessmen. Ankara intrigues me and attracts me.

“Lets go to the Anit Kabir” our host suggests. We just have enough time. The taxi driver was not fazed by being asked to take three obviously non Ankara types to take them to the tomb of the founder of the Turkish Republic.

Before he died, Mustapha Kemal Ataturk Asked to be buried in a grove of trees. And so the Turkish state built him a Napoleonic style tomb, with a mausoleum of such simplicity, beauty and grace, that it puts others to shame. And, so as not to have ignored the request of the great leader, the entire complex is surrounded by lush green trees.

The complex is operated by security guards in smart dark civilian suits, and guarded by Turkish Servicemen in ceremonial uniform with antiquated but pristine (and perfectly working) M1 garand rifles.

Cisca was relieved of her laptop computer at the gate and asked if it was safe to leave her passport .
“of course it’s safe “ said the head of security.
“Yes but my passport is in the bag”
“There are military personnel here” he looked at her indignantly, for the Turkish Army does not steal. I saw that his ID card showed him to be a senior NCO.

“Ok ok” mumbled Cisca and leaves her back pack in return for a chit. The mausoleum was on hill and the access path was a wide boulevard with simple statues of lions on either side. The main complex consists of a massive marble courtyard and a small building with strong architectural lines. Square pillars line the front; it’s almost a stylised form of Art Deco. A ceremony is in progress: dignitaries place wreaths while soldiers stand stock still on the ramparts. It’s all very 1930’s, and quite impressive. But the whole experience was so rushed, that I was barely able to take in the mosaic ceiling and the politicians before we had to leave.

While trying to formulate my thoughts, on my third visit to the place, Cisca did it for me.
“Its so beautiful, not too big, but simple and so well thought out”.. as we hurried down the road to try and find a taxi, I looked back and thought.
“yes, that’s about it” I huffed back looking for a cab.

Ankara is a pleasant city surrounded by green hills with warm people. But it is also a jump off point to explore Anatolia.

On Sunday we are able to contrast the stentorian ceremonies of the day before with a visit to the trendy Cankaya district. The spring evening is warm and yet the shops are wide open and busy. The restaurants are buzzing with young people-its hard to find a seat. We find a tapas bar, that serves patatas bravas, cheese and garlic prawns, which we wash down with an excellent local white.

Its 0330 on a Monday morning and we are back Ankara station. I have heard of Monday morning blues but this is ridiculous. The only train that goes in the direction that we want is the Guney Ekspresi (The southern Express). Its supposed to arrive at 0330 from Istanbul and supposed to head out an hour later. Its late today. Our host warns us that this is the one train that is notorious for being late. I would have slept in, but we cannot take the chance; and so here we are. In my case, having had two hours of sleep, I am sincerely regretting the last glass of white wine. Cisca is hopping about like a bunny rabbit; she is completely taken by the spotless, art deco door station.

“Look at those door handles” she says, snatching my camera to record the burnished polished gleaming handles. She pointed out the luggage delivery area which was lovingly maintained. The original brass protective straps are still in place. Eventually, I recover enough to change lenses and record our sleeping co passengers and the art deco building. Thankfully it is cool and pleasant at this hour, we cross to platform two and I recover enough to order tea from a tiny signal box like buffet. We chat idly about the journey ahead when suddenly Cisca shouts: “Hey what’s that light?”

A burning searchlight appears in the distant darkness. It grows larger and closer, but is surprisingly silent. Seconds later and enormous Mitsubishi electric locomotive rolls past us into the station, dragging behind it, the eight carriages of the Guney Ekspressi.

We wander down to the sleeping car and present our tickets. The carriage conductor is a miserable man, but it could just be the fact that its three in the morning.

“Tickets” He grumps.

“Here you go” I say brightly and hand them over.

“Grumph” he takes the tickets and shoves them in his file “13 and 14, your beds are made, you just pull them down and you can go to sleep.”

He gives me a sideways look and carefully says: “There is no restaurant on this train, you know, so you need to get what you need here.”

“I know” and I show him our goodie bag of bread, white cheese, Turkish sausage, ayran yogurt and water. I did not know it, but Cisca had also sneaked two square bars of excellent Turkish hazelnut chocolate into the bag.

We climb the stairs of the air conditioned carriage and find the door open, the lights on, and the beds made. Grumpy though he may have been, the attendant is good at his job.

It is still dark outside, and I climb in between the soft clean sheets and very rapidly fell asleep. A brief few hours later, I wake as we clatter along the Anatolian plateau. In the background there were mountains but before us, there were uncultivated green fields. We follow the course of a river and endless poplar trees before breaking out into plains that reminded me of Mongolia.

As there was no restaurant car, we sit on my berth and looked out of the window while munching on cheese-filled pastries, bread, white cheese and beef sausage. Mr Grumpy makes us some tea for a lira and we drink this along with Ayran.

We share the entire sleeping car with an elderly couple and a family that we hear but never see. The family disembark at some tiny station while we eat breakfast. , Then we are alone with the Anatolian couple. The husband wears a skullcap and his wife a headscarf, he clucks around her in a protective manner, but in general, they sat in their cabin with the door to the corridor open. They look at the herds of sheep, the camps of semi nomadic peoples with their tents and ancient Renault 12’s. The Guney curled around the base of blunt mountains and through long tunnels.

I looked at the map and guessed that we were at about 4000ft above sea level. The locomotive, by now a GM diesel, grumbles along. Designed for hauling containers by the hundred across the American prairies, it copes easily with the inclines.

However, even with the power of the locomotive, these tracks were originally laid in the early 1900’s, and the one thing the “Guney” can not do, was gain time. Our plan had been to carry on to Malatya, spend the night and then get a coach down to Gaziantep. But by the city of Kayseri our delay was up to two and half hours. After a very quick discussion, we changed plans, and forsook the “Guney” for a bus.

A short taxi ride brought us to Kayseri bus terminal. This was the antithesis of Ankara train station. Glass plated and ultra modern, it boasted barbers, four cafe’s, a cake shop and an internet cafe.

After having a very late lunch and with minutes to spare we hopped onto the 1600 bus to Gaziantep. The journey of the day had been long, and I dozed off as the modern coach powered up a hill out of town. We stopped at some traffic lights and rolled backwards. The driver engaged the brakes and tried unsuccessfully to get the vehicle into gear. Every time he tried, all that came from beneath the bus was clunking and grinding. I carried on snoozing but an hour later we had not moved. I glanced behind me and a team of men dressed in formal shirts and smart trousers had opened up the floor of the bus at the rear.

“Try it in second” one shouted at the driver.
More grinding.

“Try it in first” More grinding followed with much revving of the engine.

After making yet another adjustment, the man who had to be the smartest mechanic in Turkey shouted: “No, no that’s no good. ...Try it in first again”. Unsurprisingly the bus made more awful grinding sounds as cogs clashed but did not engage.

By now all of the passengers were standing patiently on the pavement watching or chatting. No one seemed particularly bothered.

A new bus arrives, does engage gear and drove easily up into the Toros range. I have to confess to not being a fan of buses, but they can do the one thing that trains cannot, and that is easily climb mountains. The scenery changes from green grass covered hills to barren rock strata. Even though this is May, snow lies on all the peaks around us. We pass small villages with beautiful sand stone mosques, and red tiled roofs. While the land around us is clearly rural, there is no poverty. The farmer’s houses are large and well kept, their tractors new. And the lorries of produce are modern and full.

Night falls and we enter Kahramanmaras. It is 1030pm and we have been on the go since three in the morning. And so, on a whim we hop off the bus and looked for a hotel. Gaziantep could wait until tomorrow.

Kahramanmaras is not on Turkey’s tourist circuit, and its hard to find out much about the place apart from the fact that it makes famous ice cream. But in the gloriously sunny morning our hotelier is very happy to direct us through the bazaar and to the 400 year old Ulu Cami . We dutifully wander through the green leafy streets and enter the small but bustling bazaar. The amount of money and goods being traded in this small area is astonishing. Hena from India, sheep skins from the local farms, spices from Syria were are all on display. While the locals may all be speaking Turkish (I heard no Arabic or Kurdish) the accents were thick and distinctive. Only a day’s travel from cosmopolitan, European inspired Ankara and yet here we were, deep in the Levant.

Yet again, while travelling in Turkey, I feel I need more time. The countryside of it was time to finish our journey. Our by now, extremely helpful hotelier advised us to take a minibus to Gaziantep. This was a modern Mercedes Benz sprinter that was not too cramped. We stowed our bags, paid our $5 and boarded. The driver switched on some traditional Turkish music and we sped down the side of the Anatolian plateau from 1200m to 824m. The road was narrow and bumpy, we left the high mountains behind us, passed forests and then, suddenly- as if summer had arrived, the earth went brown. We joined a dual lane highway and headed due east. This road continued on to the very corner of Turkey which met Iran and Iraq. If we carry, on, we would end up in Mosul and Baghdad. To our right and to the south the brown hills that were Turkey’s border with Syria come into view. Only thirty miles away, we passed a yellow road sign saying “HALEP”. Our driver however keeps going east at a safe speed. Soon enough we arrive at Gaziantep.



Gaziantep has been a trading town for centuries. Unlike Kahramanmaras, many old buildings remain in use. The castle is a smaller replica of the great citadel at Halep, which lies just over the border in Syria. Near the citadel is an older quarter of town called Turk Tepe, and beyond that, the town is made up of solid, two tone, brown stone houses. Small businesses, such as grocers shops, foundries and mobile phone stores are located in this ancient heart. Indeed if Kahramanmaras had been alive and buzzing, Gaziantep was its elder more experienced sister. Her “abla”. Both cities are hero cities, who resisted the French Invasions and occupations for many months. Both were eventually overwhelmed, but their near yearlong resistance, forced the French to reconsider their hold on the south of Turkey. They also gave the creators of the republic time enough to negotiate with the occupying powers.

But while the past is clear to see in both cities, Business- partly inspired by an open border with Syria- is booming. The shops are full, the bazaars thick with clients, and awash with Turkish Lira and dollars changing hands.

Time affords us one last excursion. We take a minibus to Nizip, a small un inspiring village. Then we look for a taxi to visited the ancient Greek site of Zeugma.

“Is there a taxi stand around here?” I ask a young lady who works in a bakkal.
“Here in Nizip?” she laughs? “There are no taxis here- ask my husband”
Another young man appears. And offers us his car for twenty lira. We cross the brown hills and rock fields to arrive at a lake. We get out of the ubiquitous Murat 131 and find the Jandarma have beaten us to it.
“All ok?” I ask the heavily armed privates.
“Of course” they smile and clamber into their Nissan pick up “Just routine checks” and with that the corporal engages gear and the smiling gunmen disappear in a cloud of dust.
“That’s Urfa province” our driver says, pointing resolutely at the opposite shore of the Tigris river. His body language dictates that he might be pointing at the Soviet Union. But then he blurts out
“We had a farm just over there, but then they built the dam” he points at the long low concrete structure that we had somehow missed. “Now we run a bakkal in Nizip.“

Foolishly we had arrived two months too early. A dam on the Tigris river had left the site underwater, but the ministry of culture had moved most of the mosaics and artefacts uphill. The viewing area was still under construction. We strolled around looking at pieces of pillar strewn around. We drank tea in a grove of pistachio trees and watched a small ferry take visitors upstream. But now it was time to return to Gaziatep and the jet aircraft to Ankara and beyond.

On our last day, I went for a run: “down the road to the railway station, turn right up into the dust and keep pounding along” I muttered directions to myself. As I huffed along in the 28’c heat, I saw a train appear. Unlike Turkish Trains, it was all blue, and grumbled away, blowing clouds of black diesel smoke from the locomotive. I stared at it, until I recognised the Arabic writing on the side. This was the twice weekly Syrian Railways service from Halep.

“I should board that” I gasped- “Next time I’m here”.. and carried on running, in the shadow of Halep.

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