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Published: August 8th 2014
Amasya, Turkey
July 26
th 2014
“
How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home” Bob Dylan, Like a Rolling Stone “
Every traveller knows the feeling: the sudden crisis of purpose, the dreaded but universal question that approaches without warning, taping your shoulder........., waking you at midnight, …..chasing you through the muddy streets …...when everyone else is going home and you are left, alone, ….. : what am I doing here?” Brendan Shannahan, In Turkey I am Beautiful There can be no self-pity for a traveller when he feels alone, for the rewards of travel are otherwise rich and frequent, and he knows well how fortunate he is to be able to take this path. But it happens.. that empty feeling. And specially so during a festive time in a place where you are the foreigner who does not belong. It was the end of Ramazan and just days away from Eid al-Fitr / Şeker Bayramı.
On a whim I had stopped in Amasya, a city in northern Turkey with a 7,500 year history
resting in a narrow valley along the banks of the Yesilirmak river above the Black Sea coast. It had a certain beauty and quaintness, and after the exultation of having 'escaped' Georgia, I wanted to belong. I wanted to connect.
The old part of the city is the proud home of kings and princes, artists, scientists, poets and thinkers (the geographer Strabo and the physician Amirdovlat Amasiatsi both were from Amasya). It boasts exquisite Ottoman-period wooden houses (many now boutique hotels and restaurants for the better heeled tourist) and in its cliffs overhead are carved the tombs of the Pontus kings. Houses,
camis,
hamami, and
meddris have been tastefully renovated and the streets are clean and cobbled with stone.
I walked around the streets both aimlessly and with purpose. I seek local human contact amidst the experience of the landscape and street-scape. At a small corner
cay evi, Ishmail sits down besides me and I extend my hand to shake. We both speak no language of the other, but we connect with him offering me one of his breakfast breads and paying for my
cay. Later we pass in the street with broad smiles.
There is something
special about having a body or water at the centre of a place of habitation. Be it a lake, a
kund, an ocean, or a river. Amasya is so blessed by the Yesilirmak running right through it. And with all the old buildings concentrated in one area, Amasya has a 'heart' (meaning a central little place where you can sit and contemplate.... where the same men - yes always men - are there each day). Ibrahim is one of the three shoe shine men in this place, eking out a living at 3 TL (Turkish lira) a pair. I sit next to his stand and we start to 'chat' in our clumsy ways. It turns out that he is a poet, and he shows me his recently published booklet. He buys me
cay, and gives me a CD (which I have yet to play and understand). We exchange contact information and I give him a medallion from the Darga Sharif (Sufi shrine) in Ajmer, Rajasthan – India.
I entertain the thought of just staying in Amasya to kid myself that I have real friends here. I go back to the corner
cay evi but Ishmail is not there. I
sit with Ibrahim several times, but our 'chat' is limited and seems to have exhausted possibilities. Across the river there seem to be western tourists staying at the 'boutique' hotels, but they are not people I can relate to or converse with. I do think about sitting in a more 'classy' cafe set in a restored
medrese, but the prospect of doing so alone makes me think twice and I keep walking.
I decide to go to Tokat, about two hours from Amasya by bus, which is again a city that is full of old
camis,
meddris and
caravanserai. While these are well renovated or being restored, the city's charm and authenticity is also its very old (and often crumbling) houses that line the hills around the centre of the city. Of course I have a moment of regret about having left my 'friends' in Amasya, and I make no new ones in Tokat apart from the occasional warm smile or interested 'where are you from' interchange. I do manage to connect with a
firini baker whose picture I take and who extracts a promise from me to get it printed for him, which I do. He is very
touched, and I think surprised, when I re-appear with it and has a fresh
pide wrapped for me in gratitude.
There is a parallel consciousness happening in all this. I am watching my mind, quite detached, with its longing to connect and share, and I am aware of the shallowness of the 'game' I play. Of the basic level at which I can have my need and wanting quenched for just a moment. But I know nothing matters in terms of what is real. And where I happen to be physically is all relative and will pass. The momentary quenching is satisfactory in the context of this watching of mind. It is funny and pathetic at the same time. To watch 'monkey mind', that feeling, that question of purpose, that need arise and fall.
My accommodation in Tokat is not great, there being little choice ... it is plush with TV and A/C (both things I never desire in a room) and very nice decor, and it is expensive at 50 TL. But its near the main road, which means traffic noise late into the night; which means closing the window; which means using the A/C; which means
dry throat and still too much noise. I do not sleep well, and even tried taking a quilt and pillow and sleeping on the floor outside my door in the foyer. I wake up with a thought (driven by 'that need') to go back to Amasya.... to Ibrahim and Ishmail and sitting around. I even do some quick
couchsurfing.org requests on the net thinking I could score some real connection for the three days of Eid that are about to begin. They come back 'declined' as people are busy either visiting family or having family visit them for Eid.
I check out and catch the
dolmus to the
otogar. But instead of buying a bus ticket I decide to try and hitch to Amasya. After a failed hour, I walk back into the
otogar and.... buy a ticket for Sivas in the opposite direction.
Sivas is yet a further two hours moving south-east from Tokat. It seems the most developed city of the three, but again is full of old
camis and
meddris,
hamami and
caravanserai, which again have all been nicely (or in process of being) renovated and restored. It does seem quite a wealthy place, albeit
the residential housing is more recent and, architecturally, mostly boring blocks of flats.
It seems to take forever to find a
pansiyon that is actually still operating (as usual, the next day when I am without my bags and not desperate to get out of the heat, they seem to abound). When I do find one, the guy starts at 50 TL for what is really a dorm room, but I negotiate it down to 25 TL. It's perfect actually... lots of room, air, light, and I seem to have the whole place to myself, not just the room.
So it is the end of Ramazan. There is an amazing 'Christmas eve' (for want of a better analogy) feel in the market which is buzzing as people hurry around to buy supplies, treats and gifts for the three day festival. As shops near closing time and the sun has set (marking the end of fasting month), there is activity at cafes and restaurants as people sit down to set menus of what I assume is a customary 'end of Ramazan' meal. And as shops start to close for the holiday period to follow, their staff start feasting on
makeshift street tables, having prepared or had prepared in
firinis, dishes of
koftes, turlu, and
dolmas, followed by platters of cut melons,
cay and
baklava.
Walking to my room I pass such a group (of men) sitting around a table fashioned from boxes outside Farti's book store. Various nephews and brothers have joined him (about 6 in total) and Farti motions me to come and sit and eat with them. I do, and at least one nephew has enough English to make it a reasonable exchange of intelligent conversation. There is of course no alcohol involved here, and I reflect on these men's ability to make merry and have fun without it. An hour later and my new 'best friends' have invited me to join them at the
camii across the road at 6 am the next morning. At least this is my interpretation. I am fantasying that we will meet, and then I will be invited to Farti's home or perhaps another venue for some special festival food or event.
On the way back to my room I pass the green grocer store where earlier that day Sirhan had given me a banana in recognition of me
being from Australia. Now I tried to buy a handful of fresh figs but his father refuses to take my money. Maybe all this is about it being the end of Ramazan, but it is nice.
I get to the
camii next morning and it's packed. I take my place in one of the neat lines on the carpet. After about 15 minutes, Mohammed and Safir walk in (two of Farti's relatives) and acknowledge me with big smiles, and then are lost in the crowd. And that's the last I see of them or anyone else from the night before. After mimicking what the guy does besides me during the active prayer bits, I leave and go back to my room feeling a bit empty.
After four days in Sivas, I think I must be the only foreigner in this whole city. This is sometimes a traveller's false illusion of authenticity. But sometimes it would be nice to have a real and deep conversation with someone who speaks fluent English. Alternatively, it would be nice to speak fluent Turkish.
I spend my last evening waiting for the midnight bus with some more new 'best' friends, one of
whom (Cagri) speaks English at least. But I am older than their fathers.
So once again...... 'what am I doing here?'
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taracloud
Tara Cloud
Ah, the meaning of life...
Oh yes, I know that feeling of "What am I doing here." It's probably universal for long-time travelers, even in the midst of gorgeous cities like these. While I shared dinners with Kurdish-speaking carpet weavers in Cappadocia for the week I was there, it's true that in Turkey, I rarely met English speakers until Olympos in the south. But, as you say, where we are doesn't matter--the meaning is in watching the mind, which we can do anywhere. So, how fine to do it in an exotic, beautiful setting and to share your experiences here for future Turkey and armchair travelers. Best wishes meeting an English speaker.