KURDISTAN

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Waking up early is no longer a problem; thus it seems that a semblance of normalcy has been restored to this summer. The bus to the airport took a little over an hour, as we were slowed by the fact that our driver got a ticket for speeding AND using the apparently illegal far right lane on the highway. I say that we were slowed, but in truth we only lost a good five minutes, as it seems that in Turkey driving tickets only necessitate a quick exchange of paper and information -- it would be nice if this one thing held true back west.

Nevertheless I arrived at the airport with only an hour to spare, and was thanklessly greeted by a monstrous Pegasus Airlines check-in line that screamed "you shall not leave this city". To add to the growing anxiety I was experiencing, I witnessed a full-on verbal brawl/outcry/melee between an airline official and three cloaked women over their inability to board the flight which consisted of some awesome crying and scenes of mothers covering their childrens' ears. Great entertainment, but I was not happy about the prospect of having to stay in this expensive and rather brash region of Turkey for much longer, so I asked an attendant if there was any way I could hop the line since my flight was leaving shortly. She proceeded to lead me to a separate line for the Diyarbakir flight (which apparently was situated outside the general line because additional security needed to be installed for outbound Kurdistan visitors). Almost to the front of the line I was greeted by the same official and another, more attractive one (probably part of the ploy) who spoke more English, and was offered an extra free flight on Pegasus and one night's stay in a local hotel if I was willing to give up my seat... as they had overbooked. I was very close to giving in, but when they saw me hesitate they continued the sale by denouncing my reasons for going to Diyarbakir in the first place -- saying it was too dangerous for an American and it would be more wise for me to go elsewhere. This ticked me off a bit, for I felt it founded solely on a racism towards the Kurds whom I had heard such good things about, and I opted to pass on the offer. They then proceeded to mutter a slew of Turkish insults in my direction and move on to the next sappy looking customer in line.

While boarding the flight I started talking to a Swiss family of four (two kids younger than myself) who was heading to Diyarkbair solely for vacation purposes. This, along with the words of a few Hungarian students making their way south to study the local Syriac language, served to placate most of the Istanbul-instilled worries about the journey, and I moved forth for the hour long flight.

Diyarbakir greeted me with the first instance of true summer heat I have experienced in 2010. The short walk across the tarmac led to a disheveled baggage claim area, where I spent more time talking to the Swiss family and eventually agreed to follow them to the hotel they had booked. It was a bit pricey, but I had decided beforehand to expect such prices since this was not exactly a Turkish tourist mecca. And I was able to haggle them down to 35 TL for a private room with AC, so I was not terribly displeased. After settling in I journeyed out on the "town" to find the bus station to buy my ticket for Silopi, and on the way was greeted by a very jovial Kurdish guy named Murat who asked me if I would like some company on my walk through the city. Realizing that he was plotting to give me a tour with the hope that I would pay at the end... or rather demand... I agreed, for I was interested to hear what he had to say. Turned out to be one of the more worthwhile expenditures of the trip as we ventured through a ton of old churches and mosques via a seemingly unnavigable maze of back alleys. It was also rather interesting to hear him attempt to raise the final price of the tour, for he spent the majority of the time recounting how dangerous it was for a tourist to travel alone through the city without a proper guide (as a result of the countless thieves that littered the city). He went as far as to tell me of a group of Russians who each paid him 50 TL for supposedly saving them from a group of six armed thieves (even though there were 20 of them... and from what we all know about Russians...). If he was not talking about how he spent his tour guide life saving lives and fending of knife laden villains, he was almost certainly talking about the prospect of his life in the US with TOOONNNS of American women. This being my first real experience with the perverse/obsessed nature of Middle Eastern men towards women, I had to say I was a bit taken aback by all the questions he kept prodding me with about western gals. He LOVED red heads and could not stop talking about this Irish girl he met the year before in the city. However it appeared that instead of actually talking to her he spent the majority of their "encounter" following her around the city. At least that's what I got between the lines. Creepy. I also got offered a cheap trip to a brothel. Shockingly I passed. Odd journey. But somewhat funny if you put on a bigot cap and go with it.

He tidied up the trip with a stop at a rug shop operated by his uncle, where we had tea (MORE TEA -- who woulda thought??) and they attempted to get me to spend a few grand on a various assortment of rugs. I sorrowfully passed on this second opportunity and after a neat little trek up along the the city walls (which run 6 km along the outside of the city) we made our way back to my hotel.

After tossing him a fair tip I stumbled into the hotel lobby where I found the Breitingr family (the Swiss) waiting to take me out to dinner! Big surprise there! I told them I would only go if I was allowed to pay for at least myself and we walked a bit to a relatively local looking joint that appeared to specialize in Kurdish fajitas.

After dinner we found a spot to catch the ridiculous Uruguay Ghana game and I got to talking to this Kurdish guy who appeared to be extremely interested in the pictures I was uploading. While I wanted to think that I had mastered the art of communication between two people with no corresponding language, this conversation succeeded in shattering the previous bar. Unable to speak any English, Refik was from Van, in far eastern Turkey, and was visiting Diyarbakir for work. He spent most of his life in a 10km area around the city, and only recently traveled to the other side of the lake which he spent his whole life on... and in. The most interesting aspect of his life was the fact that his wife's father was HIS father's BROTHER. Chew on that for a second. Wow. Wow #2: we had a 2 hour conversation almost entirely using google translate. It had to be one of the more ridiculous sights for the surrounding guests -- watching two men attempt to use a few words but mostly stick with using a computer passed between them to do something... in this case communicate. Needless to say we are now Facebook friends. Morrrreee teaaa.

The next morning I woke up early to catch the bus to Silopi. While waiting at the station I started talking to these two younger guys who kept staring at me. I had to play the game of flitting my eyes across the wall and their faces to see if they were still looking at me a few times before I finally tried my hand at a full on staring contest with one of the kids. Somewhat giving in, I offered up an angry "What?" accompanied by a shrug, and this managed to open up a relatively casual conversation.

Ended up riding with one of the kids all the way to Silopi and managed to learn a lot about Kurdistan and the school system here. His name was Mukerrem Tunc and he was a theology student in Diyarbakair... originally from a city near Silopi. He was second best in his class in English, and this required him to let all of his other classmates cheat off of him on every assignment. Some things just do not change. He also had 11 brothers and sisters... Jesus. In Mardin a Spanish guy named Javier hopped on -- also headed to the border -- and we decided to travel together at least to Dohuk. Silopi was hot as hell, but before getting there we passed right along the Syrian border, which is avidly guarded by Turkish troops, and had to change buses 30 minutes from our destination in Cizre. Might as well have been a stop in a pit of mosquitoes. Javi and I spent the entirety of the twenty minute waiting time for the next bus utilizing the word NO with various tones and frequencies, for there was a swarm of little buggers pushing for us to give them money, our watches, our clothes, our shoes, and whatever else they could see worth asking for. The parents/elders/shopkeepers of course, did nothing, and I was getting more and more wary of jaunting into a new country with even less tourist experience. Nevertheless we escaped onto the new bus, where we met a older Iraqi man (Hassan Doski) and his friend who were coming to visit their Iraqi families from their new home in Manchester, England. This turned out to be a HUUUUUGE score, for we were able to split the taxi amongst the four of us.

The whole taxi process was a bit absurd. Essentially, you are forced to get a taxi to cross the border, as Silopi lies about ten minutes from the actual border crossing. Also, the taxi drivers handle all of the papers for you and shuffle you all the way through to the other side, at which time they are paid. Hence, they have more than enough incentive to get you through quickly, as we learned when our taxi driver almost got knocked out by another when he attempted to cut one of the lines. We waited about two hours at the border, only because it was the end of a holiday period of sorts (according to Hassan). After getting through the Turkish riff raff successfully (but nicely sun burnt) we floated through the scores of military vehicles and (!) Iraqi flags to the passport control on the other side. Expecting to sit and wait thirty minutes we sat and waited for thirty minutes, but instead of sitting with the rest of the trekkers we were immediately ushered into the main office and given tea and an onslaught of questions by the English speaking guys who ran the place. We shot the shit about football (where they made fun of me for being American, understandably) and were given the guy's number in case we had any problems in Kurdistan. SWEET. Only problem was that I felt bad because Hassan and his friend were not allowed to come in and sit with us even though we asked our director buddies for the favor. Bit of an odd situation.

So now we were in IRAQ... i Kurdistan. But Iraq nonetheless. An hour taxi ride took us from Zahko to Dohuk, the largest city in the northern part of the region, and Javi and I decided to grab a hotel here for the night. It was surreal to walk around the valley town which consisted of absolutely zero small children asking for money or people staring at us. They really didn't seem to be surprised that we were there. It was wonderful. You could not find a souvenir shop... (as I later learned, in the whole region) in the whole city. We exchanged money for dinars and grabbed a cheap kebab for dinner, before wandering around the markets which sold mostly western stuff (lacoste shirts, pharmaceuticals, tennis shoes). You could not find anything stereotypically "Iraqi". While we were taken back at first it made sense later in a WONDERFUL sort of way: they have no need to sell old Iraqi rugs or whatever because... who would buy them? They don't need them. They need pots, pans, and clothes that make them look good. There are not enough tourists to validate the existence of tourist shops. LIFE was GOOD. I had finally escaped the onslaught of tourist driven culture that had plagued me (albeit not to the extent that it could have in more western parts of Europe) this whole trip. FREEDOM.

After wandering a bit we journeyed back to the hotel and met a group of similarly-aged travellers (Nina from Poland and two guys from Argentina and Spain) who had just come from hitch hiking around IRAN. Hell yes. While watching the Spain Paraguay game we spent a good three or four hours picking their brains on hitching culture, for they had just done the last few months travelling freely across Georgia, Turkey, Iran and Iraq after finishing up an Erasmus study program somewhere between Ankara and Istanbul. Living the dream. Spent 50 US over the course of two weeks during their time in Iraq (passport lost so they were allowed to stay over the 10 day limit) And it was incredible to hear the majority of the details from a rather attractive girl... as Iran especially was supposedly (confirmed) infamous for its sexist ways. However it appeared from their stories that if you truly commit to the vagabond lifestyle then people do end up taking you in and helping out a ton. Thus they spent the majority of their nights sleeping and eating for free with the people they hitched with... tempting. She had also spent the previous summer hopping, and by that I mean barely escaping the revolutionary tides that occurred, around Yemen and Somalia. Also tempting.

Iraq day one done done and done.

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