1200
The heat of another Mesopotamian day bade us farewell as we loaded up our backpacks to leave the little lokantasi that had faithfully served us some of the tastiest morsels of lamb, chicken, and this unique blend of tomato puree chopped harmoniously with white onions and chilli flakes - devoured in plentiful amounts during our stay here. Just as the stars were aligned and the gods were smiling upon us, the little blue bus that we had nicknamed "the blue loop" turned up, saving us the walk under the beating rays of a noon sun.
In a little while, we saw ourselves stuffing our backpacks into the belly of the bus that was to take us to Civre. It wasn't so much of a luggage compartment than an engine and maintenance tools section, officially announced by a falling iron rod that cankled loudly on the sizzling tarmac. I barely did better than my gears when I was stuffing myself in between a wedge of Iraqi family and my hubby.
Look closer! Your safety is our top priority!
1500
The ride was filled with melodious Arabic music that swung between the lull of a sleep that bestowed the numbness of blissful ignorance and hard-hitting bass beats that thumped upon the impending headache that threatened to attack at the most opportune moment. Many smelled like they needed a soothing wash in the bath and the travelling sweat, hot air popcorn and sweet lemon cologne mixed in an ill fashion that was to hang like a dreaded executioner's sword above one's neck resting on the block until we got to another forsaken town lacking of comprehensible logic of being a hub of connections towards the East.
The ever-reliable boy scout of my hubby took advantage of his skillful maneouver of the Turkish phrasebook that I had fished out of nowhere - before sundown, we were on our way to Sirnak! Praise be to the ancient linguistic scribes and Thoth!
1600
Beating through one checkpoint and herds of goats, sheep and dogs, our Kurdish cabbie roared and thundered through the chasms of valleys and jagged cuts of rocky formations springing up from our childhood pages of a fantasy land too far away to reach by an adult mind. Everything was bone dry. My vision was suspended permanently in a dreamlike painting of amber clouds that shook off a romantic dusty evening. Looming ahead, pregnant Cummolonimbus clouds grew in a cobalt pool of sparkling luminosity.
Sirnak was a tiny town that sat flatly on top of one middle road that rivered through the mountains of flat-roofed dwellings fanning out from its sides like a swan's wings. We lugged ourselves with the bags on us upward four flights of stairs in a building that was reputed to be the "best accommodation" in town. The sink had a make-up of a post-pub brawl when someone with a really big fist took a chop down its left side. The shower had fantastic water pressure that alternated its rain of hot and superhot streams, making the unsuspecting (and to be sorry indeed) bather lunging ahead in a concave display of avoidance that usually happened to anyone who had their backside scalded on the stalk.
1800
At this rate, the lightning was blinking out in the distance like a stripteaser. You just weren't ever sure if it will pour down on you, bringing with it all the mud and dust that bred like mice around this town. Many children ran up and about, delighting most and infuriating a few adults with their games and pre-dinner mischief. Women were sitting on the ground, flapping giant wafer-thin and air-light bread dough onto a reversed looking wok covering above a warm fire. The smell of oil cooking the flour and cheese was tempting. We thought it sure was better than sitting inside our penthouse of a room.
And in true Southeastern hospitality that we had been "warned" about, children swooped down on us as we trudged down towards the villages as friendly mothers and aunts welcomed us. Older men came to respectfully invited us to sit on the stools that appeared magically behind us now. We just wanted to observe and learn about how the locals live their lives. Instead we were knighted with the lovely title of guests for the night.
2000
By now, most of the neighbours had heard about us and came over. The old man of the house asked us to sit down in the main hall to have a simple but delicious spread of bread, gozleme, fig jam, tahin, salad and endless cups of Arabic tea, sugared up with gigantic cubes of crystal delights. The children were pouring into the room and as suddenly as the powercut happened (and returned three times in a row), they ran out in this cowering laughing fear when the old man bellowed in his Kurdish warning to wait outside.
After the pre-requisite amount of mingling, I excused myself to enter the haremlik. The guests had "dined" and the men mixed to nod gravely at the local broadcasted Kurdish television while hubby exuded his best grace to sit with the men. He later confided to me that he was so envious of the fun that was emanating from behind the house where I had joined the ladies and children. We ate, drank and joked through a myriad of chaotic subjects. Things ranged off the tangent from "do I wax?" to what the best herbal remedy was for getting ride of pimples, to the number of children desired, whether hubby flirted with me and what I thought about him to ways to improve a command in Mathematics.
There was not a single adult chiding any of the younger ones. Yes, the embraces may be rough compared to what we were "used" to seeing but it was all love and nothing else. There was very little if any, molly-coddling and both boys and girls were treated with an understanding that each has a role to contribute to the family's rounds of activities as mundane as cooking to unexpected guests. Within the short hours, we were given scarves, loofah knitted by the matriarch of the family (a lovely demure little thing who apparently lived in mutual respect with the old man's other wife - he sat in a diverted "ahem" when his cheeky daughter by the other wife told me that her dad had three wives but one was taking the "eternal sleep" - you still with me here?)
2200
The little boy Sarkat was told to see us safely back onto the main street, given the presumption that travellers must not be used to the dark rocky parts uphill. We left with a feeling of contentment that we had been invited into such a private family evening, when we came with so little of what's to be expected. The rain didn't pour after all and I laid down on my comfortably firm bed listening to the donkeys braying away the remaining of the night's virginal lure as the last cries of a few kids rang out to calling mothers.
0800 (the next day)
Sat outside the dolmus shop to wait for our ride towards Hakkari. The shopkeeper next door insisted on buying us cay. Hubby made conversation and we tried to ask a little bit about the Kurdish issues whenever it seemed all right to enquire about the Kurds and their feelings towards the present government. He made a smacking hand gesture and clasped his right palm into a bird-like point to indicate that Hakkari is beautiful and that one would not find it difficult to determine where his loyalty laid. The tea shop owner put down another round of brew for us. Then it was a mad dash towards the rickety bus that would wind its way on the same distance as yesterday but took double the time as we travelled across a snaking path through the bellies of the giants.
1100
Rest stop. Two women vomitted. I thanked my good fortune to not have any issues with motion sickness. We cut through villages that looked like their existence had not quite changed since two generations ago. There were a lot more army checkpoints and unbelievable prettiness in the rivers and fields. We were so close to the Iranian and Iraqi borders that it wasn't unfathomable to cross over should we want to change our plans.
The air was drier and mild. It won't be long before we reached home base.
1400
I was wrong! We were still on the journey!
1500
Unceremoniously dumped on a cross-section. The bus driver told us that Hakkari was "just another 6km to go" but he omitted the mention of an uphill direction ALL.THE.WAY.
Hubby stuck out a hand. A little ute screeched onto a halt of sand. We got a lift halfway before we got dumped out again.
I tried to stick my hand out. Wondering to myself how close we were to Iran and if using the typical hitch-hiking gesture would still be safe within these borders (note: apparently doing so in Iran means "f@ck off") and under 30 seconds, a Toyota stopped and they spoke enough English to get us all the way to the "only truly four star-rated hotel in Hakkari as verified by the Turkish Tourism Authorities" (printed on their frontdesk brochure). We asked. They answered affirmative regarding a room.
The water pressure was good and the throne was stamped safe for use (so trust me, that's probably as "dangerous" as Kurdish lands are ever going to get - ditch the pigeon hole statements!). We had itchy feet to get out and dig into some good food.
1700
Fed and washed, we slithered towards a tea salon.
1800
A balcony of Kurdish ladies and their children waved to us. Adam, our newly made friend who rescued us from a throng of boyish kids throwing some mischief, came along with us. It seemed everyone knew everybody within this precint. More tea, biscuits and talks about Kurdish nationalism. There were plenty of laughs too. I quietly thought to myself that it would be a long road still should pockets of Kurdish people within Turkey, Iran, and Iraq were allowed to form their own Kurdistan. Completely land-locked and lacking of friendly trading neighbours, nationalism can't feed empty stomachs and ward off diseases. Yet it was immensely unfair to prohibit the use and publication of Kurdish language material. This year's Bayram alone had nine martyred. The armies understanbly needed to crack down fast on any dissent but this would only be a temporary solution that would be rendered useless against the long-term prospects of this vast, wild yet captivating land.
I believe, in my humble opinion, infrastructure development and proper, sustainable tourism promotion will generate more for the Kurds here and keep their men home. Too little was available and most left to other parts of Turkey in search for money to pay for things that you and I look for too. The only difference was those left behind carried their stories with so much grace and patience, you couldn't help but admire them for that.
2000
We had moved on from tulip-cups of tea to a home made dinner, whipped out freshly. While the chicken and egg menemen simmered laboriously over the pans, the ladies took us into their inner hall and played dress-up with us. I nearly drown in the folds of fabric but never had I wore that much of glitter in one standing! (Check out the wrap-up section in the future once our Turkey leg is done... did that sound like a line from a cookbook? Anyway, you'll probably have the only chance to see me in this resplendent gown and the heaviest hat that my head had to bear. Will I wear it to the local shop? Not if I intend to avoid any arrest for partying too hard!) We were made into a Kurdish couple and before I realised it, I am sitting here reminiscing without any self-consciousness, we hooked our little fingers and danced in a circle with Sharifah performing an amazing ululation as I clumsily fell in line with all the love and gaeity that came with blending every identity of your culture in everyday's joys and pains.
We shared stories and hopes. We exchanged phrases. And when the hour came for little ones to rest their heads on their familiar beds, all wore their best shoes to walk us back to our hotel. They wanted to show us the town. This town may seemed an oddity perching on top of the giant ranges in this part of the harsh world but it definitely hummed with life to keep thriving despite the odds and unknown. Most bars were a loud congregation of the local football club's supporters. I had never seen such intensity and pride.
2200
We bade farewell and as it had been previously, everyone we met in this part of Turkey had an elaborated line of blessings and good wishes for us when we left.
Sevcan told me, after looking up from her dictionary "repeat come!"...
We never left and kept waving goodbye until the last fold of their skirts faded from our sight as they turned around the block back to their homes.
1200 (the next day after)
A pretty drive towards Van, our next stop before the last bastion standing at the border town into Iran. We arrived into a thriving city yet my mind was still resting on the warm embrace of unlimited friendship and hospitality offered to two strangers who happened to stumble into their lives. Even though our bus passed through some sprayed propaganda citing "boykot PKK", it was not enough to dampen my spirits. Yet I so badly want to know what the solution was to ease the pain on both sides.
The ugly part of the truth is, I don't.
What I can share here is these people had taught me something beyond the Kurdish spirit in preseverance, kindness, and courage. They lived in the moment and held close both the smiles and tears. Every moment counted.
So if you are ever lost for anything to something as trivial as boredom, remember, many things can happen - even within the space of forty eight hours.
Get out there and get the most of it. They already did, so what are we waiting for?
