On the Road

Photos: Sri Lanka - NJ workshop

shrummer16 — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 16:35:00 GMT

Shots from (in and around) a workshop we facilitated in collaboration with UNDP, CKS, and COMPAS in Avissawella, Sri Lanka, in July/August, 2010. A report from the workshop can be read here: http://naturaljustice.org/images/naturaljustice/sri%20lanka%20workshop%20report.pdf

Photos: Tofino, BC

shrummer16 — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 17:22:00 GMT

In and around beautiful Tofino, British Columbia. We were there for two conferences in May, 2010 (and nearly froze camping on the beach throughout). We were extremely fortunate to experience some of our natural surroundings as well, thanks to our friends Eli and Joe from the Tla-o-qua-oht First Nation!

Photos: Kalahari garden - the grand finale

shrummer16 — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 22:47:00 GMT

The school veggie garden in all its glory, plus final snaps of my gals and boyz in our favourite Askham hangouts - the garden, the football pitch, and the sandy street in front of Ouma's house

Photos: South Africa - KTP

shrummer16 — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 20:08:00 GMT

Return to source...

Photos: South Africa & Lesotho Highlands

shrummer16 — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 19:36:00 GMT

Snaps from an IUCN workshop I attended on protected area governance in the Maloti-Drakensberg Transfrontier Park between South Africa and Lesotho

Photos: South Africa - Upington highlights

shrummer16 — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 18:47:00 GMT

Highlights from our days in Upington, Sept '09 to April '10

Photos: South Africa - CT highlights

shrummer16 — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 18:22:00 GMT

Highlights from visits to Cape Town in September & November 2009

Photos: Christmas & NYE - UK

shrummer16 — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 23:15:00 GMT

A whirlwind few weeks in the UK with the Jonas family and friends to celebrate the holidays

Shifting Sands: Climate Change in the Kalahari

shrummer16 — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 21:14:00 GMT

Even before the effects of climate change began to appear the Kalahari Desert was among the harshest regions in the world. Only the most specialized plants and animals are adapted to live in its scorching 45ºC heat. Its thousands of human inhabitants are equally hardy and resolute, and they are accustomed to dramatic seasonal changes such as gale-force winds and fierce thunderstorms. However, the people of the Kalahari are probably not prepared to cope with the unprecedented changes predicted from global climate change. Though hardy and resolute, they already struggle with shortages of water, which only runs at night and only when the temperamental electricity is working.

Researcher David Thomas of the University of Oxford claims that climate change in the Kalahari may force people to give up their farming ways and return to hunting and gathering. As temperatures rise, what little water is available will evaporate more quickly, vegetation will die off and the desert will slowly take over formerly productive lands. This vicious cycle will increasingly threaten livelihoods based almost solely on farming and livestock herding. Although the indigenous San tribe once lived sustainably in the unforgiving southern African desert, much of their traditional knowledge and practices have been lost to centuries of colonization and structural oppression. Without such critical knowledge of the desert’s ecological processes, people here will be unable to adapt to increasingly volatile environmental conditions.

John is one of few San traditional trackers in the South African Kalahari and I have been working closely with him to build a school vegetable garden. He often points out species of birds, lizards, and invertebrates to me, including deadly scorpions. He recently lamented that he hasn’t seen some species in the past few years and notes that it may have been caused by changes in temperature and rainfall, and thus, soil conditions and plant diversity.

Though many people in the Kalahari have heard of climate change, few know of its potential implications for their livelihoods. Their primary focus is on daily survival. A focus on economic and industrial development at the national level, however, is getting South Africa into hot water on the international stage.

At the current climate change negotiations in Copenhagen, South Africa is considered an advanced developing country alongside Brazil, India, and China. Their main argument is that they have contributed few emissions in the past and should not be forced to cut emissions now at the expense of their economic development. They argue that the developed countries that have caused climate change must pay for it. Although this is a legally sound argument, their growing economies are based on high-emission industries and are quickly becoming some of the highest emitters in the world. Developed countries counter-argue that any emissions that they cut will simply be negated by unregulated emissions from countries like South Africa.

Regardless of the outcome of the negotiations in Copenhagen, it is certain that life will become increasingly difficult for the people of the Kalahari. In order to survive, they will have to begin adapting to their changing climate. I have been working with the community in Askham on some simple activities that may help them adapt. Along with John and another friend named Patrick, we’re managing the school vegetable garden, planting trees, testing home-made solar cookers, and developing drip irrigation systems to conserve water for home gardens. Perhaps the time will come when the San have to leave the Kalahari once and for all, but for now, they will continue to fight for survival.

Photos: Kalahari - seeds of change

shrummer16 — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 04:06:00 GMT

Planting the seeds in the Askham school garden - each class has its own veggie plot to take care of! We also planted several dozen saplings, brought from Upington...

Desert Storm (Moonlight Sonata)

shrummer16 — Wed, 9 Dec 2009 22:40:00 GMT

The winds were fierce throughout the day, whipping tiny particles of sand around like microscopic bb-gun pellets, inexorably shaping the face of the desert dunes, yet paradoxically, in doing so, also retaining the very structure that defines them. My friend, a traditional San tracker, told me that the frenzied activity of the duisandpodes earlier that morning foreshadowed the coming rains. ("Duisandpode" literally means "thousand feet" in Afrikaans; these insects are essentially millipedes on steroids, in typical African fashion of all fauna being bigger and badder.)

Just when the sun should have been calmly bowing out and giving way to an ebony night laden with millions of diamond stars, the sky was ablaze with unusually coloured and frenetically-shaped clouds - soft but vibrant pastels tinged with a certain dangerous, hidden ferocity, not unlike the mesmerizing colours of anything poisonous drawing the awe-struck eye in closer and closer until it's within striking distance. The more innocent-looking clouds were such a nostalgic sepia that I felt like I was looking at a 19th-century photograph, but then they melted into ominously purple clouds so low that they seemed to nearly skim the tops of the corrugated aluminum roofs of Askham's ramshackle dwellings.

As the winds continued, the first flash of lightning was visible through the trees lining the sandy street. The odd rumble of still-distant thunder came from all parts of the sky like the disjointed tuning of the members of an orchestra before the symphony.

When I was driving back into Askham earlier that day with the local social worker, she had expressed her concern for the young children living with her, who were always immobilized with fear during storms. I told her to reassure them in the same way that my mother used to do for me at their age by saying that the thunder was simply "the angels bowling". I had to explain what bowling was, but then she agreed that that would likely do the trick.

A few brave children still roamed outdoors, but little else activity could be detected. Even the otherwise omnipresent throbbing of hip-hop music had mercifully been switched off for the inevitable electricity surges and cuts; I'd like to think it was also subconsciously out of respect for the natural sonic show about to take place. It was truly the calm before the storm...

Suddenly, with one gloriously loud thunderclap, the curtains rose and the show began with a troupe of lightning dancing chaotically in all directions, tickling the inner workings of the now homogeneously flat, grey cloud blanketing the sky. The entire sky seemed to be engulfed in flames chasing lines of white fuel that had been strewn about by some atmospheric Jackson Pollock. The thunder answered each flash with increasing swiftness until the light and sound followed each other in such fast succession that it was no longer possible to distinguish which came first.

The first few drops of rain splattered audibly on the earth and kicked up tiny clouds of red dust, immediately eliciting the distinct smell of damp Kalahari sand - a heady incense that simultaneously cleared my mind and transported me to another realm.

I had been reading my well-worn copy of Laurens van der Post's "The Lost World of the Kalahari", which has surely changed many eager hands since its first publication in 1958. It wasn't until I took a pause to immerse myself in the very real Kalahari right in front of me and the book came to rest on my chest that I realized how closely the smell of the damp earth resembled that of the wonderfully decrepit book. The uncannily similar smell of the rain-soaked sand to stacks of dusty books in a library evoked an equally similar feeling that I was in the midst of an omniscient repository of ancient knowledge that one can only dream of catching a glimpse into.

As the rains descended heavier and heavier, I was forced to take refuge inside and soon found myself dashing around my tiny house in the dark (the electricity had already gone off), trying in vain to contain all of the thick streams of rainwater now bursting zestfully through the flimsy ceiling. The crash of the thunder was now so near that the house shook and I actually considered for a moment how quickly I would be able to move if the visibly concave roof collapsed under the ferocious pounding of the rain.

Standing in the middle of a puddle-strewn kitchen, I pushed my hair out of my face and adjusted the elastic of the headlamp strapped to my forehead, resigning myself to at least a full day without either electricity or dry wood for cooking. I laughed out loud at the sheer power and fierce beauty of nature; one should never forget the fundamental humility of our species because, for all the advances we've made, one is still very much at the mercy of a good storm.

International AIDS Day

shrummer16 — Tue, 1 Dec 2009 12:17:00 GMT

All around the world today, communities are celebrating International AIDS Day. It may seem paradoxical to see the words "celebrate" and "AIDS" in the same sentence, but sometimes just what is needed when fighting one of the worst of our modern-day scourges is a celebration.

This day gives all people - doctors, social workers, governments, and citizens alike - the chance to simply come together to share, reflect, reach out, and raise awareness about the battle against HIV/AIDS. All too often, those involved in the humanitarian and development sectors are so busy and focused on their own specific projects that they rarely communicate with others working in the same area. Today is a reminder to the whole world that HIV/AIDS is still very much a massive obstacle to basic survival and human development, particularly in Sub-Saharan Africa.

"HIV" stands for Human Immuno-deficiency Virus. It can be acquired through the transmission of bodily fluids during risky activities such as unprotected sex and sharing of needles with an HIV-positive person. It is also possible for an HIV-positive woman to pass on the virus to her baby during pregnancy, birth, or breastfeeding, but with proper treatment, the risk of transmission can be greatly reduced.

An HIV-positive person develops AIDS (Acquired Immuno-deficiency Syndrome) when his or her immune system is no longer able to fight off diseases and infections. People living with AIDS can die of diseases such as Tuberculosis that are contracted because of their weakened immune systems - i.e. they don't die of AIDS itself. It is possible for people living with AIDS to look perfectly normal and to live long and healthy lives with the proper medication, known as Anti-Retro Virals (ARVs).

One of the biggest obstacles to widespread treatment in Sub-Saharan Africa is the lack of access to inexpensive and generic forms of ARVs. Most ARVs are produced by major pharmaceutical companies that have monopolies over the patents of 'name-brand' versions. AIDS activists around the world have been relentless in pushing companies to start producing generic forms of ARVs that Africans can actually afford.

Since HIV often debilitates people's immune systems, it is critical for patients to try to pursue healthy lifestyles, including physical activity and a balanced diet. There is also a lot of social stigma around HIV and AIDS: all too often, those afflicted are too embarrassed to even tell their families and friends and suffer in isolation; sometimes they are even ostracized or beaten if others in the community find out.

Here in South Africa, an estimated 1 in 5 people are infected with HIV and 1000 people die of AIDS-related diseases every day. South Africa has the highest number of infections in the world and thus is often the focal point of AIDS Day. Earlier today, President Jacob Zuma pledged to treat all HIV-positive babies, expand HIV testing programs, and increase access to ARVs across the country. This is a drastic change from former President Thabo Mbeki's stance, which infamously denied the causal link between HIV and AIDS and encouraged people to treat HIV with garlic and beetroot rather than ARVs. Some activists recently called for Mbeki to be prosecuted for genocide, based on the hundred of thousands of premature deaths allegedly caused by his administration's policies.

A recent report released by UNAIDS and WHO shows a 15% reduction in HIV infections in Africa. Although that still means that hundreds of thousands of people are being infected every year, worldwide HIV prevention programs are working. So, even though Zuma's administration won't solve everything, the government's recognition of and commitment to the issue is a huge first step.

For more information, see:

http://english.aljazeera.net/news/africa/2009/12/200912180763259.html

http://www.tac.org.za/

http://www.africanews.com/site/New_HIV_infections_reduce_by_15_in_Africa/list_messages/28225

Children's Rights: 20 Years On

shrummer16 — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 11:53:00 GMT

November 20th marked the 20th anniversary of the adoption of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. To date, 193 countries have ratified the Convention and significant progress has been made on several aims worldwide, including primary education, health care, and protection against violence. The United Nation's Children's Fund, UNICEF, published a video and report called "The State of the World's Children" to assess the Convention's first 20 years and it can be found here.

Although progress has been made by some highly committed governments, donors, organizations, and individuals, much still needs to be done. Children are arguably the most vulnerable to and most affected by social ills like poverty, disease and exploitation, and thus require more protection against them. Each generation of children is comprised of the leaders of tomorrow; as such, the strength of the foundations of our society depends upon the strength of the character of our parents.

In the words of the great Nelson Mandela, modern South Africa's founding father, "There can be no keener revelation of a society's soul than the way in which it treats its children."

Find out more about UNICEF, the Convention on the Rights of the Child, and non-profit organizations working towards children's rights at the links below.

http://www.unicef.org/rightsite/index.html
http://www.nelsonmandelachildrensfund.com
http://www.freethechildren.com/
http://www.righttoplay.com

Seeds of Change

shrummer16 — Fri, 6 Nov 2009 06:18:00 GMT

It has begun. Little by little, the youth of Askham, a tiny village in the South African Kalahari, are making a difference not only in their community but also in themselves. In just a couple short weeks, we have started preparations for a massive food garden at the local school, have established the Kalahari Nature Club (complete with a democratically elected committee), and have started a canned planting project for the endangered camelthorn tree. Though it will be an uphill battle getting the notoriously lazy young adults involved, the elders and children have jumped on board with enthusiasm and determination. It's almost as if they've been craving something to do - not a big surprise, considering the unemployment rate in the Kalahari is an estimated 90%.

A myriad of inter-related social issues have arisen from this, including astoundingly high rates of alcoholism and drug abuse, domestic and child abuse, rape, HIV/AIDS and TB, malnutrition, school drop-out, illiteracy... the list goes on and on until you can't help but think, "What isn't wrong here?". It's easy to be overwhelmed by all of the social ills, knowing what these people face every day with little hope of improvement. But I've learned that one absolutely must focus on the positives - if not, then truly nothing will change, except for the worse. That's partly why I've come back to this little corner of the world: so many people and organizations and political systems have failed them over the years that they seem to have developed a sort of endemic community inferiority complex. There are many individuals right in the community, though, who have incredible skills and knowledge of traditional values and behavioural norms that could have a hugely positive impact; it's just a matter of drawing them out of their shells that they have been shamed into through generations of oppression.

Think big, but start small. That's exactly what the camelthorn seeds are doing right now in the children's cans - and perhaps also in their minds.

(See more photos in the gallery "Kalahari - it begins...")

Gallery: Kalahari - it begins...

shrummer16 — Thu, 5 Nov 2009 08:44:00 GMT

A few snaps of the first stage of the school garden, a girls' sports day, and starting a tree-planting project

Revisiting the future

shrummer16 — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 00:57:00 GMT

Here I am, back in South Africa, a full (and I do mean full) 2 years after first falling in love with it. Over the next year or so, I'll be based in the Kalahari, working on a youth development and HIV/AIDS prevention program. I'll write about it from time to time but first need to catch up on posts about the rest of my travels in the Middle East!

Stay tuned... (they'll appear below this one)

The Turkish Horse Whisperer

shrummer16 — Wed, 5 Aug 2009 11:23:00 GMT

I have found a(nother) home away from home. Cappadocia truly is a magical place, especially once you settle into the local way of life, whiling away your days with horses and your nights with friends and homemade wine. Life here is good. So good, in fact, that I almost didn't leave.

May 1: Happy Wine

I met up with Zach, the friend of the restaurant owner who had easily convinced me to stay in Cappadocia at least one day longer with the promise of free horseback riding (see last post). He introduced me to his mares, happily munching away in a field on the outskirts of town, before bringing me over to the main ranch across the road. I had walked past it before on the way back from a hike and had gaped in awe at the free-ranging horses grazing the succulent grasses among Cappadocia's iconic caves and fairy chimneys. I had desperately wanted to meet the owner, simply out of curiousity. Thanks to Zach, I was now gaining entrance into one of the most interesting circles of people I have ever met.

When I first saw Ekrem, the ranch owner, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. He sauntered towards me like a veteran cowboy through saloon doors, but with a certain unidentifiable sensitivity; his face was leathery, the deep lines framing his mouth and eyes etched by years of kindness rather than hardness. His hands were just as weathered but seemed to be an extension of his entire persona, not once used in malice. A well-worn black cowboy hat perched atop his shock of shoulder length hair as if there was no other place in the world it could possibly sit. His ensemble was completed by none other than a matching black leather vest, blue jeans, and cowboy boots.

I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He looked so out of place in Turkey but simultaneously so at home on the ranch, the air thick with that unmistakable horsey smell. To quote the great Seinfeld, this man was an enigma wrapped in a riddle.

After making sure I wasn't gun-shy, he tacked up a horse and told me to take her out on the trails and come back whenever I wanted. I stared at him incredulously again; I couldn't imagine any other rancher in the world offering a complete stranger free rein (no pun intended) over one of his beloved horses. I happily obliged and took the sweet-natured mare for a jaunt around the nearby caves.

When I returned, I was greeted not only by customary offers of chai, but also by two new faces. Malynda was tall and carried herself in a way that made me think she was probably quite clumsy in her teenage years. She had an honest face and a somewhat ethereal way about her, thanks to her passion for the arts and all things alternative (she would have fit in well in Guelph). She was from the States but working as an art teacher at an international school in Istanbul. Clara, the woman sitting next to her, knew her through her sister, a dance teacher back in Istanbul; I later clued in that Clara was the one dancer that had so impressed me at the Turkish Nights show with her solo bellydance and Sufi routines. Since Clara lived in Cappadocia, she also by default knew Ekrem, and she and Malynda were there to arrange a ride for the next morning.

Malynda and I immediately hit it off and were soon talking as if we'd known each other for years. After marveling at Ekrem's random assortment of donkey-shaped mint dispensers and old photos and newspaper clippings, Clara suggested that we visit the pottery workshop beside the ranch. Since I'm still very much amused by playing with mud, I jumped at the chance to get my hands dirty. In no time, we were outfitted in oversized fuschia pants more suited for a drag-queen Santa Claus, laughing our heads off at the wobbling messes we had created on the pottery wheel.

(The art of pottery is a fine-tuned and in-demand one; clay pots are used often in Cappadocian cuisine. Stews are cooked right in the pots, which are then cracked open to expose their contents for the hungry patron.)

With the sun setting and our tummies rumbling, we made our way over to Ekrem's house, a 5-minute drive from the horse ranch. I couldn't help but feel like this guy had life figured out pretty well when I realized that his house was actually in a cave that overlooked a picturesque valley full of birds, trees and a bubbling brook. He told us to make ourselves at home and soon had us chopping organic vegetables for a huge stew dinner and sipping wine made from the grapes grown a stone's throw away. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to take up a similar lifestyle, tending to gardens and animals and simply nurturing life.

More friends piled into his cave-house throughout the evening and we fought off the chilly temperatures by playing the spoons and dancing up a storm - and of course, indulging ourselves in the homemade beverage of choice, which Ekrem had aptly dubbed "Happy Wine".

On our way back into town, Malynda and I made plans to meet back at Ekrem's ranch the next day for a horseback ride. I marveled at my sheer dumb luck for having stumbled upon such an eclectic group of people and drifted to sleep, once again with a smile plastered on my face.

May 2: Galloping into the sunrise

I arrived at Ekrem's ranch this morning even before he did, and Clara and Malynda were over an hour later than the agreed upon time, citing the hard-hitting Happy Wine as the culprit for their delay. I've gotten quite used to nothing happening on time on this trip and since the beautiful landscape and several horses in front of me were a nice change from my usual waiting-for-hours venue of bus stations, I didn't mind the extra time in the least. I brushed down all the horses, played with the dogs, and checked out the pigeon coops, initiatives which later got me an open job offer as a ranch hand.

When a few other local friends finally arrived, we got on our horses and headed off onto a well-marked trail through Rose Valley - much the same as the one I had hiked a couple days prior with the stray hound. It was a different perspective altogether from atop a horse, particularly since I didn't have to remember where I was going with Ekrem in the lead. We wound our way through the trails, clip-clopped up the cobblestone streets of a quaint little village, and came to a resting point at the top of a cliff, overlooking the stunning vista of fairy chimneys and multi-coloured sheer rock faces.

On the way back to the ranch, Zach challenged me to a race and I immediately left the others to walk their horses back and we took off at a gallop. I hadn't galloped for years but quickly adjusted to my horse's pace - not that I had much choice, since Zach was "yah"ing his mare on like we were being chased by the hounds of hell and mine instinctively followed suit. I channeled all of my concentration into hanging on for dear life, lest a millimeter shift in balance result in exercising my travel insurance policy. For a gal with the need for speed, there is nothing quite like galloping on a horse and I arrived back at the ranch flush with adrenaline and wanting more.

My interest was further piqued by yet another intriguing offer, this time for me and Malynda to accompany Ekrem the following day into the nearby mountains to round up a massive herd of wild horses. Known for this throughout Cappadocia, he only makes the trip once a year and we happened to be there at the right time. Though Malynda and I had planned to take the bus to Istanbul that night, I know a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when I see it and quickly convinced her otherwise, thus changing my bus ticket for the third time.

Later that evening, I went with Malynda to watch Clara dance in the 'Turkish Nights' show. Even though it was the exact same staged show as the one I had been to a few nights prior, I had more of an insider's perspective this time. Before the show started, Malynda and I hung out with Clara in the female dancers' dressing room and watched them get their costumes ready and put on their makeup. The room was thick with cigarette smoke and hairspray and punctuated with fits of giggles and typical girl chatter. Though it seemed normal enough to Malynda, whose adolescence was spent battling her sisters and mom for the bathroom mirror, it was a completely foreign scene to me. I watched with the same tabula rasa curiousity as I reserve for anything I haven't seen before.

After the show, the three of us met up with Zack and Ekrem and other friends of theirs at a local bar. As the night unfolded into billiards competitions and over-the-top strobe light dance-offs, I laughed incredulously at yet another of the hilarious situations I seem to find myself in day after day. As the crowd depleted, half of our group decided to crash and the other half (including yours truly) jammed into a run-down car to hunt for any noble establishment still kicking out the jams in the next town over. Unfortunately, we seemed to be the only ones still awake and eventually wound up building a campfire in a nearby valley and hanging out until the sun rose. I reminded myself that I had a mere few hours of shut-eye before another day of adventure with Malynda, Clara and our Horse Whisperer and, once again, crawled into bed during the muezzin's morning call to prayer.

May 3: Who's gonna ride your wild horses

On the hour drive from Goreme to Kayseri, I was like a kid on Christmas morning, my nose pressed up against the window in anticipation of the day's events. We arrived at a ramshackle home filled with several young kids running around and rather tough-looking men lounging around a large trailer. I quickly chose the visibly more friendly audience and joined in playing with the kids; at one point, the littlest one gave my braids a solid yank, causing his previously indiscernible grandmother to erupt in giggles and divulge her location, half-buried in thick blankets against a robin's egg blue wall.

With second and third helpings of obligatory chai in our bellies, we girls were signalled over to a clearing between the houses. There were three horses already tacked up for us, but none nearly as domesticated-looking as Ekrem's. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Clara and Malynda looking nervously at each other as the horses bucked against their handlers. I strode resolutely over to my mount. Not that I was an expert rider by any stretch, but I sure wasn't going to play into the leering men's surely derogatory perception of us city girls.

In no time, we were up and off with Ekrem in the stoic lead. In place of the comforting fairy chimneys were wide open fields lined with snow-capped mountains, and in place of friendly strays were brutishly large herding dogs with vicious-looking spike collars that didn't exactly make me want to run up and hug them. Ekrem was sure to give the dogs wide berths; I wanted neither to be on a horse nor on foot around those things if they happened to attack.

When he felt we were safe enough to wander the pastures on our own and take in the mountain air, he galloped off into the distance. He only re-emerged with a distinct rumbling that soon erupted into the thunder of hundreds of hooves pounding the earth - the wild herd!!

Over the next hour or so, we were all hopped up on adrenaline and fighting to keep our own mounts calm, watching Ekrem expertly herd the horses towards the village as if there was nothing more natural in the world for him to be doing.

We were the last to arrive back at the village and although I was still psyched from seeing a real wild herd galloping across an open plain, my heart suddenly sank when I saw that the horses were now enclosed in a corral. Many were chill, but every now and then, one would start and send others rearing and whinnying in anxiety. Ekrem worked his magic, weaving daftly through the horses on foot to make his pick of the most beautiful and worthy of training under his hand on behalf of the interested buyer from the village. I felt rather conflicted; why would anyone want to take such a pristine thing as a wild horse and tame it? Malynda shared my sentiments but we tried to cast aside our biases and simply watch, as is so often the case during travels in a foreign land.

The farmers and Ekrem made their pick and I was simultaneously touched and heart-broken at the sight of the chosen mare being lassoed and eventually patted gently on the head. It was quite amazing how quickly they were able to calm her down. They released the others back into the wild and we untacked our horses and made our way back to Goreme, brimming with yet another full day's sights, sounds and feelings.

And thus, my time in Cappadocia had drawn to a close. As Malynda and I boarded the overnight bus to Istanbul, I snuck one last wistful glance at the skyline of the land of fairy chimneys, happy wine, and horse whisperers, wondering to myself when - not if - I would return.

Fairy Chimneys and Tagalong Pups

shrummer16 — Mon, 3 Aug 2009 11:09:00 GMT

Some people can't travel without a complete itinerary outlining every minute of every day - No Changes Allowed. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I've adopted a different style. If an interesting person presents me with an interesting opportunity, I'll rip up my onward ticket and wait for the 'Go'.

April 27: Detour

Before I boarded the overnight bus from Diyarbakir to Cappadocia, my friend Mesut had spoken with the bus driver to confirm that I would be dropped off in Cappadocia and made sure that I would be seated next to a woman. (Usually a Turkish man would not sit next to a woman who is not a family member, but sometimes you get an overly curious one that doesn't make for a good neighbour on an overnight bus.) As I said at the end of my last post, I wound up wedged next to a granny who had eaten a few too many doner kebabs, trying to avoid sticking my feet in her grandson's face as he slept under the seats in front of us. After a rather uncomfortable night, I woke up in the morning to the bus pulling into Ankara, a good 4 or 5 hours past Cappadocia. I gritted my teeth through a back-and-forth phone conversation between Mesut and the bus driver, the latter of whom confirmed that he had indeed forgotten to drop me off in Cappadocia and that I would simply have to catch the next bus back there from Ankara.

Though it wasn't a big deal at all, it was definitely one of those classic travel debacle moments in which I consciously contemplated whether I should let my temper get the best of me or just take a deep breath and let it go. I was awfully tempted by the former, but managed the latter. No need to ruin the days of the bus ticket guys, as well!

When I eventually arrived in Goreme, the little town at the epicentre of Cappadocia, I thought I had been transported to a different continent - and not because of the fairy-tale caves and rock formations. There was an actual tourist information centre with brochures of nearby hostels and boutique hotels, dinner and dance packages, and hot air balloon tours. Seriously?! I hadn't seen anything resembling what I would consider sound tourist infrastructure in almost a year.

After overcoming my initial shock, I found myself tossing my pack into the 12-bed dorm room in a cave hostel a mere 100 meters away from the town centre. Most accommodations here are nestled into caves, in a sort of touristy homage to the way Cappadocians used to live both in recent and ancient history.

Since I seem to have a knack for visiting countries in their tourist off-seasons, I had most of the hostel to myself. The few others staying there included a couple of Italian exchange students studying in western Turkey and an Austrian trekking guide who works in northern British Columbia. The other occupant was Bayram, the son of the hostel owner, who joined me and the trekker for pide (Turkish pizza) and a square of baklava (honey-soaked philo pastry, aka sweet tooth heaven). Since there wasn't much else to do and I hadn't been "out" in ages, we settled in for the evening at the aptly-named Flintstones bar. Though it took a few heated games of backgammon for a semi-crowd to roll in and get things going, we wound up partying with a big group of Americans and Aussies into the wee hours of the morning - so wee, in fact, that I heard the morning call to prayer before going to sleep.

April 28: The Rose Valley Dance

Though I didn't realize it last night - and I curse Bayram for not warning me - I made the fatal mistake of having some beer before a couple glasses of raki (anise-flavoured liquor, similar to Greek ouzo). Though I live my life with no regrets, my tummy may have argued otherwise for the better part of the day.

Regardless, I bundled up and set out to explore my surroundings. Cappadocia is well-known for its UNESCO World Heritage Site open-air cave museum and boasts an ancient history dating back to 6th-century BC. Over the previous 2 months in Central Asia and the Caucasus, whenever I had said I was going to Cappadocia, men would sigh blissfully and women would swoon at the mention of the Seuss-like caves and rock formations known as fairy chimneys. Needless to say, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

A short walk from the centre of town, I picked up a hiking trail through the Rose Valley. There were a few other tourists wandering around and I spotted a beautiful young hound mix frolicking through the fields of tall grass. She came over to see me for a good ear scratch then ran off again. About 10 minutes later, when no one else was in sight, she came bounding back to me without a care in the world and no apparent owner nearby. I carried on my merry way and she continued to follow me, so I figured she must have been a friendly stray. If so, she was the sweetest stray I had ever met and she wound up tagging along for the entire 4 hours! She ran off every so often to chase birds or follow a scent, but she always came bounding back to me, ears flopping away and tail wagging incessantly.

At one point, she ran off and I lost sight of her for a few minutes. Suddenly, I heard a whimper above me and looked up to see her cute little face plaintively peering down at me from a rock mound over the trail. She couldn't get down to me! My heart nearly broke with the cuteness of it all so I doubled back a couple hundred meters and called out to her until she found me on the trail again. She doused me with kisses and nearly broke my knees with her fierce tail wags. I looked at her incredulously, wondering how on earth such a darling could be a stray and thinking about how wonderful it was to 'have' a dog again, even if only for a few hours. No matter how many new things I see and do on my travels, nothing beats the decidedly normal feeling of having a happy dog at your side.

Before their religion was commonly accepted, early Christians inhabited extensive underground cities and cave networks. Whenever faced with the threat of invading forces, they simply retreated into the well-concealed cave hideouts and their foes were left wondering where they could have possibly fled so quickly.

When my pup and I were exploring one path, I was looking at everything other than my feet in front of me (not a bad tactic in life, I'd argue) and caught sight of something high above me. I squinted into an opening in the side of a cave's outer wall and when my eyes finally adjusted to the light, I was able to make out the outline of a big cross carved into the rock ceiling! I grinned at my pup, quickly surveyed the route up (and back down), and then scaled the rock wall to the nearest plateau. What lay before me made me laugh out loud - it was an ancient church in a cave, complete with original Christian frescoes from the 9th-11th centuries! I felt like I had been the first person to see them for centuries - until I noticed the cigarette butts in the corner of one of the rooms. Though I hate it when people leave their trash at World Heritage Sites, I suppose it would make a pretty sweet campsite.

As I was walking through one open area chock full of fairy chimneys on my way back to the hostel, a light rain began to fall and the afternoon azan (call to prayer) began to sing. No matter what I'm doing, I always stop to listen to the azan; I find it so poetic and hauntingly beautiful that it almost seems wrong to consciously neglect to appreciate it. This time was particularly chill-inducing: the sound echoed off the caves and rock formations and bounched back towards the village, harmonizing with itself in the process. I wondered if the muezzin knew how incredible his voice sounded in this natural acoustic experiment...

Later that evening, Bayram and I went out to 'Turkish Nights', a dinner show that highlighted different styles of dance from around Turkey. I'm always interested in anything to do with music and cultural traditions, and I did really like the belly dancers, but the whole production was so touristy and staged that it lost most of its meaning. I couldn't help but compare it to the many evenings I had spent dancing around the living rooms of families I had stayed with in Georgia, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan, and how much more authentic those seemed. It brought to mind the unfortunate catch-22 of tourism: people want to see and experience the most unique and exotic traditions in other parts of the world, but the more tourists that find out about them, the more staged and 'tourist-friendly' they become. It's kind of like picking a flower (and in doing so, killing it) to enjoy its beauty.

April 29: "Sure, why not!", number 1

I had purchased a bus ticket to head to Istanbul tonight but when I started packing up, Bayram gave me an offer I couldn't refuse. He had arranged a group of his friends for an afternoon football game and then planned to watch the semi-final match between Arsenal and Manchester United on the satellite in the hostel. I stopped packing for a moment then promptly went back to the bus station to change my ticket to the next day.

After a few hours of chilling and making a big lunch with some other hostel-goers, I was about to change into my makeshift football gear when the torrential rain began. And didn't stop. I was pretty bummed out when Bayram announced that the pick-up game had been called off. Instead, I settled for a beer over an exciting Man U win and some classic stand-up comedy clips on a Youtube lookalike (Youtube is banned in Turkey).

April 30: "Sure, why not!", number 2

I finally woke up to nice weather and set off for another hike, this time in Zemi Valley. The trail started out on a rather disappointingly easy wide gravel path, but thanks to the previous few days of rain, it soon became much more muddy and harder to navigate - i.e. much more fun! I was expecting much the same scenery as across the way in Rose Valley, but it was remarkably different. Most of the rocks and cliffs looked like huge dollops of whipped cream! Apparently Cappadocia's unique geological profile is due to an ancient volcano that belched out kilometers of soft ash and lava. The layers were eventually eroded down into the present-day formations by millennia of beatings from the wind, rain, and sand.

On my way back to the hostel for the last time before leaving for Istanbul, I stopped into a little restaurant for dinner. I was the only patron there so the 30-something owner took the liberty of sitting with me while I ate. He complained endlessly about how much he hated tourists, tour groups, and "especially" children (his emphasis). I almost choked on my next bite when he let out a huge sigh and lamented that a group of 25 Indian schoolgirls were on their way for dinner. I couldn't help but wonder how his only waiter was going to handle such a big group on top of any other drop-in diners. I thought briefly about my bus to Istanbul that was set depart in an hour then offered to help serve for the evening. He stopped short and raised one eyebrow at me. I assured him that I've waitressed before and that if he could change my bus ticket to the next day, I'd be more than happy to help.

As he disappeared around the corner, presumably to sweet-talk the bus guy to switch my ticket for free (again), one of his friends waltzed in and took his seat across from me. (For those who would find this disconcerting or a little too forward, I've gotten quite used to it. Usually people are so friendly and curious about foreigners that they'll just start talking to me regardless of what I'm doing at the time.) Turns out this guy was one of the rare gems who could offer me more than I could offer him; he owned horses at a ranch down the road and invited me to go riding the next day! As if the prospect of working for a free dinner wasn't enough to keep me in town for another day, a free horse ride sure sweetened the deal.

The restaurant owner came back with a new bus ticket for me just as the group of Indian schoolgirls was coming down the road. I raced back to the hostel to change into some non-mud-splattered clothes (I had few options, trust me) and then made it back in time to help the waiter deliver the kids' meals. I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed waitressing and had a blast joking around with the waiter, cooks, and all the customers. Among the other customers was a young couple who I actually ran into later in Istanbul and, my favourite, a pair of very debonair elderly Italian men who were touring the country on their motorcycles and needed help figuring out where to go in eastern Turkey, where I had conveniently just come from. Everyone complimented me on my English skills - that is, until I told them I was a Canadian tourist and that I sure hoped my English was up to par.

When the excitement at the restaurant died down, the owner, horse rancher and I headed over to one of the bars in town for a pint. We ran into a middle-aged American couple the restaurant owner had met earlier and we all played pool together. The couple had sons my age and, like most parents, were shocked that I was traveling through this region alone. I assured them that it wasn't nearly as scary or difficult as everyone assumed and that their sons would probably love it if they tried it, too. The rancher invited them to go horseback riding with us tomorrow, but they quickly turned him down. They were on one of those strictly timelined tours and "couldn't miss" their 9:50 am departure. I smiled to myself and thanked my lucky stars that I had no semblance of an itinerary to adhere to.

Kurdish Delights

shrummer16 — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 05:32:00 GMT

Travel warnings for southeast Turkey included rape, murder, religious extremism, and terrorism. Even one of the locals I befriended warned me not to trust anyone (horror movie, anyone??). I guess I was pretty lucky, then, to have emerged unscathed from an unexpected crash course in Kurdish culture.

April 25: The Trust Factor

It rained the entire bus ride from the Akdamar harbour to Diyarbakir, the biggest city in southeastern Turkey and the unofficial capital of Kurdistan. I find that the weather has a huge impact on how I perceive my surroundings, so it's a good thing the rain ceased shortly before I disembarked, otherwise I may not have been in the right frame of mind for what would happen next.

Just as I was wondering to myself how I was going to find a cheap hostel for the night, a pair of young guys sitting behind me piped up. Like pretty much every other young Turk, they were keen to practise their English skills and I seemed to still stick out like a sore thumb as a foreigner in places not typically frequented by tourists. They had just finished their year of mandatory service in the state military and were heading home to their families, also in Diyarbakir.

One of them named Mesut was particularly good at English and, upon arrival in Diyarbakir, even offered to help me secure a bus ticket to my next destination. I happily obliged; when you're used to communicating primarily through exaggerated hand motions and little drawings on scrap paper, having someone who could speak both English and Turkish was incredibly useful. Perhaps I balked a little too much at the prices of his suggested "affordable" hotels in town, but when I was about to thank him and bid him adieu, he also offered for me to stay with his family overnight. Normally I would never even consider such an offer from a man on his own, but anything concerning spending time with a family is usually a safe bet and a unique opportunity to experience some of the local culture - an awfully tempting proposition for an anthropology geek like me. Some people have told me that one day my curiousity will get the better of me if I'm not careful.

I triple-checked that it was okay with Mesut's mother before accepting the generous offer. I really wasn't sure about the social norms and expectations that I would be placed under in such a situation - a son the family hadn't seen in a year was coming home with a female foreigner he had just met - but in yet another testament to the mind-blowing hospitality that abounds in this part of the world, his mother literally welcomed me with open arms and promptly ushered me to the dinner table.

As his mother was turning in for the night, Mesut asked if I wanted to go out for a bit. Again, I was incredibly wary of how that might be perceived, but he assured me repeatedly that it was okay with his mom. It's possible that I was being a bit too oversensitive, but one can never be sure. We wound up finding a live band at a pub downtown that even played some English covers. At first I was thrilled to hear songs I knew and loved, but when they played Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" and Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here", I found myself missing a certain someone a little too much for my liking. Maybe it was with good reason that until then, I had been isolating myself from the creature comforts of 'the West' in the name of immersing myself in my immediate surroundings. After all, those things were just associated with memories of people I wouldn't be seeing for a really long time. It was much easier to just avoid them altogether.

April 26: Kurds just wanna have fun

I woke up early and joined Mesut's mother and youngest brother in a hearty breakfast of tomatoes, feta-like cheese, Nutella, and homemade emek bread. Since his mother's English skills were about as good as my Turkish (i.e. nill), we relied upon the little brother's primary schoolbooks, two-way dictionary, and computer-based translator to muddle our way through the standard topics of conversation like family, customs, and hobbies. Despite the language barrier, we connected well with each other and I had to mask my shock when I learned that she had never attended school and was still completely illiterate. Not only that, but her father had married her off at the age of 13 and she had her first child, Mesut, just a year later. Apparently girls are now allowed to go to school, but I would be surprised to hear of many fathers actually encouraging them to do so. Social change occurs slowly indeed.

When a second son showed up, I asked the two of them if they wanted to play some football at the neighbourhood park. They looked at me as if I was crazy (perhaps in part because girls in Turkey usually take no interest in football, let alone play it) and reminded me that Mesut was still asleep. I was actually having more fun with his brothers and mom and I didn't see why it mattered that he was still asleep until they said that they weren't allowed to go anywhere with me without his permission. I looked at them incredulously but held my tongue; I wasn't sure if it was them being subservient or me, but I didn't particularly like it.

Taking advantage of her eldest son's laziness and my subsequent restriction from football, the mother offered to take me to a friend's wedding party that afternoon. Once again, I was wary of the multitude of social norms that I would surely be subjected to, but jumped at the chance to join her and her female relatives at the celebration of such an important social institution.

I suddenly realized that I had nothing even remotely appropriate to wear to a formal wedding. Before I knew it, I was being whisked off to a cousin's apartment down the street to find an outfit to replace my hiking boots, jeans, and t-shirt. I opted for the least sparkly thing I could find (a plain black skirt and long-sleeved green top) and waited expectantly for the 3 other women to leave the room. They motioned for me to hurry up and change my clothes but I just stood there looking at the cousin helplessly. None of them spoke English but they eventually got the point that I didn't want an audience and left me alone, probably to shake their heads at how uptight Westerners are. Once I was ready, they flooded back into the room and helped each other put on their makeup and hijabs in front of the mirror. Again, I had a moment of cultural sensitivity-induced concern. So far, I had had a few too many Turkish men showing a little too much interest in my braids, and the last thing I wanted to do was draw even more attention to myself as a foreigner at someone else's wedding by not wearing a headscarf. The women indicated that I was fine without one - they fussed over my braids like a proud mother and seemed to want me to keep them out in the open - but I insisted otherwise. The cousin again came to my rescue and somehow managed to cover all of my hair with a few expertly placed ties and pins as I politely declined the offer to be doused in cheap perfume by Mesut's 9-year old brother.

The final touch was perhaps the most dreaded: the heels. I had myself and the other women barely holding back fits of laughter as I wobbled around the apartment, testing out the only pair that somewhat fit. To be honest, what unsettled me the most about wearing heels was the fact that I would not be able to run or play football - two things I'd prefer to retain the ability to do at all times. I guess I'd have to assume that the wedding party would not require either of them.

When we arrived at the tackily decorated hall, we headed straight to a table already staked out by other relatives of Mesut's mom. I smiled and cheek-kissed and shook hands with so many people that I felt like an amateur politician. I was surprised that no one spoke an ounce of English but it was a nice change to be able to simply watch and listen and not even try to understand what was being said. It wasn't long, though, before one of the younger girls dragged me away from a nearby baby and onto the dance floor.

Kurdish music and dancing was unlike anything I had experienced to date in Central Asia and the Caucasus. The music was way too loud and accentuated with the high-pitched trills reminiscent of Xena, but I quite enjoyed the massive drum slung around one man's waist that he beat incessantly with a cane to set the rhythm for the entire afternoon. The dancing began with a few women in a line facing the centre, hooking pinky fingers with those on either side of her. They moved their arms up and down in concert with a little step forward, backward, and to the right, so that they moved slowly around the perimeter of the dance floor. Eventually, enough women joined the line so that they went all the way around in a large circle, with one woman leading with a small hankerchief in hand. The men joined in as well but they formed a separate circle inside the women's, also led by a man with a hankerchief.

After about an hour of doing the same little move over and over and over, they responded to some unseen signal and split off into two straight lines at right angles to each other, one for the men and one for the women. The men showed off some impressively fast moves all in perfect unison in the line, and then dropped to one knee as one of the older men grabbed the hankerchief and took a solo in the centre. Dressed in traditional shalvar pants, he dazzled the audience with feverish footwork, shoulder shimmies, and arm movements that seemed chaotic to my untrained eye. With the sequined hankerchiefs in hand, his dance moves reminded me of the displays of a male peacock. When he finished, he dropped the hankerchiefs on the ground for the next male soloist to pick up.

During each solo, a couple of adult men tossed money (I think it was American dollar bills, for some reason) onto the dancer. Children dashed into the centre and snatched up the money amidst the stamping feet of the soloist. It took me a few rounds of this to notice that the children returned the money to the throwers rather than keeping it for themselves.

By the time the bride and groom finally arrived at the hall, I had all but forgotten that we were supposedly there to celebrate their union. I was surprised to see the bride looking downright miserable and even on the verge of tears for the rest of the party, but Mesut later told me that it was likely an arranged marriage and she was probably 10-15 years younger than her groom.

As soon as Mesut's mom and I returned home, Mesut urged me to get ready to head out again. He had somehow found two tickets to the championship football game that evening between Diyarbakir and one of the Istanbul teams and I had time to watch at least the first half before catching my next inter-city bus. We took a couple of dolmushes and buses to get to the stadium and I could feel the excitement (and traffic) mounting the closer we got. The entire city seemed to have turned out to support their home team: huge corporate-sponsored banners were hanging in the streets, cars were decked out in team colours and horns, and face-painted kids were waving flags in droves on the packed sidewalks.

When we arrived at the stadium, Mesut told me to wait outside while he tracked down his friend who was holding the tickets for us. Just as I was starting to feel the heat of hundreds of pairs of eyes tracking my every move (I was back to being the only woman in sight), he came back visibly distressed. It seemed that either too many tickets had been sold or too many officials had been bribed; the stadium was already well over capacity and they weren't letting anyone else in, even those with legitimate tickets. Mesut was pretty upset but to be honest, I was quite amused to just watch the crowds around us. Some fans were so eager to see the action that they scaled terrifyingly high walls to get inside the stadium. Even with riot police pushing their way through the crowds and yelling at them to get down, they were cheered on by the crowds and pulled over the top by fellow fans with a bird's-eye view of the mayhem in the streets below.

With the electricity in the air as palpable as it was, I didn't find it hard to believe how easily riots could break out at national and World Cup matches. With all my years of playing the beautiful game, I had never been to a professional match. I suppose this one didn't really count, since I didn't actually get to see any of it, but still - soaking up the atmosphere outside the stadium was a pretty sweet substitute. I can only imagine what it will be like next year in South Africa!

April 26-27: Until the fat lady sings

On the overnight bus from Diyarbakir to Cappadocia, I was seated beside a rather robust woman and her 6-year old grandson. It's not uncommon here for a woman to squeeze herself and two kids into two seats, but I was shocked to see this little gaffer sleeping UNDER the seats in front of us throughout the night. I tried to squeeze over as far as possible for him, but to no avail... Granny was simply too big for him to fit on her lap. I swore then and there that I would never let myself get too fat to accommodate my grandkids.

Turtle hunting on hallowed ground

shrummer16 — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 01:42:00 GMT

My first few days in Turkey taught me that sometimes when backpacking you seem to spend about 70% of your time on public transit and only 30% at your intended destination. Thankfully Turkey has some incredible things to see and do... and a wicked long-distance bus system.

April 21: Your Turkish border, ma'am, courtesy of the Four Seasons

It turns out the few nerves I had on my last morning in the former USSR were completely unfounded. When I pulled up to the border to enter north-eastern Turkey from Georgia, I almost laughed out loud: it was an actual modern building complete with a duty free shop, painted lines on paved roads, and clean flush toilets with paper. Compared to the middle-of-nowhere shacks that had comprised most of the borders I had crossed to date, this one was an absolute breeze. It only took 20 minutes to get my visa and cleared through, and they didn't even search my bags or pull me aside for questioning. I was even able to get some Turkish Lira at an official rate, rather than the back-alley trench-coat exchanges I was used to in the 'Stans. Hmm! Looks like Turkey will be a different backpacking ball game indeed.

I caught two dolmushes (public transit minivans, similar to the ones known as marschutkas in the former USSR) from the border to the nearest town. I noticed that the women were significantly more covered than their Georgian (and Christian) counterparts, likely attributable to the fairly conservative interpretation of Islam in rural eastern Turkey. Once at the town's bus station, I enquired about how to get to Kars, one of eastern Turkey's tourist 'to-do's, but they insisted that there were no more buses going today. Drivers often say this to get you to panic and take their taxis but I have yet to fall for it. I wasn't feeling stubborn enough to sleep overnight in the bus station though, so I caught the next bus a few hours later to Erzurum, a main city that doesn't have much to offer itself but serves as a useful transit hub to other hotspots. The bus was a proper coach and the scenery was gorgeous - lush green mountains and steep gorges into the rivers below. When we arrived in Erzurum, it was close to midnight and all the other passengers disembarking from the bus were rather dodgy-looking men. Since the station had already closed for the night, I had little choice but to high-tail it to a hostel and figure out how to get to the next point on my itinerary the following day.

April 22: The Tryptophan Effect

Apparently there were a couple historical sights and interesting mosques to see in Erzurum, but quite frankly, I wanted to do as little as possible today - and it was glorious. Not that I'm particularly stressed or deserving of even more of a vacation, but it was nice to have a day to sleep in a little and not concern myself for once with the logistics of navigating yet another brand new city and its unreliable public transit with no knowledge of yet another new language.

Instead, I welcomed myself to Turkey's fabulous street cuisine by devouring a doner kebab for brunch and starting my own crash course in Turkish currency and numbers. I spent the day at an internet cafe behind my hostel, sipping on complimentary chai and sugar cubes to sustain the little energy needed to chat with friends and family on Skype and catch up on emails. I then got a kilo of fresh strawberries (my first in months) and ate the entire thing for dinner while dancing around the triple room I had all to myself to cheesy Turkish music videos (example here). So yes, although I'm incredibly happy to be backpacking for 4 months, sometimes a gal needs a break from travelling too!

April 23: Are we there yet?

When I left the hostel in Erzurum at 7:30 am, there was no one at the front desk. I was tempted to 'sleep-and-run' but did the proper Canadian thing and left the money I owed anyways, hoping that they would think positively of my fellow Canuckers in the future. In the backpacking world, it's the little things that people do (or not) that can make or break locals' perceptions of an entire nationality.

The steam from my still-warm simit (sesame seed-coated bagel) wafted into my nose and warded off the bone-chillingly cold rain that pelted me en route to the otogar (bus station). I smiled to myself; after a full day of lazing around and catching up on family affairs, I was mentally and physically recharged and ready to explore what eastern Turkey had to offer.

I had my sights set on camping beside Lake Van and visiting the ancient Armenian church perched resolutely on the edge of tiny Akdamar Island. The 7-hour bus I took from Erzurum to Van, the city nearest to Akdamar, served as a red carpet welcome to the joys of Turkish buses. Never before had I seen such a well-organized station with so many different bus companies offering services to so many different cities. The entire country seemed to be laced with bus routes, everything from dinky 1- or 2-hour commuters to 40-hour marathoners all the way across to Istanbul. Not only was there an exceptional amount of routes to choose from, but there were often several a day, and you could even book a seat ahead of time (unheard of in the 'Stans, where it's first-come, first-serve and/or last-come, still-served-with-right-amount-of-money). Upon purchasing a ticket, you're served chai in a waiting room with other patrons until your bus is ready to depart. Once you're on the bus, you're offered complimentary drinks and snacks by bow-tied staff and treated to on-board movies, news, and music videos.

My honeymoon phase with the coach bus system was cut short upon arrival in Van. I wound up taking a mistake dolmush to the wrong side of the lake, only to learn that the presently stormy weather was prohibiting any ferries from traveling to the church on the island anyways. When I finally arrived at the right harbour, I must have been a sorry sight. It was still damp out from the morning downpour and a fierce wind whipping up the sand on the road did wonders for my already frizzy hair. Fortunately, across from the harbour was a restaurant and free campground that I was soon welcomed into with open arms by a very hospitable owner and staff. Thanks to the terrible weather, there were no other tourists around and I had the entire campground and wait-staff to myself. They were kind enough to treat me not only to wine and homemade menamen (grilled veggies and eggs) for dinner, but also to a crash course in Turkish politics, knowledge of which I was sorely lacking.

April 24: The Little Prince and his island friends

I woke up to the sun beating down on me in my little orange tent and the sounds of the morning hustle and bustle of the restaurant below. The storm had passed overnight and the harbour was full of locals waiting for their turn on the little ferry to Akdamar Island. The only thing that wasn't 100% in my favour was that I no longer had my own personal wait-staff at my every beck and call.

I liked the area and the company so much that I had decided to stay another night at the free campground (a rare find), and I was in no particular hurry to fight the early morning crowds on the island. I enjoyed a long breakfast of more menamen and read by beloved copy of "The Little Prince", one of my all-time favourite books. When I finally wandered down to the harbour and onto the ferry, my mind both swam with and was calmed by the classic book's poignant wisdom, portrayed through deceptively simplistic cartoons and prose. I wouldn't be surprised if its lessons still go unrecognized by most adults - not unlike how most would see a hat rather than an elephant inside a cobra. (If you haven't read it, please go do so now.)

My reverie was interrupted by a group of giggling girls struggling to take a photo of themselves against the striking backdrop of Akdamar Island. I offered to take it for them and they nearly shrieked my ear off when they realized that I was an English-speaking tourist. Two of them promptly attached themselves to my arms and sweetly peppered me with questions in order to proudly show off their English skills. Though they looked young enough to be teenagers, they were actually new teachers on holiday. I made a side-note that all five were in cute, form-fitting outfits and only one wore a hijab, which is probably not a bad demographic representation of the young, urban, and increasingly progressive generation of Turkish women.

When the ferry docked on the island, the girls and I got our entrance tickets to the church (though they insisted on paying for mine) and set out exploring. The Kilisesi (Church of the Holy Cross) was founded in the 10th century by an Armenian king and is still adorned with its original frescoes on the inside and intricate reliefs on the outside. Apparently some of the most famous Biblical stories were depicted, but I didn't know enough to recognize them. The grounds surrounding the church are dotted with ancient gravestones and perfumed by apricot trees in full bloom. I was later told back at the restaurant that the massive flag planted in front of the church by the government was "just to spite the Armenians". The Turks have a bit of a history, to say the least, with their neighbouring Armenians, including endless land disputes and an alleged genocide in 1915 that the Turkish governmnet still refuses to acknowledge. Many Turks share the same sort of brimming hatred as their allied Azeris towards the Armenians (see "Azeri history, then and now").

I spotted a couple of kids scrambling up a small mountain of rocks that dominated the other half of the island. The girls declined my invitation to race to the top (I guess those high heels won't get you very far, after all) and decided to head back to the mainland. The sun was still shining from a perfectly blue sky and I was feeling restless, so I opted to carry on by myself and check out the views from the top.

The island did not disappoint. On the way up, I watched seagulls cavorting in the surf, snails inching infinitely along branches, and lizards alternately freezing mid-step and dashing into the rock crevices at my curious gaze. At the top, I sat for a long while soaking up the sun, fresh air, and breathtaking views of the snow-capped mountains and sapphire water surrounding the island.

On the way back down, I was examining a leftover rabbit skull and wondering whether some species had evolved differently being isolated on the island when I heard a strange noise a few meters away, almost like something hard being struck against a rock. My first thought was that it was a chimp cracking open a shell or nut, but then I reminded myself with great disappointment that there were no wild primates in Turkey. I had no idea what it could be and crouched down, making my way as slowly as possible towards the sound. As I peered cautiously over the last mound of rocks, I caught sight of the culprit and laughed out loud - it was a pair of turtles! I eagerly whipped out my cameras and hunkered down right next to them to observe what turned out to be a mating ritual. The male retracted his head completely and rammed the front of his carapace into the back of the female's, accounting for the suspicious clanging. The female didn't take too kindly to being hit in the rear (of her shell) and continuously tried to get away from the male, which made for quite a humorous little chase scene. The great thing about turtles is that they can't go anywhere on land very quickly and don't seem to mind if you're sitting two feet away - i.e. they're fantastic photo subjects!

With the sun slipping down behind the peaks in the distance and my wildlife documentary needs temporarily satisfied, I took one of the last ferries of the day back to the mainland. The campgrand owner and restaurant wait-staff had apparently been wondering where I possibly could have gone for so long but then seemed to understand when I showed them the dozens of photos I snapped of the island's less obvious gems. They weren't as excited as me about the turtles and informed me that the surrounding mainland is overrun with them every summer, meaning that I hadn't stumbled upon an evolutionary blip after all. Oh well! I still crawled into bed in my little tent with a smile on my face and a warmth in my belly that wasn't entirely attributable to the homemade tomato soup I had shared with the wait-staff for dinner. Spring was well on its way and I was seeing it unfold before my very eyes...