tale from another no-man’s land

The Russian invasion of Georgia taught me what my local friends had always admonished—plans are illusions. So when an American friend and I were still in Georgia a few months on and on a whim decided to visit Turkey that weekend, I didn’t stress about the unplanned nature of the thing. Just grabbed a small backpack and met him at the bus station. We’d find a way there somehow; no need to stress on the details.

We bought a so-called “direct” bus ticket to Kars, a town not far from Ani, the ancient Armenian capital now located in Turkey.

At the border of the two countries, the passengers disembarked and walked through the Georgian border control, through no-man’s-land and to the Turkish border control. The bus rolled through separately, with our luggage checked by whosoever wished to do the job.

B and I were in the middle of the line, but the guards had already spotted us as foreign. Everyone else was either Turkish or Georgian and we were the only ones bothering to read the signs.

One officer gestured for us to follow him from the line. We looked at each other then followed.

He led us into a squat brick building and down a corridor. We were shown into a small room, sparely set up. A large photograph of Ataturk looked down on us and the two chairs before his desk. There was nothing else in the room.

We sat down. He sat down. He had our passports.

We tried to look like we weren’t watching our passports, and like we were unconcerned about being brought to a private location. B settled this by looking mildly constipated and I smiled hopefully.

The officer nodded at us and looked down at our passports. “You are American.”

“Yes.”

“That is bad.”

Truly there are few responses to that judgment when a uniformed representative of another country’s security is stating this while holding onto your passports in a remote outpost of the world.

I think I went for “ah?” and didn’t quite have the wherewithal to see how B was handling the news. I could feel Ataturk’s eyes on us.

The officer stared at us, then grinned.

“I am joking.”

On grateful and happy jelly legs we were escorted back to the bus.

We had just settled quite into the loveliness of the landscape when the driver pulled up to a station oasis in the middle of nowhere and told us to get out.  That the direct ticket was sort-of direct. A little minivan would be here in 45 minutes. We could take it to Kars. It would be free.

I climbed out, reveling in the stark beauty. A white star and crescent were emblazoned on a hill opposite a small stretch of water.

B looked at me through the bus-dust as it pulled away. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

I explained.

He studied me and then asked respectfully, “How good are you at telling time in Turkish?”

I blanched. “No, I’m pretty sure.”  Then I walked toward the short building opposite.

B followed. “Shouldn’t we wait here?”

“Nah. We should have tea. We’re in Turkey. Don’t worry. I’ve never been wrong yet in telling time in Turkish.” Then again, I’d never been right yet either.

I’ve had time to look back on that Turkish officer and his little joke. I suppose few Americans cross into Turkey overland through Georgia, and I suppose my smile and B’s constipated look were just too tempting. I can see that I should never be a person in uniform; my sense of humor isn’t cut out for it either.

Across the water from the station

Not Your Mother’s Dusty Frontier Town

Okay, I’ve harped on this before, but mayhap you didn’t believe me.

So I’m gonna quote it–with links–and then I’m gonna post pics.  And you, dear reader, can decide.  This is about Dogubayazit, my favorite frontier town.  It’s in Turkey, across the border from Iran.  And my quarrel is with Lonely Planet.  YOU be the judge.

Dogubayazit is described by Lonely Planet as a “dusty frontier town crawling with soldiers (which) has few charms of its own.”  See the link.  Proof.  Yes?

And now, Exhibit A through F–namely, my photos of said “dusty frontier town…with few charms of its own.”  Tell me, is that how you’d describe this gem?  :)  Photos below:

Old and Modern Share the Road, Dogubayazit, Turkey

Kid on the Street, Dogubayazit, Turkey

Market Scene, Dogubayazit, Turkey

Dogubayazit Street, Turkey

Fresh Bread and Dogubayazit Men

Friends on the Street

So–what do you think?  Dusty frontier town lacking charm?  Or hawt and colorful frontier town that yearns for exploration?  :)

Surreal Anatolian View

Remember my post about that gorgeous frontier between Turkey and Iran?  Here’s a view of the palace from below.

Ishakpasha Palace from Dogubayazit

Still around the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

~ JRR Tolkien

Remembering My Favorite Frontier Town – Dogubayazit of Eastern Anatolia

Dogubayazit Street Scene

“Oh. My. God.  There’s the most amazing place we MUST SEE.”  This I announced to Brian, whose face lit up as he entered the hotel room.

“What? Where?”

“But we can’t go.”  And I went back to reading the guidebook on my lap.

“What?  Why did you tell me?”  But I held my silence.  ”Ruth!  Where is it?  Why can’t we go?”

I looked up.  ”It’s called Ishakpasha Palace, and it’s, and I quote, ‘breathtakingly beautiful, the star attraction of Eastern Turkey.’”  I snapped the guidebook shut.  ”But it’s about nine hours away, and–”

“That’s no problem!”  Brian’s eyes were wide.

“It’s on the border with Iran, and–”

“So what!”

“And,” I continued darkly, “there have been violent protests in the town where we’d have to transfer minibuses to get there.”

“How do you know?”

I gestured at the TV set in our little room.  He glowered.  ”You don’t understand Turkish that well.”

“I understand video of running people and guns, and I can read the bottom of the screen where they announce where it’s happened.”  I set my chin obstinately even as I felt that pin-prick of excitement which means the slightest effort will have me on my feet, backpack on and ready for adventure.

Apparently my stubborn face is rather convincing, though.  Brian just sighed and threw himself onto his bed with a book.

It wasn’t yet 6am, but the sun had been up for over an hour.  Eastern Anatolia keeps the same time as Istanbul way out west. We’d gotten into the habit of taking predawn strolls through Kars, taking in the sights and sounds of this different world. Like us, the locals were up, washing down freshly baked breads with hot tea.

It wasn’t long after we left the hotel before we bumped into someone interested in driving us to Ishakpasa.  For a price.  And it wasn’t very much longer before we agreed to it.

***

The next day we sat for hours in the car, snapping photos of the undulating Eastern Anatolian landscape as we drove to the farthest reaches of Turkey.  At Mount Ararat our driver condescended to stop for a few seconds, but otherwise he hurtled along the road as fast as Turkishly possible.  (A Georgian would have driven over us, but an American wouldn’t stand a chance.)

We drove past checkpoints and tanks, and through beautiful Turkish villages that screamed for us to stop and marvel.  But they were nothing compelling for our driver, and he refused every request to stop.  At one point I asked him why.  ”Dogs,” he said curtly.  I raised my eyebrows.  I understood that concern; in Georgia stray dogs can be dangerous.  But…really?

“We will risk dogs,” I said firmly.  (Well, I actually said something more like, “Dogs are okay.”  My Turkish is limited.)

His look in the rearview mirror was stern.  ”And terrorists.”

Ah.  Now that I understand.

***

We finally reached Dogubayazit, described lacklusterly by Lonely Planet as “a dusty frontier town crawling with soldiers” with “few charms of its own.”  I couldn’t disagree more strongly.

Brian and I both were stunned, taken aback by its color, its vibrance and its bustle.  We loved it.  But no rest for the wayward traveler, our driver seemed to think.  And up we crawled through the winding roads up the mountains to Ishakpasha Palace, perching majestically atop one craggy peak and gazing down at a hazy valley rich in blue, green, yellow and red hues.  The view was breathtakingly beautiful, as per Brian’s explicit demand.  It was just…beautiful.  Lustrous, rich, exotic, a perfect gem.  It was worth it.

It was also closed.

***

Now, when you’re a Peace Corps volunteer, disappointment is no shock to your system.  So I could say I felt that familiar friend creep up my spine, and I knew after a moment of mutual silence we’d be back on course.   This just required a moment to groan, to laugh at ourselves, and to bask in the joy of being here, despite the forces being united against our entering the palace.  So I took a moment to climb alone to a picnic table up the hill while Brian scanned the knick-knacks sold at a kiosk nearby.  Rejuvenated, we reunited and climbed up the mountain a ways together, looking over the palace walls from above, and to the horizon reaching into deepest Turkey.

“Let’s hike,” I suggested.  That would be cheerful and bring endorphins, and we could get a magnificent view of both the palace and our beloved Dogubayazit below.  Brian agreed and we jumped up and set off.

But not too far.   Almost immediately we agreed the mountain was way to steep and dangerous for us to dare it.  Which was approximately when we saw about five teenagers prove us wrong in the most frightening way.  No climbing for us, then, even if it proved we weren’t sure-footed locals.

Our driver was itching to return, but we were enchanted by the palace and weren’t ready to leave it.  Through the foliage above I made out a little building.  We headed there and found a cafe overlooking the palace.  We sat ourselves down and enjoyed a hospitable cup of Turkish tea and conversation with the proprietor.   It was, in the end, magical, even though the palace itself remained a locked haven from us.  It was the sweetest failure ever.

And fortified by our tea, we took a lovely stroll through those gorgeous streets of Dogubayazit.  It was amazing being somewhere so very different from any place either of us had ever been.  I’ve literally never been somewhere so different in my life.  I look on it as one of the best trips ever.

I absolutely loved this town, visually.