Kurdish Delight

In Bitlis, for the princely sum of three dollars I stocked up on as many pounds of cherries, plums, and apricots - most of which ended up detonating in my topcase before I got to my campsite. I imagine it went something like this:

*All three, bouncing around, like stowaways in the back of a truck*

Cherries: This ride is a little bumpy. Think we should say something?

Plums and apricots: yeah.

*pause*

In unison, euphorically: COMPOTE!

*they instantly explode*

I took too long scouring the shores of Lake Van for a campsite, and ended up riding down a precarious track in the dark (a feat which remains safely in the top 15 dumbest things I did on this trip). In the morning, on the way up I squeezed aside to make room for a car coming down. Before it had even come to a full stop, through the windshield the driver enthusiastically motioned that I should join them for lunch. No hesitation, no mistrust, just reflexive hospitality. This was the invitation I had been waiting for - for almost a year I'd heard countless stories of kindness mostly from bicyclists, but had yet to experience it myself. Regretfully, I did not want to go back down that road, so I declined. A little girl in the car shouted “mamma mia!”

After further fruitless exploration of Lake Van, I pulled up to a house intending to ask permission to camp in their field. There were about 15 people in the throes of a barbeque, and before I had put down the kickstand or opened my mouth, they beckoned with their arms as if to say, don’t make a peep, just get your punk ass over here, because you’re with us now. Again, no words, no skeptical appraisal, just hereditary generosity. 

After a delicious meal, and several hours spent abusing google translate, I came to learn that the grandfather was a religious leader who guides people on the Hajj. His son inquired about my religion, to which I nervously responded that I had none. His answer: that's fine, as long as we all love each other.

Eventually I wandered off to set up camp with the son, whom I thanked with a small bottle of balsamic vinegar I had picked up in Modena. Chuffed, he quickly stashed it in the nearest haystack, to be retrieved when prying eyes weren't around.

As the shadows grew long, the grandfather came to my tent and casually sat down upon a haystack. It was remarkable, the ease with which he sat. He was a man at peace. Picturesque. He had brought tea, and with it sugar cubes, but no spoon. As I pondered my next move, I saw him pop the sugar cube under his tongue and take a sip. I followed suit as he nodded in approval. He couldn't be bothered with technology, so I just listened to him speak and gesticulate. He frequently bit his knuckle in a gesture I still can't work out. I hardly have any idea what he said, but that didn't really matter. He then left me to my own devices.

As the sun withdrew its warm embrace, its rays receding as if hurrying to catch a departing train, he returned with his wife to offer me homemade bread and sheep cheese for dinner. Later still, with stars twinkling above, a cousin or some such came out with a flashlight for a final wellness check.

At sunrise (5:45am) the grandfather - whose name I either never received or have sadly forgotten - came out in a faded but sharp three piece suit. We popped sugar cubes under our tongues congenially while I contemplated if this crepuscular room service was an act of kindness or violence. He rose up to herd his sheep with that same grace and quietude, and I went back to bed. 

Sometime later, his nephew came out for a lengthy chat.

As I prepared to leave, I regretted immensely that I had nothing to offer in return. Then I remembered the Italian police officer who had given me his hat while proclaiming that he left his heart in “San Franciscoooo.” They were delighted with it, and I was happy to have a bit more space in my bag.

A few days later, in a routine we would follow for months to come, they video called me on WhatsApp to check in. We would wave, I would move the phone around to show them my latest environs, and we would say a few unintelligible things to each other before agreeing that the conversation was headed nowhere and hanging up. I'm ashamed to say that I stopped answering regularly, and eventually their calls ceased. I should call them back.
After leaving the family, I grabbed a dürüm (kebab wrap) and headed to a park. I was exhausted from my early wake up call and put my head down for a nap. I was just coming out of my slumber when a man named Mustafa and his family came up and asked if they could share my table. I was a bit confused, seeing as there were plenty of other spots available. I think with my head in my hands they just wanted to keep me company.

Turks and Kurds are god-tier picnickers. As is the norm, they had brought a samovar replete with wood and charcoal. I considered showing off my nifty collapsible camping stove, but thought better of it. This would be my 6th tea of the day. I had taken to asking people how many cups they drank in a day, and the average seemed to be about five. Mustafa proudly claimed 20, and I saw him down seven in quick succession.

I spent three hours with them, communicating mainly via their daughter who was about 16 and spoke very good English. I inquired if they saw many foreign tourists here and she said no, mainly just Turks. I asked if they had a fun word for white people, a la gringo, and with a puzzled look she said no, for they were white too. Indeed our skin color was the same. I would have stayed much longer, but unfortunately I had to run to meet my couchsurfing host in Van.

It is telling that I am instagram friends with so many people that I met only briefly (for we all know that is the hallmark of true friendship). What I adore about Turkish and Kurdish culture is that although there is much hospitality and tradition, it is very casual. There are no rote ways in which you must do this or not say that, no hypervigilance to avoid transgression. It is so easy to welcome their generosity, while elsewhere one is forced to consider the ulterior motives of an interloper. When you skeptically decline a stranger’s offer, and they acquiesce rather than push, then you know that they had been sincere, but it is too late. Schrödinger’s kindness.

If there is one fault with Kurds, it’s that they are worse drivers than Turks. Not terrible, but they tend not to stay in their lane. I like to think they’re just so friendly that they can’t help trying to say hello.
Leaving Van, I wanted to venture properly off the beaten path. If the city-dwellers were so nice, imagine what people must be like in the countryside.

I found a lake on the map devoid of information. Perfect. My GPS would not direct me there, but faint brown streaks suggested there was a way. Indeed there was, through a beautiful, arid mountain landscape which was merely an aperitif. Around the lake, swathes of yellow flowers floated upon a glimmering sea of grass which yielded only to the horizon. A lone horse rider bolted across the expanse in the distance.

I took a nap in the shade of the bike, then flew my drone. Squinting to see the screen, I heard the brapping of a dirtbike in the distance. A minute later a man rolled up. He spoke no English, but invited me to follow him to his home a few minutes away. I gladly accepted. Inside a large room comprising a carpet, fence posts, and tarpaulin roof, we sat down and spent several hours testing the limits of google translate. I did not have the Turkish keyboard installed, and many gross mistranslations ensued, such as when an I was used instead of an ı. Still, I was a bit taken aback when he asked me to take off my clothes. He was an officer in the army, but during the summer his family would move to graze their sheep in these higher pastures and he acted as the encampment’s sheriff. I was sad to leave.

On the north shore of Van Gölü is Atayurt, a cultural center run by an unlikely community of Kyrgyz who fled Afghanistan in 1982 (they had in turn been driven there by Russia in 1916). Here I camped and practiced archery, and in the morning they refused to let me pay. As I was leaving, Perizat ran out to give me a small felt hat. I put it on my mirror where it remained, all the way home to Bishkek.

Every verse of this quatrain took place over the span of just two days. My greatest regret is that I did not stay longer in Kurdistan. I felt rushed to reach Georgia, the country I had been so eagerly anticipating. I should have taken my time, for little did I know I was to spend six lethargic weeks there trying to find a way across the Caspian.