All Of Monday’s Reasons - 17
17. Ankara
Map
I stepped out of the station into a cloud of smog and the sound of car horns. Apartment blocks blocked the horizon. A dusty kid ran up to me: “Monsieur, taxi.” I shook my head and walked back into the station.
I bought a beef roll and a bottle of water and sat on the steps outside to consider my options over breakfast. There were four from which to choose. To the west was the Aegean coast, to the south the Mediterranean, to the north the Black Sea and to the east lay the Arabic borders lands. Each had its attractions, but after the easy decision not to stay in Ankara I was faced with the choice of where to go next.
I seized the moment to fulfill a lifetime ambition. As I finished my sandwich, I looked up at the large Turkish flag flying above me. It was waving towards the morning sun in the hot wind. My choice was made: I was heading east.
The next train left in ten minutes, so I got on and found an empty compartment on the beaten up train. I was soon joined by an old man with a face so wrinkled it obscured its features. I got out a guidebook I bought in Istanbul and started reading up on the region I was headed for. After a couple of minutes the man asked to see the book and began looking at the pictures. He pointed to some of them and started speaking to me in Turkish. Despite several attempts at signing that I couldn’t understand, this carried on for ten minutes. I took the book off him and turned to the vocabulary pages. I slowly read out “I don’t speak Turkish”, in Turkish, to explain that I didn’t speak Turkish. He nodded and said something to me, which, of course, I couldn’t understand.
I turned to the maps and pointed to the name of the destination on my ticket, asking him to place it on the map. Hakkari was a small town on the Iraqi border. I asked how long it would take to get there but he shrugged hopelessly as he held up ten fingers, then eight, then three before shrugging again.
At the best of times the train moved at thirty miles an hour into a landscape which became increasingly rugged and arid. It looked vaguely Mexican, like a scorched Wales: bare with rocky hills with the occasional shepherd leading his flock over the occasional stream.
It became hotter as we moved further into the desiccated territory. I stripped off to a t-shirt and shorts and changed into my flip-flops. I felt naked around the men in suits and women wrapped in cloth. The fact that I was the only person around with clear white skin accentuated my unease. I cursed thirstily to remember I had forgotten to fill up my bottle with water before leaving Ankara.
The train plodded through valleys and remote villages, each dominated by a striking mosque regardless of housing conditions. At each of these villages sales men boarded the train to sell tea or live chickens to the passengers. One man walked by selling sweaters.
I was beautiful but I wondered what I was doing here. I felt alone with nothing but my thirst for company.
Parched, I remembered I still had a beer left from Istanbul. I opened it with my penknife and drank it with slow, appreciative sips. As I did, the frail old man in my compartment took off his shoes and stood on his chair. He removed his jacket and lifted up his waistcoat to reveal a cloth tied around his waist like a belt. He untied this and unraveled it and placed it across two seats. He knelt down on it and began praying, muttering praise to Allah with each bow.
For the first time on the trip, I felt slightly depressed. I recognised the sinking feeling and we drank like old friends who no longer appreciate each others’ company. I was getting tired, I was hot and hungry and the warm beer wasn’t quenching my thirst. I was drinking alcohol in a strictly Muslim environment and wearing shorts and flip-flops on a train where you could buy live chickens. Needless to say I felt out of place.
I walked up and down the length of the train. I was the only European on board. Apart from a Japanese man in another car, I was probably the only foreigner. Of all the passengers and workers on the plains that I had seen, none of them were wearing shorts. The men wore cloth trousers and the women were wrapped up. I had long blonde hair. I felt like an alien. People would slow down as they walked by my compartment. I expected them to rub their eyes in disbelief.
“Yes, my friends!” I felt like shouting, “Someone in Central Anatolia is wearing shorts! And not just any shorts! We’re talking knee length Bermudas with bright patterns on a fabric of no one predominant colour! Of course I know it’s only ninety in the shade and I also know that I’ll be sent to eternal damnation for my crime, but let me tell you this: I’d rather go to hell later than die of heat exhaustion and go to heaven today!”
I’d had it and wanted to go back to Istanbul, or even Ankara - anywhere but here. Fucking flag and the eastbound wind…
We stopped at a village which couldn’t have been home to more than three hundred people and some livestock. There was no train station, no paved roads, only dusty tracks, but as usual a magnificent mosque dominated the skyline. People ran off the train clutching water bottles. I remembered reading that Islamic towns, especially those on the plains, by tradition have fountains of potable water which travellers can help themselves to. This particular well was by the mosque.
Grabbing my army canteen, I ran to the fountain about thirty feet away, which was surrounded by twenty Turks urgently trying to fill their water bottles before the train left. I had left my backpack on my seat and without a station or a clock, I wasn’t sure how long I would have before the train pulled away to make things only worse.
As we crowded around the pump, someone saw me and knocked the person in front of me on the shoulder. He looked around, saw me and tapped on someone else who said something. People started shouting and looking at me and someone grabbed by arm. I turned to see a man in his late twenties. He shouted to the others and everyone looked at me.
Slowly they all stepped aside, nodding importantly and motioning me towards the pump. A small boy walked up to the pump and was reprimanded by the guy who had just let go of my arm, who then turned and said something kind to me. I stepped forward throught them and filled my bottle, catching eyes and bowing with gratitude. I stepped back on the train and took a drink as we moved away.
It was cold, wet and refreshing. It was the best drink I have ever had. I had no idea water could actually taste delicious. I was consuming hope. Things seemed a little better with each gulp. I had found common ground with the Turks. We were all thirsty and we savoured every drop of the water we had collected.
After drinking nearly half a litre each, a refreshed man and I looked at each other and smiled. I said “good” in English and pulled an exaggerated face to express my relief. He nodded.
It’s strange how stupid little things can put you back in line. I knew I had more in common with the people than I was allowing myself to admit, but I needed to be shown to be reassured and the adversity to be thankful.