Peregrinatio Akatsuki: Stage 9 - Heading to Kurdistan

I get on a small bus to Nevşehir, a medium-sized city known for having been a refuge for Christians when the Roman Empire was still pagan. I take the opportunity to order a gözleme in a bazaar before boarding the long-distance coach — bound for Kurdistan.

I arrive in Kayseri, the ancient Caesarea. To the south of the city rises the giant Mount Erciyes. Why, out of twenty passengers, is there only one woman? In front of me, three young men made silence impossible; behind me, a man was watching videos on his phone without headphones. In the middle of all this, the police stopped the traffic. No one knows what’s going on. The bus starts moving again. Ah, but not without fuel! Another stop. Three hours and only one hundred kilometres. I changed seats, as if that would solve anything.

As the hours passed, the atmosphere changed: the cities became rarer, the headscarves more frequent, English disappeared. We were no longer in cosmopolitan Turkey.

At dawn, we arrived in Diyarbakir. The bus stopped, and only as it pulled away again did I catch sight of the impressive fortifications — like the endless walls of a European castle. Although they are Byzantine, Arab, and Ottoman, they seem strangely European to me. They are the second most extensive in the world.

Shortly before arriving in Mardin, the landscape suddenly breaks. The Taurus Mountains end without transition. Mardin — the fortress, as it has always been called — rises in limestone, its back against the mountains and its gaze fixed on the fertile plain, with no houses or trees to interrupt the monotony. There are no obstacles. I swear that if the water were green, I would have mistaken that landscape for an ocean. To the north, the steep mountains of Anatolia; to the south, Mesopotamia.

In Mardin, the streets do not follow any obvious logic. They climb, descend, narrow until they force two bodies to negotiate passage. The houses, made of light stone, reflect the light in an almost aggressive way at midday and turn golden at dusk. From certain points, it is enough to turn your head south to see Mesopotamia.

The hostel where I stayed — on a volunteer basis — is simple but full of character. My role there was minimal: from eight in the evening to midnight, welcoming guests, answering simple questions, pointing out a restaurant, a path. The perfect corner for the adventurer: simple, human, without rigid schedules.

In the neighbourhood, children play. Teenagers find small refuges to be together away from their parents’ gaze. On Sundays, families stroll as in any other city.

In the bazaar, I played chess with Sabri — a bookseller who had just completed a thesis on Foucault. Before that, I had seen him play backgammon against Huseyin at a staggering speed; faster than me when I play blitz chess. Afterwards, I bought a doll for two Syrian children.

The following morning, I explored more of the city’s alleys. I looked at the time and suddenly remembered that I had a student waiting for me. I entered the Maridin Hotel and asked if I could use the Wi-Fi to give a lesson. They accepted without any problem. I ordered a tea so as not to occupy the space for nothing. When I tried to pay, they refused. There was no real explanation — just a simple gesture that closed the matter.