At The Edge of Turkey
I still can’t believe it when I look on a map and think about where we are. It probably wouldn’t be that big of a deal if we had flown here from Istanbul but the fact that we have the over 40 hours of bus rides that it took us to get here scratched on our logs, it feels like we really have come far. The ride from Malatya was long and painful but like all of the overnight bus trips we’ve taken, it has its moments that are worth remembering.
On the bus ride from Istanbul to Selcuk, the bus boarded a ferry in order to cross the Sea of Marmaris. By the time we actually got to the sea, it was past two in the morning. Kaoru was able to sleep so she stayed on the bus, but to me, being on a bus inside a boat felt like being in a coffin so I got out. I walked up the stairs past the engine room that smelled like grease and out onto the steel deck. I hadn’t brought my warm shirt so the night air and the wind coming across the surface of the water quickly chilled me. I went inside the observation lounge and looked to see what was on the menu at the cafe. I was still pretty new to Turkey at the time, so I didn’t know what everything was, but I knew what Ayran was so I ordered it. The salty yogurt drink was refreshing after two hours in the dry cabin of the bus.
I went back out onto the deck and walked forward to the bow. Most of the people outside were gazing like zombies at the floor, sucking on cigarette number 27 of the day. I decided to go all the way to the bow, past the protective range of the the cabin lights and stare into the darkness of the night sky and the sea below. There was a small area between the rail of the ship wall and the coiled chains and anchors of the bow. The equipment behind me formed a soundproof barrier, blocking out all of the sounds of the engine and leaving me alone in the silence and the darkness. It occurred to me that at this time of night someone could fall overboard from the bow into the black water and noone would ever hear or see them. They would just disappear and nobody, including any loved ones still sleeping on the bus, would know what happened. I shivered at the thought and decided it was best to go back to the main cabin.
I spent the rest of the time on the boat sipping my ayran and trying to figure out where the girl in front of me was from, because she wasn’t Turkish. The boat ride across the Sea of Marmaris in the middle of the night was a short half hour but it was like a moment of lucidity in the long, sluggish state of being barely conscious on the otherwise dull and too-long bus ride to Southwestern Turkey.
This time, on the trip from Malatya, I was in that miserable state of mind where one knows exactly how long and boring the bus ride will be but being sufficiently used to it by now that the only real emotion is resignation. Maybe it’s better that way because I could sleep more this time than any other times before. We stopped once after two hours and because I knew that we were at least three hours east of Malatya, and I knew that there was nothing on the map, the absolute darkness that surrounded us was not just a feature of being a few miles from the city. We were completely, totally in the middle of nowhere. I don’t think the landscape would have changed in its bleakness even if it were daytime. We stayed for awhile at the modern version of the Saray - square mini-forts that served as Ottoman-sponsored inns along the silk road to protect traveling merchants from bandits. We didn’t need to fear bandits anymore but the building still maintained its square shape. Instead of dusty merchants inside, there were just steel soup cauldrons and glass-covered deli stands, swarming with flies under a wall of flourescent lamps.
The next saray that we stopped at two hours later was the halfway point between Malatya and Van, I figured. (I turned out to be right.) It was also four o’clock in the morning and I knew from previous bus rides that the sun would be coming up soon. This was confirmed when I stepped off the bus. I paid my 40 YKR to go to the bathroom and when I came out, a man from the balcony above my head began yelling out the morning call for prayers. In the east, people seem more devout, and it was true even here. About a dozen men wearing wool caps climbed the stairs to the mini-mosque, a bracelet of prayer beads in their left hands. It was just a room, in a building without the tell-tale minaret of an actual mosque but they still had a place to pray. It looked warm inside, warm with the sense of family and a quiet vigil of the faithful at night.
The sky to the east was growing brighter. The midnight clouds began to lose their steely edges in the soft light. I knew we still had another five hours, but at least I had once again had a few moments of restful lucidity. I also had an experience that I would always remember, even if it came at the cost of a long ride in a hot, dry bus across the barren lands of Eastern Anatolia.
The days are getting shorter. When we arrived in Istanbul almost seven weeks ago, it was light until after nine. It’s now 8:00 and it’s already dark. For some reason, they have white Christmas lights strung up across the intersection. They look nice through the window of the second floor of this internet cafe.