Turkey Spring 2023 (EN)
I had been to Istanbul twice before, a trip with my partner in the 90s, and later a return from Azerbaijan, expelled by the authorities for having a visa from Nagorno-Karabakh in my passport.
I am starting my world tour on a motorcycle towards Europe, going east.
Initially, I wanted a more northern route that would have taken me across Russia to the far east, Siberia, and Vladivostok. But due to the war, I am starting further south, and as for Russia, we'll see later; I still hope to visit Irkutsk, Lake Baikal, Kamchatka...
I have a great affection for this country, its landscapes, its people, its history, culture, and our proximity. The motorcycle arrived by truck from Stains, north of Paris. It is here, in perfect condition, in a large parking lot near Atatürk Airport, where all imported vehicles are cleared through customs, among Porsches and beautiful American cars. The administration and the efficient transit company sent it to the city on a flatbed truck because the battery was already dead in France...
I arrived the day before, taking a taxi from the airport that took me on a huge detour over the bridge to the north, explaining that the southern one, "the Bosphorus," is closed due to a football match. Football is a Turkish passion, but it was just an excuse.
I am staying in Beyoglu, the neighborhood on a slope that lies between the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus Strait.
At first, a very comfortable hotel for the first few nights, and then a more basic but decent one on the top floor, well-lit. Each morning, I settle the payment for the next night, waiting for my evolving plans.
The Princes' Islands: I had read a lot about them but had never visited. They consist of about ten islands about a dozen kilometers southeast of Istanbul, reachable by ferry. The ferry makes several stops along the way, and the straits and sea passages are traversed by immense tankers and bulk carriers connecting the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, amidst which small local ferries navigate, practical, fast, frequent, constantly shuttling from one shore to the other, from one continent to another. It's just the beginning of the season on the most important island, Büyükada, with a friendly tourist atmosphere. From the top, at the Greek Monastery of Saint George, the view encompasses the entire southern region of Istanbul, and the coves below could be mistaken for Italian ones. I returned in the rain.
Heading towards the Grand Bazaar, the Blue Mosque, and Hagia Sophia, the Sublime Porte is under construction, and photography is prohibited. The Bazaar is modern compared to Alexandria, Aleppo, or Cairo. Turkey is full of antique dealers and collectors, and I try to restrain myself. It's the beginning of the journey, and I need to save space in the motorcycle's sidecar. Nonetheless, I find an Arabic calligraphy piece framed. The seller insists that the Arab world cannot rival the Turks, though I have heard the opposite discourse in Egypt.
The elections are taking place on Sunday, May 14, legislative with a single round, and presidential with two rounds. Billboards, stands, and trucks are omnipresent everywhere. Opinions are strongly divided, with a widespread rejection of Erdogan here in Istanbul. Everyone complains about inflation, the skyrocketing price of onions being a recurring topic in the campaign. Milk has gone from 5 liras to 20 per liter in just a year. The fate of the millions of Syrian refugees is also a strong issue. Kemal Kılıçdaroğlu, the charisma-less challenger, has pledged to send them
back to their home country. They are estimated to be around 7 to 10 million, although officially stated as 3 million. There's also the recent earthquake in the southeast of the country, the non-compliance with construction standards, and the late arrival of aid. Antioch, which I wanted to visit, is largely destroyed. Elsewhere, many buildings remain empty out of fear of collapse or further tremors, but there is significant consolidation and reconstruction happening. As a result, the voting takes place calmly under the watchful eyes of calm police officers. Erdogan controls parliament and is forced into a second round of the presidential election on May 28, close to 50%. I am convinced that he will be reelected for a third term.
We encounter many foreigners settled in Turkey, often in Istanbul: doing odd jobs, studying, notably Iranians, Russians, Ukrainians, as well as citizens from Turkic-speaking republics in Central Asia. There is a palpable sense of balance, a form of unity among countries in this region of the world, Western Asia. Ankara plays a very solitary and unique game, with Israel, Libya, Syria, Qatar as its allies in the Middle East, and NATO. It sells drones, for which it has great expertise, to Ukraine and engages in discussions with Putin. It threatens Europe by sending a portion of Syrian refugees. It plays with the nerves of Sweden regarding NATO membership.
Wherever you are in Istanbul, you can see the immense and elegant television tower, so gracefully curved. You can also see the grand Çamlıca Mosque in Üsküdar, on the Asian shore. Inaugurated in 2019 after 6 years of construction, it is the largest in the country, with 6 minarets each towering over 100 meters and can accommodate 63,000 visitors. It has two main areas: the prayer hall and the square courtyard. I arrive early by taxi, and I am the only visitor in this immense and solemn complex, a unique privilege in this vast and solemn place.
Meanwhile, I need to have my motorcycle repaired. It's new, arrived by truck from Paris, cleared near the airport, but the gears are not shifting. I am fortunate to find a workshop near the Bosphorus that quickly identifies the weak point and replaces the clutch discs. Now ready, I load it to the maximum in the parking lot near the hotel. There is plenty of space, which is convenient because I don't know how to travel light.
On the eve of the grand departure, I dine in the shop of an antique dealer and flea market owner, with a fireplace, as the weather has cooled down. We have rakı, vegetables, cheese, and seasonal fruits. The daughter of his partner, beautiful, agrees to have her photos taken in the store. It works well; she poses nicely and knows how to choose the best shots. They all speak English poorly but, like everyone else, use translation apps.
On the morning of the 19th, the weather is gray and soon rainy. The traffic is acceptable because it's a public holiday. The odometer reads 513 kilometers, longitude 21 degrees East. I cross the Bosphorus Bridge, heading east, due east.
On the road
Over 400 kilometers for this first leg. You have to learn everything: dealing with Turkish drivers, fast and close, very close. Driving in the rain, wearing waterproof clothing up to your shoes before it starts. Reading the map on your phone through the helmet and goggles. Stopping often enough for tea, sweets, and dried fruits. Protecting your bags and luggage from moisture... And then the elements that matter: weather, rain, fog, cold, wind, road surface. On this point, the country is a pleasant surprise; almost everywhere, the roads and highways are very good and comfortable to drive on.
I finally reach Karabük, a massive steel complex at the entrance, and then Safranbolu. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site due to its historic center, steep streets, and wooden houses. I stay two nights in my comfortable hotel, a spacious wooden room that feels like being in the mountains. The hammam is less risky for me than in Istanbul, a meeting place for very demonstrative gays, and less crowded as well, but not warm enough for my taste. Refreshed after the first leg, I head north towards Amasra on the Black Sea.
Amasra is a charming fishing port and intends to remain so. The town is nestled around a small bay, and its facade extends along an inhabited peninsula. I take a boat tour around the area. In the morning, on a small street, I find a tiny hotel with a terrace overlooking the sea below; a typical Turkish breakfast in this idyllic place. The menu is always the same: cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, bread, olives, tea. The owner speaks German, like many here, due to emigration; very little English. He is charming, and it will be one of the constants of this journey in Ottoman lands: smiles, hospitality, availability. The Turks are adorable, caring, and I never feel the slightest insecurity. Moreover, Turks no longer live in Turkey but in Türkiye, as requested by Erdogan; it represents the culture, civilization, and values of the Turkish nation better. And it also meant "turkey" in English. They join their counterparts with a new name: Macedonia, Myanmar, Eswatini.
I decide to follow the coastal road eastward towards Sinop. It goes up and down, very sparsely populated, overlooking the sea, with some magical landscapes, especially through the mist. There are many stray and menacing dogs, no neutering here. I stop at one of the many small shipyards that have developed with the presence of forests and wood in the surrounding mountains. About ten boats are under construction, sheltered or outdoors, for fishing or leisure. The shipyard manager, who travels abroad, speaks English and shows me around two yachts, each 60 feet long, made of teak and mahogany. One will be finished in 20 days, with 5 beautiful cabins. It is superb work, and I understand why my friend from Harlingen has located his sailboat production, around 20 per year, in the country. It must be doing well for this fifteen-employee shipyard, judging by the owner's Porsche.
On the road to Sinop, a combination of rain and fatigue forces me to make a stop in Inebolu. I receive a warm welcome in a small hotel in the city center, where there are still many wooden houses. Bakeries and hairdressers are everywhere. The motorcycle sleeps outside under my windows, with no security issues.
The next day, I reach Sinop after stopping by the roadside for several teas, offered by the owner of a small bar. We take photos, exchange using the phone's translation feature, and connect on Instagram. They are simply adorable.
Sinop is the northernmost point of the Turkish coast on the Black Sea, facing Crimea. In 1923, under the Treaty of Lausanne, Turkish and Greek populations were exchanged.
The owner of a small two-story wooden house recently created an Atatürk museum, replicating even his office.
He is universally revered, with his photos displayed in shops, hotels, public buildings, and embraced by all political factions.
He deeply anchored the country in secular modernism and turned the defeat of 1918, the unfavorable Treaty of Sèvres, skillfully into the advantageous Treaty of Lausanne, leading to the return of the Ottomans.
My room on the top floor, with a terrace, overlooks the fishing port, and the view extends beyond towards the infinite sea.
I indulge in mantı, small dumplings filled with walnuts, served with a warm butter and yogurt sauce. Originating in southern France and Italy in the 13th century, containing turnips (rave in French), hence its name, it has spread to many countries: pierogi in Poland, varenyky in Ukraine, maultaschen in Germany, and in Georgia, Russia, China, Romania, Korea, Japan, China...
I head south towards Cappadocia, which everyone recommended to me.
On the road along a huge lake, I stop at a dilapidated fisherman's house. A young man emerges from the only room, and we exchange words in a mix of French and Turkish using hand gestures while smoking. He raises a few chickens and a sheep. I ask to see inside, and he opens the door slightly. I catch a glimpse of a man in the back who keeps bowing and straightening up continuously. I can only see the upper half of his body, as if something is missing. The door is closed again. As I prepare to leave, he silently embraces me. Mysteries.
I spend two nights in Amasya, by the river in a valley surrounded by mountains. From a high vantage point, I admire the entire city stretching on both sides of the water, with its numerous minarets. I do the same with a class from Samsun, further north. The girls, around fifteen years old, are enthusiastic and curious, accompanied by their beloved teacher. I explain about my family, and they swoon over the photos of the boys. It's easy to connect. However, since it's Friday, the two hammams I visit are closed, as it is a day reserved for women.
I arrive in Kayseri, a huge city, on the eve of the second round of elections. It's evident that Erdogan will win. As I travel east from Istanbul, I can feel the support shifting towards him. The third candidate has rallied behind him. The opposition candidate, Kemal Kiliçdaroglu, leads a diverse coalition and communicates from his kitchen. Erdogan boasts about his achievements in automobiles, the military, and infrastructure. He plays on his experience and authority. Despite inflation, the Syrian immigration, and the hardships of earthquakes, the country has experienced impressive development in the last 20 years. There are vast industrial zones and cultivated, developed countryside. The Kurdish issue remains sensitive, and the regime is quite authoritarian. However, Europe looks at its 80 million inhabitants and fully modernized country with unjust condescension. On the evening of the 21st, the streets are filled with madness: honking, music, fireworks, and shouts. No excesses or disturbances. I observe all of this on the street and late into the night from the top floor of the Radisson, where I am not staying.
An hour's drive away is Cappadocia.
The Cappadocian region, located on the Anatolian Plateau, revolves around Göreme. It is a vast area with a chalky appearance, actually made of tuff, with varied geological formations such as pinnacles, fairy chimneys, and even cave dwellings. I walk and ride my motorcycle from one site to another, through deep valleys. The landscapes are captivating and spectacular. It's relatively quiet in terms of tourism at the beginning of the season, but the number of hotels, restaurants, and quad bike rentals suggests that it gets crowded during the summer. The visitors I encounter come from all over the world, including Chile, Eritrea, Korea, and many Europeans.
On the road heading east towards Erzurum, I overtake a couple from Hamburg, Germany, who are traveling on bicycles and camping around the world for several years. They are well-equipped for this challenge, and we take some photos with their drone. They are heading towards Georgia, then Iran, and likely Oman afterward. As I leave them, I feel a bit ashamed that I only have to twist the throttle to hit the road while they pedal tirelessly. This is further exemplified as I cross two passes at 2,200 meters and encounter a severe hailstorm that forces me to stop overnight on the way. I'm exhausted, soaked, and frozen, but I head straight for the warm shower in the hotel. In the morning, the weather is great, and all my belongings have dried. After a few kilometers, I stop to photograph beehives below, leaving the engine running. I venture into the meadow but suddenly hear my bike rolling down the ditch and getting stuck in the mud. The gendarmes, "jandarma," help me tow it out and get it back up. How foolish...
A little further in Erzincan, I visit the enormous campus of the multidisciplinary university built in 2016. It's quite deserted, and some students explain that many of them have gone to join their families and friends in the earthquake-affected areas further south.
Erzurum at last.
With a population of 400,000, it sits at the foot of the still snow-covered mountains. Some of the women are fully veiled. I find a central and comfortable hotel, the Esadas, where I'll stay for three nights. I settle in on the top floor of the Central Café, overlooking the mosque and the distant snow. Tea and shisha.
I meet two architecture students in their twenties. One wears a headscarf, the other does not.
One has had boyfriends before, the other has not. The latter explains to me the authority and control exerted over her and her personal life by her older brother. Smiling, but serious, she points to her neck with a finger, indicating what would happen to her if she were to meet someone before marriage. She confides in her mother and sisters but keeps it a secret from her father and brother. I heard about a similar situation several months ago in Egypt.
Both dream of participating in an Erasmus program in Italy in a few years.
I have a lot to take care of in just a few days: dry cleaning, clothing and shoe repairs, motorcycle maintenance. Luckily, I discover a small workshop run by a lovely and highly skilled mechanic. I hardly need to explain what needs to be done; he knows right away what to do and how. Oil change and valve adjustment after 3,000 kilometers. Thankfully, before I left, I could rely on Rémi in Paris, who sold me the bike, and Philippe in Corsica, who used to maintain my scooter and with whom I became friends, along with his wife Marie Jo, both travelers. I leave the workshop feeling at ease for the next few thousand kilometers. No stop without a visit to a hammam. This one is very hot, set to face the harsh winter here, I imagine. I walk around and visit mosques and shops, and I discover a beautiful bookstore that sells all the classics of world literature, of course, in Turkish.
On the road that takes me north to Artvin, I come across Turkish hospitality and generosity. A young couple is having lunch by the river, a picturesque scene. They invite me over and serve homemade dolmas, delicious cheese bread, and of course, tea. Luckily, I had bought cherries along the way. We share this simple moment of tranquility.
Further on, farmers load their car with produce from the farm below. White bean soup is boiling in an enormous basin, then transferred to a large jute bag to allow the juice to drain. Honey, of course, but also dried apples. The woman offers me a taste, and it's good, very good. She returns with a huge bag that she puts in my arms, refusing to accept any money from me! It'll last me for several weeks.
On my list of things to remember for the next stages, I have small gifts to give back or offer spontaneously.
I follow the edge and overlook a large, rather narrow lake. The waters are green, almost olive. Soon, a flock of sheep and goats migrates, and I merge among the animals. It feels like the Woolmark advertisement.
Artvin is in a steep and deep valley. I find a hotel away from it all, high up. It's peaceful facing the mountains; everything is green. The neighbors are working in the garden. It could be the Jura or Switzerland, or even the Swiss Jura.
The next day, the mountain landscapes continue with variations of green, and I make a nice tea break with WiFi at the Black Forest Hotel! As usual, it's empty or sparsely occupied; the season is slow to start. The terrace is idyllic, offering a panoramic view of the meadows or "turcages" and the distant snow-capped peaks.
Further on, there are a few villages with wooden houses, showcasing Georgian influence. Along the road, there is a large wooded area where friends and families are picnicking on this Saturday. I meet a group of teachers; some speak English. They often ask me about Erdogan. Their salary is about 750 euros. They all complain about inflation and the economic situation. Despite that, they are enthusiastic and generous, inviting me to join their table. Everything is homemade, cakes with honey, apples... Some are Kurds, others are "Turks and not Kurds." When I delve into the declared incompatibility, the answers are not clear. In any case, this large southeast quarter of the country is the most Kurdish-populated region, also extending into Iraq, Iran, and Syria. They were promised a country after World War I...
We exchange Instagram accounts and will follow each other throughout the journey.
It climbs very high and steep, the third pass at 2,200 meters, and the motorcycle is performing well. At the very top, an Iranian family takes a break. They have come from Tabriz and are heading to Georgia, about a 24-hour journey. They speak English and are knowledgeable about the world, describing it as a magnificent and refined civilization under oppression.
The descent is as steep as the ascent, and soon, amidst intermittent rain showers, there are endless green and undulating plains, reminiscent of what I imagine Mongolia to be like. That's still to come.
I've learned to protect myself from the weather. A bag is always ready, easily accessible. It contains rain pants and shoe covers. The motorcycle jacket is fantastic; it protects against the cold and withstands the worst rain. I'm well-prepared for the job.
I reach Kars in the evening. After the storm, the lights shine over the plains, and soon I face the immense brand-new mosque from my comfortable room at the Konak Hotel. It costs 25 euros, which is almost always the rate. At that price, I haven't unfolded my tent yet.
In Kars, much has changed. On this high-altitude plateau, it gets very cold in winter, around -25 degrees Celsius. The lake is completely frozen, a Turkish Baikal. Photos show religious processions of thousands of people on the ice—I really want to see that.
This place serves as a passage to or from Georgia and Russia. So, there are quite a few Russians traveling through. Their Visa cards work in the country but not internationally. I help them with mine. There are also travelers who come from western Turkey to go up to Georgia, often. Turkey and Russia have business and trade relations, even though Erdogan also sells drones, a local specialty led by his son-in-law, to Kiev. Iranians as well.
Georgia is just a few hours away by road. In 2008, Russia seized South Ossetia and Abkhazia, which are still under its control. The country, with a population of 4 million, is torn between pro-Russian and pro-European factions, even within the government and, of course, on the streets. It's a bit like Ukraine in 2014. Putin supports maintaining the proximity, as the country is vital for the geographical link with Turkey. Visa requirements have been lifted, and direct flights have been restored.
At the hotel, my neighbor is a television presenter from Istanbul. She came to accompany her elderly father, who is visiting his family. Laurence Ferrari, with a brain.
Below the castle, there are cafes everywhere, couples playing and drinking tea, and in the evening, a restaurant run by women, offering local cuisine with Georgian influences: rice and vegetable dishes, and finally, red wine. The main hall is very charming, adorned with collections of teapots, canned vegetables, and preserves.
Since Istanbul, I've been recommended to try the local cheese. They resemble small wheels of Cantal, similar to a cousin of Gruyère and also a cousin of Parmesan wrapped in fabric. They are a delight, truly delicious. There are shops everywhere, and they always sell honey as well. I show Susan, a fellow traveler from Berlin who is heading to Georgia, around the shops, and we both stock up on provisions.
At 45 kilometers, along a straight road, lies Ani. It was the ancient capital of Armenia a thousand years ago, with a population of 100,000.
Today, it is mostly ruins and a UNESCO heritage site. We are right across from Armenia, separated by a river deep in the gorges.
There are giant flags on both sides and watchtowers. The land borders between the two countries are closed, and they cordially despise each other.
In 1916, there was the genocide of 1.2 million Armenians, with deportations to the Aleppo region. Ankara refuses to acknowledge the horrifying reality. There are some surrounding walls, Armenian-style churches, and a mosque, all in the middle of this spring countryside; it's captivating. Europe is co-financing the restoration work.
From the beginning of the second millennium, everything gradually started to disappear: the status of the capital shifted to Yerevan, earthquakes, and invasions by Persians, Kurds, and Mongols.
In the afternoon of Monday, June 5th, I descend from the eastern plateaus, finally feeling the warmth after weeks of variable weather. It's the first day without rain and storms.
As I approach Igdir, my destination, Mount Ararat is visible in the distance—the large one, not the small one. In May 2003, exactly 20 years ago, I saw it, along with its brother, from Yerevan.
Before reaching Igdir, I stop and take a dirt road to reach a couple who operate around a hundred beehives on a small plot of land. They prepare each hive by inserting eight frames previously covered with a rigid yellow cloth. We have tea at a small table in the sun, accompanied by roasted hazelnuts and delicious amber-colored honey.
I stay in the center of Igdir and settle at the Granada, a cafeteria-restaurant facing the main mosque. I get my backpack repaired, buy a funnel for oil—everything is going well. In the afternoon, I depart to reach Dogubayazit, an hour's drive, bypassing Mount Ararat to the west.
It stands at 5,137 meters, snowy and cloudy. The Turks call it Agri Dagi. Dogubayazit is mostly known for the Ishak Pasa Palace, perched at the foot of the mountains outside the city.
It dates back to the 18th century, offering a view of the city below and the surrounding plains that encompass Mount Ararat. The most spectacular palace is built along the mountains, with several well-preserved round and ochre-colored towers.
On the way back, I visit a more modern hammam and sauna in the late afternoon. I will return the next day before preparing for the journey to Van.
A few days later, I receive a more detailed explanation regarding Azerbaijan.
Due to COVID, the land borders of the entire country are closed to foreigners, including the enclave and the main country.
The only solution to enter is by plane and transport the motorcycle in an Azerbaijani truck.
I reach the vast Lake Van, which covers an area of 3,755 square kilometers, making it the largest lake in Turkey. Kurdish family groups work in the fields, engaging in arduous tasks such as planting, harvesting, and laying irrigation pipes.
No one complains, and I am always welcomed with tea, meals, and photos, despite the lack of English.
There are many women and young women, a few men. They bicker and laugh, seemingly trying to escape the rigors of work, for just a few pounds, I imagine.
Van, at the eastern end of the lake, is an immense metropolis with the construction of collective residential buildings.
I have seen thousands of them with colorful architecture, just as I have seen dozens of brand new university campuses, always with a mosque. There are many new and imposing mosques.
The free roads and highways are better than in France.
The industrial zones on the outskirts of medium-sized and large cities are interconnected. Airports, schools, hospitals, tunnels, bridges—all of this had to be financed, putting the Turkish currency to the test. Today, there are high-interest rates, inflation, and a faltering currency due to the price of this colossal effort to modernize the country in 20 years.
Was it necessary to do so much so quickly? The result is undeniable.
The markets scrutinize the deficits, and Erdogan has strengthened his financial team after the elections.
In Van, hookah evening, orchestra. From time to time, a large part of the room gets up to a familiar and well-known tune. They take each other's hands and form a large chain that moves a few steps forward and backward; a game of seduction, hidden well.
Van is known for its breakfasts. In a pedestrian street, just a few steps from the hotel, they serve me the traditional meal: olives, cheese, tomatoes, honey, jams, yogurt, cucumbers, eggs, bread, plus a few new dishes, including a creamy dessert with a praline taste. For a few euros. Life is affordable for us in Turkey, with the successive devaluations contributing to that.
The road to Tatvan, at the western end of the lake, about 100 kilometers away, mostly follows the shore, with restaurants, hotels, and playgrounds. It's still a bit early to be very busy, but I can imagine it in the summer. There is also a boat that connects the two cities.
I stop again to meet Kurdish field workers. They set me up in the middle of the countryside in a chair that must have been a club chair and offer to share their lunch with me: rice, vegetables, sauce, a few pieces of meat. It's good, very good. Many photos. They accept, almost all of them, except for a few women. The men and children on the motorcycle, as usual.
Tatvan is smaller, with 100,000 inhabitants compared to Van's 300,000. An immense boulevard traverses the city, not far from Mount Nemrut Dagi, which is 3,150 meters high. Before going up there on the motorcycle, I stop at a bakery.
Everyone is waiting for the hot oval-shaped bread. Four people are busy preparing it, including the dough.
They also make "kélor," which they describe as Kurdish pizza.
It's a bread pastry with tomatoes, herbs, and cheese, quite spicy but delicious when they offer it to me fresh out of the oven with tea. They take a break at 10 o'clock, of course, with fresh bread and all the traditional dishes. I am invited. As everywhere, as always, Turkish and Kurdish hospitality.
They refuse to let me pay for anything and refuse the pack of cigarettes I offer them.
The climb to reach the immense crater of the volcano is steep, 7 by 8 kilometers in size.
Breathtaking view of Lake Van and the surrounding mountains. In the depths, there are three lakes: large, medium, and small.
On the shore of the medium-sized one, I meet Vincent and Cécile from Neuchâtel, traveling eastward in their Mercedes van that he converted.
They are impressive athletes: skiing, mountain biking, paragliding, sailing, diving.
He designed and built everything in the vehicle for their sabbatical year, which will take them to Iran. Spaces for bicycles and paragliding equipment, bed, table, kitchen, countless storage compartments.
They are self-sufficient in heating, electricity, and water filtration, with motors and solar panels. It's very impressive, and ultimately, that's what makes their journey more comfortable: having as few concerns as possible about the basics that we have at home, much like on a boat. If water or heating becomes a constraint, it encroaches on the tranquility and serenity of the journey and can become obsessive. We have a good time exchanging stories over a Kurdish meal they offer, of course. They are here to see the bear. It stays up in the crater and comes down at nightfall when it's quieter. They saw it the day before, light fur in front, very,
very big. Impressive photos and videos. Tonight they will see it with its cub, the mother.
A long journey of 300 kilometers to reach Mardin in the south. I leave the Anatolian plateau and its coolness. Down below, the heat begins. I have to stop several times to cool down by soaking my T-shirt completely, which dries in a few minutes with the speed of the wind—a brief respite.
Mardin is a jewel, unique.
I arrive there on Sunday afternoon.
It's hot, and there are many people on this day of rest. The main street, 1 Cadde, in the old town is congested. I'm tired, and the hotels are noticeably more expensive than what I've experienced so far. Finally, I find a good place: right in the center, enthusiastic reception, comfort, and above all, a magnificent view of the endless plain to the south, with Syria quickly approaching.
Mardin is located on a mountainside dominated by the citadel.
Below is a maze of alleyways and stairs on either side of the main shopping street. The stone is light everywhere, and many buildings of a few floors have a rooftop terrace with this view of the now dry plain burnt by the spring heat, resembling our summer. These roofs are often occupied by cafes in the late afternoon, evening, and late into the night.
I linger there, enjoying tea and conversations.
The plain now reveals the numerous villages and their orange nighttime illuminations, first Turkey and then quickly Syria. There isn't much activity around noon, but I visit in the morning and starting from the late afternoon.
Laurels, fig trees, medlars, ancient doors glimpsed in passing, soap shops, clothing, souvenirs, jewelry, crafts, hairdressers, wine, cafes. It's designed for both visitors and locals, and it exudes a very strong charm. Bazaar, mosques, churches, madrasas, palaces, schools, monasteries, museums... Here, Muslims and Assyrians, Eastern Christians, coexist.
The Assyrians number around 1.5 million worldwide. In Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Syria, they represent about half of the global community.
They are mainly Catholic and Orthodox.
They were exterminated here in large numbers starting from 1915, accused of colluding with the enemies: Russia, France, the United Kingdom.
Like the Armenians, they were killed or deported to the Aleppo region.
Since my arrival in Turkey over a month ago, I have been trying to understand and grasp the Kurdish question, particularly since I joined Eastern Anatolia.
Everywhere in the region, when I ask, "Are you Turkish?" Inevitably, systematically, the response is, "No, I am Kurdish." It is acknowledged that they are citizens and hold Turkish passports, but nothing more in the direction of Ankara.
Kurds live in four countries: Syria, Iraq, Iran, and Turkey, where they would represent, diverging figures, 12 million people, let's say 15 to 20% of the population. This also represents about half of the Kurds in the four Middle Eastern countries. The Treaty of Sèvres in 1920 promised them a country, but three years later, the promise disappeared in Lausanne. In Iraq, they live in the northern part of the highly oil-rich country.
In Turkey, they live in a large southeastern region and generally face more challenging economic conditions.
They are predominantly Sunni Muslims.
They speak seven dialects, with about half understanding each other's discussions. These dialects are influenced by the geographical and linguistic proximity in each of the four countries: Turkish, Arabic, and Farsi.
The Turkish nationalist concept is very powerful, supported by religion, authority, the military, and unity. Anything that deviates from it is denounced and fought against, especially "Kurdishness" or "Kurdism." The '80s and '90s witnessed strong tensions, as did 2016 with the failed coup attempt against the Erdogan regime. These events led to arrests, trials, and incarcerations related to alleged or real opposition and dissent. Kurds were at the forefront. A university professor who is engaged in these issues estimates that there are currently around 200,000 political prisoners, including 70,000 students. It is the dark side of the regime. One can be arrested and imprisoned for a simple tweet. Selahattin Demirtas, a charismatic opposition leader, Kurdish branch Zaza, and a 50-year-old deputy, has been imprisoned since 2016. He reportedly promised to give up politics.
All those encountered, without any exception, identify themselves as Kurds and not Turks.
Today, Erdogan is visiting his friend Aliyev in Baku. It is his first trip since his reelection. He is involved in so many international issues: Libya, gas in the Mediterranean, Syria including refugees, water to Iraq, Russia, Ukraine, NATO including the Swedish question, Europe and refugees, Qatar, Israel.
Every time, he is demanding, tough, even rough, and inflexible. The majority of the population respects and appreciates him.
The Ottoman Empire ceased to exist in 1920, but there is a strong and largely indispensable Turkey.
I leave in the morning from Mardin, reluctantly. This city has delighted me beyond all my expectations. A unique site, population, atmosphere... It's already hot, even hotter in the plain I cross to reach the Iraqi border. "The sun's rays are scorching, and the countryside is crushed by the Middle Eastern heat."
The season is one month ahead of our regions; they are already harvesting, quite mechanized.
I was well warned, including by a motorcyclist from Mardin: "You won't be able to enter Iraq with your motorcycle; they are prohibited from entry." Before leaving, I ensure the services of a contact working at customs with the help of the hotel manager.
Exiting Turkey amidst trucks loaded with livestock, everything goes smoothly after paying a fine for speeding on a Turkish road.
On the other side, after crossing the bridge, I am not in Iraq, I am in Iraqi Kurdistan. I apply for an online visa, and the application works well. Then, I visit three consecutive offices for the motorcycle, papers, stamps, a total of $100, official without any bribes.
In a little over an hour, it's done.
Perfect. I have left Turkey. I am in Iraqi Kurdistan. Like a Kurdish miracle.
I have just spent over 5 weeks in Turkey, covering 4,200 kilometers from Istanbul to the eastern edge of Anatolia. From the gray sky and stormy rains to the Middle Eastern heat, from the damp green to the pale yellow of drought. Magnificent landscapes from the Black Sea to the Syrian border. I missed, among others, the entire southwestern Mediterranean quarter and Ankara. Throughout the journey, I met curious Turks and was warmly welcomed with generosity. I ate deliciously. I traversed a modernized country, even in the most remote areas: textiles, weapons, drones, automobiles, logistics, agriculture, universities, hospitals, infrastructure, films, and an innate sense of commerce. Atatürk is revered everywhere. I never felt any control; I showed my passport only once on the road. I witnessed the election results in Istanbul and then Erzurum, seeing Recep Erdogan re-elected for 5 more years against all odds. With the help of a charisma-lacking opponent leading an improbable and non-credible political alliance. Part of the country celebrated all night, under control, without any excesses. I had extensive discussions about the Kurdish question. Opposition control is evident, and the frustration of cities and elites as well. The methods of repression are not acceptable. Islam is a strong and dominant historical and cultural fact in a secular but non-oppressive country in daily life and public space. The economy suffers from the monetary consequences of massive investment efforts over the past 20 years to lift the country out of its backward situation. The President wants to restore Ottoman power, international influence, and respect, albeit with fewer territories. The centenary of the Republic will take place this year, and the speeches should be closely watched. Much relies on Erdogan's personality, his authority domestically, and the respect he commands on the international stage. Turks are proud of their country and likely nostalgic for the Ottoman power that controlled the broader Eastern Mediterranean.
I rode on my motorcycle without any problems. I owe it a lot. It has never let me down. It is comfortable, spacious, and reliable. I give it all the oil it demands, with exaggeration. Everyone has their little vices.
Long live Turkey!
Yasasin Türkiye!
