Of Marginal Value

The real joys of travel are found in the margins. No matter where you’re headed, a national park, an ancient monument, a museum displaying the pedestrian origins of civilisation, the things you take away are the things that engage you emotionally. Here are a few joys from our recent travels in Turkey:

Kapadokya

Hunting for breakfast after watching the balloons fly early in the morning, we found Café Şafak (Café Dawn) in Göreme. A middle-aged woman, shaped and bundled like a babushka doll, ushered us in. Returning her warm smile, we pointed to the menu and ordered a couple of lattés.

Moments later she presented us with the best coffee we’d had since leaving Italy. Rich without being smoky, the espresso wasn’t overwhelmed by the milk. We settled on an order of menemen and fresh fruit with yoghurt and honey. Guzzling our drinks, we ordered another while our hostess brought the array of extras that come with most every breakfast here.

Small plates with freshly cut cucumber and tomatoes arrived first. Another with slightly shrivelled, but strongly flavoured black olives, alongside a few more common green olives followed. Next came a collection of small, three-tablespoon sized saucers with individual servings of honey, orange marmalade, cherry jam, strawberry preserves, Nutella, and several packets of unsalted butter. A basket of freshly sliced crusty white bread covered with a plain beige napkin accompanied the condiments.

The chef, a tiny, hunched woman well into her 80s, shuffled steadily out of the kitchen bearing a copper pan. Smiling conspiratorially, like little old ladies do when they know they’re presenting you with a treat, she placed the scramble of tomatoes, peppers, and eggs that is menemen before us. A deeper red that we’d seen before, I think she added some of the delicious, homemade tomato paste frequently served as a garnish to the mix. Digging in it was fabulous. An achievement that only decades of practiced art and the freshest fresh eggs can deliver. Strengthened for the day, we set off to explore the open-air museums and naughty rock formations in Love Valley.

Malatya

Like many regional cities in Turkey, Malatya presents a functional, modern face. Foreigners come here to source textiles. If they have time, they’ll head a short way out of town and mull over the Hittite ruins. A hundred years ago the world’s best opium came from here. Today the cash crop is apricots.

With Carol’s Accor hotel points in hand, we checked into the fading Mövenpick hotel, smack in the city’s shopping centre. Seizing the moment, Carol made a salon appointment for highlights and a cut. Having lived in Singapore for three years where straight black hair was what stylists learned and worked on each day, I expected a similar lack of experience with Carol’s naturally curly blonde hair here. I left her in the hands of a handsome competent-looking 35-year-old man and their translator apps while I wandered the streets in search of museums.

Three hours later I got the following texts:

• I’m still not done. I’ve never had an appointment like this before.
• But I’m being given lots of sweets
• It’s not the long time as much as the number of things he’s doing

At the four-hour mark, this came in:

• Well…
• At least I don’t think I’m going to glow in the dark anymore…

Twenty minutes later I opened the door of our hotel room and found Peggy Lee standing on the threshold. Before I could compliment her on her rendition of ‘Fever’, she said, “You should have seen it an hour ago.”

Diyarbakır

Overlooking the Tigris River, Turkey’s largest Kurdish city was once an important stop along the Silk Road. The high walls surrounding the Sur district of the old city hem in a warren of narrow streets lined with shops and restaurants. In the heart of things is the Sülüklü Han (caravanserais, or inn) still serving wine after 339 years. The inn was named for its medicinal leeches (sülüklü) kept in a well in the centre of the courtyard. In most hans travellers could find a room and a meal, then clean up in a nearby haman. Spiritual cleansing was left to the imams at a nearby mosque. (Never make the mistake of confusing hamams with imams. – ed.)

Walking through the arched gateway into the square courtyard it was easy to imagine Indiana Jones sitting in one corner deep into a bottle of raki, despondent over losing Marion to the Nazis. Mind you, if I’d lost Karen Allen, I’d be pretty mopey too. As a hopping off point to Asia it was inspiring. I was ready to head east with a caravan, my scimitar and trusty Kangal at my side. But this is mainstream, not marginal adventure.

Earlier that afternoon, two things stood out for us. The first was popcorn, the second a puppy. Heading out of the main castle gate, we passed a street vendor. A tall, wiry man with a day’s old beard was popping corn over a small charcoal fire. His eight-year-old son stood in front of their two-wheeled cart laden with bags of fresh popcorn taking care of customers. Thirty metres on, Carol did a double take, spun round and said, “I need some popcorn.” The little boy picked up one of the bags only to be admonished by his father, who had seen Carol coming. In Kurdish he said something along the lines of, “I’ve got this, son”. He picked up a bag and filled it with fresh, warm popcorn and handed it to Carol. Then, in a gesture of goodwill, he magnanimously refused payment.

Savouring the delicious popcorn, we ambled uphill towards a mosque and watched amusedly as five small boys rough-housed with a couple of stray dogs, and each other. As so often happens, they drew a bead on us, Carol’s hair glowing like a tractor beam. Hello! How are you?, they called as they dragged the smallest dog over for us to inspect. Marney? One said. No, money, we replied. Marney? You, marney? Came the chorus. No, we replied again. Finally, they got loud enough to draw the attention of a couple of adults who quickly shooed them away. But the photo of two of them with their dog is too darn cute.

Mardin

Exploring a back alley in search of one of the two remaining churches in town, Carol paused to admire an arched doorway kitty-corner from our objective. The door opened and a woman stepped forward and gestured to us. She then said something in Turkish with a smattering of English words thrown in, the gist of which was come in and see my home and have a glass of wine. She was irresistible. Our experience with impromptu invitations like this is they are as often based on commerce as genuine curiosity. In tourist centres, the mix skews towards commerce.

Explaining she was a Syrian Christian (orthodox from the look of the bearded priest’s portrait hanging over her mantle) she poured us a small glass of local wine. Offering a cup of tea to any visitor is a ritual in Turkey. Her wine was a nice differentiating touch for a lead-in to seeing some of her wonderfully naïve paintings. With no room for storage on Aleta we’re leery about buying anything these days. But a small-ish square of canvas can be turned into a pillow-sized memento. So, we bought one of a Byzantine church, not knowing that her real gift was in metalwork, secreted away in a workshop next door. But we’d already blown our budget. We paused, then asked her to sign her painting before leaving.

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As ambassadors for humanity, these are the moments that make our days on the road memorable.

Thanks for reading. Our roving cultural correspondent, Marge Innovera, will return with more tales from the edge soon.