People, like great novels, have themes.
Blog and Vlog
The sun is warm on the morning we set foot on Ağrı Dağı. Now I realize it was a fooler.
We ascend past the camps of nomadic herders, past the children begging for our chocolate bars, and past the occasional shepherd with his flock. The trail, which had been cut with heavy equipment at some point in the past, quickly shook off all memory of the experience. Deep ruts demand a jump or even a full detour. Boulders litter the path. Serious water has torn the ground to pieces.
The rutted road that climbs up from Çevirme demands a shift from wheels to legs. Leaving the comforts of settled life behind, we pick our way into Ağrı Dağı’s foothills. I look right and contemplate a flat-roofed structure of stone and mud. Two women eyeball our group as we follow Celîl around the corner. I make note of the moment; this is the edge of the permanent. We enter the world of the mobile. Bones and ankles take the place of brakes and axles. Before me is the summer grazing ground of Kurdish pastoralists.
The place where the road ends is the place where the trail begins. For us, that place is called Çevirme. Our top-heavy transport has not traveled far from Doğubeyazıt. I look at my watch. It has been less than an hour since leaving the soldiers of the gendarmerie and the security of the asphalt surface. In that time, we skirted the east side of the Şeyhli Marsh on a road of packed earth and rock. Uraz told us that we were fortunate this day to have a dry run. Rain can reduce this road to an impassable mudhole. No one doubted him.
Doğubayazıt, our cowboy town, is the launch point for those who attempt the summit of Ağrı Dağı. It specializes in essentials: a bed to sleep in, a hot meal, a supply store, and, of course, the gendarmeriewhere climbing permits are issued. Nothing (except maybe Chinese-made shoes and Turkish cotton T-shirts?) is offered in quantity, but it can be found if you know where to look. That is the important part. Forget a wool cap? You can find it in Doğubayazıt. Forget your crampons? You can find them in Doğubayazıt. Forget your beef jerky? Be sure to check the expiration date.
I stand on the curb outside our hotel, hands in my pockets, and watch the traffic. There are a few cars, a few more trucks, and much greasy smoke. One passenger bus rumbles through. Blue letters proclaim its line: Ağrı Dağı. It is the Turkish label for the mountain associated with Noah’s “Ararat.” Stoney faces peer back at me through the passing glass. There is no romance in this modern highway, I decide. I have become the tourist site.
On the eastern end of Turkey rests Lake Van, the largest lake in the country. It has many claims to fame: a deep history, a saline character, and even a “Loch Ness” style monster rumored to haunt its depths. Of these, it is the first that brings us here (although the third is certainly interesting!). In the first millennium BC, a kingdom remembered as Urartu was centered in the region. In fact, the capital of the kingdom was erected on a rocky knob rising above the water’s edge. A scramble over these ruins is is goal for another day, as is additional attention to the mysterious Urartians.
When leaving the city of Van, we were surprised to discover whole streets lined by abandoned buildings. Some had been apartments; others, businesses and factories. Exterior walls of concrete block were awkwardly peeled away, as if by some ridiculous force. With these partitions missing, we were able to peer from our passing vehicle, like voyeurs, into the private lives of people we would never know. Their wires and pipes and curtains danced nakedly in the wind. Only later would we locate the missing inhabitants; new homes were assigned them, homes of thin trailer steel, the kind arranged in tight rows and given by agencies that specialize in humanitarian disasters.
