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| Photo by: Benjamin Hershey |
When you first arrive in a country, you don't truly make its acquaintance until you have stepped out of the airport. From my experience, that acquaintance usually begins through the nose. I can still remember the smells of gasoline, heat, and burning trash when I first met Nicaragua. Burning rubber, humidity, and matured fruit introduced me to Guatemala. Those two were oddly similar, as if I were meeting cousins. However, when the automatic doors opened to breath in the air of Ankara, Turkey, it was clear I was in a completely different family tree. Cigarette smoke, muskiness, and earthy cold air met my nose as I was welcomed by the honk of a bus asking firmly for a taxi to get out of its way. The air was different here, cold yet heavy, crisp yet smokey, and much like its people, bold yet restrained.
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| Photo by: Benjamin Hershey |
As we quickly shuffled to find our bus, and Ben went to ask the driver if it was going in the right direction for our needs, it hit me for the first time. The experience of not being able to communicate verbally with the people around me, at least moderately well, has not been a part of my traveling experience really since my first time leaving the United States to go to Mexico in 2008. Even then, I had a basic ability to ask simple questions and understand simple answers in Spanish. I felt the weight of this realization slowly creep up on me as I watched Ben speak Turkish, annoyingly well for only 3 months of learning I might add, with the Bus driver. At the same time, I remember the frustration and weariness of having others rely on you for communication, especially if you were not anywhere near fluent, so I kept my distance and trusted Ben to get the right information. As we rode the bus through the outskirts of Turkey's capital, the roads were eerily similar to those of Guatemala, cleaner and with less pedestrians, but similar in their design. It was an odd experience to look at the name of a store, fully expecting to be able to read its Spanish name, and then be reminded by the "ç" or the "ş" that you have no chance. Well, no chance alone.
After hailing a taxi to finish our final leg of the trip to the train station, I sat listening intently to Ben converse with the driver. Similar to a dog watching a tennis match, I had no earthly idea what was happening in this game, but I knew something exciting was being tossed back and forth between the two and hoped at some point I might get to participate - I didn't. My face alternated between the Kurdish taxista and the American Fulbrighter, turning toward whomever was speaking, laughing when they laughed, quieting when there was a lull, understanding absolutely nothing except for the very loud "Obama good!" from the driver accompanied by a thumbs up - a thumb I probably would have preferred be on the wheel. To an American eye, the driving here is just as seemingly erratic but oddly well organized as Nicaragua and Guatemala.
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| Photo by: Benjamin Hershey |
Arriving at the train station, Ben's friendliness inspired the driver to only charge us 10 Turkish Lyra (TL) instead of 11 because he didn't want Ben to have to go looking for a single "Tay-Lay" as Ben calls them. (T is pronounced 'tay' and L is pronounced 'lay.') Saying farewell to our brief friendship, we entered, oddly through a metal detector and passed a guard who did not check us even though the detector went off. At first, I thought it might be because it was clear we were travelers, but in the next hour that we waiting in the train station, I didn't see him check any of the people coming through - interesting security measures. Sitting in the train station, it became quite clear just how diverse and heterogenous the Turkish people are. From tall to short, round and thin, darker skin and lighter skin, women who did and did not wear the hijab, men who were concerned and very much not concerned about their fashion statement, young teenagers with half shaved heads, and old grandfathers wearing three piece suits and berets.
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| Photo by: Benjamin Hershey |
Two sets of maybe 30 benches were situated like pews facing an altar, angled toward a surprisingly enormous LCD screen declaring the train arrivals and departures. Every bench was filled, and as soon as a seat emptied it was almost immediately filled again by a new body. Like pooling water in a stream, always moving, changing, and refreshing, yet seemingly still, calm, and at peace. We merged with the pooled water and sat for awhile watching the pigeons swoop down to pick pieces of simit, something like a turkish bagel, off the ground. Older men wondered throughout the echoing room, waiting for their train while probably trying to keep their legs from stiffening. With these men, I noticed something different. They made clear eye contact with the people around them, sometimes prolonged eye contact, with much more than what a individualized American might be comfortable. It seemed, from my initial people-watching analysis, people seemed to engage with their social existence much more. To be fair, there were still people on their phones, reading, or talking in their own groups, but similar to a Guatemalan town square, many fully recognized and engaged with the presence of others who they did not know.
After almost 16 hours of traveling, my exhaustion at this point was more prevalent to my senses than most of my surroundings. We rushed onto the train, finding our seats. I tried reading my book as the train sped in the opposite direction that I was facing. As Ben listened to music, I decided to lean forward with my head on my knees to rest my eyes. The train's 250 km/h movement was soothing and tranquil. My eyes closed, and I think we can all guess what happened next.
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| Photo by: Benjamin Hershey |
A deep male voice slowly emerges from the morning fog, seemingly sorrowful and longing. With words incomprehensible to my ears, the sound of the imam's voice wafts through the residential buildings, through the glass of our window, and bounces off the ceiling on which my morning thoughts are projecting, pulling me away from my memory of napping on the train. Parallel to, but very different from the fruit venders screaming in the early Nicaraguan mornings, the call to prayer gently caresses my consciousness. More voices, from countless distant mosques, joined the originator. Like a chorus of sad souls calling for companionship, their voices drifted through Konya, welcoming my mind further into the day. As each called in his own unique way, their distinct voices merged into whatever the reverse of a lullaby would be, gently waking the city, breathing into it with their song.
There was no way I was going back to sleep.
There was no way I was going back to sleep.
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