I like good travel writing. I love great writing.
Mark MacKinnon is a writer with Macleans and the Grope and Dope. He has, since October, been travelling through the Middle East. In October, he was in Turkey. By November 9, he was headed to Jerusalem.
He’s done all the stuff that I’ve been afraid and wary to do: Syria, Jordan, the West Bank, eastern Turkey into the Kurdish region of Iraq. And written wonderfully of his travels. On October 27, he wrote about Three Turkeys, and it particularly appealed to me. Here’s an excerpt:
Bayran, 42, part-time labourer and resident of the guest house attached to the Halilur Rahman mosque in Sanliurfa
Bayran doesn’t have a very sophisticated understanding of why the Turkish economy is in crisis these days. What he does know is some rich people in Istanbul and Ankara made mistakes, and now the amount of work available for an occasional labourer like him has dried up to perhaps one job a week.
Bayran lives in the deeply conservative city of Sanliurfa, near the Syrian border. Most nights he sleeps in the spartan guesthouse attached to the giant mosque that marks the birthplace of the Prophet Abraham.
Bayran wears tattered clothes, but a wide smile, as he leads a foreign visitor through the mosque complex. He empties his pocket to show he has only three Turkish lira – the cost of a bed for the nigh at the mosque guesthouse – but steadfastly refuses offered money at the end of his guided tour.
This is his Turkey: poor, devout and conservative. The political concerns of Sebnem Duyar and Abdullah Demirbas have no connection to his reality.
He’s a staunch supporter of Prime Minister Tayyep Recep Erdogan and the AK Party. “Not just because they are religious, but because they are honest,” he tells me earnestly. “They are on the path of righteousness.”
You really need to read the whole post. Then move forward through the countries.
When I spent a pitifully small amount of time in Istanbul a few years ago, I was struck by the dichotomy. On the one hand, street vendors were obnoxious, abrasive, and brusque in trying to get me to buy their faux perfumes and handbags. On the other, people would come up to me randomly and ask to take their pictures with me. Like these guys:
While walking around the Asian side of the Bosporus, they approached and began chatting with me. Friendly blokes, who wanted to buy me a coffee and chat with me about life in Canada. Or perhaps they thought I was American.
I would have, too, if I hadn’t had tickets for the whirling dervishes on the other side. A mightly long bridge I had to cross to get there on time.