border

We missed the road to Little Ararat and ended up at the Iranian border. Three kilometres of trucks were halted in line waiting to pass, the drivers barbecuing in little groups, praying, shaving themselves, or sipping tea. Occasionally, I saw women climbing out of the trucks or negotiating with the drivers, then climbing into the trucks.



According to the directions we got from a carpet salesman, the road to Little Ararat was to the left of the border as you are driving towards it, but we didn't see any promising roads until we were just upon it. Suddenly we found ourselves at a checkpoint, with two very goofy and friendly soldiers. They told us we were way off, that there wasn't a road to Little Ararat at all— but there was a nearby crater we should see. Why not, we thought, and started to head towards this crater before the soldiers stopped us, and demanded our passports and car registration. They would keep them for us until we returned from the crater.

This made me uneasy, but for some reason, we handed over our documents and soon found ourselves at a medium-sized hole in the ground with a rusty blue sign that read "Krater" next to it.

"That's not a crater!" Pedro chuckled. "I don't know what that is."
I had visions in my mind of a crew of moustached men with a bulldozer impressed with themselves for having the best idea ever.



Disappointed, yet ever so slightly amused, we turned back towards the checkpoint, where the soldiers were smiling from ear to ear and giggling. They gave us our passports and registration, and welcomed us to Turkey.

the best meatballs

"Did you eat Kurdish meatballs?" the stern-looking young man asked us as we sipped our tea.
"No, not yet"
"It is the best!"
We were then handed a metal tiffin that contained the man's iftar meal, and after refusing my gentle "no thank you, please eat," he suddenly produced a pair of forks and knives with a proud grin. Two homemade köfte balls loaded with fresh herbs lay on a bed of macaroni. He left us for a nearby television, and we happily (and gratefully) dug in.

Oh my.



They really were the tastiest köfte. I tried to find out what those herbs and spices were when our man returned for the verdict, but he merely replied: "Kurdish meatballs. Best!"

Yes indeed!

fit for legends

The Ishak Paşa palace complex rests upon a desolate hill above Doğubeyazıt, and was once a part of the famed Silk Road. Its ornate blend of Seljuk, Persian, and Upper Mesopotamian architecture gives it a bit of a fairytale or mythical feel— and when the light is just right, it's easy to imagine silk and velvet robes swishing through the corridors lit by candles, scented with frankincense.



I could have spent all day here, letting my eyes trace the fine details of the stone carvings.



The walls of the palace kitchen are blackened with years of grease and smoke, and I wonder, what meals were prepared here? What were the smells that teased stomachs?

shadows of white

palace on the silk road

A peek at the storybook-gorgeous Ishak Paşa Sarayı.

the violets in the sky

yoghurt is good for the skin

Doğubeyazıt reminded me a bit of some parts of Kathmandu. Streets were full of potholes, buildings were incomplete or leaning a little to a side, and the Western tourists (the first we had seen in a long time) were geared up for treks in the Ararat area. This was the farthest east I had ever been in Turkey, and it seemed as though we had crossed a border into another land— in fact, I heard more Kurdish spoken than Turkish. With the Iranian border a mere 35 km away, the military presence here is strong; army barracks and lots lined with tanks and other armoured vehicles are prevalent. Despite this show of force, I took an instant liking to Doğubeyazıt.

We wandered up the busiest street that we believed would have the most potential for lunch, and soon found in one of those leaning buildings a most marvellous establishment for kebabs. Judging by the stares I received, this was a dude's joint, and perhaps a place not usually frequented by foreigners. The waiter seemed delighted by our presence, and quickly brought us two succulent kebabs and beautiful copper mugs of the frothiest ayran.



No matter how delicately I tried to sip my ayran, I ended up looking somewhat like this:



Naturally, the initial two swigs I took were closely watched with glee by the two guys at the next table, who did their best to giggle discreetly— and I deeply appreciate that Pedro did not photograph my foamy moustache and nose. Anyway, yoghurt is good for the skin, isn't it?

the first glimpse of ararat