the road to erzurum

Just as the forests seem to creep up out nowhere, they disappeared, and barren rock formations rippled across the landscape. Some of the striations twisted like rope and folded like fabric, incredible that such a hard, immovable substance could become plastic.



Just as we were marvelling at the scenery and discussing the ease of driving in this region, we hit a massive construction project, and the road was swallowed by dust.

roadside corn

As is so very often the case, you can find food in the unlikeliest of places in Turkey. People are quite entrepreneurial here, and on the side of a lonely stretch of road near some dam, a cheery moustachioed man was boiling up corn on the cob on a stove that looked homemade. His make-shift café clung precariously to the side of the cliff, and he had somehow diverted a small stream into a kitchen tap with an actual sink. We squeezed our car against the guardrail, climbed over it, and sat down at a tiny table for some corn and mountain stream çay.

into green

As the landscape changed from wide grassland to green forest, a little river began to run parallel to the road, and we couldn't resist leaving the car on the side of the road to investigate.



I waded into the river, the water wrapping around my thighs. Balancing carefully on the slippery rocks, I untied the sweaty handkerchief that hid my dirty hair, and soaked my head in the cool water. As I watched the current carry my hands away like the branches of green that grew within it, I was overcome by a feeling of peace. Road trips have a funny way of teasing out all the things your brain buries during the routine of daily life. There had been so many conflicts, questions, and realisations running through my head, but now... now, the sight of an electric blue dragonfly gently bobbing up and down while clinging the water milfoil was all there was.



There was this fine frog too.

a last look at ani

anatolia's first mosque

Among the many ruins of churches stand the remnants of the Seljuk Ebul Menuçehr Camii, the first mosque built in Anatolia. The shade inside was a welcome retreat from the relentless sun, where several crag martins darted in and out in a blur.



From its row of elegant pointed arch windows, you can see Armenia, just across the valley.

whitewash

ani

On the edge of the border between Turkey and Armenia, an ancient city once said to house a thousand churches, crumbles into the earth. As Ani was situated on important trade routes, the prosperous city passed through the hands of the Armenians, Byzantines, Ottomans, Kurds, Georgians, and Russians, until it fell into decline in the 14th century. Even though Ani was an Armenian capitol, I was unable to find one sign that mentioned the word 'Armenian'.



The sun burned, and the air was still.

kars

As the time we had carved out for The Great Anatolian Road Trip was running short, we realised that Kars would have to be a stop to get some sleep and get going. The images of a bleak and melancholic town were written in my head by Orhan Pamuk from his novel Snow, and I expected to find a poetic greyness about Kars. Instead, the town was quite pleasant and seemed like any other town, were it not for the occasional linear touches of Russian architecture. I think I imagined it on a hill or something, and a bit more run down. After spending the night in a quirky hotel and marveling at its mournful receptionist in his old-fashioned navy blue blazer, ruby ring, and tragic black brows— a character made for a Wes Anderson film— we bought some honey, and headed for the ruins of Ani.

magic birds

As the sun began to make its descent on the way to Kars, somewhere in the middle of fields and hills, we were distracted a large flock of small birds. Flashes of pale pink sent us on a U-turn back to a small side road where the birds were gathering.

Once, in Portugal, Pedro and I visited a roundabout in Peniche where there were rumours of a single Rosy Starling among a flock of Spotted Starlings— a big draw for birders in the area. We examined every group of little dark birds for the one pink and black one, but without success. Reports of sightings of the unusual bird awakened an envy within us, but now, somewhere between Ağrı and Kars, that envy melted away.



There were around two hundred beautiful Rosies. It was one of those moments in life that can only be described as magical, and I wish I had a better camera to really capture it, but these photos will do well enough to bring me back.

traffic in the middle of nowhere

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!