the light of sunrise

There are few things I would get up before the crack of dawn for, and normally I wouldn't want to hike up some steep hill at such an hour (Caspian Snowcocks are worth it), but this was different.



A small group of people had already gathered at the top of Mount Nemrut, some with blankets wrapped tightly around them, nearly everyone with a camera in hand. We all watched quietly as the horizon gathered an orange glow, and as the pale yellow ball rose above the jagged contours of mountains, the selfies began.



Pedro and I soon discovered that if you hung around long enough for 8:30 or 9:00, you'd have the whole place to yourself— well, you and a roving band of snowfinches and some curious nuthatches.



This is truly, one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to in Turkey.

a welcome break from kebabs

Later that night at our hotel, we were grateful to discover that there wasn't a single kebab in sight. Now, I do love kebabs, and we've dined on some exquisite varieties whilst on the road, but after so many days of spiced skewered beef, it was amazing to see that tomato soup and chicken and potatoes!



The kindness and warmth of Kervansaray's owner Hamdi, Osman the cook, and the two boys who deftly flew between guests like the swallows that filled the sky, made our decision to stay an extra night easy. Nemrut at sunrise, another look at the Kurdish Wheatear, and a good wander around some more remnants of the Commagene kingdom. Maybe cool our feet in a branch of the Euphrates. These things helped too.



I felt at home.

the giant heads of nemrut

I had first heard of Mount Nemrut when a former colleague of mine returned from a trip to the East with tales of giant heads atop a snow-covered mountain. Something between the curvy-lipped Olmec heads and the stern brows of the Rapa Nui statues crossed my mind, even though the homes of both cultures were on the other side of the world. I eventually looked up Mount Nemrut on the internet to discover that my imagination was way off.

We were lucky to have found a room at the lovely Kervansaray Hotel ( I say lucky because the following day the hotel was full— and the staff were so very nice), and after a snack and a brief nap, we headed up Mount Nemrut to see these heads and watch the sun set. Even though you can drive up most of the way, you still have to climb a steep, heart-pounding staircase towards the top, and goodness, the view is spectacular!



We learned that the site is actually the mausoleum of Antiochus I, ruler of Commagene, a kingdom that was founded after the empire of Alexander the Great dissolved. This mound atop a small mountain is his great monument to himself; massive statues and reliefs place him among Herakles and Ancient Armenian, Greek, and Persian gods. What I found particularly interesting (and amusing), was how he had himself depicted mid-handshake with the gods in the reliefs. Clearly, Antiochus I wanted everyone to know that he was a well-connected guy.



In the background of the above photo, you can see what remains of the bodies. There are five statues, once standing about 6–9 metres each, which represent Antiochus among the deities, flanked by a lion and an eagle. The heads have fallen down and placed upright, their faces cracked from centuries of harsh weather.

The handful of tourists didn't take away from the quiet and sense of peace at the site, even though I occasionally heard a string of adventure-bragging in an American accent coming from a rocky platform at the other end of where I was sketching. The sun slowly slipped behind the hills, and the light went from a warm orange to a cool violet.

desolate

If it weren't for the power lines that stretched thin across the sky, or the occasional small herd that promised a shepherd, I could have been convinced that we were the only two people in existence.

in the pistachio fields

The morning after our brief glimpse of Gaziantep took us through the nearby pistachio fields in search of the Yellow-throated Sparrow, which was a near guarantee if we could brave the sweltering heat. Under a relentless blue sky, the pale earth rolled in gentle hills dotted with the hardy green trees which were bearing their fruit, delicately tinged with magenta. I had never seen a pistachio tree before, but the sight of them brought me the smell of the cigarette smoke that curled out of my aunties' lips as they peeled the red and pink skin off the kilos of raw pistachios they had smuggled to my mother's balcony from Lebanon.

Our sandals crunched across the dry soil, and I paused in the shade of a tree while Pedro wandered on with his binoculars tight in his hands. Suddenly, as birds so very often appear, a small flutter turned out to be the very creature we were hoping to see.



True to the drawing in our guidebook, the little brown bird turned to reveal its lemon-yellow throat. Watching that bird through the telescope in the silence of the orchard, I felt overcome by a deep happiness. Birds are great like that; they have this magical ability to transport you simply by being, and doing their thing.

As the sun climbed higher, we left the fields for Mount Nemrut on a meandering route past a flat landscape of yellowed grass. Every so often a tiny village would appear, and with each cluster of dung or cement houses, resident donkeys tethered to the ground would blink at us as we passed by.

fading light

on hold

I know I've been absent for a long time, and the story of The Great Anatolian Road Trip is no longer current, but it has been a very busy twenty-five days. I spent two marvellous weeks in Portugal with family, then returned to a maelstrom of laundry, preparation for the new school year, and work for an upcoming exhibition. Yes, I will finally show my drawings again! I'll let you know more about it closer to the time, but for now, Harika is on hold, and I hope that continuing the tales of my adventures in Eastern Anatolia at a later date will not affect the story at all.

Here's a preview of the sketch I did of the famed "Gypsy Girl" at the Gaziantep Zeugma Mosaic Museum:



If I can get through the next two weeks efficiently, I might be able to start posting again. Until then, enjoy the end of your summer!

a small feast

things to buy in gaziantep

Gaziantep was next on our agenda, and we rolled into town sometime in the early afternoon, just in time for a museum stop and some lunch (which I shall share with you in the following posts). Ever since the last time I visited Antep, I've had in mind a copper cezve— a little pot for making Turkish coffee— and despite my purposeful beeline to the Bakircilar Çarşısı, I got distracted by a great many things along the way. We bought a knife from the nice man above, wondered if we needed a carpet Che Guevara, were puzzled over knotted plastic bags of what looked like cola, and debated if we needed any more tea. I have a cabinet full of teas.



After purchasing a lovely little cezve, we sat down to a quick kahve before hitting the road for Urfa.

landscape

başar's mum is a great cook

While we were out wandering the terrain with a telescope and binoculars, Başar's mum was busy in the kitchen preparing beautiful dishes for us, other guests, and family members for iftar. I regret that I didn't take any photos of our first night's meal— there was an incredible minted chickpea and dumpling soup that I know I will end up craving one of these days! Her stuffed courgettes were absolutely perfect, made even more so with the bluing mountains as their backdrop.

in search of snowcocks

The knocking on the door to our room was precisely at 3:00 a.m., as promised. I shuddered into a state somewhere between sleep and awake, while Pedro bounded out of bed in hurried excitement. We were at the Şafak Pansiyon in Demirkazık, a family-run guesthouse that specialises in guiding people into the bare, sharp mountains in search of the Caucasian Snowcock. Pedro was already out the door having a quick tea with Başar, our guide, while I was still fumbling around with my clothes in the dark.

To see the snowcocks, as with many birds, you must get up early (the term "early bird" exists for a reason— I think I am biologically engineered to be more of a night owl), and in order to get to the remote location where it is possible to see them at dawn, you need to hop into the rickety, yet powerful jeep of a bespectacled older man named Ramazan. The path up the mountain was wild; it seemed at any moment the rocks under our wheels would send us flying off the edge into darkness, only to be discovered later by some shepherd and his sheep.

I was awake now.



The ride was that weird sensation between frightening and exhilirating, and just before the first the first rays of sun hit the peaks and we were high above the valley, we heard the lonesome call of a snowcock. As Ramazan parked the car, we darted out and scanned the mountaintops trying to locate the bird from its call— which sounded a bit like a loon.



Through the telescope, we spotted a small band of young Bezoar Ibexes making their way up the cliff face. Then, out of the shadow of a rock on the very top of the mountain, a Caucasian Snowcock flew to a new perch in the sun. He stretched his neck skyward, and let out a long, high-pitched call. The moment felt like magic; and the bird was considerate enough to spend a good time on that rock so we could get a long look at him before flying off.



I need to develop into an early bird— there really is nothing like watching the sun rise amid birdsong, whether on a mountain in the middle of nowhere, or at home.