Dear friends, I urge you to take this in by not rushing. I wish to create a dialogue, and if there’s anything that pops in your mind, forward a reply to apurvashukla123@protonmail.com.
I would also like to preface by stating content warnings of sexual violence, war, and self-harm.
Nothing brings me more joy than sitting in a cafe, familiar yet foreign at the same time, with my wired earphones in, camera on the hard-wood table, tickled by a gentle breeze, facing a languid intersection. Watching the world pass by; university students casually working on their papers, a stylish Cihangir local walking their shaggy dog (seriously this area is incredibly fashionable - jorts aplenty), a seemingly infinite number of cats lounging around, an older man wearing cherry red jeans and a grey tank top showcasing his tapestry of tattoos. The next zephyr brings an acrid mouthful of cigarette smoke from another man editing a stop motion video collage that’s strangely creative, bright and explicit. A woman sits in front of me, one leg over the other, with one foot dangling, working on a Canva design and then slowly digs her toes in so her flats and heel part in quivering magnetic repulsion. Then the poles flip, and the two things stick together again.
I think of how Turkey has been kind to me. I’ll get into that soon, but first I have to start with breakfast.
I had the serpme kahvaltı, which translates to mixed breakfast. A sort of mezze, consisting of fried organic egg, aged cheese, aged cottage cheese, string cheese, olives, butter, honey, double cream (kaymak), tomatoes, cucumber, green peppers, parsley, arugula, and a stone oven baked sesame simit. Wow, that was a mouthful. An overwhelming platter of assorted items, each of which were delicious in their own right. What stunned me was the melding of flavours, each combination I tried; bursting red tomatoes with aged cheese and double cream, arugula with cottage cheese and honeycomb, black olives with melted yellow butter and soft simit, each tasted like different visions of heaven. Each bite was unique, and unrepeatable; the symmetry of flavours existing in harmony for that one moment. Then, the cappuccino I’d set aside - which was now delectably warm - washing down the memory with a lovingly sweet bitterness.
This meal was designed in such a clever manner, that refutes the West’s obsession with efficiency, because there’s simply no meaningful way to rush it. You savour it. I let that sink in, because I think it has a lot to say about life too.
I think writing as a craft is a process of disassembly. The world constructs itself through a buffet of sounds, sensations and images which through billions of years of trial and error enters our consciousness, a primordial swirling pool of memories intersecting with new stimuli.
In this Shibuya-like crossing on steroids, emerge thoughts like hot air balloons, rising above the flurry. Some are repeat travellers, and others see the sprawling cityscape for the first time in their lives.
Writing is scheduled red lights. Stopping the movement. Giving space to feel.
My way of understanding the world is based on this Pollock-like splattering of words on a page.
Scribbling notes, squirrelling away vignettes, and then laying them all down in a scramble of papers.
Sorting, sifting, seeing.
From what ultimately is just chaos, structure emerges again.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve been travelling with my dear friend L. We had just met a few months prior, and this trip was concocted over a series of exclamations.
“I was planning a trip around then too!”
“Wait, you’ll be in Africa?!”
“What if we check out Egypt?!”
Before I knew it, our bags were in the back of a taxi heading towards Old Cairo - a city of sand. The buildings we passed felt as if we were infiltrating into a forgotten land. Dry, dusty and sand stained, yet strikingly ornate at times - one could imagine they were beautiful once. The theme of decay and opulence permeated the air.
As did pollution. Unfortunately, L was sick and the air outside gave rise to coughing fits. This led to a multi-city conquest to cure the illness, visiting local pharmacies, conversing via Google translate to identify the vials we’d been given. This reached an unfortunate crescendo with L losing her voice for the duration of the trip, and I falling victim to this battle.
This led to an unforeseen boon. Our communication consisted of me talking, and her typing back on the Notes app. Now, there’s a ledger keeping track of these conversations.
This reminds me of something I saw on the plane from Luxor to Cairo. There was a middle-aged man sitting on the centre seat who on first glance looked gruff; thick necklace and fade haircut - a typical man. He was holding his phone up on a video call speaking to an older man when I realised they were conversing in sign language. The man on the other end of the phone handed it over to a teenage looking boy, and I saw him also communicate with signs.
I realised the men on either side of the deaf one were also friends with him, and as they left the plane, they were talking to one another in silence.
It was incredibly touching to see a community of people learn a new language for someone.
I have to take a break to allow a cat in this café to slink its way over my tea and hands, brushing it’s fur on my skin.
Speaking of cats, the places I’ve been are a cat lovers heaven.
The root of this is two-fold. In Ancient Egypt, cats were revered for their skill in killing venomous snakes and other crop-affecting animals like birds and rodents. This led to their elevation into mythology, morphing their existence to those of Gods. In Islam, the prophet Muhammad had clear hadiths (collections of exemplary behaviour) on treating cats with compassion due to their cleanliness and independence.
In practical terms, this means Egypt, Jordan and Turkey are teeming with adorable cats everywhere.
There was a moment I walked through perhaps twelve cats all in the same area, three on top of their respective cars, and the rest on the ground in various positions of licking themselves. I whistled, and it was stunning to see all their eyes focus in on me.
I learnt about the Fertile Crescent and the concept of a Cradle of Civilisation in tenth grade in my Elective History class. It was one of those world-expanding moments, reading a textbook on a hot Thursday afternoon in fourth period, the aircon barely keeping us cool, envisioning life 12,000 years ago in a land I knew nothing about.
The concept of a Cradle of Civilisation is a place where agriculture took root, replacing the nomadic lifestyles prevalent before. This led to systems of governance, writing, taxation, private property, and the birth of skilled trades - leading to a hierarchical stratification of society. The Fertile Crescent is the area encompassing the Middle East, named specifically for the rich soil that led to the beginnings of Mesopotamia. Egypt quickly followed as a civilisation centre.
What stunned me was an infographic in the Grand Egyptian Museum - which I highly recommend visiting - showing how Egypt was one of the most conquered places on the planet, different colours representing the empires overlayed on the map. The chameleon-like soil took on various shades with some names I didn’t even recognise: Hyksos, Nubians, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, Byzantine, Arabs, Ottomans, British. Interwoven in this were the Old, Middle and New Kingdoms of Egypt.
It was dizzying to compress that history in one building. So many forgotten names, faces, dynasties and artworks. Trying to place myself back in time, I did my best to hold the image of a sculptor chiseling away the frame of Ramses IV, and the slave quarrying the stone required for the giant obelisks. The accountant tasked with paying for the horses to cart those same slaves. The boy practising his artwork on papyrus, unknowing that he’d be painting the tomb of Tutankhamen. Each artefact held at least one human life.
I saw the exact way cultures overlapped with another with one stone showing both hieroglyphics and Greek on top of each other.
How reaching divinity as a Pharaoh needed surprisingly practical tactics, like paying off the head priests to legitimatise your rule.
At this point, it was useless to even take in the names of what I was seeing, as you could very well spend a lifetime researching and learning about a tiny slice of time. It was simply impossible to hold it all in at once.
Nothing could prepare me for how personal space is invaded here.
I know what it is like to put yourself out there and solicit interactions from strangers, so I do my best generally to acknowledge people as human beings first and foremost, and offer respect by returning a ‘no thank you’ instead of ignoring them.
Unfortunately, that didn’t work here. The simple act of catching someone’s eyes, hones you as a target, initiating a barrage of questions like “Where are you from?”, “Do you want a ride on my horse?”, “Do you want a drink?”. These are the mildest.
The hardest are the kids, who will use their age to get sympathy, follow you and resort to “Please, I just want to eat and go to school”. It makes you feel like a monster to reject them, but that is the best thing you can do because any time you give money you reinforce the behaviour.
Uber drivers in Luxor were the worst. L and I had to have both our phones on Uber to wait for a driver to accept, and when they did they both started with the same message asking us where we are going, and then sending back a number. This cost was in addition to what Uber paid, and you had to pay extra in cash. So there we were, tag teaming to try reduce the price by negotiating with the two unsuspecting drivers.
“Welcome to Alaska shitface,” muttered an angry seller who we refused to deal with.
I think it’s the egregious dishonesty and hostility which leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.
The bargaining gets so tiring when all you want is a beverage. One would assume at a cafe you’d get an honest price, but that’s not so. Ordering a mango smoothie rendered the bill at around 150 Egyptian pounds, which was over 3 times the fair price. It was only by standing your ground and declining to pay that the price went down.
The constancy was the nail in the coffin. In Luxor, the one thing I wanted to do was walk by the Nile at sunset, but instead I saw an army of people in front ready to replace the next swindling solider. I think it was incomprehensible to them that I didn’t want their boat, taxi, horse or photographs.
I noticed my behaviour change to be more assertive based on the above. I think when your world view goes from trying to see the best in people, to seeing malicious intent that flips a switch into prioritising myself even if it comes at the expense of rocking the boat.
I think I prefer being in places where you can still try to see the best in people.
L jokingly said she might consider moving here, because she seemingly fits the beauty standards here. There were more than a few instances of younger girls stopping her to ask for a photograph together. This got us thinking about the concept of beauty here.
In a deeply patriarchal society, women are seen as objects rather than equals. With objectification comes the link to aestheticism. This embeds itself in the language we use in respect to women. Everywhere we went, comments manifested themselves in cat calls like “Hey beautiful”, “Hi Jennifer Lopez”, and lingering stares.
The most insidious of all being “You’re a lucky man” directed at me, which implicitly reduced the autonomy of L to an accessory.
These have real repercussions.
On one of my flights I watched a man yell at an air hostess because his seat was changed. She smiled calmly and held a professionalism that was inspiring. I wondered what it’s like to put a smile and work through disrespect.
I think culturally this behaviour is excused because women are not seen as something to respect. Of course any generalisation comes with caveats, there were many locals I met who were kind and seemed like they would not excuse behaviour like this.
Leaving Cairo at the airport, the time shows 6am, and we are about to pass into security. I hear Arabic over the speaker. I turn to chat to L, and the woman in front swivels around and asks “Do you speak English?”, and I say yes. She says “Thank god”. She says she’s on her way back to New York, and it’s nice to finally hear English. She casually dropped that over the past two weeks she’d been married and divorced and I felt my jaw widen. I couldn’t resist, so I ask her to tell me about it.
What follows is horrifying.
She came to Cairo with a plan to rescue a long-time business partner who was deported since he was an illegal immigrant under Trump. This involved marrying him, so that he could come back with her.
That’s when things changed forever.
Suddenly, his personality changed to something she couldn’t imagine. He started being hostile, and adopted an ownership mindset, now that he was her husband. He solicited for sex, when that was never consented for, and when she refused, he started to beat her with a broom. She showed me her purple bruises.
He stole her passport.
She escaped to the American embassy under the guise to formalise documents for his citizenship, and got an emergency passport and flight back to New York.
I couldn’t imagine what she had been through, and my heart goes out to the women who can’t escape. Suddenly the domestic violence statistics became very real. In a place where women are silent, I think this behaviour is terrifyingly more common than you’d think.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget seeing the pyramids from the taxi we were in. They appeared out of nowhere through the grimy windows, and when we pulled into the Great Egyptian Museum, they stood as a backdrop to the car park. It was incredible to see them just there.
For a few years I’ve been having dreams of the pyramids under a dazzling blue sky, with the sun at it’s fiercest. I could imagine myself as an Egyptian slave hauling a stone to help construct them. It felt like it was real, and very possible.
The day we chose to visit them was also one of the hottest, reaching upwards of 40 degrees. Navigating the scammers promising a faster entry and cheaper tickets, we made our way to the ticket booth. After getting our tickets we went inside the Necropolis. There were free hop-on hop-off buses taking you to all the destinations, and we got off near the Khufu pyramid (the biggest of the 3 main pyramids of Giza) and started to walk around the perimeter. The blocks were so big, and so weathered from the centuries of sand storm.
There was a metal chain lining the perimeter with a sign saying “No climbing”. You can’t fathom my surprise when at the corner the two security guards were ushering people over the chain, and taking photographs for them. Although in retrospect, it makes sense, because everyone wants to make a quick buck.
I got to climb the pyramid! Well, at least the corner stone of it. Either way, it was a dream come true.
We saw the Sphinx, and I got to kiss it (from far away). Seeing the nose-less Sphinx, it got my head swimming on why nearly every icon we saw had their noses cut off. The reason is found in that these statues were thought to imbue a spirit; they were given food, water, and riches to traverse the Afterlife. The grave robbers who fearing the divine (but not enough to stop stealing), cut off the nose to stop them from ‘breathing’ and have no way to exact retribution.
I thought it was so interesting that the extensive traditions and rituals of the afterlife had real lives sacrificed for them. People died constructing these passageways into the divine - a chance at a connection with the creator - for these royals. How simple stories could carve monuments standing the test time of time.
I watched this video, and I found it very interesting. In essence, this person discusses how money has lost its meaning because we think about the absolute value of it, but in reality it’s has been decoupled from real value for a while now - this is in essence the paradigm of neoliberalism.
In the zombie state of capitalism that we see now, we’re seeing enormous asset transfers upward. This is daylight robbery. We all know trickle down economics doesn’t work.
We saw this in the GFC, we saw this in COVID. The real economy has decoupled from the stock market, and because of this, it calls into question the endless growth imperative.
I think it was an interesting watch because it discussed concepts like degrowth and doughnut economics without the explicitly naming them, catering to an audience not familiar with these concepts. This meant it was non-partisan, and an excellent primer for the real terminology, especially since the terminology itself has become so politicised.
It was the night before heading to Luxor when I was checking my emails for the flight number. Then I realised I simply hadn’t booked it.
Cue the last minute search at 11:30pm. Booking websites seem to have a sixth sense when you’re desperate. There was only one airline that flew there the next day, which was EgyptAir, and checking through their official website they had no seats. I went through a third party website and was about to checkout for less than $300 when it jumped in price to over $700 US. I had to scour for another chance which got us the tickets for around $500 AUD in total. Note to self, book in advance, it’s cheaper.
The next morning was frenzied, for some reason we thought we could leisurely check out at 11, go to a museum, have lunch and make our flight at 2pm. None of that worked out, mainly because at midday most things were closed for prayer time.
Instead we got the mango smoothie I mentioned before, and then tried to get an Uber to the airport but that also ran into a technical difficulty. At this point we should’ve been at the airport. I called a taxi from the hostel, which charged an exorbitant 10x the normal cost.
The taxi driver asked when our flight was, and promptly understood the mission.
He drove like a maniac, a genius, but a maniac. Weaving through traffic and cinnamon buildings, he asked causally if he could smoke. I coughed and declined.
We arrived just over 30 minutes before our flight departure, and rushed past security to make it onto the plane.
Another success story.
I’m looking over the river Nile as the sun set in Luxor. Feeling a warm breeze signalling the end of a hot day. We arrived in Luxor at 5pm specifically so we could see the sunset here.
Isn’t that what life is about? Seeing beautiful things for the sake of it? Making occasions and labouring for a fleeting moment?
It feels like all of Luxor knows me. I was walking home and then this guy I didn’t recognise asked if I found my hotel yet, and I realised when we were in the taxi towards the city, we stopped by the Winter Palace to ask where the Winter House was. Sometimes I forget you aren’t a ghost, and that people remember you.
Our accomodation was terrible. First of all, the location wasn’t specified so I had to reverse engineer the Booking.com images. Then, this man who didn’t speak a word of English nor Arabic (I have no idea what he spoke), went on a walk after miming for us to stay there. I followed him to a separate street, and it got dustier and dirtier. He came back to the original spot with a key, and took L’s luggage up.
Upon arriving the power wasn’t on, and the WiFi router wasn’t working. The towels were dirty, and the shower had no shower screen.
After messaging the host via WhatsApp, we got the power on, but at 3am it cut off again and the heat woke us up.
The worst thing was the host gaslighting us by saying everything worked perfectly.
I tried communicating this to our foreign man, and he sat down and offered me a cigarette. We sat in silence, and I decided this was going nowhere. I booked a hotel down the road and that felt like heaven in comparison. Running hot water, electricity, and a bathroom that doesn’t flood each time you shower? The simple things.
The Valley of Kings is the main reason we came to Luxor. In the presence of divinity, these tombs housed pharaohs of the past, commanding so much power, all placed in the same area. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced energy like that before. This was indeed a mystical land of the dead.
It was blindingly bright and very hot, but the tombs themselves were tens of metres underground, where the air became cool, and quiet.
Inside the tombs you could see the detail and labour that went in to guarantee a successful journey through the Afterlife.
At some point I was guided to touch a dusty scarab three times to my heart and once to my head, and prayed.
Our original flight to arrive in Amman at 7pm in the evening got delayed from our Luxor to Cairo leg, which meant our Cairo to Amman flight was rescheduled to arrive at 2am.
Our Amman accomodation wasn’t viable anymore, and it was up in the air on what our options were.
Crisis mode activated.
Luckily, the EgyptAir office was a 15 minute walk away. We went there and I spoke to 3 people, starting from the front-of-office staff who said we had no options, then to the accountant who said we couldn’t initiate a refund since it was bought online, and then finally the general manager who listened to our frustration.
He said there was a 7am flight the next day from Cairo, but the issue was there were no seats. I pushed harder, and fabricated a story of being on a honeymoon, to which he relented after making a few phone calls.
We made the call to take our original flight to Cairo and spend the night there.
On our first stay in Cairo, we went to the Khan el-Khalili Bazaar, a sprawling collection of alleyways selling every kind of souvenir imaginable. L had her eyes on a hand made chess set, which she didn’t end up getting the first time. However, it seemed like it was meant to be, because L kept ruminating about it, and the staff at that store recognised her when she went back.
We were destined for a short rest that night. What a strange feeling to be in a city you didn’t wake up to and didn’t imagine you’d sleep in tonight.
A few hours later, we woke at 4:30am to go to the airport. Reaching Jordan, we went directly to the car rental store. I had timed it so that we’d be able to make a train experience at Wadi Rum at 4:00pm. Unfortunately the flight was delayed, and that meant our plans were at risk.
After getting the car, and opening the passenger door by accident (it was a left-hand drive), we set off to the Dead Sea. Stopping for lunch at a resort, we made the call to not swim and instead try make our train ride. However, the GPS stated we’d be there at 4:05pm if we left at that exact moment.
A 4h 30m drive later with no breaks apart from a brief stop to fill up petrol, I managed to shave off the time to arrive to 3:30pm. Don’t ask me how.
It was an incredible drive with the Dead Sea on our right, on rugged cliffs, seeing the ‘promised land’ of Israel a few kilometres away.
Exhausted but alive, I got us to Wadi Rum.
An alien land, it felt like Mars. In fact, it is where lots of sci-fi films were shot, like the Martian and most recently Dune.
Stepping on the rocks, they sank under the soft red sand. I’ve never seen that before.
The train experience was fun, we boarded an old steam train (my first time!), and they re-enacted the Great Arab Revolt, with horses running alongside the train and guns being fired (with blanks). I saw a discarded bullet and took it.
At night, our campsite came alive. I saw a cat lying on the edge of a roof curling over a gazebo. Curiously and comfortably looking at the people dancing around the fire.
Once again for a brief moment,
I experienced peace,
sitting cross-legged facing a sun already said goodnight,
giving the helm of to a young sprightly moon
soft breeze touching my ears,
dome tents otherworldly,
attempting respite in a hostile world
but the world isn’t so;
the wind tells me this,
stony silhouettes of giants lying down,
these behemoth guardians dot the land
their watchful gaze ever present,
with a warmth,
that all there ever is and will be, already is,
carrying forward like the intensity of the days heat,
fading into coolness.
now the sounds start again,
the wind picks up;
but a fragment of the peace remains
I drove into the Wadi Rum reserve and hired a private driver to take me further. I journeyed to see the Lawrence Spring (another colonial name) - or Ain Abu Aineh - the only constant water source in the desert.
I scrambled up a mountain in Wadi Rum by myself to see the water reserve. Zinc ran down my face from the sunscreen and stung my eyes. At the top, I shouted and heard the mountains respond one by one, until they gradually became softer and softer. I’ve never heard echoes so pure.
My driver was a local Bedouin - loosely translated to desert people - named Abdul. These people were nomadic and have a long history of living in Jordan in tandem with the land. He spoke of how he used to come via camel with his dad to do the same hike, and bring back water using camel skin. Now, they have cars and trucks to deliver water to the area.
Fundamentally, things change when tourism begins. The traditional ways are replaced with processes that make sense for a different audience.
Rattled by the experiences in Egypt, I asked some honest questions about Islam and it’s treatment of women.
He said there are good people and bad people everywhere, and if you follow the Quran you’d see similar treatments of women as with Judaism and Christianity, however, tradition in these regions is what’s exacerbated gender hierarchy.
He spoke about the endless (and bloody) disagreement with Sunni and Shia islam which is a major factor in the geopolitics of the Middle East to this day (Syria and Jordan being Sunni, and Iran and Iraq being Shia).
One of the most interesting things Abdul told me, was the way the Bedouin administered vaccinations. They knew desert medicine for over ten thousand years. Even to this day, they find the most venomous snake and scorpion, heat the head up on the fire until it becomes soft, mix it with camel milk and feed it to their babies. They’re sick for a week, but then have life long immunity to these creatures.
As the sun sank lower, the immense mountains started to do something beautiful. They carved out light and shadow on the red plains, and it was majestic to see how big the sun is, and how big these mountains are to block out the sun, outstretching its stony hand over the light. The light streaming in, illuminated by the fine desert sand in the air, are giant strokes of painted gold.
Balance is difficult while travelling, I long for a day completely free with no commitment, but at the same token, I also know if I’d want exactly what I’m doing now if that happened. People can get comfortable with a lot very easily. Trying to think about tasks like writing and reading, and having space to do so, is strange because I want it, but another part says you are here, be immersed.
Driving in a new country, with the windows down and the music up, rolling hills everywhere, but the catch is that they’re completely barren with rock. Moments like this I hope to burn into my memory. This is what it feels like to want nothing more from life.
We make our way to Petra, and our hotel overlooks the small city. Afterwards, we stop for a brief lunch and upon hearing L’s loss of voice and our coughing fits, most restaurants proffer a tea (no two teas have been alike!), with a promise that this will fix us up straight away. Unfortunately it doesn’t work, but we get some delicious beverages.
Petra was the epicentre of trade in the 4th and 2nd centuries BCE, connecting Arabia, Egypt, the Levant and beyond. The Nabataeans were an ancient Arab people who were originally nomadic, but then settled and created a vast empire, architecting and engineering the city of hidden city of Petra.
Despite being in a desert, the Nabataeans developed advanced water management systems including dams, cisterns and aqueducts and architecture techniques cutting into raw rock faces to protect against earthquakes, and lessen the building materials needed to create a city.
What resulted is a 40km area of ancient ruins carved into the stratified stone, colours and swirls of the caverns looking as if they were painted by Providence.
Words can’t describe walking through the cool valley and then to see the Treasury appear on our right side, little by little before revealing its grandeur to us; ornate and so big. Feeling small in the face of dizzying heights that humans have in our shared history. The pathways we walked where people once thrived, for centuries and millennia before earthquakes struck and this place was purposefully forgotten.
At our hotel, we spoke to the couple that opened it. The woman was from Michigan, and the man was from Petra. And their little daughter Tala (pronounced with your tongue touching the top of your mouth she said) was incredibly sweet. I had bought a massive watermelon on the roadside earlier and wanted to share it with them.
Over watermelon, we chatted and the conversation drifted to a few kilometres west. Specifically, because tourism in Jordan died down because of the conflict.
I heard that people are infuriated at what Israel is doing. At the crux of it is colonial powers carved up territories and moving a large population of Jewish people to Israel, which gave rise to Zionism which is not representative of Judaism. It’s an extreme angle which has now escalated to widely accepted genocide of the Palestinians.
Our host got emotional as he questioned how the Israeli Defence Force (IDF) can call themselves human beings, gunning down women and children as they go to food stores in a now declared famine.
He said he’d gladly be called a terrorist if it was fighting against this.
People will remember the pain, and blood begets blood. No one is sanctioning the Hamas, but at the same time no one should be sanctioning the IDF. The history of the region is long and painful, yet attempts to resolve it via peace have been boycotted and vetoed by key players in the past.
Now, the current sentiment is the Middle East will look very different over the next 20 years. Sinai seems like a potential target of annexation by Israel if they occupy Gaza, and Jordan could be next.
It was eye opening to be so close to the war, and see that it’s not some distant thing.
Heading into my room, I poured red sand from my shoes into the bin.
Now, our brief time in Jordan came to end as we made our way to the airport. I got a speeding ticket which was unfortunate but expected as our agenda didn’t allow for dilly-dallying. Then, the bullets we took from our train ride lit up on the x-ray machine at security and we were extensively searched. They were confiscated. Whoops.
On a cheap airline and the woman in front of me says she can feel every time I type. I’m typing softer now. I think how everything happens for a reason, if I didn’t have the urge to whip out my iPad to write, this exchange would not have happened. How connections predicated on the thinnest strands. We got a recommendation of a suburb called Balat to check out in Istanbul.
At Kizilkayalar we had wet hamburger and wet cheeseburger and it was delicious, the tomato sauce soaked through so it was a soggy burger bursting with flavour - I love this kind of stuff - luckily not as much oil too.
The Iskender we had from Kasabim Döner in Chihangir was much less tangy, more spice orientated tomato sauce - richer like a broth than the ones we get in Sydney.
Ayasofa kebab house was STELLAR. It’s been my favourite meal of the trip so far, we had the shrimp stew and the köfte and it was delightful, the köfte were spiced and flavourful with each chew, and the vegetables in the stew were cooked to perfection. I loved it. The shrimp was tender and had just the right bounce, the flavour bursting.
I feel a prickling sense of YUCK, because I just got a wrap and coffee at Kayseri airport for like $50 (FML). I could have held my hunger I guess but that was beyond imaginable. For a wrap that was soggy. Expensive and unappetising mistakes.
The clay pot meats here have been so delicious. Gözleme’s too, and pitas, and Turkish dumplings (Manti), and kebaps. YUMMY!
I see someone filming the Turkish ice-cream experience and it just looks so odd to see this man holding a cone with a phone next to him as this Turkish ice-cream man is performing in front of him. I’m sure the video he got was cool, but maybe some things aren’t meant to be captured, and instead felt. Maybe a thought to lick over some ice-cream.
In Cappadocia, there are are over 200 underground cities, which were originally carved in soft volcanic rock over 2800 years ago. Stepping into one in Derinkuyu, it was incredible to see a 5 storey deep cave system, over 85m vertically down. They had a church, kitchens, food stables, wells and everything you needed to survive and thrive underground.
I couldn’t comprehend it.
Created by another civilisation I didn’t know existed, called the Phrygians, these structures served as safe havens in times of persecution, some able to support over 20,000 people at a time.
I see the largest, happiest dog saunter into the courtyard and lie down, these two children and their mum come with smiles beaming, and instantly go to pet him. It’s a perfect moment, and I see that the dad is standing a bit further away, not joining in, probably taking a mental picture, and promising to commit it to memory. This is not mine to keep.
The main reason we came to Cappadocia were the hot air balloons. Our bus pickup was at 4:50am, and we stopped to pick up a few more people before stopping at a cafe for a few minutes. This was my biggest mistake. I ordered a white chocolate berry mocha and it wreaked a chain reaction.
At the launch site I asked if there was a bathroom nearby, to which our host pointed towards some bushes.
At this stage the first balloons were lighting up, with dawn breaking.
This was unfortunate.
Gritting my teeth, L asked what was up. How people can have vastly different experiences of the same thing.
She said it was her favourite part of Turkey, and it could have been for me too if I wasn’t trying hard to keep my stomach all together.
Hundreds of hot air balloons lit up like candles and rose up into the lightening sky.
It was breathtaking.
My thoughts wandered to the piece of the cooler box that broke off after we landed back down. They were moving the box out to prepare for some finishing drinks, when a plastic side part fell off onto the dirt. I think about that piece as a symbol of decay. They probably run this balloon every day, and there’ll come a point where after too much breakage, it’ll need to be replaced. I wonder when that will happen.
Let me paint you a picture of this sleepy town, white stone, sleepy hot afternoons where the only reasonable thing you can do is retreat to the cave and doze.
When you wake, time doesn’t exist, 4pm or 4am?
You step outside to a heat less oppressive, painted in slanted light.
At a cafe, you sit outside with an iced cappuccino and lock eyes with a cat - white underside, caramel face, black stripes on its head - perpetually squinting as if falling asleep, lazing around in the heat. I think the remarkable thing is the quiet, barely any sounds of vehicles, just the sound of people walking on cobbled footpaths. I think how the quiet is a luxury in a world where it’s been exiled to forgotten places of old.
This is Ortahisar, in the low season, a town within a region that exists for people to come visit. I compare this with cities that are self sustaining, flurrying with their own activity unbeknownst to you, the impersonal hurry. Here it is different. The joy at hearing music you love playing softly at a cafe. At 7:18pm, a crackling prayer is sounded from the town centre, echoing across the valley.
I am just so tired, and the feeling of unease grows at the day fading and the magnificent plans becoming more unattainable, walks along the Lovers Valley seeing the sun set, or the windy paths at Göreme as the lanterns flicker on. Instead, I sit here, sipping on ice-cube dregs.
Istanbul is a beautiful city. Everywhere you look there is history layered on top of another. From the Bosphorus river cutting between the two continents of Asia and Europe, splitting the city in two. The towering Hagia Sophia and countless others, serving through the separate Byzantine and Ottoman empires, flipping from Christian church, to Mosque and back again.
Istanbul was Constantinople once, the capital of Eastern Rome.
Despite so much water surrounding the city, none of it is drinkable. To address this, over 1500 years ago through a mix of engineering and art, a gigantic cavern was excavated in the city centre called the Cistern Basilica. In it, fed in water from aqueducts. Now, you can walk through it and imagine the cathedral-size area filled to the brim with water.
What was touching to see was art for the sake of art. The pillars supporting the basilica were not intended to be seen. Yet they were intricately carved, and two held the hard face of Medusa, coiled with her head of snakes. I touched her face, unseen from the sun for 1500 years.
On my last day in Istanbul, I spent the day writing at cafes, L having left a few hours prior. The last activity I wanted to do was walk across the Bosphorus Bridge to Asia. It was a humid day despite it being close to 5pm.
I walked to the bus stop and was about to board the first bus when my transport card declined. I got off, and tried looking for a place to refill my card.
It was at this moment I met a boy called N.
He held some papers in a manilla folder, and was trying to buy cigarettes when he noticed me. I was asking the shop keeper if I could get a transport card and she said no. N said I can help you out.
We introduced ourselves, and words seemingly tumbled out. He had just gotten rejected for a visa to Russia (hence the folder); the reason for this was he had met a girl and wanted to move to be with her. However, his problem came from birth. He was Algerian and his passport was weak, and the process of getting a visa from Turkey to Russia required a Turkish ID (granted to citizens).
He paid for my bus fare and we started towards the bridge.
N told me of his upbringing and family situation, his dad abusive, and hope fading at a young age, causing him to commit suicide. He showed me his vertical scars, and described how when he was 17 he found himself in a hospital with bandages around his arms.
He was infectiously full of life, stating his goal was to create art to help people who feel like they have no hope. He showed me his artwork, and clothing designs, and music he wrote. But he doesn’t have time to continue.
N stated he works the hardest he can for the job he has now. However, he has no support system here, and he’s finding it difficult to find the motivation to continue. He moved to Turkey as a stepping stone away from Algeria, but he doesn’t feel like this can be home.
I looked at him and felt this welling up of compassion. He was a good human being, and due to the birth lottery was in a situation that was not ideal. He said all he wants is a door, any door that lets him move forward, but instead he feels like he’s stuck in a cage.
Reaching the bridge, we discovered it’s closed to pedestrians because of the high rate of suicide there.
Instead, he suggested catching a ferry across.
To be creative, means to have a level of emotional availability and financial security both of which are incredibly difficult when you are in survival mode.
Hearing his story was important. It gave me a confronting glimpse into human suffering and I felt gratitude to my life. My passport, the things my parents did. I’d be lying if I say I deserve this any more than N. I was just lucky.
We crossed the continents in a movie-like scene with the sun setting, turning the sky into a painting worthy of Bierstadt.
The struggle for people who want upward mobility but no options is just insane. He asked me to think of ideas on what he could do, and I kept coming up empty. It was really difficult to think of the next step. Dip into the illegal realm? Smuggle yourself into a different country? These options were actually considered.
His top idea was to quit his job, forgo his rental apartment and go to the Dominican Republic, one of the few places Algerians can go without a visa, and try obtain a job there. But the simplest of logistical concerns which you or I wouldn’t even think about made it impossibly difficult for him. To go to the Dominican Republic, required a stop over in Paris, which might need a transit visa for France (which is impossibly difficult to obtain). Despite online research saying you might not need it if its less than a 24h layover, he is afraid that he’ll be rejected at the airport terminal. If that happens, he’ll be starting from 0, with no job or place to stay.
Who can he ask? Going to the Algerian embassy yields no results because they don’t know.
He said all the people he’s met, no matter what happens, inevitably the words “I need to go home” come out. It’s at this point he realises he’s not like them. He doesn’t have that.
“I just want to find a home”
Hearing that broke my heart. I spent a dinner with him, and had to leave.
I wish him all the best.
As I travel I experience things which I feel were mundanely commonplace before but aren’t so anymore; hearing echoes (predicated on absolute silence), seeing stars and knowing them (predicated on no lights), staring at trees outside of a window (predicated on not being in an urban hellscape).
I read this quote which summed it up:
“Sometimes I feel like fundamental parts of human existence have been taken away from us just so it can be sold back to us.”
Structure human society to take away movement and sell gym memberships, structure human society to take away interactions and sell social media, structure human society to take away free time and sell side hustles.
Pay for that food for thought.
As mentioned above, please do write to me back!
I’m finishing this off with a few more minutes before I land in Lima, Peru.
Signing off,
Apurva