a trip to the dark sea of the world [part II]

Day 3: Tuesday July 17, 2007

I slept well that first night in Barhal but couldn’t quite manage to sleep past the usual 6am self-induced wake up call. I dozed until 7, when the French family woke up and started arguing. It was cloudy again, but parts of the sky were finally visible. The weather was chilly, but the cold didn’t permeate deep into my bones like it had the previous day during the rainstorms.

Around 8 o’clock, Tiffin and I made our move to breakfast, where we ran into two enormous groups of Israelis checking out. That’s when we realized that there were many more people staying at the pension than we had originally thought. Somehow, though, the place managed to seem deserted.

Breakfast was incredible, not because of what they served—it was a typical Turkish breakfast in content—but the quality and flavor of the products was outstanding. We had:

1. Fresh bread
2. Hard boiled eggs
3. Tomatoes and cucumbers
4. Olives—delicious, not too salty
5. Beyaz peynir—great consistency, no overpowering sheep’s stomach aroma
6. Kasar peynir—a nice bite, similar to a good sharp cheddar
7. Butter—fresh, fresh, fresh!
8. Honey—delicious, local, great texture that reminded me of the stuff I fell in love with in Cyprus. Honey production is big in the Kackar Mountains, plots of beekeeping boxes can be seen dotting the landscape and cluttering porches
9. Apricot jam—this stuff was out of this world and truly tasted like apricots
10. Kaymak—HEAVENLY. Now, I’ve never been a big fan of kaymak—a form of clotted cream—but my goodness, this was to die for…and it would, in actuality, kill you if you ate it on a regular basis.

Oh my, how I indulged on this breakfast!For once, the Lonely Planet did not lie—the reason we even chose this place was because the LP claimed it’s breakfasts were out of this world. Overall, though, the Karahan Pansiyon was a steal at 30 ytl/person half-board, with declicious homemade local food, a wonderful location, comfortable [and energy efficient] accommodations, and kind proprietors [Mehmet Karahan, the owner, is a doll].

After breakfast, we decided to go for a hike. We stared by crossing the river on a nearby bridge. We followed what we thought was a trail, but it ended up leading us to a little house. We walked a bit further, through mud, found some wild strawberries, and a neat drainpipe we thought must be used for irrigation.

Hitting a dead end, we turned around and made our way towards Barhal "centruum". Along the way, we saw some neat makeshift drainpipes and took a detour into a grove of apple trees.

Once in town we turned down another road. This ended in a roadblock but gave us some beautiful views of the river and the chance to feast our eyes on the delicate wildflowers growing all around. After hitting the roadblock, we turned around and when we got back to the city center a man randomly stopped us to talk:

Guy: What do you think of Barhal?
Us: Oh, it’s beautiful!”
Guy: Your Turkish is outstanding. Where are you from?
Us: We’re American, but I’ve been living in Ankara for six months.
Guy: Ah! I live in Istanbul but I am originally from this village!

He was kind and genuine. He wasn’t trying to con us into anything, get us to stay at his pension or hire him as a guide. He just wanted to talk. Overall, the people in Barhal were all so kind and receptive, particularly because we spoke Turkish. Even on our first day there it was evident that speaking Turkish made a huge difference in how you were treated and regarded by the locals. They could barely hide their excitement when they realized we were Turkish speaking tourists!

After saying good day we continued on through Barhal, following the road towards Yusufeli. Along the way we came upon another road and turned. This we followed for about 2.5-3 hours enjoying absolutely lovely views and a landscape brimming with butterflies, wildflowers, and funny-shaped pines.

Down by the river, the terrain had seemed rainforest-like, humid and filled with ferns and waterfalls. Upon ascending the mountain, we quickly and noticeably moved into a new ecosystem, characterized by a relatively dry soil and loads of conifers. As we realized this, Tiffin and I looked across the valley. The change in terrain was so stark and clear—a near straight line cut the mountains horizontally where the tree types suddenly changed.

The walk was delightful, especially as the sun came out. We could see forever and caught random glimpses of higher peaks covered in snow.

Around 12:30, we decided to stop. From the top, we could see a long winding road on the other side of the valley and a tiny little dot walking along it. It seemed he came from a village high in the mountains. Imagine realizing you need milk and walking all the way down from the top of the mountain then all the way back up...only to remember you forgot to buy toilet paper! Gah!

And then a great hunger splashed over us and so we made our way back to town. By the time we got back to Barhal I was pretty well pooped. We stopped for lunch at a restaurant [only three to choose from] with a most hilarious menu—"fleshy foods" = meat foods, "thawed cheese" = melted cheese—and ordered the regional specialty: kuymak, melted cheese you eat with bread [a bit like fondue].

It was surprisingly cold and windy in the valley and I had lost my earmuff along the walk. So, the warm hearty food hit the spot and we relaxed there, munching, drinking cay, and watching loads of little kids running around chasing dogs as an old woman herding sheep and cattle trundled through their playground.

At one point, the van from our pension showed up and one of the guys hopped out to chat with us. It was nice—again, we were lucky to know some Turkish because the locals interacted with us and at a more significant level than they did with other visitors.

The van left and we finished our lunch. Slowly we started our 1.5km walk back to the pension, first stopping in the corner store to see if they sold that delicious honey or jam. Along the road we were behind two kids who were convinced we were following them and kept turning around to look at us. Finally they freaked out and let us pass.

We made it back, though it was slow goings, and I went to take a hot shower…except I ended up taking the coldest chower of my entire life. It was wretched. To make thing worse, as I came upstairs Abu Bekir was on his way to fill the furnace with wood to heat the water up! Agh! I have never felt so cold as I did in that shower.

Then, to really top it off, I discovered that I had not only lost my earmuff, but also a roll of shot film. I was incredibly upset about it as it contained pictures from Cyprus, Mt. Erciyas, and parts of the day’s hike. I was especially upset about the Erciyas photos as I knew I had some wonderful shots. Losing film upsets me like nothing else and that realization had me feeling pretty low. In response, I ate a bunch of helva…which then proceeded to make me feel oh-so sick.

Around 4 o’clock Abu Bekir came up with some tea. I didn’t go out, stuck under the bedcovers, but Tiffin went out to meet him. He struggled with English and she struggled with Turkish, but I let them go at it. I knew Tiffin wanted to improve her Turkish and having me around didn’t help that—she never got to speak. Eventually, though, I wanted some tea and it sounded like they were in a silent rut, so I went out as well.

Abu Bekir was a nice, if a bit shy and mumbly, guy. As Tiffin noted, it’s hard to hear him and the rumbling of the Coruh River in the background definitely didn’t help the situation. He talked very slowly as, it seems, do most people out there. It was wonderful for me, of course, because I could understand that much more…but boy did I go through most conversations with Abu Bekir completely clueless as to what he was saying!

We talked with him awhile longer and gathered up some facts about him and his family:

1. They are only in Barhal during the summer, though Mehmet Bey was originally from the area. In winter, they go on vacation—Antalya, Istanbul—it seems they do quite well for themselves.

2. The room we were staying in did not actually belong to the pension—it was owned by a Britiish man who lends the building to the Karahans when he is out of town.

Apparently, Abu Bekir forgot we were coming so he only had this room open for us. He assured us, however, that another room would open up for us in the coming day. We were fine with it, but he apologized and insisted on us moving the following night to a room with a solar-heated shower and bathroom en suite.

We also talked about the dam project:

1. Apparently, once they flood Yusufeli there will still be access to Barhal by an upper road. Luckily, the flooding is a ways away yet—the project was proposed and passed some 15 years ago but flooding still has not started. As Abu Bekir said “everything in Turkey goes slowly.” Truer words were never said.

2. Abu Bekir can't wait for the place to be flooded.

After a few awkward silences Bekir excused himself and Tiffin and I stayed on the balcony to chat, bundled in rolls of blankets. We talked about travel a lot and she pulled out her handy Collins Mini-Atlas which, of course, revived my travel bug. I decided early on, however, that while in Turkey my travel focus would be on Turkey. As I came to realize how easy it is to do—even by oneself—I intended to take advantage of that opportunity to the fullest.

At some point, the Spunky Girl and one of the other kids came over to grab the tea. Spunky Girl asked where we had walked and what we were planning to do during our stay in barhal. We, of course, said “we don’t know,” which for some reason had her laughing heartily. She left but came back half-an-hour later to call us for dinner.

Dinner was good, again: Yayla corbasi [yogurt and mint soup], salad, leftover dolma and kofte, zucchini and broad beans [which I’d watched them pick from the garden earlier in the afternoon]. We had a table all to ourselves, but it felt a bit strange because it seemed we were on display. There was one other single couple and another large Israeli tour group. At some point, the tour guide picked up a phone call, came over to where we were sitting, and proceeded to talk quite loudly for 20 minutes. It was, to say the least, annoying.

Later, an old teyze [teyzeh; aunt, used to refer to an older woman] came out and stopped by our table. She started up a conversation and quickly took to us as she discovered we knew some Turkish. Spunky Girl came over and an animated conversation ensued. Teyze seemed to really love me, grabbing me and hugging me to her a number of times. She was also convinced that I had been in Barhal two years prior. It took five minutes of saying “no I haven’t” to convince her that no, I had never been to Barhal before. She was also quite funny when she saw a man walking down the slippery stone steps with a flashlight and a cup of hot water. For the life of her she could not understand what he was doing…so she yelled at him! Luckily, he was British.

At some point, the conversation turned to Tiffin and my plans for the next day. It ended with us making a plan with Spunky Girl to go on a hike. CRAZY! I couldn’t quite understand if we were going to be paying or what we’d really be doing, but it sounded good anyway!

Well fed and well planned, Tiffin and I went to bed.

Day 4: Wednesday July 18, 2007

I woke up early and was delighted to see a bright and sunny sky greeting me. Hurrah for good weather signs!

Breakfast was, again, delicious though the lack of kaymak made me weep on the inside. The bal [honey] and recel [reychel; jam] were up to par and, unexpectedly, became a wicked source of entertainment:

When we first sat down to breakfast there were no bugs in sight. All of a sudden, bees attacked our table, sticking themselves in the honey and jam. The one who chose honey seemed particularly ironic.

The others just lazed and licked. Some kind of strange heaven. You could see their proboscis sticking out and lapping up all the goodness. Tiffin also pointed out the rose petals in the jam—perhaps the secret ingredient, the addicting drug—which attracted one bee in particular.

It was quite a sight to watch them be first drawn to the plate, struggle to get out, then resign themselves to being stuck…in deliciousness. Heck, I can’t really blame them…I would swim in a gooey pool of that honey and jam.

After breakfast we went over to the Barhal Kulesi—an 8^th century Georgian church. We had seen it sticking out amongst the trees when we went walking the day before but what we hadn’t realized was that it was actually located directly next to the pension. You can’t see it from the street and there are no street signs, but had we read the guidebook description of the pension we would have learned that it was part of the property. When we asked Mehmet Bey where it was he was surprised and chuckled as he pointed us down a little path.

The church was quite impressive and it’s amazing how well hidden it is within the forest. It’s not open, but from a hole in the back you can see inside. It seems that it was converted to a mosque for awhile—the floors were all covered with kilims—but has since been deserted.

Next door was an elementary school, but from the windows in back it also seemed abandoned. Inside one room you could see stacked up desks and a little cardboard house with a Turkish flag on top—they start early with nationalism here.

Around 9:30 am a flatbed truck came to take us part of the way up the mountain. We sat in the back, which afforded us some gorgeous views. Barhal is where fairytales are made. It epitomizes that fairytale landscape, filled with a rushing river, wooden houses, trees, wildflowers, wild fruits, and snow-capped mountains. It’s Sound of Music on crack. It’s fantastical.

We stopped at some point, hopped out, and began our hike. There was a large group of us—me, Tiffin, Abu Bekir, Spunky Girl, her two young cousins, and her uncle [who is actually the same age as her, 17]. The ascent was not easy and there seemed to be some significant discrepancy over whether we had taken the right route. The plan was to go to one of the two Karagols [kahrahgeul; Black Lake] in the area, but we didn’t in the end.

The walk ended up becoming quite stressful for me because the group would routinely ask what Tiffin and I wanted to do: go on or stop? Abu Bekir always wanted to stop while Spunky Girl always wanted to press on. Tiffin never had an opinion, nor did I, but I had to play diplomat as I knew Turkish. It marred the hike for me a good bit as I was being asked every five minutes...

But, at the same time, it was hard to ignore the scenery and not be mellow. If nothing else, the nature around us was to die for. The hike was a challenge, the wind was cold and rain threathened, the other kids complained, but it was totally worth it. I am so happy we decided to do it and that the kids organized it all—we never would have made it so far on our own.

Along the way, we walked through a number of little villages--if you can even call them those. In one such place, Abu Bekir opened the door to a small wooden shack, showing us a wheat processing wheel used to make flour for bread.

In the moments of rest, we could hear the wind streaming through the valley creating such haunting sounds. Add to that the dark clouds and graves spotting the landscape and you've got yourself a thoroughly eerie place. Walking through the small mountaintop villages the smell of burning would percolated through the air and it reminded me of home. The cesmes gushed with clear buz gibi [like ice] water straight from the mountains. Really, heaven.

Eventually, we stopped in one of the yaylalar [pastures] and munched on some snacks the kids had picked up that morning. Spunky Girl pointed out her mother’s old summer home [top row, center]. It seemed that both of her parents were from local villages but she was growing up in Istanbul—same with her uncle. This was her first visit to the area in eight years and you could tell that they were pretty bored—“there’s no nightlife, our cell phones don’t work”—and that’s why they hang out and help around the hotel.

Up on the ridge, overlooking the river valley and pastures, I had a moment of complete sensory overload. While it never quite wore off, it did calm down a bit, allowing me to engage myself in the conversation being had by the others. We sat up on that ridge for a good long time, chatting about the typical topics of comparing Turkey and America. I could tell Tiffin was a bit miffed because she couldn’t really participate, but I tried to translate and involve her.

It’s not easy; I couldn’t be a translator for life. I’m both lucky and unlucky to be able to speak Turkish. And really, the experiences like I had at Kerkenes and again up in Barhal were indescribably critical in improving my Turkish. After Kerkenes, I felt ten times more confident about speaking and, more importantly, understanding. That helped in Barhal and even by the second day of our stay there I could tell I was getting even better. Granted, they tended to speak slower and we always talked about the same three things…buuut, details.

We made our way back down around 12:15 and I immediately felt it in my knees. It was a long steep walk down, but yet again the distracting surroundings made up for it. After getting to the bridge where we were originally left off there was still a long way to go. At some point, the kids and I stopped to pick cherries off a tree but Abu Bekir and Tiffin continued onwards. We ended up getting pretty well separated, so Tiffin got some Turkish speaking time and I had a nice walk down with the rest of them. Let me tell you, though, that Spunky Girl was a talker!

Trout fishing, though technically prohibited in the Coruh River, is still done extensively. We passed a fellow who had caught some and he showed us. They were beautiful, speckled with big red dots.

Later we saw a man standing in the river—how?!?!—picking bugs off rocks to use as bait.

Bekir and Tiffin stopped at some point to wait for us. Continuing onward, we came upon some more cherries that we just had to have. It became quite an acrobatic escapade to get them down, but there’s nothing like fresh fruit from the trees, especially when they are cherries that stain your hands. We also picked some tart fresh apples and were informed that the weird balls we saw hanging on some trees were fresh walnuts! Later, Spunky Girl’s uncle pointed out some fresh hazelnuts, too.

At some point, we turned off the road and followed a pathway up in the trees next to a gushing stream. There were a number of little corridors in it that were stopped up with weeds or old rags. Apparently, on certain days different corridors are unstopped and the water is allowed to stream down, soaking the soil.

Each little town is given a specific day when it can release its dams. The weeds and plants are later collected by the women, put in shacks to dry, and use to feed the cows and sheep through the winter.

The path was great—not only was it flat and rock free, but it was hidden. We passed all sorts of little homes hidden in the forest,

saw nifty old wooden doors,

crossed treacherous bridges,

caught some delicious views of the mountainside,

picked all sorts of fresh fruit from trees, met women collecting plants, and tried not to fall down the slope! We followed the path all the way back to the pension—what a wonderful walk, secret amongst the trees. As Tiffin said, it felt like we were the Lost Boys from Peter Pan.

Once we were back at the house, Bekir showed us our new room. It was recently refurbished with a bathroom inside [hooray!]. We had to move our things over and luckily he helped…

And just when I thought the day couldn’t get better…I FOUND MY LOST FILM CANISTER while I was packing up my stuff! Then, to add the cherry on top, I took a wonderfully hot shower. Hurrah! The best day ever!

After the shower I spent some time writing and watching English language Al Jazeera. That was interesting. I’d never seen any Al Jazeera before. At some point, Abut Bekir came up and we talked a little bit. I had read a headline about a bomb outside the Ak Parti office in Ankara and we tried to find the news, but to no avail.

A bit of boredom eventually set in as I waited for dinner. Not so much boredom as being too tired to do anything productive. At some point I went down to hang out and got to talking with another one of the guests. Dinner came-in a good way—with yaprak sarmasi [stuffed grape leaves], tavuk corbasi [chicken soup], salata, patates, pilav, tavuk ve patlican [chicken and eggplant]. Tasty! There were fewer people—a Turkish copule comprised of a rafting guide and his mauve haired [way unnatural] wife, and an American? Canadian? Couple. We had seen an Israeli couple, but they didn’t come to dinner.

After dinner we talked to Mustafa Bey about leaving the next day. He told us we could catch a 6:30 am dolmus to Yusufeli and he’d have breakfast available for us at 6 o’clock. Oy vey! But, we thought, at least htat would give us a full day to do things. So then the problem was deciding exactly where to go…easy, no?

HA! We thought our plan was to go to Trabzon, stopping at Rize for lunch. Then we started talking to Abu Bekir:

“Why don’t you just stay another night?”

And that got us thinking. More people joined the conversation and we moved to the upper balcony. You see, we discovered a flaw in our brilliant plan—Sunday was election day. Apparently, that meant that everything was going to be shut down. As a result, we were going to have to stay in one place a day longer. Of course, neither of us could decide where to go and where to stay. Ayder, on the other side of the Kackars, seemed nice and had hot springs. But, the weather was unpredictable, it was very busy, accommodation could be problematic, and getting there would be difficult. But then trabzon didn’t seem to warrant three days. And then there was the option of staying in Barhal another day, though we thought we’d done most stuff.

At some point in the conversation it came out that we didn’t have to worry about the election. Back in the day, people would have to stay in their homes on election day and everything was closed. Now, things would still be functioning.

Did that information help us? No! After much concsertnation and way too much English-Turkish translating I got to a point where I was just too tired to care. So, Tiffin made the final decision: we’d stay another day in Barhal then go on to Trabzon. We’d go on another trip with the kids the next day, leaving at 8:30 am. Sounded perfect—OK!

And with that I ate a piece of helva and went to sleep.