On the Edge of the World: Van, Turkey
I’ve traveled to many different countries. But there is only one place that truly felt like the edge of the world to me — Van, Turkey. Before visiting, I was living in Istanbul as a student. Istanbul is one of those sprawling cities where you see apartments on top of apartments for miles outside of the city center. When taking a bus across the Bosphorus bridge from the small landmass of the European side, to the rest of the country — the Asian side, as you are traveling in one direction, hundreds of migrants, carrying their belongings in bundled up cloths are entering the city at the same time. If anything, this felt like the true convergence of the East meeting the West. Those coming from the East moving to the West for opportunity, those from the West going eastwards for an escape, adventure.
But people in every country have their own histories…their own prejudices.
“You are going to Van?!? But that’s almost as far East as you can go in Turkey!” my Turkish friends asked, concerned and perplexed.
“Do you realize how dangerous it is there? Why, there was a guy in the news last month that had both legs chopped off by Kurdish terrorists. Why don’t you go to the beaches in Antalya?”
Well…I hadn’t heard that bit of news. I was young, and not yet brave enough to travel alone. Another American friend was going with me. We were to fly to the far side of the country, and I opted to take a 24-hour bus ride from Van back to Istanbul at the end of the trip, while my friend would fly back.
We arrived in Van in November. Not yet too cold, it was a beautiful autumn day in the country-side. The sun hanging low in the sky turned fields of wheat into a dusky gold. Women with covered faces and long, patterned dresses worked in the fields against a backdrop of blue mountains.
Despite the beautiful fall surroundings, the true star of the city is Lake Van, created from long-ago volcanic activity. The lake is so large, it would take a few hours to drive around its circumference. A slippery blue and silver color, the lake makes no waves, just ripples. It’s the eeriest natural wonder I have ever seen. The black pebbles crunched underneath my boots as the lake enticed me to come closer. Mesmerized, I dipped my hand in the water and rubbed my fingers together. The water was viscose, oily. But there was no oil. Unlike any water I have ever felt, this actually had the same consistency as melted coconut oil.
One morning, we awoke to the bloody aftermath of Kurban Bayram — a Muslim holiday that the nation celebrates where lambs are slaughtered in the street and cooked later on for a feast. The local residents were cleaning blood and tufts of fur from the streets. My friend and I rode a local minibus far out to visit an old castle and fortress outside of the city. One sign on the side of the highway read “Iran 30km.” So close, yet so far.
At this point in my life, this was the farthest east I had ever been, and it felt like it. We were miles away from Istanbul, so far east that, even though we were American, we were constantly asked if we were originally from Afghanistan or Pakistan. Being from either of those countries would have been more plausible for the residents of Van, than the idea of 2 tourists visiting from the United States.
On the return trip, we sat at the back of the minibus heading back into the city. Occasionally, the driver would stop and pick up people along the way and continue on toward the city. Eventually, the bus stopped for a young male passenger. Tan, leather skin with a spiky black haircut, the young man was Kurdish. He was carrying a heavy black leather bag. He opened the door and set the bag inside, and said something to the driver. For 5 minutes, they go back and forth saying heaven knows what. I glance around at the other passengers, scanning their faces. Are they worried? Did they hear what is in the bag? I don’t even try to ask in English, knowing it will get me nowhere.
Somehow, the young man convinces the driver to take the bag. The door closes and the young man is left at the side of the road. For some reason lost in translation, he does not accompany his bag into the city.
The trip continues on, but I do not take my eyes off of the bag. My friend leans over and whispers to me in English: “What if…there is some kind of bomb in that bag?” Both children who grew up during the 9/11 era, we had been conditioned to have the same worries and expect the same outcomes.
“We can either ride this minibus into the city and find out, or get off at the side of the road.”
We got off the minibus, in the middle of nowhere, at the edge of the world.
