A religious experience

Getting up at 4:50 AM to perform my religious duties is not one of my hobbies, especially because I haven't got a religion. However, this morning, I did. Lalibela is the center of Ethiopian orthodoxism, and especially known for its churches carved out of rock. The Sunday morning mass was therefor not to be missed. Walking to church was an experience in itself: in the dark of the night, white figures seemed to be coming from every direction, quietly hurrying over Lalibela's unpaved and hilly roads towards the church. Lalibelians like to take shortcuts from the official road, and expect foreigners to do the same. So, we climed a steep rock in the pitch dark, and glided over mud, which had become extra slippery after yesterday's thunderstorm. Not surprisingly, at some point, my foot ended up in a pool. Oh well, suffering and Christianity go hand in hand, I guess. We did manage to get to church and find our guide, who helped us find our way into church. Just outside the church, chanting and drums added to the already mystic atmosphere. We took off our shoes, and the women covered their head before entering. These rules are not the only similarities with entering a mosque: also in this church, there was a carpet, but no chairs, and men and women sit apart (though parallel, not one behind the other). Together with our guide and the French couple we've befriended, we sat down in the men's section. The fact that we were allowed in during service, was because they hoped to inspire tourist in such extent that they would convert. In my case, I would call that an ambitious plan. It felt very special to be there, although we didn't understand a word of it. The whole mass took two hours, which was more than enough time to conclude that the floor carpet was thin, and the church floor hard and uneven. Afterwards, the guide happily told me that that was on purpose, to make churchgoers feel Jesus Christ more (or feel his suffering, perhaps, in which case it certainly worked). The churches also employ other ways to increase religious devotion among believers: around St. George church, famous for being carved in the shape of a cross, the rocks contain several holes, which used to be filled with dead people. Now, there is only one left. Standing staring at a pair of dried-in feet, the guide told us that the tourist office had thought it better that the rest of the bodies were removed. He seemed sorry for it. The idea behind littering the surroundings of the church with dead bodies is that it will remind people about their mortality, and therefor about the fact that how pleasant the hereafter will be, is determined by one's acts and behaviour in the earthly life. Speaking of the earthly life, after mass we returned to our hotel room, sat in the sun on our private balcony and took a small nap in the big bed. We then went for lunch in a somewhat remote, but architecturally fascinating restaurant. We spent several hours there, drinking local wine and enjoying the most magnificant view I have ever seen. From the hilltop restaurant, we had a 360 degree mountain view. The sun and clouds made for spectacular colours on the hills. Ethiopian mass might not have converted me, but seeing that view was as close as I will ever come to a religious experience.

Le roi est mort

Having lived in both Turkey and Burkina Faso, I am used to waking up in the middle of the night from the call for prayer from a mosque. Therefore, when I woke up last night at 4AM from the typical loud mumbling, I assumed it to be one of the mosques in this predominantly Ethiopian-orthodox country, and waited for it to end again. But it didn't. It didn't stop after I had gotten up to get my earplugs (which didn't help much), and it didn't end after I used the bathroom, and it didn't end when the sun came up, and it didn't end when I went out to get bread. About two weeks ago, the prime-minister of Ethiopia died, and Ethiopians have been actively mourning ever since. In Bahir Dar, we saw a large procession of women, wearing white scarves and carrying candles, holding a large picture of the prime-minister. His picture appears everywhere, and Ethiopian television has been talking about nothing else ever since we got here. The whole mourning even seems to have its own theme song, which is played everywhere. Today, we learned, would be a big day: it is the day of the funeral. Walking towards the stall where I tried to mimic 'bread', 'no, bread', 'no, BREAD', 'no, not that fried thing', 'no, not that fried thing either, and 'yes, that one, three please' in respective order, I saw a large assembly of people, all wearing white and praying heavily in and around the church. The loud mumbling seemed to come out of the church. I had been blaming the wrong religious group for disturbing my nightly peace. Although... For this special occasion, the orthodox church and the mosque might have been cooperating in trying to make as much noise as possible. I was therefore happy to leave the town of Gonder for a few hours, for a hike in the mountains. Naively, I presumed our guide would take us on another tourist walking tours through alpine hills. Not so. We glided through the mud, had bushes sweaping in our face, and even climbed down a trickle. The climb took us to some 3200 meter high places, and we had fantastic views, and even saw several groups of baboons. I was knackered afterwards. The drive back to Gonder held another surprise: our van got completely stuck in a procession of villagers, again wearing white. I wasn't sure why they were in the middle of nowhere blocking the road, but it was very clear that they did not feel like stepping aside for our car. Quickly, our van was completely surrounded by people. And those people decided to use the situation to study us, a strange species of humankind, more closely. I felt a bit uncomfortable in that car, with four women staring at me (and clearly, they did not feel at all uncomfortable by that). I think that at some point they were inspecting my armpit. Judging on their tone of voice, they did not completely approve. Coming back in Gonder, the mumbling had ceased, thank god. Life seemed to have returned to normal. We went to the busstation to buy a ticket for tomorrow's bus to Axum, only to find out that the bus will probably not leave, because the road is bad. But that will be decided on tomorrow, so if we please want to show up at 5AM at the busstation with our luggage? Sure, why not. After that disappointment, we tried to regain some of our strength, and breath, in a hotel restaurant, where a huge screen was showing the funeral of the prime-minister. We wondered what on earth the six reporters attending the funeral could possibly still be reporting after hours and hours of broadcasting the ceremony. Probably some endless variations of what the receptionist at our hotel, who barely speaks any English, answered me rapidly when I asked him about the chanting for the prime minister: 'he was a good prime minister, a good Ethiopian and a good African.' I'm sure. The whole thing reminds me a bit of something I learned in West Africa, namely that a lot of Africans who have had little education have difficulty distinguishing between the traditional system with an absolute king and village chiefs, and modern-day democracy. And now the king died, and it is not clear what will happen next. Le roi est mort; vive le roi!

The real Africa

So there we are. Ethiopia. I thought I might try the other end of Africa, after several visits to the western part of the continent. The whole idea started when I was eating out with a friend at an Ethiopean restaurant in Amsterdam, and asked him if he had any good advice on where to go for the summer holidays. 'Why not try Ethiopia', he said, and here I am. Of course I compare Ethiopia to West Africa. From the happy West African muslims (who celebrate the end of Ramadan with some strong liquor) to the serious, Ethiopian-orthodox Christians of Ethiopia. Ethiopians seem rather calm, especially compared to the lively people I have met in the Sahel countries. Here, I can walk several blocks without anyone starting to talk to me, or shout at me, or throw something in my face which I'm supposed to buy. It's a bliss, but it's also a bit, well, can I use the word boring? For those who do feel they should talk to us, follow us around and irritate us, I have developed a new technique to get rid of them: stand still, face them, look them in the eye, thank them, and give them a firm handshake. It works wonderfully well. Today, we went on a trip to the Blue Nile falls, which are spectacular, especially in the rainy season. Getting there included difficult negotiations with several middlemen (who walk around town, making offers to tourists, and then trying to get someone with a minibus to work along), which where settled on a good price only after I had stood still, faced him, thanked him and given him a firm handshake. Then he knew we were serious about refusing his initial offer. After negotiations, we were put in a minibus, together with two Sudanese tourists. Then, the bumpy ride on unsurfaced road began, which took as through several villages. People in those villages looked pretty much like what some would describe as 'real Africans': long, thin, wearing cloth around the shoulder and exposing their long legs, bear-footed, and carrying a long stick to get their colourful cows into the direction they want. The real Africa... The Bradt travel guide, written by Philip Briggs, says some interesting things on that, and I completely agree. What is the 'real Africa'? Is Addis Abeba (the capital town) less 'real' than the rural areas? Does foreign influence diminish the 'realness' of a place? Are Africans less real when they are educated, travel around the world, not surprised to see a white face, and in the possession of a smartphone? Does all those things make me less Dutch (well, I'm not in the possession of a smartphone, but all the other things)? Of course not. Seeing African villages is lovely, because it is so different a lifestyle than what we are used to, but it's not less 'real' than modern African life in larger cities. Well, that was what I was pondering about, during that bumpy ride in a minibus, which took somewhat longer than necessary, because we had to stop for cows on the road at several occasions. Their owner was probably distracted by his mobile phone.

Cocktails and a cup-er-tea

“Why would we talk about the weather? In summer, it’s hot, in winter, it’s cold. That’s it.” And that was all our Turkish class teacher was going to say about the subject. Turkish people apparently don’t talk about the weather. I cannot blame them: between my arrival in the beginning of August and, say, halfway September, the weather has consistently been 30 degrees, dry and sunny. Indeed, not really food for conversation.

Gradual change of season doesn’t exist here either. One day you’ll wake up to find that autumn has arrived. This happened to me a few days ago. I welcome the rain though, since there has been a growing layer of smog (or at least: brownish substance) hovering above town. It’s true that urban pollution makes for great sunsets (something to do with the sunlight hitting the pollution particles and being reflected, I guess), but it also makes one’s lungs go black and one’s nose go blocked. Therefore, it’s good that it rained, because that takes the pollution out of the air. On the other hand: not sure if it’s necessarily a good thing when the brownish substance comes down.

Since Ankara has a land climate, it has warm summers and cold winters. Therefore, weather can’t always be stable. At some point it must change. And it does. Overnight. They don’t do gradual change of season here: one day you’ll wake up, and suddenly summer has turned into autumn, as it did a few days ago.

The weather really invites to curl up in a chair with a warm cup-er-tea and some nice reading material on… violence against women, honour killings, or hate crime. Yes, the human rights portfolio is very interesting, but also a bit of a depressing one.

Luckily, work is not all about reading: it’s also about networking. I run to formal dinner, to reception, to social drink. I’ll speak English, French, and “show off” my baby-Turkish. I’ll get home with a stack of business cards. The other day, I went to a very nice dinner/reception at someone’s house/residence, to eat/network/drink/network/socialize/network. I spend hours chatting to diplomats and ngo’s, standing near the cocktail bar (which I only later discovered to be a cocktail bar – darn) and admiring a beautiful view over the biggest park in Ankara. When I had left the party and was waiting for a taxi, I thought I was off duty. But no: seconds before getting into the taxi, someone started interviewing me (‘Are you Swedish? – No, Dutch. –Do you work on human rights? –Yes. –Is X still working at the embassy? –No, she left. –Can I give you my business card then? –Alright.) and pressed a business card into my hand.

Yes, it’s all very glamorous, diplomatic life. The evenings, that is. In the morning, I just go back to my office with malfunctioning climate control, with my cup-er-tea and a report on gruesome human rights violations.

Gender issues and seating arrangements

Here in Ankara, I will try to avoid sitting next to a man in the bus. Not because anyone would hit me, stone me, fine me or throw me out of the bus – in this big city of a moderately Islamic country, none of that happens. But still, I try to be prudent, and I have noticed that women tend to sit next to women, and men next to men.

In more rural areas, the men-with-men-and-women-with-women-rule is more important. Coming from Beypazarı, my (platonic) male friend and I encountered no problems sitting next to each other. However, the only vacant seat in the bus, next to a Turkish lady, remained empty, even when there were more passengers than seats in the bus. This was because all the ‘extra’ passengers were men. Only when a woman entered the bus, the seat was taken: men sit with men, women with women.

I have read that this rule is even put down in law: apparently, unmarried couples are not allowed to sit next to each other. When my boyfriend came to visit me, I was a bit nervous that this would mean that I had to spend the seven hour bus drive from Ankara’s enormous bus terminal (in size and design comparable to a moderately large airport) to Denizlı next to someone else then him. Luckily, the rule is rarely enforced, so I could spend the journey next to him. It didn’t make the trip more comfortable, but it did make it much more pleasant and fun.

Booking the bus ticket was quite an adventure, though. Because of a miscommunication, my Turkish colleague, who would book the tickets online for me, booked a one-person ticket. When finding this out the day we were supposed to take the bus, I frantically tried to call the only bus company who still had some tickets left. They didn’t answer. In the end, I decided to jump into a taxi and visit their office, in a last, desperate attempt to arrange the tickets. Their ‘office’ was tiny, and had one guy behind one computer, and one phone that wouldn’t stop ringing, but was completely ignored by the guy nevertheless. I wondered how to explain what I wanted to this guy, who of course didn’t speak any English, but he was very cooperative: he invited me to take his seat behind the computer, and let me fill out the form myself. When I really didn’t understand what he was trying to say, I called my colleague, who could translate. ‘What did he say?’, I asked my colleague later on. ‘Oh, nothing. That you are very beautiful, yadiya, bladida’. I wouldn’t qualify that as ‘nothing’!

I did have to indicate whether when booking whether we were male or female. If I would have booked the ticket alone, the seat next to me would be reserved for ‘women only’, to make sure I would not end up next to an unknown man. Quite a service.

The point of going to Denizlı was that it is very close to Pamukkale, which is a lovely town next to natural mineral baths. It also contains the remains of an ancient Byzantine town, including an ancient swimming pool, in which one can still swim. We were keen on taking a refreshing plunge, after walking in the burning heat for hours and hours, but the water was actually very warm: 36 degrees. Swimming wasn’t possible either: because of all the ancient columns that were lying in the water, one could either spend his time climbing over them, or just lying down on one and relax. I choose the latter, obviously.

But, the boyfriend left, and my work started to take up so much of my time, that relaxing trips to cute little towns don’t seem to be an option anymore. Even my evenings are spend either in Turkish class, or having drinks / dinner at some network event. Friday evening, I went to my first work-related dinner. We had lovely food (including tofu, yay!) in a lovely house. It was quite a formal dinner, so, contrary to the seating plan in Turkish buses, we were supposed to sit man-woman-man-woman. After the dinner, when everybody else went home to release their babysitter from duty, a friend and I got into a taxi and hit town. In Ankara’s nightlife, no formalities apply, nor any prudence about man-woman relations.

Saturday, we went for more relaxation, smoking water pipe. I’m fervently anti-smoking, but I did want to try this water pipe once, and it was quite nice. It is much more relaxed (you can just leave it for a while) and much more social (you can smoke it with several people) than smoking cigarettes. It will never really be my thing though.

Saturday night ended in a lovely, atmospheric restaurant called Aylak Madam, in Karanfil sokak. They had paintings featuring women all over the place. I asked and got some of their placemats, which are really arty, to brighten up my white walls. They had flowery, second-hand lounging chairs, where I sat with my friend, drinking tea and discussing gender issues. When I went home again, happily clutching my placemats, I found the bus quite full. There were some vacant seats, but they were all next to men – I decided to continue my prudence, and just stand the whole way.

When I came home, I put up the placemats with paintings of women. Only now I noticed that the poster someone who had stayed in my room before me had left, was a poster announcing a women film festival. Women for women. Women with women. Being in this country for a while now, I am starting to really realize for the first time in my life how blessed I am to have grown up in a country where gender inequality is hardly an issue anymore. Well, hardly… Friday, I talked to a professor, who has specialized in gender and politics. When I talked about the situation in the Netherlands, I felt a bit ashamed. My own country is scoring very badly on women participation in the labour market, and the issue is almost a taboo. But still, I have rarely felt discriminated against in my own country. At least I can just sit down wherever I like in the Netherlands, without thinking. It would be nice if the rest of the world would follow suit.

Integration

Well, life has really started again. On Monday, I suddenly found myself in a traffic jam; something I hadn’t experienced yet in Ankara. The embassy is suddenly filled with people again, and also the rooms in the institute I’m staying in, are filling up. To celebrate this boom of liveliness, I’ve decided to organize a social drink. Many people complain that Ankara is not an interesting city, because there is not much to do here, so I figured it would be better to create my own events. I’ve invited about everyone I’ve met so far. So, tomorrow in the Golden pub: be there or be square.

And finally, Turkish language course started. The teacher is a nice, rather severe young woman, who speaks Turkish and only Turkish. I couldn’t help laughing when she made us repeat every letter of the alphabet at least three times aloud: “lè! Lè! Lè! - Mè! Mè! Mè! – Nè! Nè! nè!” We had a hard time practicing the difference between the c and the ç. “Tsè! Dzjè! Dchè! Tchè!”, we tried, but she was not easily pleased. After three hours, she let us go.

It’s good to start learning Turkish, because, despite my last blog, life would get a lot easier if I would just be able to communicate with the average Turk in the street. For example, I tried to get from the embassy to my language course with public transport today. Now, most public transport companies in large, modern cities (what Ankara definitely is) have WEBSITES on the IN-TER-NET. Such a spiffy gadget helps citizens to find there way around town with public transport, because it indicates which bus goes where, and/or offers an online plan-your-travel tool. Not in Ankara though. So, trying to get around by bus means hoping you made a lucky guess, and writing down bus numbers everywhere you go, to remember for next time.

I had never been from the embassy to this particular point in town, but I thought it shouldn’t be too difficult. I clearly thought wrong. Asking people for information is hard if you don’t speak Turkish, because nobody here speaks English. They are very kind and patient though, so I was quickly adopted by two Turkish ladies, who did their best asking bus drivers, but apparently none of the buses which came went to the place where I wanted to be. After twenty minutes, I suggested to the ladies that I would take a taxi, but they looked unhappy with that plan. After thirty minutes, I was afraid I would miss my language course, so I tried again: “I, taksi”, and this time they seemed to agree. They had given up on the bus as well.

On my way back from the language course, I actually found the bus to my house not far from the language center. I had beaten the bus company once more. It drove off just as I reached it, and I had to wait for 15 minutes for the next one. When I entered the bus, the ticket man, instead of silently taking my money and giving me a ticket, asked me something in Turkish. Once again, I didn’t understand. Normally, I would smile and look helplessly, but now I had had enough of the combination Turkish bus + Turkish language. So I just pointed to his ticket booklet indicating I wanted him to give me a ticket, and sat down. Integration: it takes two steps forward and one step back to get there.

Single words

I believe the use of full sentences is overrated. I manage perfectly with just shouting out a few words.

This last week has been Bayram holiday: the holiday to celebrate the end of Ramadan. All government buildings were closed in Turkey, but our embassy opened again on Wednesday. We were with a handful of people, which made the atmosphere quiet, but also nice and informal. Due to the fact that the receptionist and every logical replacement for him were on holiday, I managed the reception desk for a day. Of course, I don’t speak Turkish, but a friendly colleague had learned me to say ‘call tomorrow’ in Turkish. So, if all else failed, I just shouted ‘yarın ayarın’ through the phone, and hoped they would understand.

The Bayram holiday offered a good opportunity to finally see some more of the city. With a German friend who studies (and thus speaks!) Turkish, I went sightseeing: we visited the museum for Paintings and Sculptures, which has a nice collection and no logic at all behind the order of the paintings; we went to the ethnography museum, which shows nice costumes and pottery, and a lot of pictures of Atatürks funeral (his tomb used to be in this museum); we went to the Parliamentary museum, which lacked information on vital politically-historical events in Turkey, but did display the shoes and pens Atatürk used to wear and use; and we went to see the ruins of a big Roman bath, diplaying the ingenious system of floor heating in Roman times.

And when Ankara started to feel too small for us, we decided to take a minibus (dolmus) and look ahead. Finding a minibus to Beypazarı, a nice small town with Ottoman houses, reminded me of how I once decided to go from Tbilisi to Gori in Georgia. It was 2009 and I was alone, and curious to see Stalin’s birth town. Georgian is not written with Latin letters, so next to not speaking the language, I was also not able to read it. I knew three things: 1) the name of the busstation from where minibuses to Gori would leave; 2) the Georgian word for minibus and 3) the name of the town I wanted to go to: Gori. So, I got into a taxi, said the name of the busstation, and viola: I was dropped off there. It was big and hectic. Then I started walking around, in this place where really no one spoke English, and all I did was repeat all the time: ‘Gori. Minibus’. People pointed at all directions, and at some point someone tried to get me into the big (and expensive) bus for Gori. So I shook my head and said: ‘minibus. Gori’. Believe it or not, but I found the right minibus, and spent an agreeable day in the only town in the world where they believe Stalin was a really cool guy. So again, you see: a few words can bring you a long way.

But so, we went to Beypazarı. It was a lovely town, with very nice regional specialities, mainly made from carrots. They have carrot lokum (Turkish fruit) and carrot juice. And one of the main roundabouts in town has a really big statue of… a carrot. Gotta love those carrots. We went to a museum there, where they showed us a traditional painting technique, and we were even allowed to make our own painting. Although the expected tip was extravagant, it did provide us with a nice, hand-made souvenir. We ate in a lovely restaurant, where they served home-made baklava (hmm!), gözleme (a pancake with cheese or potato) and ayram (a salty yoghurt drink which Turks, and only Turks, love). Then, we climbed up through the old town, where people stared at us, to the former castle, and endulged in Turkey’s national pastime no. one: eating sunflower seeds.

Another trip with the minibus brought us to Kızılcahamam, another nice town. It is surrounded by mountains, like Ankara, but unlike Ankara, these mountains are actually green. We went to the national park to breath in some fresh mountain air. However, all we breathed in was the smell of barbecue. Apparently, national pastime no. 2 is barbecuing, and a national park is an excellent location for that (risk of fire, anyone?). We had a hard time passing all the picknick benches, where hundreds of families were enjoying their kebap. A lot of them wanted us to join them and taste their food.

But, so much for the fun: Bayram is over and a new political year is about to start. This Sunday I have been to the congress of the Kurdish political party. It was interesting to see a political congress in Turkey. It was huge, warm, and there was a lot of dancing and food involved. After listening for a few hours, my colleagues and I went home again by taxi. I pointed the taxi in the right direction through hand gestures, paid him, and then asked for the receipt: ‘fiche, lütfen’. Yes, 10 words or so. Really all you need.