On the road: Diyarbakır

    Fear cloaked our trip to Diyarbakır more than any other destination in Turkey. We had heard the horror stories; everyone seemed to have a friend or family member or colleague who had been murdered or kidnapped by the PKK. When I mentioned Diyarbakır, the first response was, “There's nothing there; why would you go?” Then I'd hear a horror story, and when they knew I was serious they warned: “Be careful! Watch out for thieves! Don't trust anyone!”

    My friends and colleagues were looking out for me and trying to be helpful, but none of them had ever been to Diyarbakır before, and their stock responses made me question if these threats were legitimate or if they were being overstated and repeated in order to justify a more militant and extreme Turkish nationalism. In my travels and reading, I've come across a broad range of viewpoints on the conflict and the region. I couldn't trust one extreme view over another; I needed to experience the city and the region myself.

    Our bus pulled into the empty bus station at 3:30 a.m. We took a cab to the city and found a hotel. At 10 a.m. we stepped out onto the street looking for breakfast, the sun warm and the city throbbing with activity -- street vendors with fruit, young boys following us with tissues to sell, shop owners yelling “buyurun, buyurun!” After five months of Erzurum winter, Diyarbakır in early April was paradise.

    We traveled through the maze of streets to find the caravansaray. Inside, two stories of shops and restaurants look out onto the main courtyard, filled with people eating breakfast and sipping tea. Underneath lies a large, cavernous bookstore and a cafe. After breakfast, we shared a water pipe, chatting with two British expats passing through. Later we explored the bookstore and drank tea with a rug dealer.

    We visited some mosques before moving on to the castle walls, where we were mobbed by children. Speaking English sometimes makes us freaks and celebrities. They were on a fieldtrip, and their teacher did his best to stop them, but after a few minutes, we were surrounded: “What is your name! Where are you from! I like your shirt!” We practiced our Turkish, and they practiced their English. We added each other to our stories of the day.

    The castle walls looked over green fields and the Tigris. We took a dolmuş down to the bridge. Some men were fishing, boys watched over a flock of sheep. We ate a small lunch next to the river before hitching a ride back into town. I wouldn't hitchhike in most American cities, and my ability and willingness to do it in Diyarbakır speaks to the safety I felt there and the kindness of the people. That night we ate kaburga dolması (stuffed lamb ribs) and explored the city.

    The next day we headed to the markets and the main bazaar. I bought a pot for Turkish coffee and a few hand-woven bags for gifts and ate grilled liver from a street vendor. Two hours later, we were at a Burger King just outside the city walls. We traveled east and found ourselves craving Western fast food (there isn't any in Erzurum, which is a good thing). With a Whopper in front of me in Diyarbakır, I'm as culturally lost as I can be. Next to me sat a woman with a traditional headscarf and a Nike T-shirt eating French fries and ice cream with her children and overweight husband. She finished eating and lit a cigarette.