Gallivanting Grandma

We left Sivas in the heat of the morning and Selcuk drove the van onto the highway going farther east.  The Turkish government seems to be improving their highways so wherever we’ve been, there is a lot of road construction, making the journey longer.  Generally, the highways have been surprisingly good, but the farther east we travel, the worse the roads are getting.

We were on our way to Erzincan and we drove past exotic-sounding place names such as the Munzur Mountains (3000 meters high), and the village of Kemah which is near the headwaters of the Euphrates River.  The famous ‘Bust of Anahid’ was found in a village nearby and is currently on display at the British Museum.

We took a side trip off the highway and onto a rough bumpy rural road to go to the Kemah Gorge.  10,000 Armenians were thrown off the high steep cliffs and into the river below by the Turks during the genocide. The entire Armenian population of the city was killed in this way.  As the story is told, “the river ran red with the blood of the Armenians.”

It was a long ride to Erzincan.  The vista is wide with vast wheat fields and shepherds watching small flocks of sheep.  Occasionally we saw farmers on tractors working the land and gathering hay and wheat. The terrain is brown and treeless and mostly flat with hills in the distance.  This area is known as the ‘high plains’ because the entire area is high above sea level and the altitude of the mountains is the highest in Turkey.

We arrived in Erzincan before dark and were surprised to see a modern city.  There had been an earthquake in the early 1990s and almost the entire city has been rebuilt.  The hotel was modern and very clean.  When I arrived at my large room, I explored and found a copy of a Koran and a folded prayer rug in the closet. We had been told that the farther East we travel, the people will be more religious and perhaps more intolerant of outsiders, especially Armenians.  We were advised not to mention that we were Armenian when we traveled to eastern Anatolia.

When we arrived at the hotel, the restaurant near the lobby was full of local people, but we noticed that no one was eating. Someone said that they were waiting for the official notification of sunset, frequently a cannon blast or loud gun shot, to break their day’s fast.

In an hour, the Muslims were finished eating and had left the restaurant, so when we arrived, the room was virtually empty.  We ate a good Middle Eastern dinner of lamb, yogurt, fresh tomatoes, and vegetables.  There is a delicious long skinny light-green seasonal pepper which we have been eating in all the restaurants.  For dessert we had different kinds of baklava and, finally, Turkish coffee.

My cousins and I had expected to drink good Turkish coffee on this trip, but we have been disappointed because the modern Turks drink ‘chai’ (tea).  For some reason the entire population of Turkey stopped drinking coffee about 20 years ago and switched to black tea which is ‘chai’ in Turkish (also in Armenian).  Very few restaurants make Turkish coffee now.

My cousin Roseanne has discovered a hidden talent for “reading” the grinds of Turkish coffee.   This is an old Armenian tradition.  After a person almost finishes drinking their coffee, they carefully turn the cup upside-down onto the saucer. They wait for a few minutes, rotate the cup three times for good luck, and finally look at the pattern of the fine grinds left on the inside of the cup. Then the cup is passed to the person who is gifted or clairvoyant to be the “reader”.

There is usually a person, almost always a woman, who is able to ‘tell your fortune’ by “reading” and interpreting the pattern of the leftover grinds.  I remember my grandmother gathering with her female friends, over cups of Turkish coffee and Armenian pastries.  There was always one woman who was an expert reader.  A good reader carefully studies the grinds, points out what she sees and expresses her interpretations in a mystical and dramatic manner.  This is always great fun!  Roseanne carried on the time-honored tradition with wonderful insights!  :-)

The two-lane highway to Erzurum twists and turns along side the ancient Euphrates River.  On the way to Erzurum, Armen wanted to find the ruins of an Armenian church in a small village and take photographs. We drove off the highway and followed a dirt road for several kilometers.  We finally found a village on the outskirts of Erzurum and Seljuk parked the van.  The shabby rough stone houses were surrounded by rubble.

Inside, the dirt floor was dug-up and full of holes and mounds.  Over the years people dug up the earthen floor of the churches looking for the “treasures” of the church.

Again, charming, smiling children congregated around us as soon as the van stopped.

The houses immediately around the church were in ruins or reduced to rubble. There had been wars and fighting in the region since the 1850s.  During 1915, Armen said, 10,000 Armenians had been killed in this region.

Roseanne’s guidebook told about a unique Muslim woman’s cover-up which is only worn in this area by some women.  It was described as a coarse-fabric brown “gunny sack”.  It seemed to be one large square piece of fabric wrapped around, and entirely covering, the woman.

We finally arrived in Erzurum.  This was the most exotic city of the entire trip, so far.  As we drove into town through the people and vehicle-clogged streets, I was reminded of one of the Star Wars movies.

Erzurum looked like the scene in Episode I: The Phantom Menace when Ani and Liam Neeson rode their spaceship into a strange new busy city.  People and congestion were everywhere.

Erzurum is the largest province in Eastern Anatolia and is located on a high plateau, 6,400 feet above sea level, and surrounded by mountains.  It is 300 miles east of Sivas. The history of the capital city extends back to 4000 BC and has been a major crossroads since antiquity.  Erzurum was captured and ruled by many different nations throughout history, including the  ancient Armenian Kingdom.  The region is known for its local black stone, jet, which is a velvet-black mineral mined from local quarries.  Jet is carved to produce beautiful jewelry, pipes, and boxes.

Seljuk carefully maneuvred the van through the busy streets and parked in front of the ancient Medrasah.  This is the name for a religious school, usually part of a mosque complex, to teach young boys to read the Koran.

We walked up the street to see the inside of the Medrasah, and learned that it was built in the 13th century.  There was a small park in front of the school with benches.  Many men sat on the benches and stared and leered at us as we walked past them.  For the first time on this trip, we did not feel safe.  All the women cousins, asked CeeGee to stay close to us.

I walked up the steps of the Medrasah and when I turned around Francoise and Nicole were talking to a clean-cut young man.  My first thought was, “walk away!”  I continued walking slowly, keeping an eye on them.  When they got closer, I realized they were all speaking French.  I went over to them and when I was introduced as an American cousin, the man switched to good English.  He said he was born in Erzurum, and had attended school at the Sorbonne in Paris and at the University of Albany, in New York.

The young man said he knew Erzurum very well and if we were interested, he could show us some interesting sights.  He said that behind the Medrasah was the old original Armenian and Greek neighborhood which was very interesting and historic. We had been warned not to mention that we were Armenian in Erzerum because of very strong nationalist Turkish sentiments among the majority of the residents in the city.

He said that he knew the owners of a 400 year old house and for a few lires, we could see the inside of the house.  The people were elderly and poor and could use the money, he said.  Armen joined us and said he thought it might be interesting.

We followed the young man and walked up the hill to a rather large brown house that we recognized as Armenian architecture.  He knocked on the door and a middle-aged Turkish woman answered and she invited us inside.  The entry room was dark with huge stones on the floor.  We were led into another large room which was the kitchen and dining room.

We took photos and looked at the neatly arranged cups and plates which covered most of the walls.  In the center of the high ceiling was a skylight which was built with alternating beams of wood arranged in descending sizes.  Armen said it was a very old Armenian style ceiling called, “hazarahshen”, which means “1000 built”.

After about 20 minutes, the young man suggested that we should leave and give the woman a donation of 5 Turkish lires each.  That is about $3.00 each which we felt was an outrageous price to see one room in a house!  None of us complained and we thanked the woman and left.

We walked across the street to see the unusual structures in a small park and learned that they were ancient tombs.  One of them was built in a Mongolian style with Mongolian symbolic images on the outside.  The others were built during the height of the Ottoman Empire in the Seljuk architectural style.

Finally, the young man suggested we visit his uncle’s carpet shop down the street. We walked into the shop and began to look at carpets.  The young man’s uncle had an impressive collection of carpets from all the neighboring countries.

He began to unfold carpets and placed them on top of each other on the floor.  Some were old and some were new. He described each carpet by the village or country where it was hand woven.  All of them were different and all were beautiful.

We asked prices and Roseanne indicated some interest in one of the carpets.  It was a beautiful hand woven Persian carpet with a delicate floral pattern.  ‘Barganing’ is an art raised to a high level in the Middle East and there are certain social rules. Once you begin the bargaining process you have to continue to a satisfactory conclusion, so you have to choose the item carefully.  The purchase could take hours and often includes cai (tea) and much conversation.  The purchaser has to insure that the seller does not ‘lose face’ or is embarrassed in any way, so it is a dance of words and gestures and bluffs and facial expressions.  I wished I had a video camera to tape the process!

The dealer started at 860 Turkish Lires. Roseanne countered strongly with 200 TL. I don’t have time or space here to recount the entire bargaining saga, but after Roseanne walked out of the shop and into the van, she was able to purchase the carpet at an excellent price.  Roseanne can bargain like a native and it’s fun to watch!  :-)

Erzurum from the Van – Bags of Potatoes

Afterwards, we drove a bit through the streets of Erzurum and left the city at sunset.  The road follows the Arax River and we passed a 13th century bridge spanning the river.

We had expected to stay in Erzurum and were surprised to learn when we were driving out of the city and that we were going to Sarikamish, two hours to the east.

We drove in pitch darkness with hardly any other vehicles on the road.  When we reached the hotel and stepped out of the van, the air was actually cold!

To be continued…….

We returned to Sivas and spent another night in the Sivas Buyok Otel. It is a clean and comfortable hotel which resembles a standard business hotel in any big city anywhere, and it has free WiFi in the room. It would be perfect, however the hotel has NO air conditioning and it was VERY hot outside. When we arrived late last night, it was a little cooler and I opened my window to let in a breeze.

It is currently Ramadan in the Islam world. The Turks call it ‘Ramazan’. During the month, the celebrants cannot eat or drink anything from sunrise to sunset. At 2:30 AM men ride around Sivas in cars or trucks banging huge drums to wake up the people so they can eat before the sunrise. The banging continues until about 3:00 AM. Then at 4:00 AM the ‘call to prayer’ is broadcast, load and clear, over the huge city amplifiers and it is time for the Muslims to stop eating for the day. Since my window was open, the sounds of the drum and the call to prayer were quite loud and I was able to enjoy all the dawn “music” of Sivas.  Unfortunately, sleeping was out of the question.

Urban Renewal and Armenian Architecture in Sivas

After breakfast, we boarded the van and drove to the old Armenian quarter of Sivas. All the Armenians are gone, but a few of their houses are still standing. Some houses have been renovated, and some are currently undergoing renovation, and others sit silently in a variety of states of ruin.

We stopped in front of a large, rather stately home that was in ruins. It had been a beautiful house built in the Armenian style of architecture, with Armenian letters and a date of 1890 decoratively carved in wood on the triangle under the roof.  The house had been abandoned and neglected for a long time and it had been vandalized.

We climbed up the steps and looked into the first floor.  When a police car slowly drove by looking at us, we assumed the neighbors called the police, we decided to leave the neighborhood.

We drove towards the village of Ishan which is only 5 kms from Sivas. Ishan means ‘prince’ in Armenian. This is the village of my maternal grandmother, Maritza Chahbazian. First we stopped at an arched Roman-style bridge which had been built in the 13^th Century.

The Armenian inscriptions had been scraped off the stone plaque, but Arabic writing remained on another plaque on the opposite side of the river.

Descendants of the Chahbazians

We drove onward to another smaller, similar bridge, which connected Sivas with Ishkhan. My cousin, Claudine, said that my grandmother and her sister and 3 brothers and parents walked across this bridge to go to Sivas, the big city.  Claudine and Astrig said that the family frequently walked the 5 kms to go to the market or to go the the hamam for a Turkish Bath in Sivas.

Around the village of Ishan there were flat wheat fields and fertile farmland. Undulating hills gently rose behind Ishkhan. There were very few trees, the grass had turned brown from the heat of summer and the sun was strong and hot. The air was warm and dry and smelled like hay. Because of the altitude, this region receives a lot of snow in the winter.

We drove into Ishan slowly on the unpaved road and stopped above the mosque in the center of town. Five of us are descendants of Ishan. Claudine and Astrig’s father and mother, Nazareth and Ossana, were born and lived in Ishan. They had been neighbors and friends when they were young. My cousin Roseanne’s and my grandmother, Maritza, was Nazareth’s older sister. They had been a happy family with two more brothers, Levon and Haratoun and a sister, Margaret.

Their father was educated and had been the parish priest and an important man in the village. Many years ago, my grandmother told us that one of her greatest joys was watching their sheep on the hillside when she was young. Who knows how many generations of the Chahbazian family had lived in Ishkhan before the 1915 genocide. My grandmother’s parents were brutally killed by the Turks and my grandmother and her siblings were deported to an orphanage in Istanbul. After very difficult times, they eventually were able to escape Turkey and immigrated to the U.S and France.  They built new lives but their happy family life, as it had been, was destroyed and the memories of seeing their parents and other relatives and friends killed, stayed with them for the rest of their lives.

We all walked down the hill toward the mosque. This had been the church of my Christian Armenian great-grandfather. The stone building was intact with a minaret attached to one corner.

There was a wall around the church and we passed through the gate and entered the garden.

Roseanne and I wondered aloud if Grandma’s mother had also planted flowers and tomatoes there. We removed our shoes, left them at the door and entered the mosque.

All the ancient churches were built of large heavy stones. The walls of the interior of the church rose to the high dome in the center of the ceiling.  Large columns supported the dome and the roof.  The interior space was unmistakeably Armenian architecture but all the frescos and wall paintings had been scraped off or covered with plaster and any reminder of Christianity had been removed.

We silently walked around and looked at what remained and touched the columns and walls.  Claudine, Astrig thought about their parents, and Roseanne and I remembered our Grandmother Maritza.

Then Armen asked the Imam to open a door of what we thought was a closet.  It turned out to be the area where the alter of the church had been and the original stones of the church wall were visible. The Imam used the area for storage.  We walked into the space and Claudine took something out of her pocket.  It was “Mas”, which is the small disc-shapped bread a priest gives to parishioners during Communion in an Armenian church service.

The Imam was watching us but we shielded Claudine from his view and she pushed the Mas into the space between two stones.  Then we sang The Lord’s Prayer in Armenian in that alter-space where our great-grandparents and parents conducted Armenian services a hundred years ago.

When we emerged from the church, a neighbor had brought some fruits from her garden and left them for us.  In a small bowl were ripe tomatoes and cucumbers. It was a kind, welcoming gesture.  It’s interesting that Turkish men are ‘out and about’ and are present everywhere we go, but the women peek out of their windows or send their children to greet strangers and silently leave gifts.

Claudine and Astrig had visited Ishkhan five years earlier with Armen and another Armenian group.  They said that the village had greatly improved and there were many new houses now.  We walked around the mosque and tried to find my grandmother’s house.

We surmised that the parish priest’s house would be next door to the church, so we went around the new wall to look at the crumbling stone house next door.  It was in a sad state with the roof caved in and no windows.  But it was there: probably two stories, small windows to keep out the weather, another garden area, another structure for animals.  Yes, we were grasping at straws.  Who knows?  It could have been our grandmother’s house or it could have been the house of a relative.  We will never know……

Selcuk came to get us and we walked up a hill near the village which had been an Armenian cemetery. Large flat rocks marked the grave sites.

From the top of this hill we could see Sivas in the valley and the bridge my grandmother took to get there.  You could also see the distant hills where my great-grandfather was killed by the Turkish military.

We could look down upon Ishan and see the entire village.  In the other direction we could see the big city if Sivas in the distance.  What a great place!  A cooling breeze blew across the heat of the day and I wondered if my grandmother had ever come up to the top of this hill to look down on her world and to enjoy the view.  It immediately became my favorite place!  I wanted to sit on the ground and stay there all afternoon and enjoy the view of the village of Ishan…….

I slept well in the large comfortable modern room of the hotel.  The next morning, we all gathered in the restaurant where we had dinner last night for a hearty Turkish breakfast.

We collected our luggage, filled up Selcuk’s van and went to look for the little village of Bahceli (pronounced Bachely) or Khohn in Armenian.  Bahcelikoy means the village of the garden, or garden town, in Turkish.  This had been an ancient Armenian village and we were going there to find the ruins of an Armenian church.

Selcuk and Armen asked several men for directions and we slowly drove through the delightful village.  There was a stream of water quickly flowing next to the road. In this arid land water was important to the survival of the people. When we stopped the van in Bahceli, the local boys gathered to greet us and posed for photographs.

We stopped a local man who informed us that the church ruins were long gone because a road had been built on that site.  The only things left were the walls which had surrounded the church and a lovely garden with fruit trees and flowers.  He directed us to the road that had replaced the church ruins.

Then we drove Guillaume Perrier, the journalist who had been travelling with us, to the Erzincan airport.  It was wonderful having Guillaume on the trip with us because he spoke multiple languages and frequently translated information for us and answered all our questions.  He had an encyclopedic memory for details and was knowledgeable about Turkish history and culture. Guillaume was also an expert on current events in Turkey and the Middle East.  He broadened our knowledge and added a deeper dimension to our journey.  Thank you Guillaume!  It was wonderful travelling with you!

We sadly said our farewells to Guillaume and continued on to the village of Bayirbag. The Armenian name had been Piterich.  It had been an ancient Armenian village and we were there to find the ruins of an old Armenian monastery.

Armen asked a local man for directions and we were told to turn left at a broken fountain and continue on that road.  We found the broken fountain which had an Armenian symbol carved into the stone and turned left.  We travelled on the rocky dirt road for quite a while and climbed up a steep hill.

Finally we saw a farmer on a tractor ahead of us and asked him about the monastery.  He said to continue further up the hill and assured us it was there. The van drove higher and higher up the steep hill on a bumpy single-lane dirt road.

The man led the way up and he finally stopped in front of two connected stone buildings and got off his tractor.  He spoke rapidly in Turkish and pointed at the buildings.  We surmised that this was what remained of the monastery.

It looked as if the two buildings were being used for housing or storage.  The wall between the buildings was torn down but the farmer pointed out several crosses and Armenian writing carved into the stone.

Then he led the way up the steep hill and we followed him on foot.  In about 100 feet we saw the ruins of a small chapel.  Crosses had been carved into several stones and we could see the place where the alter had been.

Then the farmer wanted to show us something else and gestured to us to follow him.  We climbed further up the steep hill until we came to the site of a Christian cemetery.  The crude stones were lying flat on the ground and several of the plots had been dug up by people looking for treasures.

We were joined by a young man who we guessed was the farmer’s son.  They pointed and gestured actively and chattered on, talking to us as if we understood Turkish.

Satisfied that we saw everything, we followed the two men down the hill and back toward the stone buildings.  Standing silently near one of the buildings was an elderly man wearing a knitted skull cap.  In his hand was a string of brown prayer beads that the people of Anatolia use to pray.

We greeted him and the farmer introduced all of us in Turkish.  The man smiled and welcomed us to his home and land. It turned out that the young man was his grandson and the farmer was a cousin.

We heard the word “chai” and someone in our group said “yes”, so the farmer gathered dried twigs and began to make a fire in a cement grill. A large blue tarp was brought out and set on the ground for us to sit on.  Two blackened teapots were produced, one was filled with water.  Finally, after much effort, the farmer put the pots on a rack in the grill.  We all watched as the water boiled and the steam whistled out of the spout.

After a while, the farmer said he had no tea! I suppose he had invited us for tea to be hospitable, but Roseanne came to the rescue.  She had teabags in her luggage! She went to the van to get her teabags.  The farmer poured the water into the glasses, Roseanne circulated her teabags, and we sat down on the tarp to drink tea in the shade of a large walnut tree.  The three men could not have tea because it was Ramadan, but they sat with us and were gracious.

The elderly man had been squatting near a tree and watched the farmer make chai.  Quietly he rose and his grandson helped him wash his hands and feet.  The grandson produced a small carpet. Then the man kneeled on the carpet and began to pray quietly in one corner of the tarp.

Can it get any better than this?  We were sitting on a blue plastic tarp under the trees, in the country on a high hill having tea with three generations of Turkish farmers.  A soft breeze was blowing and the sun shone brightly.  This was a WOW moment!

Yesterday we drove through the hills of north central Turkey and stopped for the night in Amasya.  I had read about the city before our journey and the information on the Internet said that it was a beautiful city which was built in a narrow gorge of the Yesilimak (green) River.

Armen, our guide called Amasya “the Saltzburg of Turkey” because the cliffs rise high above the city. Yes, it is beautiful with very interesting architecture in a gorgeous natural setting.  Lovely white stucco houses with brown wood trim were built along the river.  Armen said that the houses are examples of Armenian architecture.

Amasya has a colorful 3000 year old history and was mentioned in documents during the time of Alexander the Great.  In the 3rd century BC, Amasya became the capital of the Pontic kingdom until they were defeated by Julius Caesar in 47 BC at the battle of Zela (now called Zile, more later).  From 1240 through 1390 the region was under Mongol rule and after this time, the entire region was ruled by the Ottoman Empire.

We stayed at the Amasya Buyuk Otel with our rooms overlooking the river.  The tall cliffs of the gorge towered above us.  Pontic kings were buried high above in caves carved into the sides of the rocks.  The tombs are open to tourists and the entrances are visible from the street along the river.

Amasya is a beautiful city but the hotel left much to be desired. It was located on the river front and had a wonderful view, but the air conditioning was marginal and the room was shabby. The entire hotel looks like it’s getting ready for renovation, or should be.  When I stepped off the elevator on the 2^nd floor, the first thing I saw were pictures on the floor, leaning against the wall instead of on the wall. The halls were dark and spooky.  The breakfast was also disappointing.

Anyway, after breakfast we boarded the van and Selcuk (pronounced “Seljuk) drove us to Merzifon. A university had been built there by American missionaries in the 1930s for poor Armenians to be educated.  Over the years, a number of prominent Armenians obtained their educations at that university. Recently, the university had been closed but is now under reconstruction and will be a school. Down the street from the university there are several homes in the Armenian architectural style.

After looking at the university, we went to an Armenian church in Merzifon which had been in disrepair. It is currently being renovated and is being transformed into a theater.  I suppose it is good that it isn’t being torn down.  There are very few Armenians left in Merzifon to support a church.

Then we drove to Gumushacikoy.  Don’t ask me to pronounce it!  We drove to a small bakery which was co-owned by an Armenian man.  His partner is Turkish.  We introduced ourselves to the man and Armen spoke to him about his life and his experiences.  While they were chatting, the baker produced several loaves of round  bread from the oven and showed them to us.  “Ekmek” is the Turkish word for bread.  He happily posed for photos. Then he wrapped three large loaves and gave them to us!  We offered to pay him, but he refused our Turkish Lires.

The baker also mentioned another Armenian man who lived in Gumushacikoy. Someone ran up the hill to get the man and we watched the baker pull more loaves of bread from the huge oven.  By the way, the bread was delicious!

Finally, Gabriel Balian appeared and Armen and Guillaume Perrier, the journalist from Le Monde, had a long chat with him.  Gabriel said that there were only five Armenian families left in this town.  He said it had been difficult living with the Turks but recently things have improved.

Gabriel in front of the hamam that his grandfather built

Gabriel wanted to show us a church which had been converted into a mosque, so we all boarded the van and drove out of town to a small hamlet named, Gumus (pronounced Gou-moosh).  The streets were very narrow and the van had trouble navigating through them, but we finally arrived at the top of a hill.  The church was typical Byzantine architecture, with a recent minaret.

We looked around and took photos.  The Turks had not remove the paintings of Christ and four disciples from the ceiling.  They had installed a horizontal shade which they pulled to cover the paintings during prayer times. It was uncovered now.

Armen, Gabriel, and Guillaume talked to the Imam. The Imam explained about the Muslim service to us and told us his role in the mosque, entirely in Turkish!

Afterwards, Gabriel led us to another Armenian man who owned a fabric shop in Gumushacikoy.  We all entered the shop and and looked around while Armen and Guillaume spoke to Shahan, the owner of the shop, in Turkish.

The man offered us glasses of cold Coka Cola.  Shahan also related his experiences as an Armenian living in Turkey.

Finally we drove to Zile.  This the town where Nicole’s and Francoise’s father’s father was born.  Zile is located in Tokat Province and there is evidence of human habitation in the Zile region since Neolithic times (9500 BC).  Zile was known as Zila during Roman times.  Along the road to Amasya, Julius Caesar won the Battle of Zela in 48 BC prompting him to say, “Veni, Vidi, Vinci” – “I came, I saw, I conquered”. This battle was against Pharnaces II who was the son of the great king Mithridates VI, rulers of the Pontic Empire.

Today Zile is a busy town with shops and outdoor venders selling dried fruits and chickpeas, and walnuts.  Armen told us that there were no more Armenians living there any more. Selcuk parked the van off the main street and we walked down a street looking at houses which Armen said were in Armenian architecture.

Zile has a population of about 36,000 people, so it is a good sized city.  As in every town and city in Turkey, men congregate everywhere, sitting together outside shops talking and watching the world go by.  When they see us, they stop talking and watch everything we do.

One shop had a couple of bright yellow taxis parked out front and a group of men sat talking together on the side walk. Above them written in large letters on the wall was the name of the taxi company, “Tecca Taxi”.  An appropriate name I thought.  Then across the street we saw another taxi company, with similar yellow cars and a group of men and its name was “Calla Taxi”. Another good name for a taxi company!

Armen and Selcuk asked some local men about the houses and were given directions to a fortress.  On the way, we stopped to look at the wares of a street vender.  What attracted us was an assortment of wrist watches lying in a pan of water. This was supposed to demonstrate that they were waterproof.  The man also sold prayer beads and large pocket knives.

Half of our group followed Armen and Francoise to the fortress, but four of us were left behind shopping for wristwatches and beads. After we made our purchases, we turned to look for the others, but they were gone.  We walked in the direction that we thought they went.  For a wild few minutes, we thought we were lost and abandoned in Zile.

Then we remembered that Selcuk had parked the van around the corner from the street vender.  If one has to get lost in Turkey, it’s best to get lost with Selcuk the Turkish driver with a big white air conditioned Mercedes van!

We walked back to where he had originally parked but the van was not there. After a few seconds of panic, we looked around and two men, who were sitting on the steps across the street, called out in incomprehensible Turkish and pointed down the street toward the left.  We looked and there was the van!

Of course, the villagers had been watching us and knew all our movements.  No secrets in a Turkish town!  We waved thank you to the men and hurried to the safety of the Mercedes van and Selcuk.  Selcuk called Armen on his cell phone and we connected with the rest of the group, but it had been a scary few minutes!

It was a long three hour drive back to Sivas and we watched the sun set over the distant hills. Selcuk is Muslim so he does not eat or drink all day.  After the sun set he reached for a bottle of water and Armen gave him a loaf of bread from the bakery this morning.

As we approached Sivas and it was 8:00 PM, Armen asked if we wanted to eat “before we got to Sivas or after we checked into the hotel.” Apparently, he knew of a restaurant on the outskirts of town that had good shish-k-bab.  It was a huge fascinating place with outdoor seating.

We guessed it was part of a chain because it had the same name as the restaurant in which we had eaten in Sivas the night before last. The food was good and plentiful and made a good ending to a very long day.

After we left the restaurant and we arrived in downtown Sivas, we were surprised to find the streets full of people. It was about 11:00 PM and the entire city was out walking!  There were family groups, children, young people & old people, many eating ice cream.  It was very festive and noisy.  The day’s fasting was finished and everyone was enjoying the cool evening air.