I am everyone's uncle

I woke up at five o'clock this morning when the call to prayer shattered the silence of downtown Gaziantep: Allah Akbar... Allah Akbar... It lasted around 10 minutes, as usual, and then the quiet of early-morning eastern Turkey returned. My trip has followed a similar pattern: silence, punctuated by bursts of expression. Such is life traveling in a country where I can communicate basic ideas but not well-formed thoughts.

I speak enough Turkish to get around and to explain who I am. I can ask simple questions about almost anything, and usually understand the answer. However, real communication is beyond me. (A recent misunderstanding: a man told me that he had family in the U.S., and I tried to ask if his brother had emigrated. Unintentionally, I asked about his wife, which he found hilarious.)

I can and do make friends, if even for just a few hours: strangely, people always want my phone number, which is pointless because there's no way I could ever have a conversation in Turkish on the phone. But over a tea or a beer, my unwieldy Turkish, plus smiles and hand gestures, is enough to communicate basic ideas. When I don't understand words, I pay careful attention to body language.

Turks are a physically expressive bunch. Certain gestures usually replace words: the right hand over the heart coupled with a smile means ''No thanks;'' a click of the tongue and subtly raised eyebrows means ''no;'' and the thumb and index finger rubbed together means ''good stuff'' or ''expensive.''

When I make these gestures, it confuses the hell out of people. Most memorably, a Russian waitress (and prostitute) responded to my non-verbal ''no'' with a surprised, ''Turk!?'' No, I said, American. She then offered herself to me again (yes, that way...) and when I made a face of disgust, she tried to overcharge me for my beer. Not so fast: as I made the ''expensive'' gesture, I asked the men (who were much more interested in her than I was) at the next table how much for a beer. I left the proper amount on the table, and went out the back door, never to return to that bar and the brothel next door.

So I content myself with long periods of minimal self-expression, and then explode into joyous English (or Spanish, but that's unusual) when I meet people with whom I share a language. Couchsurfing has been a wonderful addition to this trip, primarily because it's helped me find people I can really communicate with. It would be difficult to suspend verbal self-expression, and thanks to Couchsurfing, I haven't had to.

Everything in this part of Turkey has at least two names, sometimes three. This city's official name is Gaziantep, but everyone calls it Antep. (The prefix Gazi, which means ''warrior for Islam,'' was added in the 1920's to commemorate local resistance to the French, who sought to expand their Syrian colony to the south.) Other cities have official Turkish names which have replaced Kurdish ones on maps and signs, but still are known by their old names. These multiple names reflect the multiple ethnic and religious identities of the region--and make buying bus tickets really confusing.

This afternoon, a boy made a face at me as I walked down Antep's main market street. He startled me, and I guess it showed, because looked guilty and said, ''Pardon, abi.'' Sorry, uncle. In Turkey, everyone is everyone's uncle.

I'm sitting outside a tea house (çay alırsınız, abi?) below the hill-top remains of Antep's castle. The hill is entirely man-made, a relic of thousands of years of human presence. Each successive empire has built a new fortress on top of the old, adding to the giant pile of bricks, mortar, and antiques: Ottoman on top of Egyptian on top of Byzantine on top of Hittite...

There's no reason I came to Antep: it warrants only a brief mention in my guidebook, noting its excellent museum (I'll go this afternoon) and pleasant parks. (The latter is a rarity in Turkey, particularly because the parks are thoughtfully sited to separate the industrial and residential sectors of the city. Urban planning in Turkey? It can't be.)

My German hotelier asked me yesterday morning why I had come to Antep: I couldn't say any more than, ''Well, it was kind of on my route.'' (Not that I have a defined route. Two days ago, I was all set to skip Antep and go to the Hatay with a medical student I met, but she didn't invite me. I was probably over-optimistic.)

I don't know why I came, but I haven't found a reason to leave. The weather is nice. People are friendly and curious about me. (I'm finally comfortable with children's stares.) The food is stupendous: Antep is legendary throughout Turkey for its baklava, and I eat way too much of it.

How did I get to Antep? Well, I'll work backwards for a change.

I came to Antep two days ago from Malatya, a modern and unremarkable city four hours north. I spent much of my three days there working on a post about Turkish nationalism (see below) and getting lost in the market. I couchsurfed with Ahmet, a Sergeant in the Turkish army, and more importantly, a drummer in an army band. We drank a lot of beer and had many great conversations about a range of topics--Turkish politics to the Turkish military to Turkish women.

I had come to Malatya by a night train from Ankara. Unfortunately, sleepers were sold out so I spent 16 hours in second class. It was still better than a bus. My time in Ankara was brief: just long enough to drink most of a bottle of Armenian cognac with some Couchsurfing friends and catch the train. (Reconciliation between Turkey and Armenia begins in the bottle.)

I flew to Ankara from Trabzon, where I had returned to visit my friend Dicle, whom I had met three weeks earlier: it was a good choice, as she had made me an apple pie. (It was one of the most caring things anyone has done for me in a long time. Of course, she had no idea how to make a pie, so she looked up a recipe on the internet: it turned out well.) I spent three days there roasting chestnuts, eating wonderful food, and enjoying the company of people I already knew.

Before Trabzon, I was in Erzurum, a frigid city in the northeast. I couchsurfed with Veysel, a veterinary student, and his family, and also met two couchsurfers riding their bikes from Europe to India and Nepal... I can hardly imagine. Aside from being damn cold, Erzurum is situated right in the middle of the biggest hills I've ever seen--I hesitate to call them mountains, because their rolling, soft contours don't look much like the jagged peaks I'm used to. If I had gone up in them, I'm sure I would call them mountains.

Before that, I was in Kars, and you've heard about that.

Despite Antep's unexpected charm, I'll leave for Urfa tomorrow. I still have plenty of places to go, but time is short. I'll be in Cyprus in two weeks. The more time I spend in Turkey, the more time I feel I need.
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21 November:
A rather embarrassing correction--a brief look at my dictionary tells me that ''abi'' does not mean ''uncle.'' It's a colloqualism of ''ağabi,'' which means ''older brother.'' Goes to show just how good my Turkish is.