Diyarbakir to Siverek. 8 May.
There would eventually be the decision of whether to turn for the mountains or to head back south to Şanlıurfa, but the first leg from Diyarbakir would be to Siverek in any case. There I hope to find more information on how to get up Mount Nemrut without spending more money or time than necessary.
Since I had used my last spare tube I first set off to find a new one and have my wheel rebalanced - the Mardin mechanics turned out to be cheap for a reason. I always knew that somewhere in the vast stretch of Turkey the minds of merchants would start to work more around money than manners. In Iraq my money were often refused, something that now only happened occasionally. At some point people would start to try to fool me, as I would call it, or do good business as they likely would. It was a matter of where, not if, and it turned out to be there in Diyarbakir. No great scam in the grand scheme of things, just a mechanic (and frankly not a very good one it would prove) that took use of the fact that I had not bargained in the price before he did his work. Note to self: time to be on guard.
A while after leaving the city limits I was stopped by a car. This still happened every now and then, curious people wondering where I was from and where I was going (although they were nowhere near as baffled as the Iraqis). This man, Rıdvan, was indeed curious, so much so that he wanted to make a new story about me. It turned out to he worked for a news agency, now on his way to photograph the house developments made in response to the earthquakes last year. That photoshoot was now postponed for half an hour as I got to read a short version of my story in Turkish and cycle in slow motion so he could capture some material. I would hardly say that I'm used to media attention, and certainly not to speak in Turkish, but then again I have not traveled by bike before and yet, there I was. With the camera, like riding the bike and as with anything new or unexpected, I find it best to just roll with it.
After my time the spotlight, to be on air the following day, I continued on my way and soon stopped for lunch with my prepared sandwiches. I had barely resumed the riding when I felt a bump and heard, through the headphone music, a snap from the rear. Immediately the tire went flat. At this point I was more than a little frustrated after all the care I had tried to take of my poor back wheel. Yet I was prepared in mind and material and set about to change the tube, only to find out that they had sold me the wrong one with a valve that would not fit through the wheel. Now I was angry.
Of course I was in no real trouble. I had pads to mend the hole in the tube should I have to, and there were villages not too far away with cars passing regularly. I will not spin an ale story saying I was alone and left to fend for myself. But I did scream.
It was not a scream out of desperation, for I am too desensitised from mental training to be blind to the facts above. It was not a scream of overwhelming fury, for I'm too stable, to balanced, too cold to be thrown off from this. The scream was one of relief. Yes, to relieve myself from small frustrations that have built up over one month on the road. But perhaps even more a relief over the simple fact that I could scream. There was no one to judge me, and I did not judge myself for it. I did not have to scream but I wanted to, and so I did. It felt good. It felt real good.
Before I had time to actually fix my problems, Mehmet showed up on his white horse (speaking in figures). A few hours later he had brought me back to Diyarbakir to the bicycle shop to switch the tube to one I could use, to an ATM so I could restock on Liras, to a diner where he bought me food and all the way to Siverek despite that he was not heading that direction. After all that he asked me to forgive him that he couldn't host me in his village as he was working evening shift. He is a father of four with many mouths to feed, and that day he fed one more.
Like many Kurds, Mehmet dreams of a life in Sweden. He, like many others, asked me how that would be possible. Sadly most Kurds in Sweden have originally come illegally, and of that I know little. For those the are helping me, the one thing they hope me to aid them with I can't. Ours is a system that simultaneously promote and prohibit illegal immigration.
"My day was spent helping you. God help me."
I got a little lump in my throat as I read this in the translator. But I replied that I wanted his kids to know that their father was a hero. He shone up at this. There was no news coverage of Mehmet's deeds the next day, only of mine. But he told his kids what I asked him and they saw him for what he was: the hero of the day. If there is a god, I believe that he saw it, too.
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