(for reading this article it is recommended to put on the Spotify playlist “Anatolian rock revival project”)
My summer in a saying: kervan yolda düzülür (organising the caravan on the road). A summer of being on the move, going with the flow, exploring, and absorbing it all.
There was a hike through Turkey’s south that turned out a bit differently than I’d envisioned. The hike—or rather, the non-hike—unleashed some thoughts, which I’m putting here to process and remember. This article is a small ode to all the beautiful encounters, the hospitality, and the sharing I experienced along the way, perfectly complementing the beautiful book I read while there, On Connection by Kae Tempest.
In times when a loved one disappears from your life, and the intensifying effects of love break away, an emptiness and void are often left behind. Reconnecting and reengaging with my surroundings and all forms of life around me became my lifeline, helping to keep me afloat.
On my favourite philosophy blog the Marginalian by Maria Popova, I came across a section citing “The Painted Drum” from Louise Erdich’s 2005 novel describing my summer perfectly – just replace apples by figs:
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could”.
Since I understood this section as meaning that there’s no harm in trying and taking risks: It happened that while talking to a friend about my last hike in Turkey, I got a message from the Turkish guy I’d met then, asking if I wanted to come back and hike again. So daring to listen to a (thought) sign, I booked a flight to go hiking with someone I barely knew in Turkey. It was the calmness of the mountains, the walking, sleeping outside, connecting, being present, and maybe even making a few random, not-too-well-thought-through decisions. I tried convincing myself that this trip would make good use of an already booked connecting flight to a conference in South Africa (figuring I could just take the second leg from Istanbul to Cape Town). But my first lesson was this (and take it from a wise friend: connecting flights don’t work like that; you can’t just pick and choose which leg to take). In the end, I ended up flying more, not less! Even with the best intentions, sometimes our decisions have the opposite effect—better not to be too hard on ourselves.
The idea of hiking with someone and following the same goal despite barely talking due to language barriers sounded appealing. But reality hit differently. Although this article was meant to be about connection, my journey started with no connection. My friend and I turned out to be incompatible hiking buddies, and our lack of communication became a disaster. We argued, separated, and then kept bumping into each other somewhere up in the hills, deep in the forest. Our misunderstandings involved also the tent-situation – a crucial detail on a 10-day hike in the wild. Also, he was wearing the wrong shoes and a far too heavy backpack. While he claimed that in his culture, women always have the last word, he didn’t quite apply this principle. When I told him to pack as lightly as possible and leave things like his music box behind for the planned 10-day hike, he didn’t listen. Instead, he brought his Turkish coffee set and a super heavy gun (he’s a soldier) anyway.
Despite our lack of connection, we somehow managed to stick together—at least until it was no longer possible. After four days of negative vibes, I finally told him I wanted to stop the hike. Still, running away wasn’t an option, since I’d left my laptop and conference clothes in his car to lighten my backpack. Meanwhile, his blisters were making it impossible for him to continue hiking. Even though we knew we only needed to get out of the forest (we were about a day’s hike from civilisation), we somehow took care of each other along the way. He still managed to organise food for the two of us by talking to people who then invited us to join them. I gave him one of my sandals to ease his blistered, bloody foot—the same foot that, coincidentally, was the one I didn’t have a blister on.
Despite our lack of connection, through him, I saw a new side of Turkey—a nation so chatty and warmly welcoming, on a whole new level. This journey reminded me of how connections work. At times, it was almost hard to keep moving forward without stopping from one place to the next, explaining our hiking mission while politely declining all the generous offers of food and drinks. (My friend explained me that it was because he’s a soldier and that Turkish people love soldiers.)
So the hike and its connections began. While waiting for the bus, my friend struck up a conversation with an older man, which lasted the entire bus ride and ended with hugs and exchanged phone numbers. At first, I thought this was a unique connection—but soon I realised this was just the norm.
For instance, a guy on a motorbike who helped us with directions turned out to also live half the year in Germany, then directly the first car stopped driven by a kind woman with her toddler giving us a lift to our hike’s starting point.
That first day also brought our first taste of Indian figs—and, consequently, a few prickly fingers. But it also included a lunch break under a fig tree. This hike was definitely about living the “fig tree dream,” where the fun of climbing trees was rewarded by the sweetest of all fruits. (If you dare, dip them in runny tahini—it’s the perfect snack.) While resting under the tree, two men in a car stopped to ask if we needed anything and returned half an hour later with cold water and energy bars. After we climbed up a dried out waterfall and some more mountains, that evening, a family invited us to sit on their veranda and shared grapes and pears (and raw eggs for my muscle-bound friend—urgh!). Shortly after, another family brought us a bag full of cookies.
And that wasn’t even all. Later that night, after a bit of night hiking, we passed a mountain orchard. Abdullah, the owner, invited us in for tea and laid out a whole table of homemade snacks. At that point, I was beginning to wonder how we could possibly make it anywhere close to our goal at this pace. Such were the thoughts of a beginner in the art of connection.
The next day, after hiking up steep hills in 35°C heat, a few open water pipes helped us cool off and keep going. Eventually, we reached a cluster of houses, and we gratefully stopped under the first grape tree we found for shade. It was the perfect spot—I couldn’t have asked for more. As we rested, we realized we were sitting on a floor scattered with dried mulberries that no one seemed to be collecting. A perfect little snack for the hikes to come.
The next part of our hike up through the forest was beautiful. While I was fueled by figs and grapes, my friend’s mood began to deteriorate with every step we took. I was happy in my “me-time” walking, why my friend seemed unpatient, tired and hungry. So he stopped to ask the few houses we passed by for food. Culturally, this felt so different to me; I feel strangely weird asking others for food. In Turkey, though, it almost felt rude not to ask—people truly love to feed you. So, it wasn’t surprising when a car pulled over and my friend stepped out, grinning, with a bag full of delicious food: Turkish flatbread, olives, goat cheese, and a perfectly ripe tomato.
Hiking alongside a silent, grumpy companion wasn’t easy. For me, this hike was quite emotional at times, bringing up a lot of feelings. At one point, while waiting for him, I started writing a letter to my ex. Luckily, I was still in a no-internet zone while writing (and crying over it). After a silent morning and hiking in the midday heat, we arrived at an adventure ziplining park. Maybe it was a sign: just a few hours after writing the message, I spotted a woman wearing a T-shirt that read, “Don’t text your ex.” I never sent the message—the universe had spoken.
Meanwhile, the tension between my hiking-buddy and me had reached a breaking point. We ended up fighting over Google Translate, eventually deciding to part ways. He went ahead, while I stayed behind a bit to charge my phone. Once I resumed hiking solo, I enjoyed the me-time in the forest (not even straight taking a wrong path uphill for 30 minutes could stop that).
As dusk set in, I bumped into him again further up the trail. He was on his phone, but when he saw me, he extended his hand. This small gesture seemed to seal the deal to continue together, despite our differences. We walked a bit in the dark until we set up our sleeping spots next to each other (still not talking). That night was challenging, as I had unknowingly chosen a spot close to an ant nest, making sleep nearly impossible as ants explored every inch of me. By morning, I had decided I couldn’t keep hiking under these conditions. Sometimes it is better “to give up a made plan” than to push it through in a bad mindset. When I told him, he suggested we walk together to the next town and take a bus back to the car.
The last day of the hike, after I had decided to quit the project felt endless, like many days in one. Being miles away from civilisation and running low on food didn’t help much. Yet, even on this day, hospitality shone through. We encountered shared grapes and friendly exchanges in otherwise deserted villages. When hunger finally took over, we stopped to collect a fallen apple just outside a house’s fence. My friend then began explaining our little hunt to the owner, and the next moment, I found myself sitting on the veranda, being served the most delicious gözleme, olives, and fresh vegetables from the garden.
The man, with his little remnant French from army days, gave me a brief tour of his garden and showed me how he conserves tomato sauce in the sun. After this little fresh-up, several more hours of walking in the hot sun waited, but along the way, more kind people motivated us with cold water handed through fences.
Once we reached a busier road, we decided to try our luck hitchhiking. It wasn’t long before the second car stopped—the slowest moving vehicle with two ladies and a small child in the back that rolled down that mountain that day. The child initially played with a toy gun, pretending to shoot at me, but not long exchanging connecting gestures, few words and sounds, he quickly forgot about the gun.
After the hike ended sooner than expected I decided to fully embrace the flow of my adventure and booked a hostel in Antalya. While after retrieving my things from the car my hiking companion offered to take me to the city center, even this last shared moments ended in an argument about our misunderstandings, and he ultimately kicked me out of the car. Making my own decisions from this point onwards felt incredibly freeing.
The following days brought more watermelon and feta, along with great cultural interactions from unknowingly illegal swims at a private beach (until the owner kindly informed me that I should pay next time), up to dating and diving. I stumbled upon an advanced diving course on a boat filled with Russian tourists, all entertained by awful music, looking for recreation in one of the few countries that welcomed their money during wartime. They eagerly spent that money for the perfect video or photo of themselves while feeding the fish.
My diving was great though. I saw a carera turtle, a stinging ray but also a ship wrack in 31m depth at 30° C (which is faaar too hot for the Mediteranean sea). At first, I was terrified of going so deep, but then I accepted my situation. I think that’s what diving is all about—just being in the moment and focus on your breathing.
I couchsurfed at my diving instructor’s apartment, which was filled with far too much smoke (I still don’t get why people harm themselves yet call it pleasure). The journey felt at times like an intensive course in understanding Turkish men, revealing some very different and diverse aspects of their culture (they definitely want their Tinder dates to come to their place as soon as possible).
While I doubted my risk-taking that led me to Turkey, I have come to embrace the new learnings. Overall, this journey felt like a practical, applied course on the meaning of connection.
It was a foraging and treasure hunt, living by what I found along the way—discovering, recognising, and cherishing the plants, trees, and animals around me. This guy in Istanbul harvesting a fig tree with this long stick and a cup on front to reach savely to the higher fruits, the farmers showing their little garden sharing how they raise their plants and animals, seeing how they are nurturing new generations of trees adapting to a changing climate, observing the biomes shifting from the pine mountain, to the sumak valley to the red barked tree/caroob forests, the mighty Turkish cats seeking little cuddles, eating vegetable stew with the diving crew on the boat after the storm of the Russian tourists passed, observing the mountain goats jumping savely over the steep mountaineous slopes, elderlies gathering in the city’s shade, sipping tea and playing backgammon, a half-hour exchange with a herbal medicine shop owner about life and the connection with a Tinder date who brought me fruits as a gift. Those small moments of connections are the dot on the i in life that make it sparkling and buzzing.
Through it all, I learned to observe and cheristh those connections. I learnt to trust and listen to my needs and to making decisions about when it was best to open and when best to distance myself and that it matters how to do things. Making connections is an art: it requires practice and determination. However, it is never a waste of time to take risks and invest in them, whether with ourselves and/or the living surrounding. This risk-taking and investment in connections is an incredible source of energy, hope and joy.
I share this to remind what unites us all: the beautiful art of welcoming another person by sharing life and crossing lifelines. Turkey excels at this, and there is so much to learn from this culture.
