(Barbados)…I arrived in Speightstown at 8 a.m. because the bus from Bridgetown was going there, and there did not seem to be another bus waiting to go anywhere else. I was happy I did so.
Speightstown has a laid-back feel of a forgotten, perhaps colonial gem that had its hey day when business was far less regulated than it is today. As my bus curled around the west side of the island—though communities such as Batts Rock Beach, Oxnards, Lascelles and Gibbes Beach, I wondered if this circular island could rightfully be considered part of the Caribbean. Bermuda certainly isn’t, but Barbados also is outside the natural arc of the West Indian archipelago that stretches all the way from Cuba to Grenada. Shamefully I did not have a map, but I rectified that situation by visiting the Cloisters Bookstore, before walking down to a church that stood in the middle of a cemetery and was populated solely by a sleeping Rastafarian.
The town, an inviting mix of friendly locals, peeling pastel paint and fading grandeur, was the site where Admiral Sir George Ayscue, a navy man in the service of Oliver Cromwell, could only defeat the Barbadians, who chose to be loyal to King Charles I, by paying for the services of a Barbadian turncoat and tricking his way onto the island’s soil.
No one was fooled. Seeing what a generally incompetent admiral he was, the locals agreed to charter that technically saw them realign their allegiance but which in practice gave them incredible benefits unheard of in England’s dealings with the “native races,” including the oath that taxes would not be increased without the express written approval of the Barbadians’ representatives. Ayscue proved no more capable later, when his flag ship ran aground and he was forced to surrender and be imprisoned to and by the Dutch.
The only battle he won, according to my research, was the capture of the Scilly Isles, a handful of beautiful rocks off the extreme tip of Cornwall. He was the 17th century equivalent of a modern-day CEO who runs his company into the ground, produces huge savings by the wholesale sacking of his staff, destroys most of the benefits of the formerly healthy pensions scheme and then gets a massive golden handshake and a new job within a fortnight.
Pronounced “Spites-town,” Speightstown has a gentle feel that I instantly liked and reminded me of Falmouth, Jamaica; it once enjoyed a regular boat service to Bristol, England. Barbadians are wonderful people. Walking up steps at a back of a building leading to second-story bar might not be everyone’s choice, but I wanted to go to the balcony that I could see from Church Street, as everyone on it looked like they were relaxed, and within five minutes of being seated, two locals bought me a beer, the first one just appearing from the waitress without the buyer announcing himself. Good people. I returned the hospitality, and it was convivial right to the very last moment I really had to be back on the bus to Bridgetown.
It perhaps wasn’t always so friendly there, the term “Speightstown flattery” being slang for a backhand compliment. I took a smaller bus into the interior, and the bus driver went half a mile out of his way to drop me off at a spot—Pleasant Hill—that was much nearer to my goal, Farley Hill.
This is an interesting, little-visited place that is home to a troop of Green monkeys. Their fur perhaps might be construed as green, and there they were, swinging around the trees over the heads of Tropical kingbirds. The site features a ruined manor house, with gardens, built in the early 19th century by an Englishman called Sir Graham Briggs (with a name like that, I hardly have to say he’s English, do I?). The ruins, which feature in the 1965 film An Island in the Sun starring Sidney Poitier, burnt down in 1966, and then Queen Elizabeth II opened it all up as a national park, which seems curious, as royalty of England rarely is asked to open perhaps still smoldering buildings, but anyway, that year also was the year of Barbados becoming independence, so maybe such trivialities were overlooked. That said, Queen Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert and their son, the future King George V, did stay there, so maybe she just felt like following in their footsteps. In Poitier’s film, it was called Belle Fontaine, for another reason lost to knowledge.
I walked back to Speightstown, some five miles, and then stopped for lunch in a low-key little place called the Fisherman’s Hut, which featured black-and-white photos of former cricket stars (see photo above). In bustling Bridgetown, I made a beeline to the Jewish synagogue for its oddity value, and then to a very strange statue purporting to be a likeness to Horatio Nelson. It is covered in bird excrement.
Supposedly, Nelson saved Barbados from the French, but many here see no relationship to him and want it removed from its prominent site and replaced by a worthy Bajan. Maybe he is looking so rough because the statue now is two years short of being 200.
(Southeastern Anatolia)…The bazaar in the small city of Şanliurfa was a revelation, a time capsule that is both 11,000 years old (so scholars believe) and modern and vibrant. It is a Kurdish town, and immediately noticeable were the mauve scarves decorating the heads of both men and women. Some boast filigreed patterns in silver thread. The bazaar is the usual maze of alleys with shops, and into one a tailor invited us.
He sat cross-legged on the floor (probably had done since early that morning) and sewed thick sheep fleeces into jackets and waistcoats, whole ordering us tea. The “getting of tea” remains a joyous mystery to me throughout my travels in beautiful Turkey.
Hospitable Turks asked you to join them for tea, and therefore tea was summoned. It would come quickly, with accompanying sugar and spoons, but at no time did I see money exchange hands or anyone come back to collect the tulip-shaped glasses and trays. I was certainly not asked for contributions, and I rather think I would have offended if I had asked.
Perhaps there is a monthly charge? Who knows? Şanliurfa—its name was lengthened with the addition of Şanli, which means “glorious” in Turkish, in recognition of the city’s contribution to Turkish independence against the French—is famous for it being the birthplace of the prophet Abraham, who hid in a cave from the King Nemrut, who wanted to kill every child due to some unfavourable prediction. The cave can be walked to from an attractive area of plazas, mosques, gardens and pools, visitors crouching low beneath a green cloth (separate entrances for the genders) to sip the water that kept the prophet alive. The pools contain hundreds of carp, around which surround legends: If you see a white one, you will go to heaven; if you eat any one, you will be poisoned, for this was the site where Abraham was sentenced to burn by Nemrut but where the fire turned to water and the wood pile turned into fish.
Behind the pools—called the Balikligöl—are restful, idyllic caravansaries where old men talk about the past. The Second Crusade (1145-1149) also started when Islamic forces recaptured the city. It is a fascinating place, with patios opening up to reveal domino-playing, old men and an area of honey-coloured houses where I bought a grapefruit that was the sweetest fruit I’ve ever eaten.
One dinner was had sat on very low, backless seats (better to feel, perhaps misguidedly, that somehow you belong there and can watch the scene unfold without being seen yourself) outside a döner kebabı restaurant, a small hole in the wall, where the jolly proprietor sat outside with us and chopped the ends of and nibbled hot chilies to make sure they would not blow our “foreign” heads out of the bazaar. After hearing horror reports of travellers being mobbed in small, dusty, brown Harran, about 30 kilometres south of Şanliurfa, it came as a wonderful surprise to hardly seeing anyone. Where were they all? Where were the children? In school, it seemed, wearing blue uniforms.
A few residents shepherded sheep in the shade of the ruins of Harran’s university, which is the oldest Islamic university and thus perhaps the oldest on the planet from any faith or nation. Camels plodded around, and hoopoes and Burrowing owls swooped and hopped. Harran is small and poor, which must differ greatly from the 8th and 9th centuries when scholars flocked here to learn about astronomy, religion and medicine, some decades before Islam’s greatest university in Baghdad was even conceived. Beehive-shaped houses dot Harran, but most are used now for storage or tourism.
Numerous tarmac’ed but equally dusty roads crisscross the desert that after not being totally sure where we were continues across the border with Syria to forlorn places such as Büyük Çayli and larger Ceylanpinar. We ate honey on the comb while watching a Lebanese ground agama (Trapelus lessonae), a lizard that almost was indistinguishable from the sandy ground around it. Agriculture has started, thanks to the controversial GAP (Güneydoğu Anadolu Projesi) reservoir and dam project that seeks to tame the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.
We span northwards to the glorious mountaintop town of Mardin. Essentially, at least for tourists, Mardin consists of one street, Cumhuriyet Caddesi, which contains the very comfortable Artuklu Kervansaray hotel. Walking beneath an arch, we admired an ornate doorway, only to be invited in by the owner, an old woman, who introduced us to her son, his wife and their daughter. More tea was served, and more lost-in-translation but heartfelt conversation was swapped, followed by an invite to climb on their flat roof to see the view of the Mesopotamian plain stretching from Mardin all the way, perhaps, to the Golan Heights of Syria and Israel and the crusader and Knights Templar castles of Lebanon. Several restaurants also have rooftop perches, and an antique shop had two kitschy watches bearing former Iraqi despot Saddam Hussein’s face that it would not sell for any price.
The next morning we visited its twisty bazaar and a Syrian Orthodox Church (the Kirklar Kilisesi) for which the keeper of the key suddenly appeared. This interests me, the word “kirklar.” In Scandinavia and Scotland, churches have a similar etymology. Atatürk wrote out a Roman-style Turkish alphabet on a napkin in the 1920s, but presumably the word for church had a pronunciation in the Ottoman dialect of Arabic. Answers, please. We were told that Pope John Paul II visited. We had the dark, dusty place to ourselves. Carved above the entrance is the church’s date of formation: 569.
Paintings of the church’s holy fathers, the earliest ones quite comical, line the walls. Approximately six miles away along a thin road is the far larger Syrian Orthodox monastery of Deyrulzaferan, that is, the Saffron Monastery, so named for its yellowish hue. Until recent years this was the seat of the Syrian Orthodox Church’s patriarch, who now lives in Damascus. Obviously, Damascus is in Syria, so that fact speaks volumes concerning this area of Turkey’s links to the religions and peoples of wider Mesopotamia. Deyrulzaferan has a large courtyard, two floors, a church and two remaining brothers who speak Aramaic, the language, supposedly, of Jesus Christ. There are also nuns. One room contained the crumbling remains of two small sedan chairs in which the patriarch was ferried. A mountain with caves stands behind.
