Nemrut Dagi: Turkey

March 1995

Perhaps it was the one hour of sleep. Perhaps it was the early morning exertion. Nevertheless, I found myself making a rather poor decision. I decided to take a short cut down an icy slope to the bottom of the ridge. My tiredness, lack of food and water, and my haste to try and make it to the summit of Nemrut Dagi for the sunrise had led me to do this. I noted that the bottom of the ridge was approaching quite rapidly. There was a large outcrop of rocks below. Hmmm. Not so good. I was now starting to spin around as I shot down the mountain-side and was well out of control. How did I get myself into this situation again?

The journey to the east of Turkey had started innocently enough. I had found myself in Cappadocia in central Turkey for close to a week. It was warm for early March, had friendly locals, and the amazing scenery of rock formations cut out by the elements over the ages had kept me around to explore a location almost untouched by tourists at that time of year. I had met the one other foreigner staying at the Kose Pension in Goreme a couple of nights before. His name was Frank, an Englishman traveling around the Middle East. We had gone out the night before on a rare night of drinks in a town not renowned for nightlife and had met a number of the locals. Our first encounter was with Murat, a fellow who introduced himself grandly as a “Kurdish terrorist”. Upon finding out we were a Canadian and an Englishman, Murat exclaimed “Ah! I am married to a Canadian woman and I used to be married to an English woman!” Frank and I exchanged skeptical glances. This was not the first time in the Middle East that we had heard an embellished story. Nevertheless, Murat proved to be a man of his word. We met the Canadian wife the next day. Our grandiose plans to visit the site of Nemrut Dagi, sketched out in a hazy, well-meaning way the night before, came to fruition. Murat had been talking to a German woman, Marika, and her Turkish friend, Selen, who also lived in Germany, and they were keen on visiting the isolated mountain near Adiyaman in Eastern Turkey. Murat was prepared to take the four of us in his old, beat-up yellow car on a two-day excursion to visit Nemrut Dagi and Kurdistan for the low, low price of $50 U.S. all inclusive.

Now it should be noted that Kurdistan was considered a dangerous area for foreign tourists to visit. It was 1995 and there had been recent “terror” attacks (before that expression came into vogue in our post-9/11 world) by the PKK (Kurdish Workers Party – KWP had been taken by the Korean Women’s Poker league; just a joke – ed.) in response to oppression by the Turks.

As our group gathered on a chilly, early morning to begin the 8-hour drive to Adiyaman, we looked doubtfully at our transport. We now understood why day packs were the only belongings allowed to accompany us. As is the case whilst traveling, you very often find yourself in new and somewhat awkward situations with people you have only just met and the shared experience finds one getting familiar on a far quicker scale than, say, hanging out in your local coffee shop at home. In this case, we had to decide how to squeeze three in the back and which one of us would be the lucky individual to score the passenger seat in the front. Frank took first shift in the front, leaving Marika, Selen, and myself in the amusing situation of alternating sitting positions on top of one another as we headed off on a bumpy, arse-jarring journey eastward over the next several hours.

As we headed east the weather started to change and we encountered snow flurries as we passed through more mountainous areas. Murat kept us entertained with stories of his life, his people and his people’s history. He also kept us on the edges of our seats as his driving took second place to his dynamic hand gestures and dramatic acrobatics, turning to make direct eye contact with his passengers on any particularly important point.

Over the course of the journey Murat described what the western Turkish media had not reported. “Yes, the PKK have conducted ‘guerilla activities’ in Istanbul and other western Turkish cities, but the reports of tourists getting hurt is exaggerated. Any tourists involved had been treated well and the kidnappings had been used to try and gain attention for the Kurdish cause” he claimed. “Also, what does not get out to the world news is that the Turkish army has burned hundreds of villages in Kurdistan to try and flush out any of our ‘freedom fighters’ (I’m sure he didn’t say ‘freedom fighters’, but it’s in vogue now, isn’t it?). I took Murat’s version of the state of affairs with a tiny bit of skepticism but I figured that there was more than a grain of truth to his passionate position. The Kurds have not had a good time of it in either Turkey or Iraq. It’s another case of a group of peoples without their own country (as recognized by the world) struggling under the mainstream media radar whilst we get a decidedly one-sided view from those in power. End of minor rant.

However, it wasn’t all passionate nationalism on our trip. It became a bit of a party atmosphere as we told travel stories and jokes and Murat proved to be a very humourous tour guide. In fact, it was on such a note that we were laughing at the latest gem when Murat turned to us from his, erm, ‘steering’ to bolt around in his seat and ask with great gravitas: “We are approaching the border to Kurdistan. Get rid of any drugs and/or guns you have on you immediately!” The sudden silence was broken as Frank quipped “Well, better get rid of the AK-47’s and the kilo of coke, then.” The rest of us broke up in the back seat, knocking heads in the process. Nevertheless, the unofficial border point to Kurdistan was ahead with armed Turkish military, but we were sped through after a “tiny present” to the guard on duty to supplement his wages. The armed forces are not well paid in Turkey…

We eventually arrived in Adiyaman and emerged from our vehicle sore and cramped from the long day. Murat took us along to his sister and brother-in-law’s house to have a traditional Kurdish meal with the family. An interesting dynamic occurred as a selection of languages was used to communicate amongst everyone there. Turkish, German, French and English were spoken in the now cramped quarters of the family living room. The five of us squeezed onto mats and pillows with the five members of Murat’s extended family. Although oblivious to it at the time in our exhaustion, we were neglectful in showing appreciation to our hosts for their wonderful hospitality. We ate our meal with the family in relative silence as we looked forward to our beds for our early morning start to Nemrut Dagi. In fact, as the evening wore on and the strong smoke from the ever-lit cigarettes in the house got unbearable we begged off to our pension to get some sleep for the next day.

The next day arrived far too early as far as I was concerned. We had gone to bed at 11 pm and were awake at 1 am in order to make it to Nemrut for the sunrise. We were in the car by 2 am and setting off for the mountains. Our supplies were non-existent, besides my Nalgene water bottle. To say we went into this thing half-arsed would be an understatement. Nevertheless, we were in good, if tired, spirits as we looked forward to our adventure.

As we made our way up the track to the access point of Nemrut in the wee hours of the morning, the weak light from the headlights of our car led our way over increasingly bumpy conditions. A quick check confirmed that we were actually on the road, as greater bumpiness waited to either side. At times we pressed through deep troughs in the road that had collected melted ice and water. Our spinal columns were given a good jarring as the road rose into larger and more plentiful rock debris that had been left over the winter. We stopped briefly at a lonely, abandoned car stopped at the side of the road on the way up. The dawn had begun to glimmer, affording us some light, and Murat pointed out the peak of Nemrut Dagi. We continued, as the road did eventually lead to close to the summit. We had wondered what business the car’s passengers had here at this time of year, but onward and upward as they say. Until we reached the lake in the middle of the road soon after. Yes, a lake. At least it was as far as we were concerned. We were not going any further in our vehicle.

At this point I started to question the likelihood of making it to the summit of Nemrut for the sunrise. We were still very distant from our goal and a series of ridges lay between us and Nemrut. Without much further ado, we set off. I was obviously the most zealous in my efforts to reach the summit for dawn as I left the others behind. My choice of direction was based on the straightest line toward our destination. Up one ridge and down another, up again and down again I went. I was draining myself of a lot of energy with my pace and I found my lack of sleep and lack of food (due to a lack of appetite based on a surprise case of constipation over the last day) clouded my judgment. Thus, my decision to descend the icy ridge on my arse was ill-informed but well-intentioned in my pursuit of the summit. It was the last ridge before Nemrut and I could see the reds and pinks of the dawn growing rapidly.

As I shot down the ice my fatigue left me as my adrenalin kicked in on realization that the rocks poised below were about to give meaning to “between a rock and a hard place”. I dug in my hands and used them to steer my way down the slope. Remarkably, it worked. I avoided the rocks, reached the bottom of the slope, let out a whoop of joy at being alive and threw up my hands in the air. Unfortunately I noticed what kind of effect using your hands as brakes on ice is like. My hands were now bloody and cold. The cold at least slowed the bleeding, but I knew I better clean them up a bit and had to use about a quarter of my water bottle to do so. My first-aid complete, I continued toward Nemrut, now realizing that Frank, previously the closest behind me, was nowhere to be seen.

I made my way up the steep ridge of the mountain, now very tired and feeling a bit light-headed from the drop in adrenalin (and the rise in altitude). The day was beginning. I pressed myself hard up the final portion, tiring from the deep snow that I was struggling to trudge through. My knees were burning with every couple of steps and I needed to rest for a minute before continuing. It was in such a resting position that I looked to see the dawn had beaten me. The rays of the sun cast upon the top of the mountain and soon I too was soaked in the warm light. It was in this fashion that I came up the western side of Nemrut Dagi in the shadow of the tumulus mound that marked the summit. I noted from my guidebook that the tumulus, or burial, mound had been erected over the remains of Antiochus I who had had this site marked as a monument to his gloriousness. And his modesty. Ahem…

So what’s the deal with Nemrut Dagi? Why make this big journey out to Kurdistan for a mountain? Two reasons. The first is that it’s an incredible historical marker to a minor king’s rule and ego. Second, it’s a cool thing to do when you’re not supposed to go out to a “terrorist-infested” locale. Travel bragging rights are oh so important when you’re 23. An immature 23, that is. But, more to the first point, Nemrut Dagi means quite simply Mount Nimrod. Yes, this is where the expression “nimrod” comes from. Feel free to speculate. “Ancient King” Antiochus I was the ruler of a Syrian province called Commagene that announced it’s independence from the Seleucid kingdom in 162 BC. King Antiochus I Epthiphanes achieved deity status upon his rule in 69 – 36 BC. His burial mound at the top of Nemrut Dagi increased the already 2150 m mountain another 150 some-odd metres. The monuments to his wonderfulness included statues of Zeus, Apollo, Hercules and, of course, Antiochus. After all, we all think of him when we think of the other four, right? And that is my historical lesson for the story.

My first impression of the western terrace was like my journey to the top. I was both a little disappointed and a little exultant. I was now in the presence of ancient history in a rarely visited place but, being on the leeward side of the mountain, the statues and remains of the terrace were almost completely buried. Sigh. Now what? No one else was in view and now that I was almost at the top, the cold began to seep in and made my sweaty back start to freeze. I decided to keep warm by summiting the mountain to get a better view and give me a chance to survey as much of the surroundings as possible. It was not far and soon I had reached the top. Mountains lay all around and many of the peaks were emerging from the shadow as the glow of the sun touched their summits. I had the warm fuzzies from the sight (and a sense of accomplishment) but I was also a bit concerned as my attempts to spot my hiking partners were as yet in vain.

Descending the eastern side of the mound (it is much easier to negotiate snow on the way down) I took leaping bounds toward what I could now make out were a collection of monuments that marked the eastern terrace. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the mound that I discovered a half-buried sign in the snow stating in Turkish, German, and English: “IT IS FORBIDDEN TO CLIMB THE TUMULUS MOUND”. Hmmm. Too late, methinks. At least there wasn’t supposed to be any kind of curse placed on those who failed to heed the warning. Was there?

The statues were far more visible from the snow than anything on the western side. The day proved to be fine and sunny and the warmth of the sun helped my spirits. Nevertheless, after examining the old Commagene scripts on the central monument, photographing the fallen heads of the statues on the ground and scrambling around in the snow, I felt after 20 minutes that I had explored the site as much as I could given the circumstances. Now I only needed to worry about when the others would arrive.

Thankfully it would not prove too much longer for the others to show up. They had fallen quite a bit behind and I felt guilty for rushing off after my sunrise Grail. Still, the others seemed in good, if cold and tired, spirits and spent the next half hour exploring the terraces. I got to play tour guide. We mugged for photos in front of the fallen heads and on top of the headless figures lying before the mound. An earthquake had managed to behead the Gods at an earlier point in the century. But our lack of supplies and fatigue began to wear on us. We decided it would be best to head back but there was some disagreement as to the best way to do that. In the end, we proceeded to take a “short-cut” and take a more direct line down the mountain toward the car. I suppose I had used up my luck from my previous icy descent, for things would really go from a grand day out to quite a gong show…

We made our way down the embankment at a slow pace. Selen and I made a series of descents close to a large outcrop of rock to the left of the slope in hopes of using secure handholds. Murat set out down the middle of the snow field, using the tried-and-true method I had tried earlier. Frank followed us for a time before figuring Murat’s decision to have greater merit. Marika was now having difficulty with the cold and wet and was falling behind. Then tragedy struck. Frank had made his way out into the snow field whereupon he slipped and slid for several metres until his tailbone ran into a hidden rock outcrop. Frank lay motionless for a minute. If Frank did not respond or if his spine had been injured we were now in a lot of trouble. Luckily, Frank ‘only’ had the breath knocked out of him, but he was now in a lot of pain. Murat worked his way back up to Frank to take a look at his injury. Selen and I had now made it down a good portion of the mountain and awaited the others to do so too. Murat helped Frank make his way down the rest of the slope. In time, we all reached the bottom but still needed the car and food and water.

Some luck came to us when we did reach the bottom. We ran into the occupants of the other car that we had encountered on the way up. They proved to be hunters from a nearby town. They were hunting using a trained falcon and luckily had extra supplies of food with them. While we ate a strange sort of hard paste they gave to us, Murat limped his way back to the car. He too had had a small slide on the final part of the slope and had come away a little worse for wear. Soon after, Murat brought the car to where the hunters’ car awaited and we bade our thanks and farewells to the hunters. We collapsed into the yellow chariot and Murat steered our way back to civilization and a necessary meal and nap. Murat took Frank to a doctor in Adiyaman to have his tailbone attended to while we recovered at the pension.

After our recovery, we were greeted by Murat who apologized for the set of circumstances that had led to our situation on the mountain. I suppose he had gotten an earful from Frank over the course of seeing the doctor. Frank had been blaming our Kurdish friend for all our misfortunes. Frank could be terribly English at times. Perhaps Frank was a little pissed because the “natural therapy” the doctor had prescribed had been a patch on his arse.

Murat told us that we were being invited back to his family’s place for dinner that night. Apparently we had not expressed enough gratitude for our meal the previous evening. In order to bring honour back to the family we were being invited again for what would prove to be a lavish traditional spread. This traditional repast involved many delicacies, including a raw minced meat delicacy hand-rolled in spices and sauce. Yum. This time we took exceptional care to voice approval of the meal and murmur delicious smacking sounds as we ate. We weren’t going to screw that up again.

The evening wore on and the last couple of days started to catch up with me. In fact, as we sat around in the family room amongst the cloying Turkish (Kurdish?) cigarettes, the closed quarters and the odd belly rumblings beginning from my intestines, I took note that I was not feeling very well. I gave my thanks to the family and took my leave for the guesthouse. The night proved to not be good. I came down with incredible body temperature changes and barely slept. When I got up in the morning to go my muscles were racked with pain, my head was pounding and I was still constipated. And I had an eight-hour car ride to Goreme ahead of me. Anyone have a dervish’s sword I could fall on?

Suffice it to say that the journey back to Cappadocia was one I would never want to do again in my condition. It must have been a combination of altitude sickness, overexertion and disagreeable raw meat. The others, besides Frank and his tailbone, were in reasonably fine shape and I tried to picture myself in my happy place as we bumped back across the country. There’s nothing quite like feeling like death warmed over for 8 hours in a sardine tin. At long last we arrived back at the Kose pension and Auntie Dawn, the Scottish hostess, ushered me to bed and brought me aspirin and tea over the next three days as I recuperated. I said goodbye to Frank, Marika and Selen as they continued their travels to the Aegean coast. My path lay to the south and the Mediterranean Coast once I had sufficiently recovered.

So it had been the best of times and the worst of times. A borrowed phrase? Yes, but very accurate. It sums up one of the true adventures that I’ve had whilst traveling. It’s all the more memorable due to the ups and downs. What’s the moral of the piece? If you meet a self-proclaimed Kurdish terrorist in a bar in Cappadocia, at least consider taking him up on an offer to visit Kurdistan for a memorable time…