Friday, 12 October
The next day I woke up early, packed up my stuff, and took a look around the room. Eight hours ago I hadn’t wanted to touch the floor or sit on the couch, but that dark, dingy place had become a safe home to me in a very short time. I recognized the feeling, sighed, and pulled on my pack anyway.
The muhtar was not up yet. The administrative building was deserted, as was the kahvehane I’d been in the night before. Across the street, however, was a teahouse filled with the village’s retired farmers who now worked at solving world problems over countless early morning cups of tea. I walked over to them to say goodbye and they wouldn’t let me go without sitting down and joining them for tea and simit, a type of Turkish pastry.
After I had breakfast and chatted with them a bit I took a picture of myself with them and walked back out to the main road.
In the East of Bahtiyar, the terrain was much different from that of the previous days. The hilly apple growing region that reminded me of eastern Washington had given way to sparsely populated, wide-open land better for sheep grazing.
After a few kilometers, I felt my mood begin to plummet for no identifiable reason. I thought back to previous weeks when I’d walked through barren, wide-open lands similar to this and remembered the mood swings I’d experienced then, as well. I’d start feeling depressed, exposed, isolated, and vulnerable. I wondered if changes of scenery were influencing my emotions, or if I were just seeing a pattern where one didn’t really exist.
I finally forced myself to give up on that debate, telling myself, You’ll never be able to figure that out. Just shut up and walk.
A few hours later, I began going through an even drier, more deserted area. I’d long since run out of food and water. I hadn’t seen a car for miles, and there wasn’t a building or person in sight. Suddenly a cyclist on a mountain bike sped up behind me. I hadn’t seen or heard him coming even though the terrain was wide open and all was silent. He was pedaling strangely fast for an uphill grade, using one of his lowest gears. He was an Asian. He carried no baggage on his bicycle, so he had no tent or sleeping bag, and I had seen no tourists or cycling groups around, so there would be no nearby sag wagon carrying his equipment. No, this was just a lone Asian traveler out here in the barrens carrying nothing. He didn’t say hello or acknowledge me in any way. We made no eye contact.
Recognizing that I might be in one of my hypoglycemic fogs and not completely coherent, I told myself that maybe the Korean bicyclist hadn’t been real, maybe I had hallucinated him. But then I remembered the Polish guys from the second day, and how shocked I had been to realize there were others out there, and I thought, well, maybe he was real.
But then I told myself, again, You won’t be able to figure that out, either. Just shut up and walk.
I finally saw a gas station ahead and went straight for the market, trying not to look too desperately crazed as I eyeballed the shelves filled with crackers and cookies. I wanted to dive in and devour everything in sight. After buying some snacks, I went outside to a little gazebo to sit in the shade and drink my water and eat my snacks.
I eagerly made small talk with a couple of attendants while I ate, the only people I’d seen all day except for the retired farmers in Bahtiyar and maybe an Asian guy on a bicycle.
The attendants invited me to stay at the station for the night, but it was only 3:30 in the afternoon, a little too early. I finished my snacks, pulled my pack back on, and walked back out to the main road.
I briefly thought back to the beginning of the walk, when I wondered what secret handshake the Poles were using to get invitations to sleep at gas stations. Now I was turning down invitations. There was no secret handshake.
When I got to Şarkıkaraağaç, my destination for the day, I walked straight to the city center and hopped a bus back to Lake Eğirdir. After the strangeness of the previous days, I needed a weekend of relaxing by the lake, listening to the waves lap against the rocks, feeling the breeze from the lake blow across my face. I wanted to hear the noise of the tourists traipsing in and out. I wanted to hear the soldiers’ coarse laughter as they joked with the women. Most of all I wanted to sit on the deck and do nothing.
—
In 2012, Matt sold off or gave away almost everything he owned. He strapped whatever was left to his back, flew to Turkey, and walked across it. Every foot, from one end of the country to the other. Along the way, he slept in mosque gardens, dined with strangers, and stumbled into refugee camps.
This is the story of that journey. We’ll be publishing one chapter each week from his book. If you would like to read the whole thing at once, you can purchase his book titled Heathen Pilgrim: Walk Across Turkey on Amazon.
