Tuesday, 5 March
The day after moving to Diyarbakır, I hop a mini-bus back to Siverek to begin the three daylong legs of my walk toward Diyarbakir. The plains now are windswept, the winds high.
As I start my walk out of Siverek, a group of about eight 10-year-old boys runs up to me.
One of the boys jumps up and down, gesturing wildly and pointing at me, his face contorted in anger. He yells, “Syrians are not welcome here. Move on!”
I turn my back on him and face the other boys. I take off my sunglasses.
While the angry boy jumps and screams, I chat with his friends and introduce myself.
“Where are you from?” one of the boys asks.
“I am an American,” I say.
Upon hearing this, the angry boy calms down a bit and pushes to the front of the group. He introduces himself as “Ronaldo.” Ronaldo is a famous Portuguese footballer.
“Nice to meet you, Ronaldo,” I say. I hold out my hand. He shakes it. Then I shake a few more hands before turning around and continuing to walk.
By now the angry boy has calmed down enough such that the expression on his face says, “I should still be angry about something, but I’m not sure what now.” Before I get too far away he catches up to me and reintroduces himself using his real name.
The boys fall away as we pass a soccer field. A group of men is sitting on the sidewalk drinking tea. I say hello to them. They nod at me, and one of them strikes up a conversation:
Man: Where are you going?
Me: Today I am walking towards Diyarbakır.
Man: Are you hitchhiking?
Me: No, I am walking. On foot.
Man: Are you riding a bicycle?
Me: No, I am walking. On foot.
Man: (after a pause) Are you taking a car?
Me: No, I am walking. On foot.
The man looks at me with a surprised look that says, “You’re crazy!”
I smile and wave and resume walking.
At the beginning of the walk, I wanted people to understand what I was doing. But it’s been six months, and even I barely understand what I am doing. All I know is that I have to do it. So I’ve stopped caring what other people think. I just want to bang out the kilometers and be done with it.
A couple hours outside Siverek, two men pull over on the other side of the road. They are driving a rusty old Datsun. The front bumper looks like it’s about to fall off onto the pavement.
“Do you need a ride?” they call out to me.
“Thank you,” I say, “but I am walking.”
The driver jumps out of his car and crosses over to the median strip to say hello.
I too cross over to the median strip. The man and I shake hands.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“I am an American,” I reply.
“Excellent.” He leans in and looks both ways. “Do you have any information?”
“Information about what?” I ask.
He leans in further, raises his eyebrows, and says cryptically, “You know, information. I am a Turkish agent.”
I look closer into his eyes and notice that they are not connecting with mine. My instinct tells me this man is crazy. I feel my protective shields going up. I tell him in English that I cannot speak any Turkish. The conversation grinds to a halt. I don’t want to talk to crazy paranoiacs, especially not in this area. I just want to walk.
He hands me his business card and reminds me that he is a government agent and I should call him if I have any problems. As I cross back to my side of the road, and he to his, I call out thanks in Turkish and assure him that I will do so. As he and his friend pull away in their rusty old car, I turn his card over and take a look. His cover: dried nuts salesman. So that’s what spies are doing these days, I smile, as I crumple up his card and stuff it into my pocket.