Ian loosened the twelve Turkish Efes beer, their distinctive blue label making them immediately recognizable, and cracked one open, handing it to Patricia, who had raised her jacket hood against the cooling breeze. Ian took a swig from another can, stifled a burp, and set it down to open one for Goran and pass two more to Charlie and me. But when he made a move to hand one to the cook and guide, they both declined.
Raising his tin of beer, Goran toasted: “To absent friends.”
“And to mothers,” added Patricia.
“And Nico,” said Charlie.
I immediately wished I’d made Goran’s Yankee ball cap a part of our bet.
Last camp: Our guide, along with a horseman and a young packer, attends to the sheep meat cooking atop the fire the evening we returned to Base Camp.
Niecit came from behind the cook tent, his bloodied hands carrying a wooden platter laden with freshly butchered sheep parts. He kneeled by the fire and set the inverted metal bowl on the heated rocks, its arch heating quickly into a grill. Onto this he placed slices of sheep that sizzled and turned quickly from blood red to gravy gray. The fat crackled. The older boy, fresh from patting down the horses and having them lick his hands, helped the butcher by grabbing meat with those very same hands and placing it on the metal. Without any self-consciousness, he wiped his hands under his nose in a swipe of an itch, then picked up a piece of partly cooked meat and turned it. Over my shoulder I heard, “It’s enough to create irritable bowel syndrome.”
“I’ll cook mine right over here,” I said, choosing three pieces off the butcher’s platter and laying them across a heated rock that had been left outside the grill. “I’ll watch these ones,” I added, making sure everyone heard. I reached into the nearby pail to wash off the blood, a last attempt at sanitation—I’d have to rely on the beer to cleanse my gullet.
Niecit chanted as he orchestrated the meal.
The swigging of beer, the mountain setting, the cool evening air, and the warmth of the fire brought everyone close. After a while it no longer mattered which hands picked and moved the meat, lifted it for inspection, or palmed it against a stick for display. In the end we were all happy to eat very well-done mutton.
There were no latrines, no trees, and few large boulders for everyone’s after-dinner, pre-bedtime rituals. Modesty was elusive on Ararat. Darkness and distance alone enabled one’s comfort, and that meant walking far from camp.
When I came back, our errant second-in-command, the disappeared and nearly forgotten Ahmet, nonchalantly hiked into camp from below. He was happy to have arrived, but disappointed to have missed the big meal.
When we had a moment alone, I asked, thinking that he’d forgotten, “Will it still work tomorrow night with Grandfather?”
“That could be. I think better you go night after.”
I was disappointed at the delay. “I head back to Van and from there elsewhere and …” I stopped myself. I really had nowhere to be. No one expected my appearance. Nobody cared. If the plan to spend a night in his grandfather’s village shifted, what did that matter?
Ahmet, amused, watched my mouth twitch in debate with myself, and proposed, “If we all go to Doğubeyazit tomorrow, that is best. Works for everyone. All are off the mountain safely together. Next day, I take you to Grandfather’s. It is right.”
Clouds, darkening by the hour, hid the full moon that surely hung over Mount Ararat. They threatened us with rain and assured snow further up where our Armenian friends camped. Charlie and Patricia donned wool sweaters and huddled by the fire, chairs and stools brought near for the rest of us. Goran groaned, “I have a lovely camp sweater I’d like to wear right now but it’s in the Lost Luggage Department of the Van airport.” Ian alone dressed the same as always, but when the idleness of sitting attracted a chill, he accepted the offer of a second sweater I hauled out of my orange pack. Seeing me fishing around in my large rucksack, he asked, “Rick, does Big Bertha fold open into a life raft?”
Later I had a walk away from the group, taking in a calm sense of shared accomplishment. To a person, they’d become friends, one to another—Charlie reliably irreverent, Patricia solidly upbeat, Ian forthright in all things, Goran spontaneity personified. What, I wondered, did I bring to their climb? Wistfulness? My thoughts shifted forward, contemplating where the following weeks might find me. Would I be able to navigate entrance south into Iraq, getting a visa upon entry? I very much wanted to go there. If not, would I instead get to Armenia by the circuitous ground route north through Kars? Was it possible to get a visa upon entry? My only restriction was the purchased ticket for the Trans-Asia Express, set to leave Van in two weeks.
Anticipation of a full moon—this was the actual night—brought with it the realization that I’d been counting on such a sighting for many months now. At last it was here, if only favorable sky conditions would sweep away the cloud cover for a while. In other parts of the world, Janice and my sons Brent and Sean would each find their own time with the full moon that night, thinking it would signal the night of my ascent. We went to bed on Ararat with close cloud coverage still overhead. There was a sense of defeat as much as of disappointment.
I woke in the raw hours of the night and lay still, enjoying a quiet interlude. Not a snore, not the flutter of a fire or ruffle of a breeze. It was bright outside the tent. I sat up and smiled to myself, easing forward to open the tent’s flaps, as if afraid my noise might scare away the moon. I crawled out on hands and knees, craned my neck around and up. There it was: a full moon—clasped at its edges by a shroud of dark clouds. It was singularly, if not wholly, visible to me.
My camera was in my bag inside the tent. To retrieve it would surely wake Ian, whose interest in this almost fully visible full moon was considerably less than in having a good sleep. The image had to be held in my mind. I will never forget it.
Raindrops started to sprinkle. The shroud drew closed, as would a camera’s shutter, over the moon. The wonderment vanished. The rain hardened. I took shelter in our tent.
Falling asleep, my ambition almost fulfilled, I smiled to myself. If the fabled boat so many believed in was anywhere near, this was as close as I’d ever get to seeing a full moon over Noah’s Ark.
THIRTEEN
TURKISH BATH
“I am sure there are things that can’t be cured by a good bath but I can’t think of one.”
—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
We had anticipated two-day-old bread and warmed-over instant coffee for breakfast, only to be surprised. The night’s drizzle continued, and those of us up first wore plastic slickers to shed it. I walked away from camp to meditate in the rain near a large rock, sipping delicious coffee from the cook’s percolator, handed to me by Niecit. Despite our summit success, I felt out of sorts and did not understand why. I was trying to digest the accomplishment but along with it came, for me, a corresponding emotional letdown. It was a curious post-trek funk, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
The sky seemed ready to break favorably, hinting at the promise of blue sky. Behind me came a cheery voice. “Nice if we could see a rainbow this morning.”
Goran, a cup of brewed coffee in hand, had snuck up on me. “Rainbows mean no more rain,” he informed the rock and me. “And that’d help our Armenian compatriots. Wonder if they made the peak. Looks like it’s snowing up there.”
“Then a rainbow would be news,” I said.
“We should ask Zafer if he sees Noah’s rainbow here,” said Goran.
Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life. Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.
A nomad girl and boy outside their camp offer the descending hikers crocheted and knitted souvenirs—as much household goods as traditional crafts—a rock boundary separating their retail operations.
We didn’t get a rainbow, but we had other good news. It turned out that Niecit had hike
d down the mountain before sunrise and met someone coming up from the parked 4x4 who had breakfast supplies for us and other provisions for the Armenians. The driver brought loaves of fresh baked simit, bread that looks like a large doughnut. This we lifted from the campfire, where Niecit had reheated it. The warmth was welcome. Patricia spoke. “Today we’re off Mount Ararat, back to town. Make your final memories.”
I snatched the last Wagon Wheel.
As we hiked down the mountain we encountered the nomad camp, this time prepared with their wares. It was clear they anticipated several climbing parties to be descending that day, some of whom would have an interest in taking home a knitted cap or goat leather purse. There were male nomads about this time, which may have explained the willingness of the women to engage us. They smiled at our arrival but were in no rush to sell their crafts, which were strewn on the ground. They’d spread an ornate patterned carpet for us to sit on, and offered us coffee and warm milk. Charlie and Goran picked among the folk art pieces, each choosing one. “This will have a place in my home,” claimed Goran, holding a colorful mitt. I’ve found that such things seldom see display later unless framed for art or left on a bookshelf as casual memorabilia. We hiked on. “It’s over,” said Ian, acknowledging Patricia’s comment. “It’s time to leave the mountain behind.” I had the impression they wished to be off of Ararat in order to gain perspective on having summited it.
The first person we saw once we arrived back in Doğubeyazit was Nico. His first hugs were for Patricia, of course, but right away he showered us all with questions. “Did you make the summit? How, without me?” He was jovial. “Was Patricia well behaved? Did you all miss me?” His smiles were an antidote to our tiredness, and he took great satisfaction in personally knowing five friends who had climbed a mountain that was not his.
Amid the reverie I realized I continued to feel a post-summit anxiety, and could not track down its motivating source. Was I anxious being off the mountain already? Frazzled nerves left over from my temporarily diminished eyesight? While wondering if I could make it into Iraq, I was crafting an alternative plan to get into Armenia overland. Was the lack of information on what that would entail maybe creating stress? I usually welcome uncertainty, but this sensation was drawing away my energy.
Despite the bustle of our arrival, the desk clerk was again at a loss for where our keys might be, and seemed confused that we were even due to check back in that day.
Nico was as rested as possible for a sixty-nine-year-old triple-A personality. As we checked in, he chatted about exploring the town in our absence. Top of his telling list was the Turkish bath, which, two days in a row and again this morning, he’d availed himself of. He had the tenor of a changed man.
“You must,” he said to me. “This is what you need, Riko. I’ll see you in the lobby in fifteen minutes. Drop your pack in your room and skip the shower stall.”
Digging through my luggage after the room situation had been sorted, I found my bathing suit. Fifteen minutes later, having washed my face and stared down the temptations of a hot shower, I dropped a flight of stairs and met Nico. I held my bathing suit. He offered a simple, “Come along, Riko. You’ll like this.”
It might be our only time alone. I had to ask. “Nico. Was it the right decision to leave us on the mountain? Are you OK with it?”
“Life that you look for, you’ll never find,” came his assessment.
That quote is from Gilgamesh, I immediately recollected, though I couldn’t remember who said it to whom. I’d told him where to find that book in my pack left at the hotel. Voracious reader that he was, he had tracked it down.
Nico took me back to a street we’d walked on the first night’s outing, and soon, down an alleyway, we were standing out in front of the entrance to the Turkish bath. “I’ll get you set up.” And in we went. No one was around, so Nico shouted, “Anyone home?”
A near-naked man Nico’s age rose from a side room, signed recognition of his returning client, and left. When he came back, he held two towels. Nico passed, saying, “Just my friend.” I took my towel and followed them to a change room with open cubicles, single hooks, and pairs of rubber slip-on shoes.
“See you later,” said Nico. “Wrap yourself in the towel, fall asleep, and be prepared to come to in a while. A reinvigorated Riko.”
The older attendant stood nearby. I palmed him assorted lira and he took what he needed from my hand. He showed me a door. “Next.”
Stripped down, towel wrapped, I entered a room where steam rose from a water-filled pool the size of three billiard tables and not much deeper than they would stand. There were stools and knee-high water faucets along the wall. Thin hoses ran on the tiled floor. It’s a courtesy to squat and pour tubs of water over your head to cleanse life’s grime from your body before bathing in shared waters. The tap water was warm and satisfying rather than cool and invigorating. Tubs of self-served water spilled off me, washing away the grit.
A man came into the room and looked my way with a custodian’s authority. He twisted the mid-section of a running hose to stave the flow and pulled it with him while motioning me to follow.
In the other room, he gracelessly tore away my towel and bade me lie down on a workbench. He dropped the hose, and its water ran freely. With precision, he snagged a tub of soap from a nearby counter and slap-splashed it about on my body as I lay face down. It was a massaging, soaping, pummeling process that felt wonderful. He knew the mountain-strained muscles by sight, and he focused his kneading knuckles where pack strap grooves lapped across my shoulders and into the nape of my neck, forcing the muscles to give up tautness. With the push of his thumbs around my lower neck, he forced away my morning’s mountain angst.
He picked up the hose and drenched me with cold water. I was skittish and arched in surprise, but did not flee the soothing shock.
I felt a nudge to turn over. Nakedness + innocence = embarrassment. The masseuse spent five fierce minutes lathering my facing-up body thoroughly, top to bottom, with a courtesy fly-by to miss the groin. I was white with the soap and red with the pounding. He patiently worked on my toes one at a time and wedged an angry finger between every pair of them, with the same treatment for my hands. He gave a pushing massage over each climb-toughened leg. My eyes were closed under soap bubbles, but I sensed him bending to pick up the hose and I braced for the cold-water rinse. It washed away worries.
Finally, he was done with me. I retreated behind my curtain of inhibitions.
The water pool was still empty of bathers. He said, “Five minutes in. Rest, out. Then five minutes in. Always rest. Take half hour of that.”
Toweling down afterwards, I felt both rejuvenated and exhausted—and blessedly free of my post-mountain anxiety. I was not sure if I next wanted a bed to crash on or time alone in a cafe. As I approached the hotel, Charlie and Goran were leaving. “Nico told us where to get a beer in this non-beer town. Come along.”
The drinking destination was off the town’s main street. A pastry shop occupied the building’s bottom floor, a decoy business. We thought we had it right, but when we got to the second floor the man who met us gave a dismissive glare. Even the tilting of our hands and smacking of our lips did not work. Foiled, we invoked the name of our friend: “Nico.” Apparently that was the correct password, as we earned the patron’s smile and were shown to a hidden balcony providing a little table with chairs.
Soon, three beers were frothing at the ready and cold sweat was beading on the outside of the glasses. We downed them in quiet gulps, though we did emit giggles of pleasure as we slurped and signaled for more. The tent mates across from me, who’d squabbled cantankerously at night on the mountains, threw arms over each other’s shoulders.
Patricia and Nico joined us on the street, with Ian in tow. Patricia was one of few women in a six-block promenade. We chose a wooden table in the middle of the plaza as waiters from competing restaurants lobbied for our dinner orders. A joint won for its sliced kebabs, served with fl
atbread and rice pilaf. Ordering up, we waited for soda pop and our meals, and talked about our plans for the coming days.
When the sodas arrived, we raised the glasses, clinked them against one another’s, and Nico toasted: “Nice to be together again.”
This would be the last time the six of us shared a meal. In the morning, before the rest of us were up, Charlie would be off to Kars, bound for Istanbul and then home to Ireland.
“Almost last to arrive,” he claimed. “First to leave.” He propped his straw cowboy hat between his hands, creating a pensive mood. “My inaugural summit.” He looked at each of us around the table and raised his glass our way. “Thanks.”
“Ian,” I asked, “Do you want to see if we can get into Iraq?”
“Iraq has an image problem slightly worse than Hell,” he replied. “At least Hell has a consistent brand. Iraq … I don’t feel it is for me.”
“My flight’s out of Van late tomorrow afternoon,” Goran said. “Zafer will be here in the morning. He’s offered to take me to Ishak Pasha Palace first.”
“Ishak Pasha?” I was keen. “Can I come along?”
“We are out early. I have to be back in Doğ by eleven, to get from here to Van’s airport and check lost luggage.”
“Early works for me,” I said. “Zafer offered to show me where he said Noah’s Ark is for sure. Maybe he plans to swing that drive together with Ishak?” Suspecting the answers, I still asked, “Anyone want to come to Zafer’s ark site?”
“Ishak Pasha, yes. Noah, no,” Ian replied.
“Noah, no. Pasha, no,” said Patricia. “We want a day alone together. Nico and me. Zafer’s taking us to Van tomorrow evening, and we fly home the next day. But we’ll be up to see you leave. Will save our goodbyes till morning.”
With Charlie going, and Nico and Patricia begging off, our group was disassembling.
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