Gobekli Tepe, part 2

For part one, click here.

But for the kindness of strangers.

I didn't get the next bus back to town, Gobekli Tepe is astonishing and I wanted to make as much out of the day as possible. As the sun reached and passed the solar noon the heat became almost unbearable and being in direct sunlight was not a good idea. My phone informed me that it had ‘become too hot’ and was about to shut down. On a Google Pixel 8 Pro, this happens when the temperature of the device reaches 55℃ !

As a result of the heat and the time of day, the visitor centre and restaurant were now extremely busy and less people were arriving than were leaving so the site was a lot easier to study. Even enclosures D and E were virtually deserted and I was able to spend as long as I wanted trying different vantage points to make sure I didn't miss a thing.

My Mancunian friend let me know he was going to the visitor centre and that he would wait for me there and about an hour later, at roughly 2 PM, I joined him and, at his recommendation, ordered a glass of iced hibiscus tea. 

Eventually I had three glasses of the delicious local favourite hibiskus çayi before the two of us ventured outside to join the queue for a tuk tuk back to the car park where we were assured the Bus No.0 would be waiting to take us back into the city centre.

My phone had cooled down in the restaurant and was now telling me that it was 46℃ in Şalniurfa itself and it must have been a degree celsius or two hotter in our elevated position. 

We jumped out of the little three wheel tuk tuk and were given the news that this particular Bus No.0 had broken down as a result of overheating and would we please wait  in the shade for around 20 minutes. 

Shade?

On the exit side of the car park there are no awnings and the four or five pistachio trees that did provide some shade were already fully ‘occupied’ by women and children!  

I had replenished my drinking water in the restaurant so I had 2 litres of cold water with me and Martin had found some semi shade behind a police pick up so I wasn't concerned.

“Tașinmak!” “Move!”

I appreciate that the police and military were on heightened alert but I didn’t see how two pale people sheltering from the scorching sun could in any way constitute a security risk and using my translator app I tried to express this to the police sergeant.

Five seconds later Martin and I retreated back to the non shade of the bus stop.

The goodness of our species was on display as people made sure that everyone had a drink, that no-one was feeling faint and there was a loud cheer when, ten minutes later, the replacement Bus No.0 appeared over the crest of the hill.

Our elation was short lived as we realised the bus’s aircon wasn't working. When asked about it, the driver replied that his bus was over heating and we may not make it back to the city.

We didn't make it back to the city. 10 KM down the road we were all asked to disembark as the engine had overheated. This is a common problem in the middle east and I’d noticed that apart from the very newest models, all buses and mini buses travelled with the engine uncovered in an attempt to reduce overheating.

I have to say that I was surprised when the driver drove off!

A Turkish tourist from Istanbul informed us that before leaving, the driver said we should wait here and another bus would be along to pick us up. 

The atmosphere was less buoyant as we passed our water bottles around a second time.

True to his word, the bus that the driver of bus number No.2 promised would arrive did so fifteen minutes later although the complete lack of shade made it feel as if we had waited a lot longer.

This wasn't a Bus No.0, our third bus of the trip was an older model with no air-con, at least the roof window was open and besides, we only had about half an hour’s drive to go. Or so I thought.

After 15 minutes the driver pulled into a small bus terminus on the opposite edge of the city and announced that his bus terminated here.

Even at this point it still seemed amusing.

I reckoned that I had about a 45 minute walk to the ancient urfa where I’d booked a room in the beautifully authentic, Nomad Inn. I still had just under a litre of now tepid water. 

I’d be fine.

I wasn't fine.

I hadn't taken into consideration the impact of sky high levels of exhaust fumes, made worse by the snail like progress of the traffic through the city. I knew that any sun screen I applied was being instantly washed off by my sweating, I’d identified which parts of my head weren't protected by my Springbok cap and found myself gasping for oxygen in the polluted environment.

In what I thought was a moment of prudence I hailed a bright yellow taxi, gave the driver my destination and realised that the air con wasn't on?

“Sorry no AC! Car is too hot, my friend had to push me just now”!

I still managed a wry smile.

What I should have done was to look for another taxi!

I suppose I should be grateful that during the 90 minutes it took to navigate the torturous city traffic I only had to help bump start the cab once.

I should have noticed the onset of heat exhaustion. There were signs.

Like the huge dinosaur-like creature that crossed in front of our taxi.

Or the fact that I was speaking to the driver in Afrikaans.

Seems so obvious now.

That’s the thing with heat stroke. Like its opposite condition, hypothermia, heatstroke is sneaky. One minute your sitting in a taxi thinking, “the air entering the taxi from outside feels even hotter than the air in the taxi”, the next you're explaining to a bemused taxi driver, in a little spoken language he's never heard before that, “you think it was probably a reptilian rather than a dinosaur”.

Thankfully, the talking fox who had appeared in my day pack, alerted me to the fact that I was hallucinating and that I needed to cool my brain down quickly.

Now in fact!

I threw more than enough Turkish Lira to cover the trip into the driver’s lap, opened the taxi door and fell out onto the side of the road.

I remember springing to my feet, recognising that I was close to the urfa, staggering into the nearest cafe, grabbing a bottle of ice cold water from the fridge and being about to pour the contents over my head.

The next thing I know I am sitting at a table with an elderly man holding a glass of room temperature water to my lips while three or four other people stood by looking concerned.

This kind stranger sat with me for the next hour until he was satisfied that I was no longer at risk. He bought me my first bottle of arla. Turkey's version of the salted yoghurt drink found throughout the middle east and East Africa.

He explained how this would help keep me hydrated and along with water and mint tea should be the only things I drink during the hours of sunlight. 

He also chastised me for trying to pour ice cold water on myself, explaining quite correctly that this could cause the body to go into shock.

“You want to die?”,  he asked. 

With as sombre a tone as I could muster I assured my good samaritan, I don’t recall his name, that I most definitely did not want to die and that I would follow his advice. Before he left I thanked him profoundly for his intervention, “Allah yakun maeak”, God be with you.

Arabic as opposed to Turkish I know but my hero understood.

It isn't an exaggeration to say he may have saved my life.

Apart from gallons of coffee, I have followed his advice about what to drink during the day. Fizzy drinks are the worst/!

Salted drinking yoghurt is absolutely bloody lovely!

In Egypt I found…wait for it…Lemon flavour salted drinking yoghurt.

Sounds disgusting right?

Wrong, it's delicious! 

With my water bottles replenished I thanked the cafe owner and asked how much I owed for all the drinks that I had consumed. 

“It is taken care of Sir, these boys will carry your bag”!

These boys referred to a group of young street urchins who not only carried my things for me but also formed a protective ring around me and angrily shouted at passers by to keep out of my ring of safety! 

They also knocked on a nearby front door when they realised that I was staggering again.

The elderly couple who owned the house sat me in the doorway where the air was coolest, poured me homemade mint tea and salted yoghurt and, as I sipped them, the old man applied a cold compress to my head. 

Each of the street kids was handed water and a small, sweet, pistachio covered pastry. 

Small reward yet their eyes lit up.

We didn’t understand a word that each other was saying.

We didn't need to.

The language of compassion is universal.

Simunye! We are One.

An hour later as I was standing under a cool, not cold shower, the emotions of the day hit me.

They say that in space, no-one can hear your screams. In the shower, no-one can see your tears.

Tears of gratitude.

Gratitude for the kindness of strangers. Not for reward. Out of compassion.

Simunye! We are One.

I lost my Springbok cap amongst the confusion.

Oh well, its shemag only from now on.