Isabella Bird reached Persia (Iran) by way of Baghdad in the winter of 1890. Although she was already 60 years old and had suffered from spinal problems, depression and insomnia most of her life, Bird took hardship in her stride.
She warmed-up for her journey through the remote and unstable easternmost fringes of the declining Ottoman Empire by spending three months living and traveling with the nomadic Bakhtiari tribe. Then, having purchased a fine horse she affectionately named Boy, Bird crossed the vaguely defined frontier onto Ottoman Turkish soil somewhere on the plain of Gawar (modern Yüksekova, in the very southeast of modern Turkey, and still a major transit route to Iran).
Take away the asphalt highway, electricity pylons and telegraph poles that disfigure the plain’s natural beauty today and it has changed little from Bird’s description. “The mountain girdled plain of Gawar is a paradise of fertility, with abundant water, and has a rich black soil capable of yielding twenty or thirty fold to the cultivator.” Looming grandly along the southern rim of the plain are the Cilo Mountains, Turkey’s highest, wildest and most alpine range. Bird was entranced, observing, “The sun was sinking as we embarked on the plain, and above the waves of sunset gold which flooded it rose the icy spires and crags of the glorious Jelu [Cilo] ranges and splintered Kanisairani summits.”
These mountains are effectively off-limits to outsiders today because of the security problem posed by the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), but at the time of Bird’s visit the situation was far worse. Ottoman Turkish control of this far-flung region was tenuous at best. Russia was eyeing up the territory with a view to southward expansion of its own empire, and stirring up the sizeable Armenian and Nestorian Christian population. Relations between the tribal Muslim Kurds, who lived in these mountains and valleys alongside their Christian neighbors, had deteriorated to the point of open warfare. Add to this heady brew the unsettling presence of proselytizing American and British missionaries and it’s easy to see why Bird had to be so cautious as she made her way through the mountains to her initial goal, Kochanes, the patriarchal seat of the once powerful Nestorian church.
Rising up from the valley of the tumultuous Zap River by a “wild mountain path, at times cut into shape or scaffolded, and at other times merely a glistening track over shelving rock,” Bird finally reached the “fair green alp on which Kochanes stands.” Unaware of the ructions the term she used to describe this part of the world would cause in today’s Turkey, Bird blithely comments, “Glorious indeed is this Kurdistan world of mountains, piled up in masses of peaks and precipices, cleft by ravines in which the Ashirets and Yezidis find shelter, every peak snow-crested, every ravine flaming with autumn tints; and here, where the ridges are the sharpest, and the rock spires the most imposing … surrounded on three sides by gorges and precipices, is this little mountain village, the latest refuge of a church once the most powerful in the East.”
Bird could hardly be accused of being a “typical” product of her era, for very few Victorian women would even dream of traveling solo anywhere, let alone in such a remote, downright dangerous region. But she was guilty of the prejudices of her era, and despite being fascinated by the survival of the Nestorian Christians in this remote mountain vastness, she was disparaging of their church, saying of that at Kochanes (which, remarkably, still stands in the mountains a few hours walk from Hakkari), “It’s impossible by any language to convey an idea of the poverty and meanness, the blackness and accumulations of dust, the darkness and the gloom of the Syrian churches, of which this one is a favourable example, typifying, I fear, too truly the gross ignorance, indifference and superstition in which bishops, priests and people are buried.”
Bird bade farewell to the Nestorian Patriarch Mar Shimun in late October, fearful the high passes that lay between her and the next destination, Van, would soon be closed by the winter snows. Bird was not to know that some 30 years after her departure, the Nestorians of the Hakkari mountains were forced to flee to neighboring Iraq, the patriarch having unwisely chosen to throw his people’s lot in with imperial Russia against Ottoman Turkey in World War I. Bird’s journey to Van was beset with difficulties, from Kurdish bandits through downtrodden Armenian villagers, to sleepless nights in flea-ridden hans (wayside inns). Today’s traveler, whisked along the picturesque asphalt road between Hakkari and Van in four hours, would find it hard to imagine the trials and tribulations of the redoubtable Bird and Boy.
Turkey’s largest lake impressed Bird. “Van and its surroundings are at once so interesting and picturesque that it is remarkable that they are so seldom visited by travellers. Probably the insecurity of the roads, the villainous accommodation en route and its isolated position account for the neglect.” Despite the modern road system, a rail link to ?stanbul, several flights a day from various Turkish cities and some top-notch hotels, Van is still “seldom visited,” despite its numerous ancient sites and incredible scenery. Bird lodged, predictably, with American missionaries, in the so-called “garden suburb” of Van. She did, though, visit the old walled city, nestled beneath the towering limestone walls of the Rock of Van. Leveled in the fighting between the Ottoman Turks, Armenians and invading Russians in World War I, it was then a prosperous enough place where “every European necessity of life can be obtained, as well as many luxuries. Peak and Frean’s biscuits, Moir’s and Crosse and Blackwell’s tinned meats and jams, English patent medicines, Coat’s sewing cotton, Belfast linens, Berlin wool and Jaeger’s vests.” A couple of the Ottoman mosques noted by Bird still stand here, as does the shell of an Armenian church (still with traces of frescoes), along with an inscription of Persian King Xerxes, carved on the cliff above the town.
From Van, Bird rode around the southern shores of the lake, remarking that “the early winter weather (November) is absolutely perfect for travelling. All along I am quite impressed with the resemblance which the southern shores of Lake Van bear to the some of the more beautiful parts of the Italian Riviera.” Bird took the time, as all modern visitors do, to visit the sublime medieval Armenian island church of Akdamar. After decades of neglect following the expulsion of the Armenian population in World War I, Akdamar was recently restored to its former glory — most notable of which is a red-sandstone exterior liberally covered in relief-carved biblical scenes. Of course, in Bird’s day the island of Akdamar was inhabited, with 11 monks tending to the monastery church. Disappointed to find the patriarch not at “home” (he was apparently on his mainland farm), Bird commented caustically that “he has the reputation of extreme ignorance, and of being more of a farmer than an ecclesiast.”
Skirting the lake, Bird bade farewell to its wide open spaces and plunged into the valley of the Bitlis Çay?, saying evocatively that “the descent was like taking leave of the bright upper world to go down into some nether region, from which there would be no exit.” Despite the best efforts of work crews toiling relentlessly to improve the road through the Bitlis valley today, the journey through its near canyon-like mass of rock walls, bluffs and plunging valleys remains spectacular. To Bird, the important Silk route town of Bitlis was “the most romantically situated city that I have seen in Western Asia.” The many unemployed in Bitlis today would no doubt swap their hometown’s “romantically situated” abode for a job, but it is a fascinating destination, with an impressive citadel, mosques, free-standing Islamic tombs and a domestic architecture reminiscent of a Pennine mill town.
From Bitlis, Bird traveled north, finally approaching that fulcrum of eastern Turkish travel, Erzurum, on Dec. 1, describing a city “lying on a hill slope above a very extensive plain at a height of over 6,000 feet. It was a solemn scene. The snow was deep and still falling, the heaven were black, and swirls of mist driven by a strong wind blotted out at times the surrounding mountains.” Despite the rigors of winter in Turkey’s coldest city, Bird was pleased by Erzurum. “As compared with Persian towns, Erzerum [Erzurum] looks solid and handsome, and its uncovered bazaars seem fairly busy.” She is also aware of the city’s antiquities, commenting, “The Armenian cathedral, the ‘Pair of minarets,’ the ‘Single Minaret’ and the castle … are the chief ‘sights’.” The Armenian cathedral is long gone, but the “Pair” and “Single” minarets, respectively the Çifte Minareli Medrese and the Yakutiye Camii remain, along with the castle, to impress today’s visitors.
Bird’s midwinter crossing of the Pontic Alps, via the Zigana Pass to Trebizond (Trabzon) was onerous, to say the least. Generally indefatigable, even the doughty Bird struggles, writing, “I quite broke down on that march.” Seeking shelter from the bitter cold and driving snow in a damp, dismal mountain shack, she reflected, “No words can express the roughness of Asia Minor travelling in winter.” Recovering, she reveled in the wild beauty of the Zigana Pass as she struggled up the final slope, commenting, “I was astonished with the magnificence of the scenery … an uplifted snow world of ceaseless surprises under a blue sky full of light, make one fancy oneself in Switzerland, until a long train of decorated camels or a turbaned party of armed travellers dissipates the dream.”
The route over the Zigana Pass, today tamed by a highway and a tunnel, is still beautiful, marking as it does the transition from the dry and cold Central Anatolian plateau to the luxuriant, temperate world of the Black Sea. On seeing the “long creamy surges” of the Black Sea and the “well-built, brightly-coloured, red-roofed houses of the eastern suburbs of Trebizond.” Bird appears to have forgotten how she almost gave up hope on the southern flanks of the Zigana and later concluded her account. “It was the journey’s end, yet such is the magic charm of Asia that I would willingly have turned back at that moment to the snowy plateaux of Armenia and the savage mountains of Kurdistan.”
Isabella Bird
Isabella Bird was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1831. Despite her poor health, she led a remarkably active life, whether working in ragged schools (schools for the poor) or traveling around the world, from Australia to Hawaii and the Rocky Mountains to Japan. She wrote several well-regarded accounts of her travels, including the one this feature is based on: “Journeys in Persia and Kurdistan II,” published in 1891. Bird died in her hometown in 1904.
22 April 2009, Wednesday
TERRY RICHARDSON