Hasankeyf - Midyat

I lean my bags against a pillar and pace, waiting for the bus that is meant to come before 6pm. Not a single vehicle passes in the 15 minutes I spend waiting there. A policeman walks out of the nearby tea house: 'My name is Yusuf, fine thanks and you. Where you go?' Hearing my reply he says, 'problem', and invites me in for a cup of tea (no. 6 that day).

After an improptu lesson on 'would you like to', Yusuf takes me to speak to Sohran from the tourism police. Sohran drives me to the police station. 'You think I look like a policeman?' I tell him that he looks like an artist. He laughs.

At the station, cup of tea no. 7 comes. Yusuf whips out his English textbook and the conversation assumes this form:

Sohran: 'Are you married? Why not?'

Yusuf (from textbook): 'Who is your an-jul?' (uncle : 'c' is pronounced as 'j' in Turkish)

General laughter.

When we get to the 'religion' question, Yusuf starts babbling in Arabic, indicating that I should repeat. His attempt to convert me to Islam fails, as I realise that to become a muslim all one has to do is make a profession of faith... Surely they'd get more converts if they subtituted tea with straight vodka.

Once cup of tea no.8 is drunk, we go and sit in the police van, waiting for a vehicle to flag downç An hour later there's still nothing.

'Maybe I'll have to sleep on the floor'

Sohran: 'I do have a jail you know.'

'Aha. So I just have to beat you up.'

Finally a bus comes, full of Kurdish guys going somewhere near the Iraqi border. In Midyat, the driver refuses to take my money. I insist. So does he. He wins.

At Metro Hotel, the manager is a stark contrast to his surroundings. Dressed in a nice black suit and striped black shirt, he leads me to my room and turns on the electric blanket. The ceiling is covered in mould, the carpet is stained. There's still ash in the ash tray. In the midst of tea no. 10 the power goes. Time to sleep.