Swimming in Lake Van

Lake Van is a fathomless salty lake in Eastern Turkey. Nothing lives in it, apart from the legendary 40ft serpent that lurks somewhere beneath its surface. The lake was the centre of the Armenian kingdom of Ararat from 1000 BC, and there’s a pretty 10th-century Armenian church on the island of Akhdamar that lies in its midst. A small guided group of us had ferried across from the mainland to visit it, the boat plunging through the water creating a soda-stream effect in the wake. It was June and Ramadan hot, and I casually mentioned to the guide that I‘d like to swim back to the mainland.  He warned me against the idea, listing the distance, the lake’s depth and the heat (perhaps the serpent had something to do with it too). I didn’t insist, and soon the island came into view. It has a stark beauty to it; white pebble shores, with crystal waters lapping the edges – I might have stepped off the boat into John Fowles’ The Magus. Biblical scenes in bas-relief carvings decorate the exterior walls of the church, and a young American back-packer joined me on a shady bench to admire them. He was on a four-month solo round the world mission, so I asked if he wanted to slow down a bit - and swim back across the lake with me. He didn’t.

Whilst the group were still touring the church I slipped away, made my way down to the shore and undressed to my swimming costume, leaving my clothes in a neat pile on the pebbles before stepping into the water and swimming out. It was salty. So salty it kept me buoyant and I swam breaststroke, my head out of the water which stung my eyes and tongue. But it felt good – and deliciously naughty. Apart from the swish that my hands made as they pushed the water away, it was quiet. Eerily quiet, and suddenly I felt quite alone. I pictured God looking down to see an ant floundering across a bowl of soup. The mainland shimmered and winked at me from such a distance I wondered if I’d ever reach it.  I lost sense of time and was only aware of the intensity of the heat pounding down on bare skin and naked head. But then, the faint purr of an engine that grew louder, closer, until it soon felt as if the entire lake was quivering with the reverberations. 

 There’s really nothing quite like watching a ferry bear down on you. I stopped, treading water, uncertain what to do and thinking only how absurd it would be to be run over by the one boat on the lake. As the ferry drew closer, I could see people bunched up at the bow waving and pointing at me. I waved back at them, relieved they’d seen me. Engine noise enveloped me and as the boat slowed down, great waves of salty foam washed over me.  I squinted up at a row of faces peering anxiously over the rails. A veiled woman clutched her baby fiercely to her chest whilst her son took photos on his phone. The bearded captain pushed through the people, holding an orange lifebuoy.  ‘Tamam, Tamam – OK, OK’, I shouted, heart-pounding, smiling up at them all. The captain looked down at me and shrugged, muttering under his breath as he put down the lifebuoy and walked back to the cabin. Within minutes the ferry was chugging off, puffing smoke in its wake as it steered away from me. I could see the rest of the group at the stern waving goodbye, my guide forlornly clutching my clothes I’d left on the shore. I felt like Daryl Hannah in Splash, when she rescues Tom Hanks in the water for the first time. He’s jumped overboard and found her before being wrenched out of the water by his parents. The ferry steams off, and she’s left behind. 

The boat soon became a shimmery blob, and it grew quiet again when I became aware of a sensation on my shoulder. I looked down to see a ladybird had alighted there and felt a rush of gratitude for its presence. I now had company – and a mission to complete. I set off again, but soon my arms began to ache, and my head throb. The wind had picked up, confusing the once smooth surface so that now the water slapped into my face. My tongue felt as swollen as a baked potato rolled in rock salt, and the ladybird had gone. I’d lost sight of the ferry and presumed it had already docked in the marina when at last the rocky shoreline appeared, and I could make out a figure standing on the rocks and waving. Hauling myself onto the hot slabs, I lay panting on my stomach as the figure came down towards me. It was the American backpacker. I lay there as he sat beside me talking energetically about a Romeo and Juliet type legend – about how Akhdamar got its name. A shepherd fell in love with a girl on the island who lived with her father – the priest. The shepherd boy used to swim to the island once a week at night and the girl would shine a light from her window to guide him in. The priest found out, locked up his daughter and ran up and down the island with his light, to confuse the swimming shepherd on his next visit. The boy disappears beneath the waves shouting her name: 'Aaaaah...Tamara'… Akhdamar. 

My guide appeared looking relieved and handed over my clothes and sandals snapping at me to join the others in the restaurant. The American helped me to my feet: 'You've changed my trajectory', he said quietly. In the restaurant, the chef set a plate piled high with kebabs in front of me, and a man on a nearby table enquired whether I’d seen the lake serpent on my journey. It seemed nobody had swum across the lake for many years.  I heard the sound of a bus pull up outside, and out of the window saw the American get on and as it pulled away I wondered where his new trajectory might take him.