Leaving at noon, I find a restaurant in the industrial eastern outskirts that serves a wonderful Adana kebab. The town’s kebab is famous for how the meat is minced by hand, with knife.
Come night time, I meet farmer Mesut who invites me to sleep in a shelter by the entrance gate of a nearby lemon tree farm, himself staying in yet another one a kilometer away.
The small one-bed, one-table shelter is built of branches and dark green plastic sheets. Outside a wooden bench, shadowed by a roof of eucalyptus branches with dried leaves, and behind the house the grid of lemon trees. Across the road a cotton field.
The five dogs that guard the plantation keep me awake for a while, barking at every car, truck or motorcycle that passes by on the street outside.
Street kids sleeping sheltered from the rain neath the tracks of a railroad bridge, shouting at me as I passed by on the road below. Looking up, I could barely just see their eyes white shine through the darkness.