As I was turning a corner outside the Spice Market today, I heard two women asking a salesman about leeches. You can buy them from a number of large water bottles around the market. The women checked their phrase books and notes while speaking to the leech seller, but spoke to each other in French. Well, a) I’m kind of fascinated by the leeches, and b) I’m kind of a whore when it comes to speaking French. By that I mean, I’ll speak it when and where I can and will often insinuate myself into a conversation if I can find a way in. I’ve given many directions and much advice on trams and on the street. Since these women weren’t getting the leech information for which they were asking, but were clearly having a good giggle, I did indeed insinuate myself into their conversation.
According to the leech man, the blood suckers don’t eat anything. Water is sufficient. Frankly, I’m sure they must eat something, but suspect they aren’t fed once up for sale. We talked about how they’re good for migraines, how they swell when applied to the skin, and speculated on what to do with them once they have been used. Apparently, one just gets rid of them. They don't make the best of pets.
The conversation continued. Did I know if French schools here hire French nationals? How would one’s sister go about applying? How long have I lived here, has my behavior changed since moving here, have I notice that some women refuse to speak when asked for information? (Yes, apply over the internet, 4 years, yes but in subtle ways I don’t notice until I go back to the States, no.) The women’s traveling companions joined us. Did I know of a change bureau? They were out of lira but didn’t want to change more than a small amount just to get back to the hotel before heading to the airport.
I accompanied them to buy Turkish Delight (I really dislike the texture but don't refuse it when offered it on holidays). The traveling companions were a bit nervous about getting back to the hotel on time because they hadn’t been abroad before, but I didn’t detect any impatience from the first two women. Between the market and the train, we had a short but rich conversation about vegetarianism, their very moving visit to the mosque in Ëyüp, karma, happiness, humbleness, and how we really just appreciate a good tagine. In the underground passage leading to the tram stop, I helped one of the nervous women buy a battery operated, dancing zebra doll. I always wondered who bought them. Now I know. With contact information exchanged, I brought them to the correct side of the tram station and used my newly topped up akbil (short for akıllı bilet, meaning “smart ticket,” a magnetic thing used on public transportation) as each of them pushed through the turnstile and onto the tram. No need to exchange 5 Euros to get back to a hotel.
According to the last woman to make her way to the tram, I was dropped from heaven into their path. I don’t know about that, but I had a fine 16 minutes with some people with whom I'd like to be friends. In French on top of that.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Observations
I just got back from my first Kurban. I won’t give you the details of the sacrifice as it might be disturbing, however, I will tell you what I thought about as I witnessed from the balcony. It felt a little like watching an opera from the box office.
First, I thought about what little I know about the Mithras cult and its rituals, of purification through bloodletting, and how dangerous, sticky, and smelly the process must have been, and how very manly those Roman warriors must have felt.
I thought about ritualized community bonding. Sacrificing a heifer is not a one man job. There is necessary cooperation and knowledge passed from one generation to another. Hold this, cut here, no like that, wait, slowly slowly, stop. Health to your hands.
I thought about wintertime wood cutting as a family, hauling and loading logs onto the truck, stacking them in the garage, chopping, then bringing them into the house. Don’t tell anyone, but I really liked hauling and stacking and chopping.
I thought about being an observer. Here in Turkey, I usually listen more than contribute to conversations, though I’m able to understand more and more, slowly slowly. I can often follow, but by the time I can throw in my two cents, the subject has already changed. Oddly, this role of observer is almost the same one I used to play during holidays at home, watching and listening to my own language, seldom if ever participating in the traditional, competitive and dreaded (by me) game of charades. Here, as there, I’m more comfortable being the observant outsider.
First, I thought about what little I know about the Mithras cult and its rituals, of purification through bloodletting, and how dangerous, sticky, and smelly the process must have been, and how very manly those Roman warriors must have felt.
I thought about ritualized community bonding. Sacrificing a heifer is not a one man job. There is necessary cooperation and knowledge passed from one generation to another. Hold this, cut here, no like that, wait, slowly slowly, stop. Health to your hands.
I thought about wintertime wood cutting as a family, hauling and loading logs onto the truck, stacking them in the garage, chopping, then bringing them into the house. Don’t tell anyone, but I really liked hauling and stacking and chopping.
I thought about being an observer. Here in Turkey, I usually listen more than contribute to conversations, though I’m able to understand more and more, slowly slowly. I can often follow, but by the time I can throw in my two cents, the subject has already changed. Oddly, this role of observer is almost the same one I used to play during holidays at home, watching and listening to my own language, seldom if ever participating in the traditional, competitive and dreaded (by me) game of charades. Here, as there, I’m more comfortable being the observant outsider.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Nostalgia
Once again, I’m in Cappadocia on a school holiday. This Friday is the first day of Kurban Bayramı which commemorates the near sacrifice of Isaac by Abraham. On that day, I will for the first time witness the sacrifice of an animal, a calf I believe. The animal will then be cut up and distributed amongst the poor, family members, and friends. Such distribution falls within the tradition of charity promoted by Islam. Not for the faint of heart, it will probably also be the last time I witness such an event, yet I am curious about it.
In the meantime, I visit friends and acquaintances, walk in valleys where I’m prone to stealing crisp apples (no one else seems to be picking them in forgotten orchards), revisit favorite places and look for wooden tools and boxes in antique stores. Recently, I found an old knife sharpener fashioned from a forked tree branch, some nails and a cylindrical stone. Beautiful in its own rustic way, but too large (and probably too expensive) to carry home, I have to be satisfied with a photo of it.
I love one small street in Uçhisar in particular. Its houses are ramshackle, and there is always some kind of activity in front of them, usually related to food preparation. On any given day, a shalwar wearing woman might be making pekmez, often called grape molasses, in a huge circular pan set over a smoldering fire. Another might be opening walnuts with a knife, or emptying pumpkin-like vegetables for their seeds. Chickens and goats vie for the leftovers, clambering over a shallow pile of manure waiting to be brought to a field. Sometimes, a cow makes itself heard from behind a door. In the autumn, both men and women patiently chop wood with short-handled axes, seated on low chairs or tree stumps next to piled twigs. There is no natural gas heating in Uçhisar, so many people heat their houses with a ceramic stove fueled by coal and or fire. These stoves generate great but very localized heat. I’m reminded of how much time and energy the process of living and feeding can take.
The other day I went to Ortahisar to look at the “castle” and the antique stores around it. As I was walking through a very narrow street, probably gawking at houses, I heard a merhaba (hello) behind me. An elderly gentleman named Hasan led me through a grapevine surmounted door to his home. At one time, the stone house must have been quite magnificent, with an inner but small open area, stairs and doors leading to various rooms. Now, it is a cluttered shithole with piles of potatoes in corners, apples in crates, dusty jars of pickles on shelves, and all manner of junk jumbled in piles on the windowsills. It’s as if nothing can be thrown away just in case it might by some miracle work again or prove of value to some unnamed someone. While his wife, Cahide, made tea, Hasan showed me his three sheep in an adjoining building. I drank enough tea to float to the dolmuş stop. I was fed more than acceptable grapes from the vine, and questionable apricots and apples in homemade pekmez. Cahide ceremoniously pulled a stack of scarves with oya trim out of a bag and “convinced” me that a gold-sequined one would look wonderful on me. Although I have stacks of oya trimmed scarves at home, I purchased one from her at a slightly inflated price. I’m prone to making such pity purchases and she knows how to work a customer. Cahide showed me one room in the house, her very small bed and sitting-room, the arched ceiling and walls thick with white paint and the atmosphere equally thick with an accumulated odor. Maybe Cahide and Hasan accost every foreigner wandering behind the castle, and maybe those wanderers also make pity purchases, I don’t know.
I’m still awed by stone houses with their vaulted rooms. Abandoned houses on the hillside are often marked by crumbling foundations and a standing arch supporting air instead of walls. I like to explore the interiors of extant houses, testing wood floors before putting my full weight on them, and venturing into their littered cave rooms. Some have simple but beautifully carved fireplaces and blackened walls. I wonder what it was like to live inside them, how they would have looked covered in textiles, how they might have smelled like fresh bread, stew, people and animals. Currently, there is much restoration in the old village of Uçhisar. Caves are being emptied of trash, and ruins are being cleaned before rebuilding begins. Part of me welcomes such restoration because it means the architecture is appreciated and jobs are created. Another part of me prefers the ruins, the disorder and the possibility of discovery. Would this village be as attractive to me, all brand-spanking, newly restored? Is it possible to be nostalgic for something I never knew?
In the meantime, I visit friends and acquaintances, walk in valleys where I’m prone to stealing crisp apples (no one else seems to be picking them in forgotten orchards), revisit favorite places and look for wooden tools and boxes in antique stores. Recently, I found an old knife sharpener fashioned from a forked tree branch, some nails and a cylindrical stone. Beautiful in its own rustic way, but too large (and probably too expensive) to carry home, I have to be satisfied with a photo of it.
I love one small street in Uçhisar in particular. Its houses are ramshackle, and there is always some kind of activity in front of them, usually related to food preparation. On any given day, a shalwar wearing woman might be making pekmez, often called grape molasses, in a huge circular pan set over a smoldering fire. Another might be opening walnuts with a knife, or emptying pumpkin-like vegetables for their seeds. Chickens and goats vie for the leftovers, clambering over a shallow pile of manure waiting to be brought to a field. Sometimes, a cow makes itself heard from behind a door. In the autumn, both men and women patiently chop wood with short-handled axes, seated on low chairs or tree stumps next to piled twigs. There is no natural gas heating in Uçhisar, so many people heat their houses with a ceramic stove fueled by coal and or fire. These stoves generate great but very localized heat. I’m reminded of how much time and energy the process of living and feeding can take.
The other day I went to Ortahisar to look at the “castle” and the antique stores around it. As I was walking through a very narrow street, probably gawking at houses, I heard a merhaba (hello) behind me. An elderly gentleman named Hasan led me through a grapevine surmounted door to his home. At one time, the stone house must have been quite magnificent, with an inner but small open area, stairs and doors leading to various rooms. Now, it is a cluttered shithole with piles of potatoes in corners, apples in crates, dusty jars of pickles on shelves, and all manner of junk jumbled in piles on the windowsills. It’s as if nothing can be thrown away just in case it might by some miracle work again or prove of value to some unnamed someone. While his wife, Cahide, made tea, Hasan showed me his three sheep in an adjoining building. I drank enough tea to float to the dolmuş stop. I was fed more than acceptable grapes from the vine, and questionable apricots and apples in homemade pekmez. Cahide ceremoniously pulled a stack of scarves with oya trim out of a bag and “convinced” me that a gold-sequined one would look wonderful on me. Although I have stacks of oya trimmed scarves at home, I purchased one from her at a slightly inflated price. I’m prone to making such pity purchases and she knows how to work a customer. Cahide showed me one room in the house, her very small bed and sitting-room, the arched ceiling and walls thick with white paint and the atmosphere equally thick with an accumulated odor. Maybe Cahide and Hasan accost every foreigner wandering behind the castle, and maybe those wanderers also make pity purchases, I don’t know.
I’m still awed by stone houses with their vaulted rooms. Abandoned houses on the hillside are often marked by crumbling foundations and a standing arch supporting air instead of walls. I like to explore the interiors of extant houses, testing wood floors before putting my full weight on them, and venturing into their littered cave rooms. Some have simple but beautifully carved fireplaces and blackened walls. I wonder what it was like to live inside them, how they would have looked covered in textiles, how they might have smelled like fresh bread, stew, people and animals. Currently, there is much restoration in the old village of Uçhisar. Caves are being emptied of trash, and ruins are being cleaned before rebuilding begins. Part of me welcomes such restoration because it means the architecture is appreciated and jobs are created. Another part of me prefers the ruins, the disorder and the possibility of discovery. Would this village be as attractive to me, all brand-spanking, newly restored? Is it possible to be nostalgic for something I never knew?
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Chicken Report Part 2
I received the following message from B the other day:
one of the chicken hatched and if ı can find a photo ı will atach it with the e-mail(his name is çiki and he is 2 days old)
According to the vet, "çiki" (pronounced "cheeky") is a rooster. According to B, (see previous installment) he's very noisy. He will be paying a visit to our English lesson tomorrow.
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Chicken Report
While writing a letter about himself to me, one of my 6th graders asked an interesting question. He wanted to know the word for “when birds come out of their eggs”. Although I had no idea how or why the word “hatch” had any relevance to the assignment at hand, I wrote it on the board for him.
The following day, while marking the letters, I learned that B likes technology, inventing machines, and “hatch chicken eggs” because it “helps” him. Curious. He didn’t, however, tell me how it helped him in that or the following letter draft.
Intrigued, I caught B in the corridor. I told him that he’s a very interesting person, and wanted to know exactly how hatching chicken eggs is helpful to him. B is a little thing with an impish grin. He first looked at me as if I have eight heads, and then he shot me a broad smile.
“It helps me with technology.”
“How many do you have?”
“Two.”
“What do you do with them?”
“We’re going to put them in a cage.”
He looked at me as if I had sprouted a ninth head when I told him I wanted to see pictures.
Later that day, B caught me before the lesson, still grinning.
“Miss Rebecca, what day do you want to see?”
“Day? How many are there?”
“7.”
“OK, I want to see 7 pictures.”
When his printer was fixed, he proudly brought me a picture of an egg incubator, a domed contraption with two eggs in it. He explained that he doesn’t have to turn the eggs because the machine does it by itself. Clearly it was the 6th day as indicated by the number in the corner. No need to see the others because I’m sure they’re almost identical.
Every day, B gives me a new report. His sister is going to film the chickens when they hatch. Well, she can only film them if they hatch in the morning. They’re going to hatch on either Saturday or Sunday. She’s going to bring them to school.
Clearly, B and I have bonded over the chicken report. I’m not sure what we’ll talk about after the chicks have hatched and turned into ugly adolescent birds. We’ve got a while to think of something.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Burning Bridges
Even as a kid, I was aware of my over-sensitivity. I held people to unrealistic standards which, unfortunately, they often couldn't meet, (could I? I don't know.) resulting in my great disappointment. For example, when I was in early primary school, I can't remember exactly how old I was, Francisco visited Bloomer with family members from Venezuela. I loved him. Of course, anyone from another country who could speak another language was an exotic human being in my book. I loved him because he was an adult who actually paid attention to me, to us kids. We were special to him, and I especially appreciated it as the middle child lost amongst many. We weren't shooed out from under his feet in the kitchen. He actually listened to what we had to say and played a mean game of King of the Hill.
One day I stopped talking to Francisco altogether. We were going on one of our family day trips to somewhere in the car. While I enjoyed these trips, I always hated the pre-trip tension, the I-can't-find-my-shoes, do-you-have-the-fill in the blank... On this day, I couldn't find the pair of shorts I was supposed to wear. In a panic, I grabbed someone else's elastic waist-banded ones from the clean laundry basket, not realising they were my brother's, and somehow managed to pull them on backwards. When Mom informed me of both, Francisco laughed. He could have been responding to something else, but I was certain he was laughing at me. My buddy Francisco laughed at me. I was so hurt and disappointed that I never spoke to him again until he eventually asked me, down at my level, directly in my eyes, why I was ignoring him. I squirmed, and couldn't answer. I don't think I had the words, and I certainly didn't know how to deal with my hurt pride and embarrassment. At the same time, I think I was kind of ashamed because good little Catholic girls are supposed to be forgiving and forgetting.
Apparently, I am now an adult, though I sometimes have my doubts about that. I’m still too sensitive. Friends tell me not to be bothered by things I can’t change, yet I remain bothered when I think people are being mistreated. Unlike my younger self, however, I can at least distinguish if the mistreatment is intentional, or at least done by someone who should know better. And sometimes I still burn bridges, though now I have language to express my anger and disappointment.
There is a bridge I want to burn. The bridge I want to burn is attached to an institution, not one person, but then again, institutions are made of people. I don’t appreciate liars. I don’t appreciate the misogynist boss who makes inappropriate jokes, who revels in the humiliation and discomfort of others, knowing that his underlings cannot speak out for fear of losing their jobs. I have no respect for the immediate superior who feigns innocence when confronted with a, to her, difficult question, who ties my hands and forces me to be a page-turner rather than a teacher. I have less respect for an institution that plays loose with labor laws, who treats its employees with disrespect, unprofessionalism and an utter lack of compassion, a group that allegedly promotes education while fixing the grades of its “best” students for the sake of appearance, thus undermining its teachers and those students who are not the "best." An institution that sees fit to wait until the last day of classes to clear out its foreign language department by firing teachers who were still hard at work when they got the call to the principal’s office. Although it is still possible for native speakers to find decent jobs for the fall, it is nearly impossible for the Turkish ones to do so.
I want to burn this bridge and scatter its ashes. I want to scald the ground on which the bridge was built, make it unliveable, destroy all its plants to their roots and curse it a thousand times.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Stuff I Made
Today I went to the Pera Museum to see the exhibition Masterpieces of World Ceramics from the Victoria and Albert Museum. The V&A is one of my favorite museums. I often consider going back to London just to visit it and the British Museum. I often find ceramics to be equally, though differently, as moving as paintings or sculptures. They’re tactile. I’m drawn to simple, rough pieces that have no interest in hiding their dirtness, pieces with earthy glazes and odd or even sophisticated shapes. When I’m in the Louvre, I usually skip the painting rooms (too much drama, too much flesh) and head to the ancient Near Eastern archaeology sections. Today, I probably embarrassed myself by doing more than one little happy dance before more than one exhibition case.
I know I really like a piece of art or craft when it makes me want to paint or make something, and I’ve wanted to paint or make since this afternoon. Although I spend large portions of my free time making silver and semi-precious stone jewelry, I miss getting my hands dirty. I miss the texture and mass of wet clay, rolling a flat piece in the slab roller, stamping and incising, coiling and joining, cutting tiles, not to mention obsessive compulsive glazing. I miss flipping open my idea book, taking stamps and needle tools out of my art box. Since I don’t have available studio space, I’m going to pat myself on the back and show you pictures of things I made a few years ago, inspired by pieces in museums and pictures from the archaeology section of the Bryn Mawr College library. The actual things are in shoeboxes, stored in a friend’s attic, waiting for me to figure out how to get them to Turkey without breaking them.
I call this group the cavalry.
This is my version of a Boetian bell idol. Her legs are clappers. She makes a pleasant, musical little sound when shook. She sounds nothing like she looks.
These are my little boat people. This is my least favorite of my versions of the subject, but the only one of which I have a picture. My favorite one is on loan (probably permanent) to an archaeologist friend. It would be nearly impossible to get it acrosss the ocean without mishap unless I called on the V&A packing crew.
I am most attached to this one. He's an abbreviated version of an ancient one with four horses. His little hat is separate and has holes in it for string intended to attach to his head. His hands and the horses muzzles have holes for reins, though I never got around to putting the string through the holes. I never got around to fixing the axles with string either.
I call him Ben Hur. I didn't quite understand how to structure the chariot to hook up to the cart correctly. Next time.
I don't think of myself as an artist. Instead, I'm more of an amateur. It seems to me that many real artists and craftspeople don't get emotionally attached to what they produce, maybe because they produce so much, or accept that what they make will (hopefully) leave their hands for someone else's. I'm highly attached to my little guys, even if I can't get at them.
I know I really like a piece of art or craft when it makes me want to paint or make something, and I’ve wanted to paint or make since this afternoon. Although I spend large portions of my free time making silver and semi-precious stone jewelry, I miss getting my hands dirty. I miss the texture and mass of wet clay, rolling a flat piece in the slab roller, stamping and incising, coiling and joining, cutting tiles, not to mention obsessive compulsive glazing. I miss flipping open my idea book, taking stamps and needle tools out of my art box. Since I don’t have available studio space, I’m going to pat myself on the back and show you pictures of things I made a few years ago, inspired by pieces in museums and pictures from the archaeology section of the Bryn Mawr College library. The actual things are in shoeboxes, stored in a friend’s attic, waiting for me to figure out how to get them to Turkey without breaking them.
I call this group the cavalry.
This is my version of a Boetian bell idol. Her legs are clappers. She makes a pleasant, musical little sound when shook. She sounds nothing like she looks.
These are my little boat people. This is my least favorite of my versions of the subject, but the only one of which I have a picture. My favorite one is on loan (probably permanent) to an archaeologist friend. It would be nearly impossible to get it acrosss the ocean without mishap unless I called on the V&A packing crew.
I am most attached to this one. He's an abbreviated version of an ancient one with four horses. His little hat is separate and has holes in it for string intended to attach to his head. His hands and the horses muzzles have holes for reins, though I never got around to putting the string through the holes. I never got around to fixing the axles with string either.
I call him Ben Hur. I didn't quite understand how to structure the chariot to hook up to the cart correctly. Next time.I don't think of myself as an artist. Instead, I'm more of an amateur. It seems to me that many real artists and craftspeople don't get emotionally attached to what they produce, maybe because they produce so much, or accept that what they make will (hopefully) leave their hands for someone else's. I'm highly attached to my little guys, even if I can't get at them.
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