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?
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