Cairo is not a beautiful city. The smog is low-lying and thick; pointing our camera toward where the pyramids stood in the distance, the lens could only just capture them behind the haze of pollution. The traffic is completely chaotic, with no stop signs or lights, no lane markings, and apparently no right-of-way or any other sort of rules. Cars honk constantly, and drivers often lean out the window to yell at each other. Stenches of exhaust or garbage predominate in many places. And yet, the wide and shimmering Nile in the middle of downtown is majestic and calming despite what is going on around it; the white suits of the police and flowing robes of the relgious men and women give off a sense of pride and history; and the highest-in-the-world population density means that there are always faces to contemplate and stories to imagine. It does not fit the image I had in mind, developed from who-knows-what combination of movies and books etc. But after almost a week hear, I am starting to see that it has something of its own, less pleasant certainly but also much more alive than a fairy-tale name.
We arrived at the end of the first day of Ramadan, the Islamic holy month during which people fast from sunrise to sunset, not letting anything (food, water, cigarrettes) pass their lips. At sunset the ezan (call to prayer) signals the iftar, or break fast. At this time, the streets are full of people eating; restaurants have the food out so people can dig in as soon as the call begins, and free food is served in various parts of the city; for a few minutes, time stops, as taxi-drivers, policemen, store owners, and everyone else digs in. Ramadan makes some things quite a big more difficult from a tourist perspective: museums and shops keep irregular hours, cafes and restaurants outside of tourist or expatriate areas are not open, people testy from hunger can create frustrating interactions, and sensitivity to the fasting people means we shouldn't eat or drink outside unless surrounded by other tourists. But it's also an interesting time to be here, to see how completely the religion is integrated into daily life, as well as to experience the post-sundown energy on the streets.
We have been very lucky to be housed by a friend-of-a-friend, a Danish PhD student in interreligious dialogue who has been living in Cairo for two years and has given us countless useful tips and insights into the city, as well as provided awesome hospitality. (Coming home to an apartment after a day of touristing feels really good compared to coming home to a hostel, especially an apartment stocked with excellent American movies....) We've also gotten to meet up with two other friends of this same friend (Lachlyn, whom Erik knew from high school, spent two years in Cairo), which has definitely been a boon for our experience here.
As for the sights, the Giza pyramids were a bit of a let-down. They're so familiar without visiting Egypt-- the name and the image of them-- that I had a high expectation for what it would feel like to actually see them in person, and it was different from just a picture, with their incomprehensible size, but there was also a lot to detract from the experience. Pushy vendors touting camel rides and cheap souvenirs were everywhere, some tourists were wearing shockingly inappropriate clothes (pink hotpants and a mid-riff shirt in an exceedingly conservative country? a see-through white mini-skirt for walking around in the dirt?), and the city has oozed out to the very edge of the historic area, with a KFC and Pizza Hut visible from the sphinx-- in all, not quite the desert romance I had in mind. But after Giza we went to some farther out pyramids, at Zaqqara, which are actually the oldest in Egypt, and that was quite cool. One, that we could see in the distance, was built by an architect who didn't calculate his angles correctly (let that be a lesson to you, kids) and ended up needing to make drastic corrections in the middle of the pyramid, leading to what is known now as the Bent Pyramid. The architect was punished by the angry king, who wanted a new pyramid built, but during the construction of the replacement the king died, and was put into the original anyway. There were also a couple tombs covered in hieroglyphics, which were truly beautiful. The concerns of the writing were aesthetic as much as they were communicative; lines could be written left to right, right to left, or up to down, depending on the needs of the overall design (the direction of the animals' heads indicates which way the line goes). The hieroglyphics were supposed to not only pay homage to the buried person, but also, like the tomb as a whole, provide everything needed for the afterlife. So, for example, one entire wall was covered with carvings of servants carrying various kinds of foods, and another of servants bearing drinks. While the hundreds of figures in each of these positions resembled each other, they were also individually wrought, with different supplies carried by each one. They were really astounding to look at. We've also visited the ridiculous and awesome Egyptian Museum. Like Cairo's streets, it's an exercise in chaos, with thousands upon thousands of ancient objects placed here and there, largely unlabelled, with some purported order but a general sense of disorder. But some of the exhibits were really awesome (with great thanks to Lonely Planet for pointing them out and saving us the exhaustion of figuring it out ourselves!). The ubiquitous treasures of King Tut's tomb, ironically available to us today because King Tut was so unimportant in his time that no one else had tried too hard to rob the tomb earlier, were especially impressive. His solid gold death mask, with lapis lazuli liner around his onyx eyes, was moving to behold, while the stature granted him by the several gilded cases of consecutive size that had covered his three coffins (one of those in solid gold) is quite something to think about. We also enjoyed the room of animal mummies: pet cats and dogs and baby babboons, and a holy 15 foot crocodile and 3 foot lake perch that were revered as manifestations of certain gods. We skipped the human mummies, though, because the additional 20 dollar entrance fee to see them was too much for us to stomach.
We've also been to a couple sights off the tourist track that gave us incredible peepholes into how many people here live. One was the back roads of the City of the Dead, an area of old tombs, some of them very grand and some not, where squatters have been living for many years, raising families in the shadow-- according to our driver-- of ghosts. They can get electricity in the tombs, by some quirk of urban wiring, but not water, which they have to bring in from elsewhere. These are the poorest people in the city. But from our perspective driving through, City of the Dead seemed lovely compared to the other neighborhood he drove us through. This was Garbage City, a place whose name is viscerally evidenced in every breath or sight one has there. There is no municipal garbage collection in Cairo; rather, people organize to get contracts to collect trash from various parts of the city, which they bring back to where they live, sort, and sell to companies. The stench in the air seemed unbreathable to me, although the people who live there, and in the other, competing, Garbage Cities, breathe it all the time. Looking one way, I saw two men sitting on bags of trash next to an open bag containing cow detritus and swarming with flies; looking another way, there was a young girl walking barefoot in the trash-strewn alley eating a lollipop. The government has tried to move people from the garbage city, but they don't want to; there is a good living to be earned in collecting and sorting what others throw away. The most desired contracts to get, according to Henrik, are for the wealthier neighborhoods, because in the poor neighborhoods people use everything themselves. He says that the residents of Garbage City are not considered poor; they have food every day. To me it fell into a category that has been growing larger and larger as we've been traveling: things we can see, but cannot begin to understand.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Three Central Anatolian Towns
The 15 hours on buses from Barhal ended us in the small city of Amasya, right in the east-west center of the country. Arriving to a dingy hotel at midnight wasn't the best start to our short stay, but the one full day we spent in Amasya did have its share of nice things. In the morning we climbed the cliffs to the tombs of the Pontic kings who ruled the area in the 4th century-- there really wasn't anything to see there, but the size of the tombs was impressive. As we came down to the touristy neighborhood of Ottoman houses, which we planned to walk around, we were met by a university student speaking excellent English who had heard we were looking for a laundromat and offered to show us one. The laundry quest was unsuccessful-- more on that later-- but we ended up spending several hours with our guide, who was heading back to school in Ankara in a couple days but for the time being was looking for diversions in his hometown of Amasya. He took us around to various sites, the coolest of which was a gorgeous old medrese, or Islamic religious school. The school is now one where young boys, between 10 and 14, go to learn the whole Koran by heart. It is not open to the public, but following our guide, we were able to go in. Wearing religious caps and sitting crosslegged around the octagonal courtyard were boys hunched over their copies of the Koran, rocking and chanting in Arabic. When they arrive at the school, they learn to read Arabic, but do not learn what it means-- they read the Turkish translation of the Koran for that. They looked up when we arrived, perhaps particularly interested in seeing a woman in there (although I had to cover my head), but when they caught their teachers looking at them they bent back over their books. The hospitality of our guide was lovely-- he seemed to just love Amasya, and though we bought him lunch, we wouldn't have had to give him anything for the hours he spent with us. After leaving him we went walking around a neighborhood of run down but lovely old Ottoman houses and ran into two more instances of generous friendiness. First I went to buy an apple, and the merchant had us take it for free. Then, as we were walking, a family called to us from their raised porch inviting us up for tea, and we went and sat with them (saying our 3 Turkish phrases over and over...) for close to an hour.
Leaving Amasya, we headed to the capital, Ankara, but in hindsight wish we hadn't. Do you recall the Simpsons eppisode where Bart and family win a vacation-- the (misguided and NOT FUNNY) joke being that the trip is to Hartford? From our experience, Ankara would be a more appropriate choice for the unwanted vacation giveaway. Taking the metro into the city from the bus station, we were accosted by a man we saw to be a little eccentric who advised us to go to a different hotel than the one we had in mind, saying it should cost around 50 YTL (about $30). When we got to the hotel, we figured that maybe he hasn't been there in the past 10 years, since it now costs $95. After walking for too long with our heavy bags through a really ugly big-city landscape of noise, crowds of people and way too much traffic (the pollution felt much worse than Mexico City), we finally spotted the hotel we had originally chosen but were then unable to cross the street at an unmarked intersection for literally about 5 minutes. Having found the hotel, our next quest was to find a place to do our bulging bag of dirty laundry, but apparently there are no laundromats or laundry services in Turkey, as we were only able to locate 2 dry cleaners, one who rejected us and the other who said they'd charge over $30 to do the laundry. So we headed back to the hotel to do some hand washing.
Our reasons for coming to Ankara were the Ataturk Mausoleum and the Museum of Anatolian Civilzations, reputed to be one of the best museums in Turkey. We headed to the Mausoleum after breakfast, a journey that turned out to be as confusing and unpleasant as the walk the night before. But the monument itself, when we finally made it there, was quite interesting. The Museum of the War of Independence started out with several rooms of fancy shmancy Ataturk stuff-- a crystal shaving kit from the King of Jordan, dozens of jewel-encrusted daggers and swords, silk dressing robes, and the like. Then came the serious part: panaromas of battles, supplemented by the sounds of firing cannons and rapping bullets, and a dozen or more large paintings depicting 'ordinary Turkish people' helping the war effort while being tortured and killed by merciless Greeks. Though a bit Disney-ish in scale, it was actually quite moving. After that came a series of alcoves, each dedicated to a different one of Ataturk's achievements as Presidents between 1923 and 1938. Between the barrage of documents and the blaring patriotic music, we thought we might go into the exhibit American and come out of it Turkish. Finally, the museum brought us out in front of the towering columned monument, protected by fancily dressed soldiers, that contains Ataturk's supersized marble tomb. Over-the-top as it all seemed for a republic, it was still pretty cool to see. However, as we emerged from the museum, the thought of fighting our way through the Ankara streets to the Anatolian Museum we just couldn't stomach. Instead we bought some dried cherries and dates and set out for the bus station and the way out of town.
After escaping Ankara, we were happy to land in Safronbolu, a small town filled with old Ottoman houses (the town itself is actually a UNESCO site). We were very pleased with our pension, where we got a beautiful room for not much money. That night, however, we learned of a drawback: the singers from the bar 2 stories below sounded like they were right in our bedroom for several hours after we went bed. And after finally falling asleep, we were awakened at about 4:30 a.m. by the longest ezan (call to prayer) on the worst quality sound system we've ever heard, from the minaret that was practically right outside our window. The lack of sleep wasn't too much of a problem, though, because our only plan for three days in Safranbolu was to laze around-- stroll about, compare the Turkish Delights and baklavas of the many sweet shops, have picnics, that kind of thing. We were amused by the math at a cafe where our baklava and tea were listed on the bill as costing 3 and 6; when the waiter punched the numbers into the calculator he first showed us 11.5, then when we protested he typed them again and then showed us 8, which we paid, wondering what the next figure would have been if we'd said no to that. We thought our lazing would also include a lot of reading, but the rare tv in our pension room got in the way of that. The tv had digital cable, including three channels in English: the God channel (white televangelists), the God Revival channel (black televangelists), and the NBA channel. Remember those awesome 1993 and 1994 overtime playoff games? Alonzo Mourning's flat-top? When basketball shorts were still kind of short? We sure do.
On our second night, we decided that since we would be hearing the bar singers all night, we might as well sit in the bar. This was, perhaps, a miscalculation on our part, since the beer turned out to be ridiculously expensive, and they tried to charge us for the little bowl of nuts they'd brought unbidden to our table. But that aside, it had it's share of amusements. The main singer and m.c. struck us as painfully out of place in this little Turkish town, with his tight black pants, half-unbuttoned fitted shirt, and made-up face-- Provincetown would have been a better fit. But here he was, singing in this bar every night, and he seemed determined to make the best of it. He strutted back and forth, singing (off-key) with his eyes closed or rolled skyward, swaying when the guitarist, accompanied by his laptop, took over. At the end of each song, he would raise a cheer into the microphone (from our bed the night before we'd thought there was a very enthusiastic audience, but alas, it was an enthusiastic performer instead). He sipped raki between each song and smoked cigaretted whenever his dyed-blond female cohort took over at the microphone. We stayed at the show for awhile, trying to chat with the New Zealand couple we'd met, but eventually decided that the walls between the bar and our room made some difference, and retired upstairs.
Leaving Amasya, we headed to the capital, Ankara, but in hindsight wish we hadn't. Do you recall the Simpsons eppisode where Bart and family win a vacation-- the (misguided and NOT FUNNY) joke being that the trip is to Hartford? From our experience, Ankara would be a more appropriate choice for the unwanted vacation giveaway. Taking the metro into the city from the bus station, we were accosted by a man we saw to be a little eccentric who advised us to go to a different hotel than the one we had in mind, saying it should cost around 50 YTL (about $30). When we got to the hotel, we figured that maybe he hasn't been there in the past 10 years, since it now costs $95. After walking for too long with our heavy bags through a really ugly big-city landscape of noise, crowds of people and way too much traffic (the pollution felt much worse than Mexico City), we finally spotted the hotel we had originally chosen but were then unable to cross the street at an unmarked intersection for literally about 5 minutes. Having found the hotel, our next quest was to find a place to do our bulging bag of dirty laundry, but apparently there are no laundromats or laundry services in Turkey, as we were only able to locate 2 dry cleaners, one who rejected us and the other who said they'd charge over $30 to do the laundry. So we headed back to the hotel to do some hand washing.
Our reasons for coming to Ankara were the Ataturk Mausoleum and the Museum of Anatolian Civilzations, reputed to be one of the best museums in Turkey. We headed to the Mausoleum after breakfast, a journey that turned out to be as confusing and unpleasant as the walk the night before. But the monument itself, when we finally made it there, was quite interesting. The Museum of the War of Independence started out with several rooms of fancy shmancy Ataturk stuff-- a crystal shaving kit from the King of Jordan, dozens of jewel-encrusted daggers and swords, silk dressing robes, and the like. Then came the serious part: panaromas of battles, supplemented by the sounds of firing cannons and rapping bullets, and a dozen or more large paintings depicting 'ordinary Turkish people' helping the war effort while being tortured and killed by merciless Greeks. Though a bit Disney-ish in scale, it was actually quite moving. After that came a series of alcoves, each dedicated to a different one of Ataturk's achievements as Presidents between 1923 and 1938. Between the barrage of documents and the blaring patriotic music, we thought we might go into the exhibit American and come out of it Turkish. Finally, the museum brought us out in front of the towering columned monument, protected by fancily dressed soldiers, that contains Ataturk's supersized marble tomb. Over-the-top as it all seemed for a republic, it was still pretty cool to see. However, as we emerged from the museum, the thought of fighting our way through the Ankara streets to the Anatolian Museum we just couldn't stomach. Instead we bought some dried cherries and dates and set out for the bus station and the way out of town.
After escaping Ankara, we were happy to land in Safronbolu, a small town filled with old Ottoman houses (the town itself is actually a UNESCO site). We were very pleased with our pension, where we got a beautiful room for not much money. That night, however, we learned of a drawback: the singers from the bar 2 stories below sounded like they were right in our bedroom for several hours after we went bed. And after finally falling asleep, we were awakened at about 4:30 a.m. by the longest ezan (call to prayer) on the worst quality sound system we've ever heard, from the minaret that was practically right outside our window. The lack of sleep wasn't too much of a problem, though, because our only plan for three days in Safranbolu was to laze around-- stroll about, compare the Turkish Delights and baklavas of the many sweet shops, have picnics, that kind of thing. We were amused by the math at a cafe where our baklava and tea were listed on the bill as costing 3 and 6; when the waiter punched the numbers into the calculator he first showed us 11.5, then when we protested he typed them again and then showed us 8, which we paid, wondering what the next figure would have been if we'd said no to that. We thought our lazing would also include a lot of reading, but the rare tv in our pension room got in the way of that. The tv had digital cable, including three channels in English: the God channel (white televangelists), the God Revival channel (black televangelists), and the NBA channel. Remember those awesome 1993 and 1994 overtime playoff games? Alonzo Mourning's flat-top? When basketball shorts were still kind of short? We sure do.
On our second night, we decided that since we would be hearing the bar singers all night, we might as well sit in the bar. This was, perhaps, a miscalculation on our part, since the beer turned out to be ridiculously expensive, and they tried to charge us for the little bowl of nuts they'd brought unbidden to our table. But that aside, it had it's share of amusements. The main singer and m.c. struck us as painfully out of place in this little Turkish town, with his tight black pants, half-unbuttoned fitted shirt, and made-up face-- Provincetown would have been a better fit. But here he was, singing in this bar every night, and he seemed determined to make the best of it. He strutted back and forth, singing (off-key) with his eyes closed or rolled skyward, swaying when the guitarist, accompanied by his laptop, took over. At the end of each song, he would raise a cheer into the microphone (from our bed the night before we'd thought there was a very enthusiastic audience, but alas, it was an enthusiastic performer instead). He sipped raki between each song and smoked cigaretted whenever his dyed-blond female cohort took over at the microphone. We stayed at the show for awhile, trying to chat with the New Zealand couple we'd met, but eventually decided that the walls between the bar and our room made some difference, and retired upstairs.
Barhal: A Good Tip
Leaving Kars, we were planning to on to Trabzon, a town on the Black Sea. Our guide at Ani asked why we weren't going to the Georgian Valley and Kackar Mountains while we were in the area, and since actually we couldn't think of any reason why not, we changed our plans and went. And lucky that we did-- our time in the tiny mountain village of Barhal was a highlight of our time in Turkey.
The village sits at 1100 meters, and is reached by a harrowing drive along a snaking one lane road in a confidently driven minibus. The 38 kilometers from the larger town of Yusufeli up to Barhal takes two hours to drive, and as a passenger you spend the whole time thinking thankfully that the driver isn't going any faster. The town really only consists of two general stores, two cafes, and a few houses, but is popular with outdoorsy tourists and has several pensions. Ours consisted of simple wooden rooms up on a hillside, with a barn filled with hay and a cozy dining terrace where our proprietor, Mehmet, served up hearty meals (always including bread, rice, and potatoes, along with meat, salad, and soup!) To our surprise, the pension was full of Israeli tourists; we learned that Barhal is one of the towns firmly on the Israeli Turkey circuit.
The morning after our arrival, we set out on a difficult, awesome hike, which took us 2000 meters up from Barhal to Karagol, or Dark Lake, lying in the rocks at 3300 meters. The climb started with an 8 kilometer uphill walk along the dirt road between Barhal and the even smaller town of Nasranah. (When winter comes to the region, which will be soon, the road and everything else will be covered by a couple meters of snow-- we couldn't quite figure out how all the people whose wood and stone houses are perched on the mountainside get around during that long season.) From there, a path started taking us up the mountain, but crossing a meadow we pretty quickly lost the path, and did our best to ask for directions from villagers; after a few detours and one shepard kindly running after us when we headed the wrong way, we finally made it to the right path. This brought us on a climb that was breathtaking in both the literal and figurative senses. Every step was truly a difficult effort, and our hearts were pounding, but the scenery that surrounded us was well worth it. To our left was a rich, rather gentle valley, green with brilliant patches of red plants dotting it; the odd house sat on the mountainside beyond. To our right was a harsh, steep valley of stone, all gray and black. In every direction, in the background, were mountains. Hawks swooped and called. When this stunning climb ended, we could see the waterfall that came from Karagol, and knew we'd almost made it. But again we lost the path, and the only way we could see to get across to the final ascent was by crossing the steeply sloped field of rocks, the remnants of some hopefully long-ago slide, that lay in between us and our goal. This we did, slowly and nervously but successfully. Then we pulled ourselves up clinging to some of the amazing rhododendron bushes that grew from the mountain in several places, and after a short climb more, we came to Karagol. There was a mist rising from the lake and a cloud over it, and the air was so cold and wind so strong that we couldn't admire it for long, and had to eat our lunch huddled between some boulders. Coming down, we found a path that avoided the rock scramble, although when it split we went--no surprise-- the wrong way, and after some failed attempts to cut back to the trail we had to retrace our steps. The last couple kilometers along the road felt pretty long, but it was a very contented tiredness that consumed us.
The next morning was rainy, which provided a welcome excuse for having a long breakfast chatting with three Israeli women we'd met on the trail, then all sitting wrapped in blankets reading and leading each other in yoga poses. We took just enough of a walk in the afternoon to justify our chocolate and honey-filled picnic, then sat reading more when the rain started again. The peace of the place could not quite last through the 15 hours of bus rides we had to endure the following day, but came close, and that says a lot.
The village sits at 1100 meters, and is reached by a harrowing drive along a snaking one lane road in a confidently driven minibus. The 38 kilometers from the larger town of Yusufeli up to Barhal takes two hours to drive, and as a passenger you spend the whole time thinking thankfully that the driver isn't going any faster. The town really only consists of two general stores, two cafes, and a few houses, but is popular with outdoorsy tourists and has several pensions. Ours consisted of simple wooden rooms up on a hillside, with a barn filled with hay and a cozy dining terrace where our proprietor, Mehmet, served up hearty meals (always including bread, rice, and potatoes, along with meat, salad, and soup!) To our surprise, the pension was full of Israeli tourists; we learned that Barhal is one of the towns firmly on the Israeli Turkey circuit.
The morning after our arrival, we set out on a difficult, awesome hike, which took us 2000 meters up from Barhal to Karagol, or Dark Lake, lying in the rocks at 3300 meters. The climb started with an 8 kilometer uphill walk along the dirt road between Barhal and the even smaller town of Nasranah. (When winter comes to the region, which will be soon, the road and everything else will be covered by a couple meters of snow-- we couldn't quite figure out how all the people whose wood and stone houses are perched on the mountainside get around during that long season.) From there, a path started taking us up the mountain, but crossing a meadow we pretty quickly lost the path, and did our best to ask for directions from villagers; after a few detours and one shepard kindly running after us when we headed the wrong way, we finally made it to the right path. This brought us on a climb that was breathtaking in both the literal and figurative senses. Every step was truly a difficult effort, and our hearts were pounding, but the scenery that surrounded us was well worth it. To our left was a rich, rather gentle valley, green with brilliant patches of red plants dotting it; the odd house sat on the mountainside beyond. To our right was a harsh, steep valley of stone, all gray and black. In every direction, in the background, were mountains. Hawks swooped and called. When this stunning climb ended, we could see the waterfall that came from Karagol, and knew we'd almost made it. But again we lost the path, and the only way we could see to get across to the final ascent was by crossing the steeply sloped field of rocks, the remnants of some hopefully long-ago slide, that lay in between us and our goal. This we did, slowly and nervously but successfully. Then we pulled ourselves up clinging to some of the amazing rhododendron bushes that grew from the mountain in several places, and after a short climb more, we came to Karagol. There was a mist rising from the lake and a cloud over it, and the air was so cold and wind so strong that we couldn't admire it for long, and had to eat our lunch huddled between some boulders. Coming down, we found a path that avoided the rock scramble, although when it split we went--no surprise-- the wrong way, and after some failed attempts to cut back to the trail we had to retrace our steps. The last couple kilometers along the road felt pretty long, but it was a very contented tiredness that consumed us.
The next morning was rainy, which provided a welcome excuse for having a long breakfast chatting with three Israeli women we'd met on the trail, then all sitting wrapped in blankets reading and leading each other in yoga poses. We took just enough of a walk in the afternoon to justify our chocolate and honey-filled picnic, then sat reading more when the rain started again. The peace of the place could not quite last through the 15 hours of bus rides we had to endure the following day, but came close, and that says a lot.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Ani
Ani is a medieval city, a thriving Armenian capital of the 1st millenium that survived Seljuk and Mongol invasions but has been empty since an earthquake in 1331. It sits just on the Turkish side of the Turkey-Armenia border, in the midst of a vast steppe-- picture the biggest, emptiest part of Montana, scatter around some reddish-brown fragments of magnificent buildings, add a Russian army base and barbed wire fence, and you've got an image of what Ani looks and feels like. (The army base, though an ugly intrusion, is really so dwarfed by the landscape as to be almost insignificant-- as long as you're not trying to sneak across the border anyway). Unlike any of the ruins we visited in Mexico or western Turkey, Ani is virtually untouristed, due partly to the inconvenience of reaching the site (there is no public transportation available), but probably more to the history of turbulence in eastern Turkey and the border region in particular. For us, the absence of other people for the hours we spent exploring the ruins was an awesome gift; I've never had the same feeling of being in a real place, and not some type of more-authentic Disneyworld, in any other ruin I've been to. But for the sake of the region's economy and all the travelers who are missing out on some incredible places, I hope tourism to the area goes up in the future.
The standing (or partly standing) buildings at Ani are mainly religious, for the reason that their arches protected them from the ravages of that 14th century earthquake, while most of the commercial and residential buildings were turned completely to rubble. Because of this, no two buildings were close together, and although you can see many of them across the steppe standing just at the city gate, the distance between them is actually quite large. There were a few Armenian and Georgian churches, with Armenian inscriptions carved into the outside walls. One of these had frescoes, including one with a man bound to a board and hanging upside down-- not sure if it was a Christian being tortured, or some Christians doing the torturing-- that we've never seen anywhere else. Another distinctive feature of the churches was the hive-like carved stone design of the ceilings. The Convent of the Virgins was set down a long path on the edge of a cliff overhanging the river, a location apparently chosen to keep those virgins virginal. But Christianity was not the only religion that thrived in Ani. There are also the remains of a Zoroastrian temple that was the oldest structure in the city, as well as a completely intact mosque built by the Seljuks that was the first mosque in all of Anatolia.
Our only disappointing moment in Ani came when we arrived at the last structure on our circuit, the palace, and found that it had been almost completely 'restored'-- which actually meant rebuilt using ugly new concrete blocks, entirely eclipsing what few pieces of the original remained. (The same was true of the city wall). Our guide told us that this thoughtless work had been planned for all of Ani, but thankfully a group of archeologists challenged the plan in court and won, saving the majority of the ruins in their proper ruined state.
The standing (or partly standing) buildings at Ani are mainly religious, for the reason that their arches protected them from the ravages of that 14th century earthquake, while most of the commercial and residential buildings were turned completely to rubble. Because of this, no two buildings were close together, and although you can see many of them across the steppe standing just at the city gate, the distance between them is actually quite large. There were a few Armenian and Georgian churches, with Armenian inscriptions carved into the outside walls. One of these had frescoes, including one with a man bound to a board and hanging upside down-- not sure if it was a Christian being tortured, or some Christians doing the torturing-- that we've never seen anywhere else. Another distinctive feature of the churches was the hive-like carved stone design of the ceilings. The Convent of the Virgins was set down a long path on the edge of a cliff overhanging the river, a location apparently chosen to keep those virgins virginal. But Christianity was not the only religion that thrived in Ani. There are also the remains of a Zoroastrian temple that was the oldest structure in the city, as well as a completely intact mosque built by the Seljuks that was the first mosque in all of Anatolia.
Our only disappointing moment in Ani came when we arrived at the last structure on our circuit, the palace, and found that it had been almost completely 'restored'-- which actually meant rebuilt using ugly new concrete blocks, entirely eclipsing what few pieces of the original remained. (The same was true of the city wall). Our guide told us that this thoughtless work had been planned for all of Ani, but thankfully a group of archeologists challenged the plan in court and won, saving the majority of the ruins in their proper ruined state.
Farming in Kinalitas
Before arriving at our second organic farm, we were a little nervous about what to expect since the location is the farthest east we've been so far--where there are fewer tourists and less developed conditions. When we tried to contact the farmer, Nuri Celik, to confirm that we were coming, it turned out that he doesn't speak a word of English, and I couldn't understand any of his Turkish over the phone. So we called the woman from the TaTuTa (organic farm program) we'd signed up with in Istanbul, she spoke with Nuri and she said to call him when we arrived at the Kelkit town bus station and he'd pick us up.
Getting to Kelkit was no picnic: from Cappadocia, we took an unpleasant overnight bus (at one point in the middle of the night they were either refueling or fixing something, and had the gas tank area open inside the bus with fumes pouring out) that dumped us by the side of the road near the bus station in Erzincan at 5am, an hour earlier than we were scheduled to arrive. At the Erzincan bus station, we were able to communicate in German to buy our ticket (amazingly, when contrasted with our 5 word knowledge of Turkish, German sounds crystal clear). After a beautiful ride through brown mountains, yellow fields and clear blue skies, we arrived in Kelkit around 7am and called Nuri, and then waited about an hour and a half that felt much longer until he finally arrived. We'd planned on being taken out to the farm, having breakfast and getting to work, but instead Nuri deposited us in the care of a man we later learned to be his father's brother, who sat with us while we ate breakfast of soup and bread in a restaurant, and then took us on a short walking 'tour' of Kelkit (population 19,000 but with a smaller feel) before we settled into a table in an alley outside a teahouse for our first of many cups of tea. Nuri's uncle, like almost everyone else we interacted with in Kelkit/Kinalitas, spoke no English--we managed to communicate when necessary and a couple other times, but mostly sat until Nuri appeared again around noon. We went to a restaurant for lunch, then Nuri, who is the 'muhtar' (mayor) of the village of Kinalitas, brought us along while he picked up some papers, including a stop at a pharmacy where a woman who spoke limited English asked us if we thought America is imperialist, but when we said yes she didn't talk to us any more.
In early afternoon, we piled into a big van to the village of Kinalitas, which turned out to be driven by a weathered looking man we'd met at the teahouse who told us that he was a truck driver (possibly with the military) during the Iran-Iraq war in the 80s, and showed us his passport with dozens of entry stamps into Iraq in that time period. The village of Kinalitas is located on a hillside about a 15 minute drive outside of Kelkit, with a population of maybe a couple hundred. We met Nuri's family: his wife Emine, daughters Derya, age 26 (her husband died 3 years ago from illness and she is back in her parents' house, with a terribly palpable sadness); Hattiti, age 24 (she lives with her husband, they're expecting their first child in October); Seljuk, age 21 (he helps out with the farm work and, like all Turkish men, completed his mandatory 15 month military service); Yasmine, age 19 (she's marrying soon a friend of Seljuk's and moving to a village outside of Izmir, across the country on the Aegean coast), Habibe, age 12 (she could speak a few words and phrases of English); and Sahmi age 1 and a half (Sahmi was always entertaining. It was a good thing that, as far as we know, there were no loaded guns in the house as we saw Sahmi playing with a lighter, a hatchet and piece of firewood, and several large knives).
Habibe, whose head is not yet covered, took us on a walking tour of the village where we balanced on an irrigation wall, jumped over streams and ended up picking cucumbers and beans from their garden. In what became a pattern, the rest of the day was pretty much spent sitting around, first inside and then outside on cushions on the ground. We established some communication with Habibe through drawing pictures and pointing to phrases in our guidebook and her English notebook from school. Our first meal with the family that night felt incredibly awkward, as Nuri, Seljuk, Rachel and I were served first and all of the family women sat there in silence, waiting until we were finished to eat. This was a time where it felt very clearly like women are considered inferior, and it was uncomfortable for us. In what also became a nightly routine, after dinner we watched tv. In addition to the American music videos, highlights of Turkish tv include Turkish folk music videos (all shot the same way, and in the same mountain location), a soap opera of Turkish village life (I was trying to think of an American equivalent--maybe 'Dukes of Hazard?'), and a kickboxing tournament taking place in Turkey where the undefeated New Zealander Chris Johnson would do his signature King Kong chest pounding after every victory.
Day 2 started with us having breakfast, riding into Kelkit on the van, and then being taken by taxi to a large farm, where we waited in the office with someone who spoke only a few words of English. After an awkward wait, an employee of the farm our age who spoke English arrived and gave us a tour. The farm, Dogan Organic, is a huge organic project founded recently by a Turkish media mogul (he owns 90% of the media outlets in turkey; however Rupert Murdoch just bought his first Turkish tv station so the competition may be heating up) whose father owned a farm outside Kelkit. Dogan Organic is a very large operation: they currently have 1,000 cattle, 350 of which they are currently milking. Our guide Gunus told us that the farm had been awarded the best organic project in Europe. They have plans to expand even further, to ship and process their own milk as well as build modern milking parlors in the surrounding villages for the villagers to use. The farm is connected to a large agriculture university in Kelkit, and seems to have as its mission not just organic but also education and community development.
After the tour we went back to Kelkit and ate ice cream with Gunus until Seljuk picked us up. As we had been struggling immensely with figuring out whether there was actually any work we could do on the farm, or whether they expected us to stay as paying guests (the other option of TaTuTa), Gunus translated, and Seljuk assured him that we would be working. After lunch, we rode in the tractor, blasting Turkish pop and dancing in the limited space, with Seljuk and Habibe to dig a few potatoes and pick a little corn, and then drove back to the house and sat around outside, eventually eating some corn and playing a little 'volleyball' before going in for dinner. As we had already known with the amount of bread consumed, Turkey seems like the exact opposite of the Atkins diet, but the food we ate with the family was super starch-based. A typical meal might be rice or bulgar, followed by chickpeas or pasta, of course with bread, and sometimes with boiled potatoes beforehand as a snack (there was also some meat, vegetables, etc. but these were secondary). It was amazing how it felt different for us with the family after just a short amount of time: instead of being silent, the women at least participated in conversation at other meals, and a few times even ate with us. The division was still something that felt strange to us, but less so with time. Also, at the second two evening meals, Rachel stayed afterwards with the women while I went to watch tv with the men, and so she was able to 'talk' with them more.
Day 3 was market day in Kelkit. After briefly walking throught the market with Seljuk we were able to buy some presents for the family and then went to tea at several places, one including a cafe owned by a British man who teaches English at the university; they called him and we talked a little with him on the phone while drinking tea in his cafe. Back on the farm, we went back on the tractor with Seljuk and Habibe for a 'swimming' picnic next to a nearby river, where we didn't actually swim but played soccer, walked around and had a dance party from the tractor tape player to Ismail YK, the hit Turkish pop star of the moment. We then rode on the tractor to a nearby canyon, where we walked around.
On the morning of Day 4 we set off towards Kars: Habibe was very sad to see us go, asking us to stay just one more day, and Emine had tears in her eyes as we left. Although very challenging, it was a great experience for us to stay with them, and for them to open their home and their lives to us in such a warm manner. We hope that someday we'll be able to reciprocate with Habibe in the U.S., but for the time being that seems like a pretty distant dream.
Getting to Kelkit was no picnic: from Cappadocia, we took an unpleasant overnight bus (at one point in the middle of the night they were either refueling or fixing something, and had the gas tank area open inside the bus with fumes pouring out) that dumped us by the side of the road near the bus station in Erzincan at 5am, an hour earlier than we were scheduled to arrive. At the Erzincan bus station, we were able to communicate in German to buy our ticket (amazingly, when contrasted with our 5 word knowledge of Turkish, German sounds crystal clear). After a beautiful ride through brown mountains, yellow fields and clear blue skies, we arrived in Kelkit around 7am and called Nuri, and then waited about an hour and a half that felt much longer until he finally arrived. We'd planned on being taken out to the farm, having breakfast and getting to work, but instead Nuri deposited us in the care of a man we later learned to be his father's brother, who sat with us while we ate breakfast of soup and bread in a restaurant, and then took us on a short walking 'tour' of Kelkit (population 19,000 but with a smaller feel) before we settled into a table in an alley outside a teahouse for our first of many cups of tea. Nuri's uncle, like almost everyone else we interacted with in Kelkit/Kinalitas, spoke no English--we managed to communicate when necessary and a couple other times, but mostly sat until Nuri appeared again around noon. We went to a restaurant for lunch, then Nuri, who is the 'muhtar' (mayor) of the village of Kinalitas, brought us along while he picked up some papers, including a stop at a pharmacy where a woman who spoke limited English asked us if we thought America is imperialist, but when we said yes she didn't talk to us any more.
In early afternoon, we piled into a big van to the village of Kinalitas, which turned out to be driven by a weathered looking man we'd met at the teahouse who told us that he was a truck driver (possibly with the military) during the Iran-Iraq war in the 80s, and showed us his passport with dozens of entry stamps into Iraq in that time period. The village of Kinalitas is located on a hillside about a 15 minute drive outside of Kelkit, with a population of maybe a couple hundred. We met Nuri's family: his wife Emine, daughters Derya, age 26 (her husband died 3 years ago from illness and she is back in her parents' house, with a terribly palpable sadness); Hattiti, age 24 (she lives with her husband, they're expecting their first child in October); Seljuk, age 21 (he helps out with the farm work and, like all Turkish men, completed his mandatory 15 month military service); Yasmine, age 19 (she's marrying soon a friend of Seljuk's and moving to a village outside of Izmir, across the country on the Aegean coast), Habibe, age 12 (she could speak a few words and phrases of English); and Sahmi age 1 and a half (Sahmi was always entertaining. It was a good thing that, as far as we know, there were no loaded guns in the house as we saw Sahmi playing with a lighter, a hatchet and piece of firewood, and several large knives).
Habibe, whose head is not yet covered, took us on a walking tour of the village where we balanced on an irrigation wall, jumped over streams and ended up picking cucumbers and beans from their garden. In what became a pattern, the rest of the day was pretty much spent sitting around, first inside and then outside on cushions on the ground. We established some communication with Habibe through drawing pictures and pointing to phrases in our guidebook and her English notebook from school. Our first meal with the family that night felt incredibly awkward, as Nuri, Seljuk, Rachel and I were served first and all of the family women sat there in silence, waiting until we were finished to eat. This was a time where it felt very clearly like women are considered inferior, and it was uncomfortable for us. In what also became a nightly routine, after dinner we watched tv. In addition to the American music videos, highlights of Turkish tv include Turkish folk music videos (all shot the same way, and in the same mountain location), a soap opera of Turkish village life (I was trying to think of an American equivalent--maybe 'Dukes of Hazard?'), and a kickboxing tournament taking place in Turkey where the undefeated New Zealander Chris Johnson would do his signature King Kong chest pounding after every victory.
Day 2 started with us having breakfast, riding into Kelkit on the van, and then being taken by taxi to a large farm, where we waited in the office with someone who spoke only a few words of English. After an awkward wait, an employee of the farm our age who spoke English arrived and gave us a tour. The farm, Dogan Organic, is a huge organic project founded recently by a Turkish media mogul (he owns 90% of the media outlets in turkey; however Rupert Murdoch just bought his first Turkish tv station so the competition may be heating up) whose father owned a farm outside Kelkit. Dogan Organic is a very large operation: they currently have 1,000 cattle, 350 of which they are currently milking. Our guide Gunus told us that the farm had been awarded the best organic project in Europe. They have plans to expand even further, to ship and process their own milk as well as build modern milking parlors in the surrounding villages for the villagers to use. The farm is connected to a large agriculture university in Kelkit, and seems to have as its mission not just organic but also education and community development.
After the tour we went back to Kelkit and ate ice cream with Gunus until Seljuk picked us up. As we had been struggling immensely with figuring out whether there was actually any work we could do on the farm, or whether they expected us to stay as paying guests (the other option of TaTuTa), Gunus translated, and Seljuk assured him that we would be working. After lunch, we rode in the tractor, blasting Turkish pop and dancing in the limited space, with Seljuk and Habibe to dig a few potatoes and pick a little corn, and then drove back to the house and sat around outside, eventually eating some corn and playing a little 'volleyball' before going in for dinner. As we had already known with the amount of bread consumed, Turkey seems like the exact opposite of the Atkins diet, but the food we ate with the family was super starch-based. A typical meal might be rice or bulgar, followed by chickpeas or pasta, of course with bread, and sometimes with boiled potatoes beforehand as a snack (there was also some meat, vegetables, etc. but these were secondary). It was amazing how it felt different for us with the family after just a short amount of time: instead of being silent, the women at least participated in conversation at other meals, and a few times even ate with us. The division was still something that felt strange to us, but less so with time. Also, at the second two evening meals, Rachel stayed afterwards with the women while I went to watch tv with the men, and so she was able to 'talk' with them more.
Day 3 was market day in Kelkit. After briefly walking throught the market with Seljuk we were able to buy some presents for the family and then went to tea at several places, one including a cafe owned by a British man who teaches English at the university; they called him and we talked a little with him on the phone while drinking tea in his cafe. Back on the farm, we went back on the tractor with Seljuk and Habibe for a 'swimming' picnic next to a nearby river, where we didn't actually swim but played soccer, walked around and had a dance party from the tractor tape player to Ismail YK, the hit Turkish pop star of the moment. We then rode on the tractor to a nearby canyon, where we walked around.
On the morning of Day 4 we set off towards Kars: Habibe was very sad to see us go, asking us to stay just one more day, and Emine had tears in her eyes as we left. Although very challenging, it was a great experience for us to stay with them, and for them to open their home and their lives to us in such a warm manner. We hope that someday we'll be able to reciprocate with Habibe in the U.S., but for the time being that seems like a pretty distant dream.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Circumcised Rocks and Other Natural Wonders
Between the village wedding at Kiralan and the village farm at Kinalitas, we spent three days frolicking in the tourist haven of Goreme, a town in Cappadocia. The Cappadocia region is characterized by unusual and impressive rock formations. Some were naturally formed by volcanoes, earthquakes, and erosion. These include the oddly-named 'fairy chimneys', which tour guides also refer to demurely as mushroom rocks, but which anyone who has been to middle school knows really look like towering phalluses. Others were manmade, including numerous monasteries built into the sides of cliffs, cave churches, and underground cities. We had fun exploring these. The Goreme Open Air Museum, a UNESCO World Heritage site, contains the best churches, with 12-1500 year old frescoes impressively preserved. Some of the frescoes were made during the iconoclastic period, when the church banned the portrayal of any human or animal images as idolotrous; these are mainly ochre-colored geometric designs. There were also paintings of humans made before and after the iconoclastic period-- the earlier of these were viewed offensively by the iconoclasts, who scratched out their eyes and sometimes their entire faces.
On a lively group tour-- our guide said we were the youngest group she'd ever had, but we all knew that she also meant we were the cheapest, buying one beer and two waters between us all day-- we visited an 8 storey underground city, going 65 meters down. The city was dug out by hand over the course of several generations, and was for centuries used by Christians as a hideout when the area was invaded. They had a school and a winery, a kitchen, and a torture device (see photo), and could live underground for up to six months. Each underground city was connected to a couple others by a series of tunnels (now off limits to curious tourists). We also stopped at a ceramics studio, where we watched artists creating labarynthine designs with no templates. The owner wooed us with tea and playing with the pottery wheel, and the finished projects were beautiful, but still not a lira parted from our group's hands. The best part of our time in Cappadocia, though, was a half-day hike between the cave site of Zelve, and Goreme that we did on our first day. We walked on thistle-strewn goat paths along the ridges of the steep hills, passing high over the souvenir stands and camel rides (see photo) of the fairy chimney area and instead seeing just the incredible rocks themselves. Further on, the rocks surrounding us wavered between pink and green in color, scattered vineyards provided sweet snacks, and we didn't run into a single other person for hours. When it was finally time to return to touristland, we ran into a little challenge finding a path down into the valley that didn't involve a sheer drop of some uninviting distance, but eventually we found a hill we could scramble down, and made our way back to town.
On a lively group tour-- our guide said we were the youngest group she'd ever had, but we all knew that she also meant we were the cheapest, buying one beer and two waters between us all day-- we visited an 8 storey underground city, going 65 meters down. The city was dug out by hand over the course of several generations, and was for centuries used by Christians as a hideout when the area was invaded. They had a school and a winery, a kitchen, and a torture device (see photo), and could live underground for up to six months. Each underground city was connected to a couple others by a series of tunnels (now off limits to curious tourists). We also stopped at a ceramics studio, where we watched artists creating labarynthine designs with no templates. The owner wooed us with tea and playing with the pottery wheel, and the finished projects were beautiful, but still not a lira parted from our group's hands. The best part of our time in Cappadocia, though, was a half-day hike between the cave site of Zelve, and Goreme that we did on our first day. We walked on thistle-strewn goat paths along the ridges of the steep hills, passing high over the souvenir stands and camel rides (see photo) of the fairy chimney area and instead seeing just the incredible rocks themselves. Further on, the rocks surrounding us wavered between pink and green in color, scattered vineyards provided sweet snacks, and we didn't run into a single other person for hours. When it was finally time to return to touristland, we ran into a little challenge finding a path down into the valley that didn't involve a sheer drop of some uninviting distance, but eventually we found a hill we could scramble down, and made our way back to town.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Wedding Crashers
When we arrived at the bus station at Pamukkale, a tiny tourist town famous for its mineral water deposits and Greek spa-town ruins, we knew from Lonely Planet to expect to be hustled by penion owners competing for our business. We did not expect, however, that the pension we got hustled into would turn out to be our ticket into a completely un-touristed world. From the beginning, it was clear that the family that ran Seoul Pension-- 50-something parents and 20-something sons-- was very friendly, as they brought us tea and freshly picked grapes. The mother was a wonderful cook, and we savored every bite of the lamb, tomato, and onion stew she made us for dinner. But we were still quite taken by surprise when, after watching a movie in their living room, one of the sons told us that his parents (who pretty much did not speak English) had invited us to a stay in their village, including a family wedding, the next night and day. After that, the mineral deposits and ruins were cool to see, but it was clear the memorable part of our visit was yet to come.
Saturday evening, we piled into the car with Mevlut and Durdu and headed to the village of Kiralan, about an hour's drive away. (It probably should have been longer, but Mevlut drove like he was being pursued by wolves.) After stopping in their house-- two rooms plus an entryway, small kitchen, and outdoor squat toilet-- and meeting Mevlut's sisters and nieces and nephew, we were led to the house of the father of the groom. He is a very observant Muslim who lives half the year in Germany, where his son and new daughter-in-law will be joining him. He shook Erik's hand but not mine, but otherwise was very welcoming of these two strangers who had shown up at his door. We sat on the floor and were served a tray of local dishes, which we ate communally. I had a lot of trouble using my right hand, as is the Turkish custom... for a reason we unhappily learned when we first went to the outhouse and found there wasn't any toilet paper. (They did find some for us, though). Our host kept speaking to us in German, which, having only studied it for 6 months each, 4 years ago, we had a lot of trouble following. Meanwhile, Durdu would speak to us in Turkish and look at us expectantly, waiting for a response, while Mevlut would mix Turkish and English together, often with no better luck.
After a little while, I was called away by Durdu, leaving Erik in the living room, where he was to remain, with men speaking to him in German, for a couple hours. I was brought with the other women in a bus 1/2 a mile away to the the bride's house. She was dressed in a long, many-layered, feathery red skirt, with a long-sleeved white shirt, a gold chain maile-like accessory on her hands, and long necklaces with large gold coins on her neck. The yard was full of women sitting in a circle on plastic chairs; besides the young girls and one other woman my age, I was the only one with an uncovered head. The village custom is to wear patterned pantaloons under long, loose skirts, sandals with socks, long shirts, and white headscarves. Most of the women wore this style, although some of the younger ones and the bride and groom's relatives wore fancier clothes. In the middle of the circle, the bride and another woman (her best friend?) did a traditional dance, moving slowly around, then speeding up and kicking their feet together, while women walked up to them, moved their hands over them, then deposited some coins in a basket near the woman beating the drum. When the bride was finished, woman after woman got into the circle and the same thing happened, with the bride always offering coins to the dancers. This went on for a long time, as Durdu's neices and I exchanged sleepy glances. Then the bride and her friend were put on two chairs and a red sequined veil was laid over the bride's face. Young women began walking around them carrying candles and singing. Then sparklers were lit, and all the 7 year old boys who had been hanging out nearby ran to get them and jumped around the circle, holding the sparklers in everyone's faces and being halfheartedly shooed away by the women. After this went on for awhile, we loaded back onto the buses and headed back to the groom's house. There we sat eating melon and talking for awhile, although the only one who seemed to have any energy was Mevlut-- it seemed that his wife and sisters were waiting for him to decide when it was time to leave, even though they and the kids were quite sleepy.
In the morning, we feasted on breakfast foods at Mevlut's sister's house. Then he took us on a tour of the village. We saw the Sunday market, brimming with local grapes, peaches, and tomatoes, and the cemetary, wild-looking in an unkept field. At one point Mevlut called a group of children over who had been picking almonds from the trees, and saying something like 'I have some Americans here,' helped himself to a handful from each of their bags!
After our walk, it was time to go to the wedding. We headed back to the groom's house. Durdu had already been there for a couple hours, helping the women of the family with the cooking and cleaning. When we arrived, I was kept with the men, who were sitting at picnic tables in the yard enjoying the trays of food being brought to them, while the women cooked and washed an endless cycle of dishes. This went on for an hour or so, interrupted only by a prayer issued by the imam over a loudspeaker that had been set up in the yard. Then the groom and his best friend appeared, dressed in matching suits. With his father next to him, the imam performed a prayer over him. Then men, including Erik, went up to pin money on his jacket. After this the groom and his friend got into the back seat of his car, which had been decorated with hearts and paper. Everyone else also loaded into their cars, which had scarves of different colors tied to the right windshield. Those without cars piled onto buses ordered for the occassion. Honking the whole way, this procession moved toward the bride's house. The groom's car was parked right outside her door, while everyone else parked outside then gathered round, the men in the lot, the women near the groom's car. After a few minutes, the bride was brought down to the car, wearing a long white satin dress and the same gold necklaces and red sequined veil. This seemed to be the current manifestation of an old kidnapping ritual as the bride was packed into the car and led away.
Back at the groom's house, the car (with bride and groom still inside) was parked under a canopy. Again, the men gathered on one side, the women on the other. A sheep was brought out and held to the ground in front of the car by one man. Then another man began to saw at the sheep's neck with a long knife. As the blood began to spurt, Durdu pulled me through to be at the front of the crowd, but I was having a hard time watching and tried to move back. For two minues that felt like 10, the man sawed at the sheep's neck until its head came off completely. The sheep's body thrashed around as two men carried it away. Then the car was turned back on and ran with great intention over the blood on the ground. After that the bride and groom got out of the car and went inside. That was the only part of the ceremony that included both of them.
I was a little shaky by this point, but managed to follow Durdu inside, where women were gathered to take photos with the bride and groom. After that we gave our thanks to our hosts, had a last cup of tea with Mevlut's sisters and the children, and headed back to Pamukkale.
Saturday evening, we piled into the car with Mevlut and Durdu and headed to the village of Kiralan, about an hour's drive away. (It probably should have been longer, but Mevlut drove like he was being pursued by wolves.) After stopping in their house-- two rooms plus an entryway, small kitchen, and outdoor squat toilet-- and meeting Mevlut's sisters and nieces and nephew, we were led to the house of the father of the groom. He is a very observant Muslim who lives half the year in Germany, where his son and new daughter-in-law will be joining him. He shook Erik's hand but not mine, but otherwise was very welcoming of these two strangers who had shown up at his door. We sat on the floor and were served a tray of local dishes, which we ate communally. I had a lot of trouble using my right hand, as is the Turkish custom... for a reason we unhappily learned when we first went to the outhouse and found there wasn't any toilet paper. (They did find some for us, though). Our host kept speaking to us in German, which, having only studied it for 6 months each, 4 years ago, we had a lot of trouble following. Meanwhile, Durdu would speak to us in Turkish and look at us expectantly, waiting for a response, while Mevlut would mix Turkish and English together, often with no better luck.
After a little while, I was called away by Durdu, leaving Erik in the living room, where he was to remain, with men speaking to him in German, for a couple hours. I was brought with the other women in a bus 1/2 a mile away to the the bride's house. She was dressed in a long, many-layered, feathery red skirt, with a long-sleeved white shirt, a gold chain maile-like accessory on her hands, and long necklaces with large gold coins on her neck. The yard was full of women sitting in a circle on plastic chairs; besides the young girls and one other woman my age, I was the only one with an uncovered head. The village custom is to wear patterned pantaloons under long, loose skirts, sandals with socks, long shirts, and white headscarves. Most of the women wore this style, although some of the younger ones and the bride and groom's relatives wore fancier clothes. In the middle of the circle, the bride and another woman (her best friend?) did a traditional dance, moving slowly around, then speeding up and kicking their feet together, while women walked up to them, moved their hands over them, then deposited some coins in a basket near the woman beating the drum. When the bride was finished, woman after woman got into the circle and the same thing happened, with the bride always offering coins to the dancers. This went on for a long time, as Durdu's neices and I exchanged sleepy glances. Then the bride and her friend were put on two chairs and a red sequined veil was laid over the bride's face. Young women began walking around them carrying candles and singing. Then sparklers were lit, and all the 7 year old boys who had been hanging out nearby ran to get them and jumped around the circle, holding the sparklers in everyone's faces and being halfheartedly shooed away by the women. After this went on for awhile, we loaded back onto the buses and headed back to the groom's house. There we sat eating melon and talking for awhile, although the only one who seemed to have any energy was Mevlut-- it seemed that his wife and sisters were waiting for him to decide when it was time to leave, even though they and the kids were quite sleepy.
In the morning, we feasted on breakfast foods at Mevlut's sister's house. Then he took us on a tour of the village. We saw the Sunday market, brimming with local grapes, peaches, and tomatoes, and the cemetary, wild-looking in an unkept field. At one point Mevlut called a group of children over who had been picking almonds from the trees, and saying something like 'I have some Americans here,' helped himself to a handful from each of their bags!
After our walk, it was time to go to the wedding. We headed back to the groom's house. Durdu had already been there for a couple hours, helping the women of the family with the cooking and cleaning. When we arrived, I was kept with the men, who were sitting at picnic tables in the yard enjoying the trays of food being brought to them, while the women cooked and washed an endless cycle of dishes. This went on for an hour or so, interrupted only by a prayer issued by the imam over a loudspeaker that had been set up in the yard. Then the groom and his best friend appeared, dressed in matching suits. With his father next to him, the imam performed a prayer over him. Then men, including Erik, went up to pin money on his jacket. After this the groom and his friend got into the back seat of his car, which had been decorated with hearts and paper. Everyone else also loaded into their cars, which had scarves of different colors tied to the right windshield. Those without cars piled onto buses ordered for the occassion. Honking the whole way, this procession moved toward the bride's house. The groom's car was parked right outside her door, while everyone else parked outside then gathered round, the men in the lot, the women near the groom's car. After a few minutes, the bride was brought down to the car, wearing a long white satin dress and the same gold necklaces and red sequined veil. This seemed to be the current manifestation of an old kidnapping ritual as the bride was packed into the car and led away.
Back at the groom's house, the car (with bride and groom still inside) was parked under a canopy. Again, the men gathered on one side, the women on the other. A sheep was brought out and held to the ground in front of the car by one man. Then another man began to saw at the sheep's neck with a long knife. As the blood began to spurt, Durdu pulled me through to be at the front of the crowd, but I was having a hard time watching and tried to move back. For two minues that felt like 10, the man sawed at the sheep's neck until its head came off completely. The sheep's body thrashed around as two men carried it away. Then the car was turned back on and ran with great intention over the blood on the ground. After that the bride and groom got out of the car and went inside. That was the only part of the ceremony that included both of them.
I was a little shaky by this point, but managed to follow Durdu inside, where women were gathered to take photos with the bride and groom. After that we gave our thanks to our hosts, had a last cup of tea with Mevlut's sisters and the children, and headed back to Pamukkale.
Pastoral Vadi: Part 2
On our second-to-last full day at Pastoral Vadi, we finally got to do some outdoor work. They have a large field of 4-year-old orange trees (currently with smallish green oranges which will be ripe in January); our task was to use a small pick to clear away the grass and roots in a 3 foot diameter circle around the tree. We worked in the morning and lounged by the pool in the afternoon. The last full day, we went back to the trees, this time equipped with some gloves to protect all the blisters on our hands. Rachel unfortunately found a tree with a small bee hive and was stung 3 times. As a remedy, the farmer Yakup cut an onion in half and held it on the stings, which seemed to be successful in drawing out some of the poison.
Despite not doing much besides washing the dishes (which did actually take awhile), we felt like we had already earned our keep by serving as publicity models: the Turkish state tv network was filming a feature while we were there, and our picture appeared in the local newspaper the next day. In the picture, we're shown seated on cushions in a thatch-covered platform (perfect for tea drinking), engaged in a posed conversation with the owner Ahmed. Unfortunately, we didn't get a copy of the paper.
It was fun to get to know people a little more in the time we were there. Feride the cook enjoyed calling Rachel 'Elma,' which means 'apple': 'Erik' is easy for people to pronounce here because it's the Turkish word for 'plum' (or 'small apple'), but no one can pronounce 'Rachel.' We appreciated Feride's and Nurgul's cooking, including a meat,onion,tomato and parsley stuffed eggplant whose Turkish name translates as 'split stomach,' and a delicious eggplant and pepper ratatui. One evening, Yakup the farmer played the saz, a traditional stringed instrument.
One of our favorite people to talk with at Pastoral was Gemal, a friend of Ahmed's who's an economics professor at Vanier College in Montreal. He was working on a publicity article for Pastoral Vadi, and we laughed about the English association of the word 'pastoral' being some sheep hopping through the grass while a shepherd plays his flute--not exactly the description of an eco-tourism place! From books to politics to religion to travel, we spent hours talking with Gemal and hope to keep in touch!
Despite not doing much besides washing the dishes (which did actually take awhile), we felt like we had already earned our keep by serving as publicity models: the Turkish state tv network was filming a feature while we were there, and our picture appeared in the local newspaper the next day. In the picture, we're shown seated on cushions in a thatch-covered platform (perfect for tea drinking), engaged in a posed conversation with the owner Ahmed. Unfortunately, we didn't get a copy of the paper.
It was fun to get to know people a little more in the time we were there. Feride the cook enjoyed calling Rachel 'Elma,' which means 'apple': 'Erik' is easy for people to pronounce here because it's the Turkish word for 'plum' (or 'small apple'), but no one can pronounce 'Rachel.' We appreciated Feride's and Nurgul's cooking, including a meat,onion,tomato and parsley stuffed eggplant whose Turkish name translates as 'split stomach,' and a delicious eggplant and pepper ratatui. One evening, Yakup the farmer played the saz, a traditional stringed instrument.
One of our favorite people to talk with at Pastoral was Gemal, a friend of Ahmed's who's an economics professor at Vanier College in Montreal. He was working on a publicity article for Pastoral Vadi, and we laughed about the English association of the word 'pastoral' being some sheep hopping through the grass while a shepherd plays his flute--not exactly the description of an eco-tourism place! From books to politics to religion to travel, we spent hours talking with Gemal and hope to keep in touch!
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