Turkey – Page 2 – Clara Hsu

Urfa

Urfa, located in south-eastern Turkey, smells of grilled lamb. It is in the air. Men fanning endless chacoal grills on the streets and placing skewers of cubed meat, liver and heart on the fire. I taste sheep in my lentil soup, rice, and the selections of entree at the locantas. I taste sheep in my saliva.

Dore and I watched the owner of an eatery cut up a carcass as we waited for our lunch. His skilled hand massages a long spine, exposing unwanted tendons and cutting them off.

At an open air eatery, four young Kurds who shared my table insisted on paying for my kebap sandwich. I had nothing to give back in return and decided to write a poem for them. One of the men, Abdul Kadir, read my poem out loud: …the world is a small place/when the heart is big. An older man who worked at the eatery smiled and nodded his head. Poets are welcome in Urfa.

The Mole

Sitting next to the wall of Topkapi Palace, my friend Murat served Turkish coffee after a delicious meal of Adana kebap. I observed the crumbling wood pile in front of me and remembered the single inhabit in that house.´

‘What happened to the man who used to live here?’ I asked Murat.

‘He is living inside the palace now.’

‘How?’

‘Well, this structure was falling apart. He found a hole in the palace wall that was big enough for him and moved there. I give him food. We all give him things. He is fine there. Doesn’t need much.’

‘What about the authority? The police? ‘

‘He is not normal, you see, but he is not hurting anyone. I had wanted to help him get money from the government but he didn’t want it. He saves the government lots of money. No one minds him staying in the hole.’

That was the story. I patted one of the cats sitting next to me—a baby, one and a half months old.

‘The other day I put seven cats in my car and drove them to the fish market.’ Said Murat. ‘They get run over by cars around here. But at the fish market they have food and I don’t have to worry about them.’

Murat puffed his cigarette heavily. They cannot smoke inside their businesses anymore. It’s against the law.

Istanbul in November

Istanbul with its first rain, wet and glistening. The cooler weather has driven most tourists away and with them, the hustlers too. Walking up the tramtrack in Sultanahmet, I came upon an old friend (owner of a restaurant). He was the first person to greet me when I arrived for the first time in 2004. He didn’t call out to me in Chinese, like he did to all Asian tourists, but gave me a big warm smile. In the past seven years he had been to jail, built four restaurants, a bed and breakfast inn, and now, his ‘final’ project is to own a three-star hotel.

‘After this I will retire.’

An unlikely story. People here work. That’s what they do.

I ate at his new restaurant. He had to go to see his father in the hospital. His nephew took over the administration. He is training him to be his successor.

A glass of Turkish tea. Two cubes of sugar stirred to dissolve with a silver spoon.

The Temptress

I was prepared for the conservatism in Kilis, a city in Southern Turkey that was steps away from the Syrian border. If anyone should question why I was traveling with a white man (Dore) I would show my mother’s engagement ring. When we arrived at our hotel we presented our passports to the clerk. It was the eve of Ramadan. Maybe the clerk was in a bad mood or maybe his wits were sharpened because of the fast; he was dismayed that my last name was not the same as Dore’s.

“You’re not married.” He said to me.

“Yes I am.” I replied, showing him the ring on my finger. “In America, many women keep their family names instead of changing to their husbands’.”

He shook his head. Another man came and they discussed the situation. Then, as expected, many more men arrived and the discussion at times turned vehement. Dore and I looked on with amusement, wondering how the situation would be resolved.

There was always a wise man who came up with a solution that everyone thought was agreeable. “Look,” The clerk came back to us. “This is what the elders have decided. You may have a room with two beds for 40 liras. But if you want to sleep together in one bed, it’ll cost you 60 liras.”

We gladly took the room with two beds. It was big and spacious and the men must have thought they had prevented some kind of led act in their hotel.

In the morning I greeted the clerk at the front desk and gave him a candy. He popped it in his mouth without thinking when the man next to him reminded him that it was Ramadan. He promptly spitted the candy out. I wondered if he thought I was a temptress.

Angel At The Sidewalk

Dore and I don’t like to make plans when we travel. As a result we get stuck sometimes in foreign places without a place to stay. In the fall of 2006 we were on our way to Ayder, a mountain resort, but needed to change bus at Pazar, a seaside town in the Black Sea region of Turkey. The connecting bus never came, and we were stuck standing at the bus stop watching an approaching storm.

A group of men gathered around us but none of them spoke English. A couple of them ran away and came back with someone who did. He explained to us that the nearest hotel was quite far and we needed to find a taxi to go there. As we hesitated a young Kurd stepped forward. The man who spoke English told us this man, Fuat was offering his home to us.

“Yes. Thank you.” I said immediately, and we followed Fuat and his friend up the hill to a big apartment complex. Fuat lived on the 8th floor. There was no elevator.

Bustling activities ensued as soon as we entered Fuat’s apartment. His mother started making rice. His wife showed us their newborn twin babies. His friend went back down to the market to buy milk and cheese and bread. With a mixture of English, Turkish and Arabic and lots of hand gestures we managed to communicate through the evening.

Fuat showed us a little room with two beds. I listened to the babies during the night and the gentle creaking sound of the wood cradles.

“I have to give something in return.” I told Dore in the morning. I had nothing meaningful to give, so I wrote a poem for Fuat.

I read it to Fuat after a hearty breakfast. He took the poem with a big smile. The window panes were wet with rain. The storm had arrived and we were on our way.

O Istanbul

Its name carries a myth and the city never disappoints me. Its melancholy permeates the streets and its people. There is a dark side that wears like an old sweater, and the mood can be further mellowed by the sweetness of baklavas. Attractive men with curly black hair. Beautiful women in oriental dresses. I have friends who call me from time to time. “When will you come back?”

I know the streets. I know the people who run the little gift shops, the hawkers in front of the restaurants and in the parks. But it has been three years since I was there. Will I see the same people doing the same things when I go back? Chances are: I will. I can count on them being there pouring tea or raki into little glass cups and wave a welcome as if I have never left.

A friend writes, “See you in November.”

Hey Vern

Vern. Hey Bro! I have not forgotten to thank you, my muscle-man, the guy who shows up when I need him, who takes care of me and my daughter Julia. No one ever messes with us when we walk down the street with you. That killer look. That body. Those thick tattooed arms, those calloused fists. And now, the BEARD!

I didn’t keep my promise to bake you a pie a week. But you took Julia under your wing and taught her how to punch. I really thought the ballerina would turn into a boxer.

Our girl is grown now. You are the night cat in the clubs. I stay home and write poetry. When we get together we invariably reminisce how you reined that little wild pinto in. I eat my salad while you chomp down your meatloaf. I always enjoy our walks, especially the one down Mission Street at night, admiring the old cinemas on each block that have turned into parking garages or vegetable markets. Who could have imagined in their glorious days that they would have such ignominious ending? We just keep going. That’s the best we can do. Oh, and keep deep-frying the turkeys. You know Avotcja loves them.

Photo by Vivencio Peralta.

The Perfume Seller of Sirince

The old man sat inside the entrance of St. John Baptist church in Sirince. He had a wooden tray in front of him. On it were glass vials of different sizes. When I entered he stretched out his hand for mine and put a drop of liquid on my wrist. The scent was exotic. It accompanied me as I walked around the airy interior of the Greek Orthodox church, admiring its simplicity. Before I left I chose a small green vial from him. His leathery face had little expression, but took my five liras (about $3) with a nod. He was busy accommodating other customers, Turkish women tourists, who were able to demand various samples on their wrists.

Sirince is a former Greek village situated near the Aegean coast. A beautiful hideaway in the mountains, it is famous for its local wines, soap making and crafts. The perfume I bought from the old man stayed with me for a long time when I put it on in the morning. Its mysterious mixture always brought me back to Turkey, to the winding cobblestone streets, to the old man. When I went back Sirince the next year I made it a point to look for him.

He wasn’t in the church. But when I walked down to the market place I found him talking to one of my Turkish friends. His wooden tray was folded into a carrying case. A soft bag slung across his shoulder. Upon seeing me the old man took a vial out of the bag and stretched out his hand.

My friend laughed, “He wants to sell you perfume. It’s not Gucci, you know.”

“He has the best perfume in the world.” I replied. “Please ask him to pick out a scent for me.”

The old man handed me a vial.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is rose.”

photo by Dore Steinberg.

Little Horse, Little Horse

A caravan of horses and a van riding from central Turkey to Iran. Sleeping in tents. Cooking in an open fire. Visiting artisans who make carpets. Watching them load the pieces into the van…I imagined as Mehmet Dasdeler described what he was planning to do. He could do it. A man of high energy and vision, he owned hotels and a carpet shop in Goreme, Turkey.

“Come with me.” Mehmet said, “We’re mapping the route right now. Maybe in two years we’ll go.”

“I’d love to.” I said. “But first I have to learn how to ride a horse.”

Mehmet put me on one of his horses. A beautiful brown with white spots. As soon as we left the stable, my little horse started to act up and wouldn’t go forward. “He’s testing you.” Mehmet said. “Kick him with your heels.” I kicked. “Harder.” He laughed.

Little horse went around in circles, snorting and swaying. I could barely hold onto him. He ran up a different hill instead of following Mehmet’s horse. He rushed downhill to get rid of his burden. My bottom swung out of his body. I would fall in a second and die.

“What happened?” Mehmet rode over and held the rein, steadying the horse.

“I’m sorry, Mehmet.” I said. Iran felt very far away. And if little horse and I were to be companions we might never ever see our family and friends again.