heaven and humility

Journal Entry September 26, 1993
I am loving Turkey! Pillow soft delectable bread, endless cups of hot apple tea, unexpected squirts of lemon scented water on buses, happy tourists, friendly locals, and even the pit toilets (which turn out to be more hygienic than you’d think) are suitable. Despite the hordes of tourists, Pammukale was fascinating with a sprawling array of limestone laden thermal water pools cascading over calcium rich, cotton white terraces. Underground cities, enchanting valleys and implausible conical rock formations called Fairy Chimneys are among the captivating sights in the central Turkish region of Cappadocia.

Journal Entry September 27, 1993
Arrived in Seljuk (west Turkey near Ephesus). Like most of the tourist areas in Greece and Turkey, pension owners greet the buses and trains to hawk their lodgings with cheap prices, pretty pictures, and alluring promises. I went with the crowd because I was afraid. But the penetrating eyes of the old Turk whose broken English and traditional clothes could not compete with the modern looking, well spoken youth, will haunt me forever. Though perhaps a creation of my overly dramatic imagination, I felt the soul of a once proud man; strong, respected and confident now reduced to begging from tourists to come to the humble home he’d been forced to rent out to survive. I envisioned him returning to an eager family, insulted and humiliated with no paying guests and no expectation of any to come. As I felt this drama in my heart, I wanted to choose authenticity with time-honored meals and halting conversations about politics, women’s roles, and Turkish perceptions of American culture. I wanted to establish a lifelong bond; to be the single foreigner who changed this man’s perception of us all as greedy, selfish, self-important fools willing to forgo the liquor driven night life for a sincere, genuine experience. It is my greatest shame that I did not.

Journal Entry September 28, 1993
Very sick during the cold night on my rooftop accommodation. There’s some justice in that I suppose…
Must remember to buy sandpaper. According to Australian Jason, this trading tool will be as valuable as money in Africa.

Letter to family September 30, 1993
I’ve just recently arrived on the island of Samos, Greece from Kucadasi, Turkey. Enclosed you should find two undeveloped rolls of film and one developed set of pictures. Some of those will be sent to two Belgian boys I met in Cappadocia, Turkey. They’d been drugged and robbed in Istanbul, a common scam heavily warned about in all the youth hostels. Anyway, they didn’t have a camera and we spent four glorious days together. They were remarkably pleasant travel companions in spite of having little money and no change of clothes (not to mention soap or a toothbrush).
The developed roll of film is mostly from Cappadocia (in Central Turkey) and Istanbul. The lovely pictures with lots of trees and a river is a place called the Ilhara Canyon where I enjoyed a group day tour led by a French speaking guide. I don’t believe there’s another place in the world that so completely embodies my image of a storybook valley in a magical realm. I certainly hope not anyway. The area was once a religious sanctuary replete with barely visible churches and over 3,000 dwellings cleverly carved right into the rock walls in the cliffs. Some are still occupied. The habitable formations blend with the surroundings in muted natural hues of tawny yellow, meadow greens, dusty rose and lavender.
In one of the pictures (if you look closely) you’ll see a man in a tree knocking walnuts down with a stick. Another picture shows several women standing knee dip in the cool, running river gathering the walnuts. As we passed, they furiously pelted us with a few that we eagerly ate in thanks. The valley was also filled with blackberry bushes, which I love beyond comprehension and fell behind the group often to devour. This was the highlight of my travels so far.
Most people I’ve met in Turkey are so exceedingly generous it’s almost hard to accept their kindness. Perhaps my Belgian boys feel differently. For two days in Seljuk, Turkey I was miserably sick with a painful cough and runny nose. Eventually, I went to Kucadasi to catch the ferry back to Greece and roamed the harbor streets in ailing delirium. I can only presume how pitiable I must have looked as a restaurant owner invited me in to rest and gave me hot lemon tea. He fed me fish, salad, chicken soup and bread all accompanied by a never ending supply of that soothing liquid. The vendor next door joined the mercy date to sate my apparently needy body with pizza and yogurt. I was stuffed and they wouldn’t accept a dime, not even a lira. Either these people will become bitter or forever remain economically underdeveloped. I can’t know how they ever make a profit. Leaving Turkey is painful.
Meanwhile, I am being safe and usually tell people I’m meeting someone so they don’t think I’m alone and vulnerable. This came in particularly handy after an incident with a Turkish revolutionary and a gun. I was staying in a Reggae Bar Pension in Goreme, Turkey where several tourists had earlier spent hours debating Kurdish independence with a number of Turks who worked in the establishment. On the way from my room to the dining area for dinner, I came upon a group of four men sitting at the outdoor terrace, huddled over a bundle, barely visible in the dusk. Since one of them looked familiar from the afternoon’s gab session and I was actively trying to be less introverted, I slowed down to say hi. At the precise moment I realized these men were not looking for company, the bundle was unfurled to reveal a very large, dark gun. The man I thought I recognized picked it up to examine and noticed me staring in amazement.
“You didn’t see anything” he said, slowly placing the gun in his lap beneath the table top where he was sitting. “Of course not” I replied and rushed off to the bar. Later that night a motorcycle pulled up next to me on the faintly lit street as I sought some friends from the Ilhara Valley excursion. “You come for a ride” the gun toting familiar face said softly “I give you a tour”. “Oh, I can’t” I replied with hysterical desperation thinly veiled in my voice. “I’m going to meet some friends. They’re waiting for me over there. But thanks, really”. Off he roared never to be seen again during the remainder of my stay in the area (two more days). It was one of those moments of supreme clarity; I believed absolutely that if I got on that bike, I would never be seen again.
Anyway, I will rest here in Samos till I’m feeling better and move on to maybe Kos and Naxos before heading back to Athens where my friend Dan from New York will meet me for a couple weeks. That should be interesting. I suppose we’ll visit the romantic island of Santorini. I can’t decide whether I’m eager to see him or not. Daily influences affect my attitude regarding company. Strangers are fine but a compatriot from my real life, my other life, my anxiety ridden home life might be more of an intrusion than a welcome addition. Or maybe I’m just a nit-wit afraid of a little romance.
As far as familiarity, Israel was both comfortable and unnerving. I was there for the momentous peace signing between the PLO and Israel as well as the two big demonstrations before it; one in favor of the agreement and one against. It was, of course, the topic of all conversations and ambiguity permeated the atmosphere. I encountered bomb scares in bus stations and the proverbial gruff veneer of a people whose lives have been defined by a constant infiltration of their inherent sense of security. Israel is overwhelming as much as it is enchanting and leaving is mixed with guilt and relief.
In that state of perplexity I left Haifa, Israel for Rhodes, Greece. The ferry itself was fun and I began to relax again and feel the rhythm of movement through time and place. The ship docked for a day and a ½ in Limassol (yuck), Cypress then finally arrived to Rhodes at three in the morning September 17th or was it the 16th? Naturally everything was closed and I was extremely tired. After wandering around the lifeless town for a bit, I finally crashed on the ledge of the castle wall surrounding the old city. Camping was forbidden so I couldn’t open the tent. Fatigue made my rocky bed more appealing and I actually managed a short snooze till sunrise.
Rhodes was just the connection dock for the ferry to Turkey so I didn’t have more than half a day there. The entry into the natural bay inlet of Marmaris, Turkey bounded by gorgeous tall mountains was the beginning of my love affair with the country. I spent the first night in a youth hostel off the main port street bustling with bazaars and cafes and enjoyed a peaceful night of sleep in a heavenly soft bed. The next morning I had my first experience with Turkish hospitality in the manner of two cups of yummy rich coffee and pleasant conversation achieved primarily by pantomime. So, I guess I should say I think it was a pleasant conversation.
It has become apparent that the common American experience of learning few to no foreign languages is not as advantageous as we might think. The Belgian boys I mentioned earlier were the best travel companions for a number of reasons including their ability to speak French as well as English and could translate during the Ilhara Valley tour. I shared detergent and toothpaste and they taught me Flemish. I can say with nary an accent “I don’t speak Flemish”.
As I’m feeling crappy, I’ll rest in this nice soft bed in this nice walled room with a weatherproof roof, all by myself. More later and much love, T