Two tones. Maybe two and a half. The brown dye fell into black and was littered with grey. So maybe three.
I'd never seen a combover so combed...over. The hair surged from the base of his head, wrapping itself in a coiffed helmet.
"I'm an inventor," he told us, fresh green almonds gripped between hairy fingers, bits of salt spotting the green like the grey spotted his black and brown hair.
"What have you invented?"
"A water pipe that you don't smoke. You use cough syrup." A better answer couldn't have come from a polyester suited Syrian who whirred around town on an electric scooter.
"Really." We exchanged glances.
"Really. Almond?" Hands thrust forward, he munched and thought, crunched and pondered. "Come with me for dinner."
His scooter had only room for one passenger. Two if someone wanted to ride on the basket. We opted for one. I opted for one.
In the thumping heart of Hama, Syria, the arteries pushed through car after car, horn after horn.
"Don't be scared- I do this all the time," he reassured me as he readjusted the mirror on the left side, bent freshly from hitting a stopped car.
"They all know me! See how everyone's waving?" He turned back to look at me, polyester jacket facing the flipped up fingers and blasts of oncoming drivers.
He flitted and jolted through the bloodstream. His bushy hands were light on the brakes, but also sometimes late on the brakes. My life would have flashed before my eyes, but his hair blocked the images, and they fell to the ground, run over by his electric scoot.
He kicked the stand out and parked the contraption, brushing off a leaf on the seat like the insults hurled at him fluttered off the hair helmet. "We'll meet my friends."
'Stayin' Alive' by the Bee Gees played in my head as the trio strutted ahead of me, pleated legs swaying and glances swerving. Nods given and hands gripped, these men were movers, and judging by their gait, shakers. They ran the town with their swagger alone.
They knew a place, he said. A friend's. Good food. Welcome. Welcome to Syria.
Menus came out, and we scanned the Arabic, pretending to know what we were reading. We'll have the meat, we decided.
"150 grams? Not enough." His jowls swayed, but the hair stayed firm. It was the terra firma to his quaking gestures. Hands gesticulated, arms waved. More meat! More meat! The waiter wouldn't budge.
Sometimes a principled stand needs to be taken- sometimes trivialities need to be brushed aside, and a forceful roots need to be planted. There is a time and a place, and a restaurant in Hama has neither. The swish swish of polyester led us out of restaurant, the tempers of the trio still fuming.
He knew another place. With more meat. 150? What is that? His friend's. Well, he knows the owner.
Water and yogurt with salt becomes an acquired taste. With oregano it becomes a different story. We gulped down the seasoned drink to quench the heat of the night. We chased with water.
The florescent lights overhead shone down onto vinyl covered seats. It was as if time had taken a rest in this place, and decided it liked what it saw. The polyester pant legs that swung to the beat of arabesque music fit. They almost fit too tight- an uncomfortable hug.
I'd been given lessons earlier in life about table manners. You never know when you'll be eating with the Queen, I was told. Tonight I was eating with the Kings of Style, and convention were tossed out.
"Try the salad. With lemon- no. Like that. Did I tell you my brothers and father were killed in the massacre? Ah- try this humus. Use the bread."
No topic was off limits to them- or at least to one. The other stayed true to his craft.
"Yes, you see, you put the cough syrup in and then inhale. You willl feel very good."
"Really? I mean, cough syrup? You don't see something wrong with that?"
"Yes I need to find a fair in Canada. Do you know about it? In Scarborough."
We danced for the whole dinner, sidestepping and twirling away from talk of chopped off heads and hands, and green cough syrup.
The bill couldn't have come at a better time, and the expressions couldn't have been more worrying. The inventor scrunched his forehead, the helmet moving as one. He called over the owner. They talked. The meat seemed to have been good weight, we thought.
"There has been mistake with the owner- he is not my friend anymore. He will not give me a discount." A bill landed on our plates.
"I am sorry. Please, let me take you for tea. To make up for this."
We indulged him, and cut through the night air with the strides of a group that's eaten too much.
A large bottle of water! Yes four teas! We sipped and watched the television. He excused himself to the washroom. He must have eaten some bad humus- he was taking forever.
"Sir, you-your friend has left without paying for the drinks," a beanstalk sidled up to the table and with a voice that cracked and fell from his mouth, told us we'd lost our man.
"Oh."
Maybe the embarrassment of not getting a discount had made him flee. Maybe an epiphany about his invention had caused him to take flight. Or maybe the two Canadians left to foot the $1.50 had been played by the coiffed inventor. Maybe the King of Style had struck again, and somewhere on a dark road, the notes of a time past but still present played to his strut.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Chapter 14- The Mule
The deep wrinkles of her skin might even be hiding something.
As the crinkle of cigarette cases became the soundtrack to the tense atmosphere, nothing seemed beyond the realm of possibility.
Cases disappeared beneath her shawl. They were like little clowns in reverse, stuffing themselves back into the car.
She might have been 85. Or 30. Being a cigarette mule drains the soul like it drains the face.
My glances in her direction didn’t deter her. Instead, her hands became frenzied claws that gripped and shoved until she became a walking cigarette that wrinkled and rustled just like the real deal.
We were five stuffed into four seats. The driver, the American, the driver’s friend, and the two innocent old ladies who had seemed the safest travel companions as we made our way back into Turkey.
Maybe they were late bloomers that found adventure and thrill in shepherding tobacco instead of Tuesday canasta. Maybe I should be learning something from them. The drivers seemed to be- they turned and shifted boxes until anywhere became an ideal hiding place. Except our backpacks. Those were off limits, we warned.
And for a second, I pondered the ridiculousness of the situation- minutes from a security check that should reveal all that was hidden within the car, we were in a taxi leaving Iraq with two semi-retirees and who knows how much soon-to-be smuggled goods. The old lady next to me was probably more processed tobacco than blood.
We had read that it would happen- the drivers would try to sneak as few boxes into our bags as our glances were elsewhere. So no bag strayed from any eye. It seemed that they really didn’t need us. More had gone down everyone’s pants than would have ever fit in the bags.
Driving away from the flooding streets of Erbil, cash in hand, all of our troubles seemed to be out of the way. How hard would it be to get back into Turkey?
Very, it turned out. Taxis and cars formed two obedient lines that stretched back far enough to diminish the hope in even the most ardent optimist. Bumpers were being removed, and cars meticulously searched for weapons, drugs and eagle print bedding.
She might have been someone’s grandma. She should have been a public service announcement. Kids, don’t buy smuggled cigarettes. Your grandma put her life on the line to bring them over. She should have been a lot of things, yet her conservative dress belied her real intentions. She was a hardened criminal dealing in contraband. But she probably made great biscuits. I wondered if she would go home and knit, the pyramid of Prestige cigarettes tossing a boxed shadow over her shaking hands.
Somehow, we made it over. Barring all common sense, our taxi rolled back into the familiarity of Turkey, and the passengers all breathed a sigh of collective relief.
I don’t know what became of the old woman and her stash. Maybe they were presents for her children and grandchildren. Maybe she had a little stand on the street, and sipped tea all day while nicotine-craving passers by jumped at the price of bir bucuk.
The other one, who had either been subtler, or had carried less on her person, boarded the same bus as us.
“Very cold,” she told us, for the fifth time in Turkish. It seemed to be all that she thought we knew. Maybe nodding enthusiastically was encouraging it.
Midway through our trip, as the border fell further and further away to become an idea, rather than a place, the bus was pulled over for a jandarma checkpoint.
The guard only raised his eyebrows when we told him our reason in Iraq was a vacation.
Further down the bus, a little girl was asked what was in her bag. She reluctantly held it back. The jandarma pulled it away. Smokes. Lot’s of them.
“Everybody off the bus!” he ordered. Busted.
All bags were opened and searched. Except ours. We were told there were no problems, and were sent back on the bus, as herds of shivering Turks watched their valuables (most of which turned out to be cigarettes) be rifled through.
After half an hour, the bus started rolling again, dodging potholes with a grace reserved for the worst of drivers. The bus drove into the night, lighter than it had been moments ago. A group of happy jandarma waving over another bus the last picture I saw before my eyes closed.
As the crinkle of cigarette cases became the soundtrack to the tense atmosphere, nothing seemed beyond the realm of possibility.
Cases disappeared beneath her shawl. They were like little clowns in reverse, stuffing themselves back into the car.
She might have been 85. Or 30. Being a cigarette mule drains the soul like it drains the face.
My glances in her direction didn’t deter her. Instead, her hands became frenzied claws that gripped and shoved until she became a walking cigarette that wrinkled and rustled just like the real deal.
We were five stuffed into four seats. The driver, the American, the driver’s friend, and the two innocent old ladies who had seemed the safest travel companions as we made our way back into Turkey.
Maybe they were late bloomers that found adventure and thrill in shepherding tobacco instead of Tuesday canasta. Maybe I should be learning something from them. The drivers seemed to be- they turned and shifted boxes until anywhere became an ideal hiding place. Except our backpacks. Those were off limits, we warned.
And for a second, I pondered the ridiculousness of the situation- minutes from a security check that should reveal all that was hidden within the car, we were in a taxi leaving Iraq with two semi-retirees and who knows how much soon-to-be smuggled goods. The old lady next to me was probably more processed tobacco than blood.
We had read that it would happen- the drivers would try to sneak as few boxes into our bags as our glances were elsewhere. So no bag strayed from any eye. It seemed that they really didn’t need us. More had gone down everyone’s pants than would have ever fit in the bags.
Driving away from the flooding streets of Erbil, cash in hand, all of our troubles seemed to be out of the way. How hard would it be to get back into Turkey?
Very, it turned out. Taxis and cars formed two obedient lines that stretched back far enough to diminish the hope in even the most ardent optimist. Bumpers were being removed, and cars meticulously searched for weapons, drugs and eagle print bedding.
She might have been someone’s grandma. She should have been a public service announcement. Kids, don’t buy smuggled cigarettes. Your grandma put her life on the line to bring them over. She should have been a lot of things, yet her conservative dress belied her real intentions. She was a hardened criminal dealing in contraband. But she probably made great biscuits. I wondered if she would go home and knit, the pyramid of Prestige cigarettes tossing a boxed shadow over her shaking hands.
Somehow, we made it over. Barring all common sense, our taxi rolled back into the familiarity of Turkey, and the passengers all breathed a sigh of collective relief.
I don’t know what became of the old woman and her stash. Maybe they were presents for her children and grandchildren. Maybe she had a little stand on the street, and sipped tea all day while nicotine-craving passers by jumped at the price of bir bucuk.
The other one, who had either been subtler, or had carried less on her person, boarded the same bus as us.
“Very cold,” she told us, for the fifth time in Turkish. It seemed to be all that she thought we knew. Maybe nodding enthusiastically was encouraging it.
Midway through our trip, as the border fell further and further away to become an idea, rather than a place, the bus was pulled over for a jandarma checkpoint.
The guard only raised his eyebrows when we told him our reason in Iraq was a vacation.
Further down the bus, a little girl was asked what was in her bag. She reluctantly held it back. The jandarma pulled it away. Smokes. Lot’s of them.
“Everybody off the bus!” he ordered. Busted.
All bags were opened and searched. Except ours. We were told there were no problems, and were sent back on the bus, as herds of shivering Turks watched their valuables (most of which turned out to be cigarettes) be rifled through.
After half an hour, the bus started rolling again, dodging potholes with a grace reserved for the worst of drivers. The bus drove into the night, lighter than it had been moments ago. A group of happy jandarma waving over another bus the last picture I saw before my eyes closed.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Chapter 13- The Smuggler
“Are you brave?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he vaulted his heavy frame over fence.
Behind me, his lime green Mercedes watched, passing silent judgment.
We had cruised by a police station five minutes back and rolled through security five before that.
A silence hung in the air, swatted back and forth by the breeze. I decided I was. I gripped the cool railings, and hauled myself over.
We had met him only hours earlier- a Kurdish landowner with subversive tendencies. Mysteriously, he didn’t favour the leg that that had been shot by Iranian military in the mountains as his 25-donkey envoy hauled rugs.
He was a juggernaut of a man, more horizontally than vertically. His black leather jacket and penchant for ‘tax free’ Prestige cigarettes made him seem like a caricatured TV gangster. His laugh was deep, and his meaty gestures sweeping.
It didn’t take long for him to explain the nuances of automatic weapons. The tea was sipped with reckless abandon as he extolled the virtues of the AK-74, versus its mainstream sibling.
If three quarters of his stories were true, he had lived an interesting life. Maybe he wasn’t in cahoots with the locals digging up chromium. Maybe he was.
He’d wine and dine us. We had a date with a smuggler. Ex-smuggler, he’d remind us.
For someone who trafficked in goods, he said he had standards. No drugs, no weapons. Or people.
Maybe he was trying to impress us. Or one of us. He’d taken an interest in my travelling companion. She wasn’t reciprocating.
“Miss America” he called her. Repeatedly. Sometimes he would croon it.
On the other side of the fence, the world became electrified. It was where rules were broken. Where people were built up into legends, and then broken. Or maybe it was just a field with a building.
We were two and one- two over and one on the other side. After the tossing of bags, we were all in. The chips slid into the middle of the table.
The grim late afternoon cast everything in grey. We were a black and white film, actors improvising roles.
He had been before- he had seen the script. He tried the door. Locked.
He could tailor his stories well for his audience. For me, he gruffly recalled the booming smuggling trade through mountain passes. Donkeys, Iranian diesel and guns all danced in his eyes. For the American, he delicately wove tales of his white horse. Snowflake. Thick fingers pulled the silken words together.
Like a true Kurd, his proclivity for vices extended to tea. Smuggled, of course. He loudly announced he drank twenty a day. We had seen ten. Maybe he was putting on a show.
The locked door didn’t deter him. “I know another way,” he said. He convinced us in a way only an oversized, smuggling Kurd could.
“They need evidence to keep you in jail. They didn’t have any.” We should have grilled him more. But the fascination of his legend, the draw of a good tale lured us in. After all, it was our first night there.
He led us to the side of the building. There they were, the culmination of backroad mud in an old Mercedes, through a village with Kurdish folk music blasting from nostalgic cassettes.
There they were. White cats. One green eye, one blue. Meowing. Who cares. We didn’t. He stuck his fingers through the cage, cooing. Like a child. A large, hairy, tabacco-stained child. As I watched the scene unfold, I wanted to ask him if he was still brave. I wanted to say it with a laugh. Maybe I’d nick his skin with a sarcastic tone.
But I decided against it. It was a long walk back, and I didn’t know the way.
Behind me, his lime green Mercedes watched, passing silent judgment.
We had cruised by a police station five minutes back and rolled through security five before that.
A silence hung in the air, swatted back and forth by the breeze. I decided I was. I gripped the cool railings, and hauled myself over.
We had met him only hours earlier- a Kurdish landowner with subversive tendencies. Mysteriously, he didn’t favour the leg that that had been shot by Iranian military in the mountains as his 25-donkey envoy hauled rugs.
He was a juggernaut of a man, more horizontally than vertically. His black leather jacket and penchant for ‘tax free’ Prestige cigarettes made him seem like a caricatured TV gangster. His laugh was deep, and his meaty gestures sweeping.
It didn’t take long for him to explain the nuances of automatic weapons. The tea was sipped with reckless abandon as he extolled the virtues of the AK-74, versus its mainstream sibling.
If three quarters of his stories were true, he had lived an interesting life. Maybe he wasn’t in cahoots with the locals digging up chromium. Maybe he was.
He’d wine and dine us. We had a date with a smuggler. Ex-smuggler, he’d remind us.
For someone who trafficked in goods, he said he had standards. No drugs, no weapons. Or people.
Maybe he was trying to impress us. Or one of us. He’d taken an interest in my travelling companion. She wasn’t reciprocating.
“Miss America” he called her. Repeatedly. Sometimes he would croon it.
On the other side of the fence, the world became electrified. It was where rules were broken. Where people were built up into legends, and then broken. Or maybe it was just a field with a building.
We were two and one- two over and one on the other side. After the tossing of bags, we were all in. The chips slid into the middle of the table.
The grim late afternoon cast everything in grey. We were a black and white film, actors improvising roles.
He had been before- he had seen the script. He tried the door. Locked.
He could tailor his stories well for his audience. For me, he gruffly recalled the booming smuggling trade through mountain passes. Donkeys, Iranian diesel and guns all danced in his eyes. For the American, he delicately wove tales of his white horse. Snowflake. Thick fingers pulled the silken words together.
Like a true Kurd, his proclivity for vices extended to tea. Smuggled, of course. He loudly announced he drank twenty a day. We had seen ten. Maybe he was putting on a show.
The locked door didn’t deter him. “I know another way,” he said. He convinced us in a way only an oversized, smuggling Kurd could.
“They need evidence to keep you in jail. They didn’t have any.” We should have grilled him more. But the fascination of his legend, the draw of a good tale lured us in. After all, it was our first night there.
He led us to the side of the building. There they were, the culmination of backroad mud in an old Mercedes, through a village with Kurdish folk music blasting from nostalgic cassettes.
There they were. White cats. One green eye, one blue. Meowing. Who cares. We didn’t. He stuck his fingers through the cage, cooing. Like a child. A large, hairy, tabacco-stained child. As I watched the scene unfold, I wanted to ask him if he was still brave. I wanted to say it with a laugh. Maybe I’d nick his skin with a sarcastic tone.
But I decided against it. It was a long walk back, and I didn’t know the way.
Chapter 12
If the west of Turkey is the star of the family, the southeast is the child least understood. From a distance it seems bitter and unapproachable, but take a minute to sit down with it, and its cold demeanor unravels.
Which is really what the last two weeks were- an honest, objective conversation with a region that has long be demonized by its western counterpart.
Starting from the furthest east, Van was our takeoff point into adventure. A city resting in between towering mountains, this 'pearl of the east' feels as if it stands at the edge of the world. And in a sense, in the context of the Turkish world, it does. It balances on the precipice of the Iranian border, yet manages to retain a unique indentity far removed from the modernization of its western brethren.
After touring the markets, summiting the revered Rock of Van and dining with an ex-smuggler (allegedly), the journey turned south, and a odorous bus brought us to Hakkari. Along the way, the trip was broken up by a staccato of military checkpoints. Intimidating at first, they soon became a repetitive bore. Set up by the jandarma as a means of weeding out Kurdish rebels (often associated with the PKK) the points became more frequent the deeper into the south we drove.
The checkpoints reminded me why I was there- to see, first hand, the Kurdish area of Turkey. Kurds are the largest minority in Turkey (some numbers suggest as high was 18 million), and this area has been at the centre of conflict since the 1980's. Post military coup, the Kurdish militant movement for a recognized, autonomous state of Kurdistan turned bloody, and terrorist attacks were launched by the PKK (the Kurdistan Workers Party). The result was swift action by the military, and the subsequent burning of hundreds of villages. Tens of thousands were killed throughout the 1990's, tarnishing the region for years to come.
It is for this reason that the area has been held at arm's length by most Turkish people. My aim was to see if it was really that bad. Undoubtedly atrocities had been committed there in years past, but what would it be like for a foreigner to journey along the winding mountain roads?
From Hakkari to Cizre, northern Iraq, Mardin and Diyarbakir, we were met with the most intense generosity and kindness that can be imagined. Paying for meals was difficult, conversation easy and warm, and the disposition of Kurdish locals was one of intrigue. Not once during the trip, amid the rolling tanks and armed guards, did I feel unsafe. We were welcomed into homes- we were approached on the street. People just want to say 'hi'. And 'welcome'.
The way of life, the people, and the overall atmosphere is a sharp break from the speed, affluence and lifestyle of cities like Izmir, Istanbul and Ankara. But it was a welcome, tranquil break.
Being virtually the only tourist in the region, it gave me an amplified sense of how isolated this area is from the other side of the country. The villagers spoke about how they didn't want much, just to preserve their culture. The conversations raised questions of national identity and autonomy- problems we have yet to fully solve back in Canada. It is a nuanced, complex debate, and one that is neither understood nor solved in a mere two week visit. But the tour of the area gave a face to a demon- and the face was one that did not match the body.
After seeing beautiful architecture set beside sprawling slums, after touring back alleys and mountain passes, I came to the realization that the area had been unfairly portrayed as a war-torn danger zone. While it has its problems like every area, the opinions formed about it, and then spread around the commentary circuit, are often by people who never visit. And in that, it becomes a tragedy. An entire chunk of the country becomes taboo among those who have no real reason to hold those sentiments. And so the problem persists- many continue to look down on the east as a lower, lesser developed part of the nation.
When I told Turkish friends I would be going to this area, virtually all (except for one) told me it was a bad idea. I might be shot. Or kidnapped. And yet the result was the exact opposite- I was welcomed with earnest hospitality.
While I won't pretend that my experience can serve as proxy for all those that venture into this area, it highlights the dubiousness of rumour and hearsay, and shows that they must be challenged personally before one can even begin to understand a nation's problems.
For photos of the journey from Van to Sanliurfa, go to www.flickr.com/photos/lcecco
Which is really what the last two weeks were- an honest, objective conversation with a region that has long be demonized by its western counterpart.
Starting from the furthest east, Van was our takeoff point into adventure. A city resting in between towering mountains, this 'pearl of the east' feels as if it stands at the edge of the world. And in a sense, in the context of the Turkish world, it does. It balances on the precipice of the Iranian border, yet manages to retain a unique indentity far removed from the modernization of its western brethren.
After touring the markets, summiting the revered Rock of Van and dining with an ex-smuggler (allegedly), the journey turned south, and a odorous bus brought us to Hakkari. Along the way, the trip was broken up by a staccato of military checkpoints. Intimidating at first, they soon became a repetitive bore. Set up by the jandarma as a means of weeding out Kurdish rebels (often associated with the PKK) the points became more frequent the deeper into the south we drove.
The checkpoints reminded me why I was there- to see, first hand, the Kurdish area of Turkey. Kurds are the largest minority in Turkey (some numbers suggest as high was 18 million), and this area has been at the centre of conflict since the 1980's. Post military coup, the Kurdish militant movement for a recognized, autonomous state of Kurdistan turned bloody, and terrorist attacks were launched by the PKK (the Kurdistan Workers Party). The result was swift action by the military, and the subsequent burning of hundreds of villages. Tens of thousands were killed throughout the 1990's, tarnishing the region for years to come.
It is for this reason that the area has been held at arm's length by most Turkish people. My aim was to see if it was really that bad. Undoubtedly atrocities had been committed there in years past, but what would it be like for a foreigner to journey along the winding mountain roads?
From Hakkari to Cizre, northern Iraq, Mardin and Diyarbakir, we were met with the most intense generosity and kindness that can be imagined. Paying for meals was difficult, conversation easy and warm, and the disposition of Kurdish locals was one of intrigue. Not once during the trip, amid the rolling tanks and armed guards, did I feel unsafe. We were welcomed into homes- we were approached on the street. People just want to say 'hi'. And 'welcome'.
The way of life, the people, and the overall atmosphere is a sharp break from the speed, affluence and lifestyle of cities like Izmir, Istanbul and Ankara. But it was a welcome, tranquil break.
Being virtually the only tourist in the region, it gave me an amplified sense of how isolated this area is from the other side of the country. The villagers spoke about how they didn't want much, just to preserve their culture. The conversations raised questions of national identity and autonomy- problems we have yet to fully solve back in Canada. It is a nuanced, complex debate, and one that is neither understood nor solved in a mere two week visit. But the tour of the area gave a face to a demon- and the face was one that did not match the body.
After seeing beautiful architecture set beside sprawling slums, after touring back alleys and mountain passes, I came to the realization that the area had been unfairly portrayed as a war-torn danger zone. While it has its problems like every area, the opinions formed about it, and then spread around the commentary circuit, are often by people who never visit. And in that, it becomes a tragedy. An entire chunk of the country becomes taboo among those who have no real reason to hold those sentiments. And so the problem persists- many continue to look down on the east as a lower, lesser developed part of the nation.
When I told Turkish friends I would be going to this area, virtually all (except for one) told me it was a bad idea. I might be shot. Or kidnapped. And yet the result was the exact opposite- I was welcomed with earnest hospitality.
While I won't pretend that my experience can serve as proxy for all those that venture into this area, it highlights the dubiousness of rumour and hearsay, and shows that they must be challenged personally before one can even begin to understand a nation's problems.
For photos of the journey from Van to Sanliurfa, go to www.flickr.com/photos/lcecco
Friday, January 1, 2010
Chapter 11
Before Christmas, I had anticipated that after the day, I'd be writing about a consumption-free holiday passed. I would venture into the future as an enlightened critic of the holidays and consumerism. I would click my tongue and shake my head at the mention of Christmas trees and presents.
And I think these early thoughts were fair. I'm in a country where not many people (except those in the tourism industry) know when Christmas is celebrated. School's still in session on that day, but if you're an exchange student, you're given a couple of days off to enjoy celebrating far away from home. As a result, I didn't expect Christmas, in any of its culturally different forms, to make much of a cameo.
We opted to spend the holidays in a cave. The literalness of being in a cave on Christmas seemed translate into some kind of metaphor. Or we hoped it would. Maybe one of rebellion. Or shelteredness. Or the deprivation of wasteless consumption.
If our balloon pilot that morning stood for anything, he was an indication that you can run and float away, but you can't actually hide.
Except maybe in a cave.
Which we did.
To our dismay, Christmas lights and trees were the only thing that filled the empty streets of Goreme with life. On the balloon, boxes of Turkish delight were passed out as gifts by a bearded Santa (or Baba Noel), although to his credit, he was actually Belgian. Shouts of 'Merry Christmas!' came from shopkeepers and lonely restaurant owners, and our server where we had our 'Christmas breakfast' greeted us warmly on our holiday.
So it found us.
But, as Hilary is telling me right now, I didn't really want to get away from Christmas. There are certain things that still make the season a great time- going back home for Christmas has always been a highlight, the weather, the food- none of this is stuff I'd be glad to get rid of. What we really wanted to experience was how much of the world viewed it- as just another day.
And in the end, that's how it felt. Sure, we belted out a painfully tone-deaf version of Jingle Bells as we floated hundreds of meters into the sky. But nothing clicked that it was actually Christmas.
So we got what we wanted.
On a more interesting note, we found out why there are so many trees, and little Santas on the branches as decoration. All of the paraphernalia is shipped in to celebrate the New Year, which, to them, is the main reason for celebration at this time of the year.
The original Saint Nicholas, or Nicholas of Myra, was from an area near Antalya. Since this falls into present-day Turkey, they see Saint Nicholas as being Turkish. And if you believes he comes from your area, you ought to have a fair claim to exploiting him for commercial purposes. So Saint Nicholas, or Baba Noel comes to bring presents for Turks on New Year's. Which saves him from about 80 million people on Christmas eve. Although the one thing that still doesn't make any sense is why he dresses exactly like the Coca-Cola Santa. C'mon- really? Let's be a bit more original...
The pictures of the holiday season can be found on Flickr
And I think these early thoughts were fair. I'm in a country where not many people (except those in the tourism industry) know when Christmas is celebrated. School's still in session on that day, but if you're an exchange student, you're given a couple of days off to enjoy celebrating far away from home. As a result, I didn't expect Christmas, in any of its culturally different forms, to make much of a cameo.
We opted to spend the holidays in a cave. The literalness of being in a cave on Christmas seemed translate into some kind of metaphor. Or we hoped it would. Maybe one of rebellion. Or shelteredness. Or the deprivation of wasteless consumption.
If our balloon pilot that morning stood for anything, he was an indication that you can run and float away, but you can't actually hide.
Except maybe in a cave.
Which we did.
To our dismay, Christmas lights and trees were the only thing that filled the empty streets of Goreme with life. On the balloon, boxes of Turkish delight were passed out as gifts by a bearded Santa (or Baba Noel), although to his credit, he was actually Belgian. Shouts of 'Merry Christmas!' came from shopkeepers and lonely restaurant owners, and our server where we had our 'Christmas breakfast' greeted us warmly on our holiday.
So it found us.
But, as Hilary is telling me right now, I didn't really want to get away from Christmas. There are certain things that still make the season a great time- going back home for Christmas has always been a highlight, the weather, the food- none of this is stuff I'd be glad to get rid of. What we really wanted to experience was how much of the world viewed it- as just another day.
And in the end, that's how it felt. Sure, we belted out a painfully tone-deaf version of Jingle Bells as we floated hundreds of meters into the sky. But nothing clicked that it was actually Christmas.
So we got what we wanted.
On a more interesting note, we found out why there are so many trees, and little Santas on the branches as decoration. All of the paraphernalia is shipped in to celebrate the New Year, which, to them, is the main reason for celebration at this time of the year.
The original Saint Nicholas, or Nicholas of Myra, was from an area near Antalya. Since this falls into present-day Turkey, they see Saint Nicholas as being Turkish. And if you believes he comes from your area, you ought to have a fair claim to exploiting him for commercial purposes. So Saint Nicholas, or Baba Noel comes to bring presents for Turks on New Year's. Which saves him from about 80 million people on Christmas eve. Although the one thing that still doesn't make any sense is why he dresses exactly like the Coca-Cola Santa. C'mon- really? Let's be a bit more original...
The pictures of the holiday season can be found on Flickr
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