Monday, August 11, 2008
We saw some gorgeous sites and thoroughly enjoyed our time staying with our friend’s parents and meeting his family, but in many ways Istanbul was hard for us. Being the height of tourist season, the crowds gushed into every nook and cranny of the city, bringing out the touts in full force. Hawking everything from blue glass baubles to ward off the evil eye to rugs, we were approached with a level of aggressive sales tactics that I’ve never experienced while traveling. A persistent “no” does little to deter a potential sale. In one extreme case, Maikael picked up a brush that a shoe shiner dropped, unbeknownst to the shiner, on his way home at the end of the day. Maikael signaled him so he could return the brush, but before we knew it, the man grabbed Maikael’s foot and essentially forced him to a shoe shine of his sneakers. We understand from local Istanbullus that these situations are unusual, and that they are often borne out of complex circumstances that we will never fully understand as a visitor passing through. But the unfortunate result was a “never engage” credo which, while reducing the amount of touts, went against the spirit of our journey.
We needed to stop feeling jaded. We left Istanbul for Selcuk, a small town on Turkey’s western coast that is home to the country’s most extensive remains of a Roman city. The journey began with a 10-hour, overnight bus ride from Istanbul, and, like most things in a given day, I didn’t know what to expect. We were transferred by dolmus to Istanbul’s main bus station, creeping through the underbelly of the otogar. The charred carcass of a bus sat lonely in a dark corner, as men roasted something over the equivalent of a Turkish Hibachi. We emerged into a sea of bright florescent, as rows of buses from our company stood at the ready. Swarms of travelers jockeyed for space. Long buses made narrow three-point turns, as troops of conductors managed the flow of traffic. It was pure chaos.
Our bus loaded a ferry as we crossed to Bursa. We slumped, bleary-eyed, on the top deck, as scads of people drank tea and chatted at 2:30 in the morning. The bus stopped every few hours to provide a break in the journey. I imagined we’d stop at crumbling roadside stands, where cups of tea would be served from ancient trays. Instead, we pulled into a gigantic complex created specifically for our bus company, lit up like the 4th of July. A large cafeteria sat centerstage, surrounded by a full-blown cafe and rows of bathrooms. Men with long brushes outfitted with a hose cleaned the towering front windows, as others scrambled to and fro to gas up the rig; it was a long-haul bus pit crew. All the this activity was taking place in the dead of the night.
The bus deposited us in Selcuk at 10:30 am, and we were immediately accosted as we shrugged on our backpacks. “Where you going?” “What hotel?” “Please, I have information.” A car slowly followed us, begging for us to listen, even as we stepped foot in the tourist office.
We were exhausted and hungry and, after a short nap, made our way to a restaurant that our guidebook recommended. I paused in front of the doorway, studying the menu briefly. I waited for someone to leap out and urge me to come in. It never happened, and I took that as a good sign. We made our way into the leafy courtyard, as pomegranates, still green, dipped down above the table. Gigantic oranges formed a canopy over our heads. The waiter, a laid-back Kurd in flip-flops, explained that a baby cat had lost his mother, and pointed behind us. He cooed in Turkish at the little grey kitten, seeming very concerned about its well-being. Had it eaten too little or too much?
After a delicious and restful lunch, we made our way to the train station to see about leaving Selcuk for Pamukkale in a few days. Two boys sat on a bench outside the station as we studied the cryptic timetable. “Hello,” one of the boys called out in English. “Hello,” we said. “How are you?” “I am very fine, thank you. And how are you?” It sounded like he was speaking from a textbook. Chapter One: Introductions. “Your English is very good,” we said. “Do you study in school?” “Evet. Uh, yes!” said the other boy. ”
Where are you from?” one boy asked. It was the first time in days that someone had asked us that question with genuine curiosity, not in the hopes that it would lead to a sale. “America.” “Amerika!” the other boy exclaimed.
They were able to explain to us that the train station was closed. They ran around the station, pointing to the signs, written in both English and Turkish, reading them outloud in both languages. “How old are you?” I asked. They thought for a moment, whispering silently to themselves. “One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven.” Eleven!,” he shouted. We sat down on the bench opposite them, learning that they were cousins who were from Selcuk and had been to Izmir but not Pamukkale. They pointed to different body parts and recited them in English. Head. Nose. Eyes. Brown eyes. Blue eyes. They told us they were Muslim, and wanted to know what religion we were. One made the sign of the cross, questioningly. We learned that one cousins supported Galatasaray, which, luckily, just two days ago, I had learned was a very popular soccer club in Turkey.
I had a postcard of New Mexico, and sat down next to them to show them where we were from. They were fascinated by the tee pees, and wanted to know what they were. I explained that Indians from America used to live in them. “Indiastan?” they said, confused, thinking I was talking about Indians from India. But how to explain that in Turkish? It didn’t matter. We quickly moved on to geography, reciting all the country names we could think of in English and Turkish. They wanted to know where we had been, so I showed them our business card.
I could feel our hard shells breaking down by the minute.
After the train station, we took a walk to the Artemis Temple, one of the former Ancient Wonders of the World. Now reduced to one, towering column, it sits, rather unassumingly, in the middle of a dry and dusty field. We made our way down a shaded boulevard and passed a fruit stand. At the side of the road, a lean-to had been constructed; under its wooden awning sat a scattering of rustic tables draped with thin squares of printed cotton. A man scrambled out. “Tea! Coffee!” he called to us. We kept walking.
On our way back, we noticed two people sitting at the tables, eating heaping bowls of fresh fruit. I wanted to try the fruit so badly, but was afraid of what sort of shady sales it might lead to. We decided to take our chances. Taking a seat next to the other two travelers, one from Korea and one from Taiwan, the man scrambled out again. “Tea! Coffee!” I pointed to the bowl of fruit. He ran, excitedly, into the lean to and produced a plate gleaming with baseball-sized peaches, green figs, and bunches of green and purple grapes. He pointed to the figs. “Viagra!” he said. He jumped up again, returning with a plate of fresh-cut melon. After we wiped that out, he brought out a pear, which he sliced on the spot. He plunked himself down at the table, chatting amiably about all sorts of things, paying no mind to the fact that we couldn’t understand a word he said. He unabashedly plucked cigarettes from the Korean man’s pack, explaining (we think) that all of the orchards surrounding us were his.
When we ran out of fruit, more figs were produced. “Eat eat eat eat eat!” he urged us. When it came time to settle the bill, I held my breath. We had consumed a king’s ransom. He sat quietly, thinking. Then, he pointed to each of us in turn, speaking like a machine gun. “Two lira, two lira, two lira, two lira.” Our fruit would cost the equivalent of $1.75 each.
We walked back towards town, content, feeling that Selcuk had once again reminded us of the kindness of strangers.
I remember the , “Never Engage” credo that you’ve mentioned here. I remember it differently, though. It was a credo that 3 of my old high school buddies and I subscribed to whenever the subject of marriage ever came up!