Muradiye Cemetery

from MONDAY diary (2)

SILK HEADSCARVES, A FISH, COLD DUSK, STREET MERCHANTS

both ladies wore silk headscarves that showed not a single lock of hair -- interpreted as more devout than those who wear the scarf but still show some hair. the old aunt was extremely kind and at one point, even invited me to visit her home in Istanbul. the uncle was a math teacher in a public school. our conversations over our bulbs of tea ranged from jobs, to the sister, to how I know Mohammad to the girl attempting to explain her job by saying, "I'm a fish." the uncle said I was handsome, so i grabbed the shoulders of Mohammad and his friend, saying no, these guys were the handsome ones.

Mohammad said I was much thinner than before. I believe him, I don't eat enough probably, always the case when i'm abroad. before i left, Mohammad and I planned to meet tomorrow morning and wander around the city. he's a good guy and i hope he doesn't try to convert me. that always spoils a good friendship.

when time became long enough I left and walked the brisk walk, clutching my coat around my neck, back to the train. i walked through a bonafide maze of a bazaar, taking side streets zig-zagging through the old houses, apartments, spinning meat, like people from everywhere came to set up shop in any square foot of street space they could find. i began to notice the various classes of the sellers. the difference between those who had shops and those who had tables and how people work with what they have, poor, poorer, selling and beckoning, but not begging.

from MONDAY diary (1)

GREEN MOSQUE, DESIGNS, SILENCE, MOHAMMAD, RELIGION, TEACHING TURKISH IN EL PASO

designs, designs, designs, at Yesil (Green) Mosque. the floor is deep red Turkish rugs, trimmed in green and blue. tiles along the lower walls, blue hexagons like a honeycomb -- double domes at the top, a pigeon fluttering in and out of the holes. marble walls - bronze plaques, the altar empty except for the mike, a staircase for the imam to the right, whispered prayers, and quiet when the loud families leave. arabic scripts, intricate geometric turquoise.

the carpet soft on my socks, cool under my feet. giant chandeliers hung low, rainbow stained windows, there's the same quiet peace as in a church or synagogue where quiet is expected and silence is divine. prayer (rosary) beads different sizes, colors scattered about and all the shoes stacked outside.

i close the notebook, turn around surprised to see... Mohammad.

the former copier at my school had always been very cool with me, funny, he was friends with everyone. i guess he quit because his job sucked. I admire that. we exchanged laughs, touched cheeks on both sides of our face, and sat down on the carpet. he has been working in the train station and was trying to become a chess teacher. he said he comes to the mosques to thank Allah for food and everything good in life, noting others just drink and eat and ignore the fact (as he sees it) that Allah gives them everything and they don't care. his sincerity and humility was moving, regardless of my beliefs. he asked me about my faith, and i said i don't know and with him that's ok.

we met one of his childhood friends there too -- they're both from Van, way way out east. both are partly deaf, speaking to each other through sign language. later we went to have tea nearby meeting his friend's uncle, aunt and cousin. through our obstacle-laden communication i gathered the cousin's sister was a Turkish teacher in El Paso. what? of course the cousin asked me if I was christian and if my parents were. why this concerns them i don't know. Eda says everyone cares about these things in Bursa. Bursa is a quiet city at 1.5 to 2 million people and definitely in tune with it's religion. and here it is much more a part of life and concern than anywhere I've ever been, even more than the Bible Belt.

Holiday Wandering

from SUNDAY diary (5)

THE SIMPSONS, DEAD SULTANS, TROUBLE IN PARADISE, BITTER TEA, WARM GUTS

my friend refers to Bursa as "Springfield," because like in The Simpsons, it has 2 prominent power plant stacks across the valley. I don't think it's really nuclear though.

at another cafe thinking about that overlooking the city. i'm next to the tombs of Osman and Orhan Gazi, founder and expander of the Ottoman Empire. there's a tall clock tower here too. a couple is fighting in a familiar way. guy says something dumb. girl gets angry. guy tries to laugh it off and touch girl's arm. girl backs away. apologies to follow.

looking out on Altiparmak St. Bursaspor Stadium, the Black Tower ominous, snowy limbs of crooked trees. my food and tea order mechanically and joylessly taken, servers either apathetic or long embittered by tourists and giggling lovers enjoying their romantic spot. there is splat crack of ice melting, dropping on the cobbles, which are dark from the water. i see the couple made up and easy-breezy strolling again.

tea comes, tost comes. yes I spelled that right. they both warm my insides. a man staring at me, maybe distrusting, maybe doesn't know if I'm a critic coming to defame the venue. if he keeps staring at me with that look maybe i will aspire to.

from SUNDAY diary (4)

STREETS, LOVE, METRIC SYSTEM, DATING, MEAT, ANIMAL RIGHTS

so half of where Bursa revolves in it's free time is Ataturk St. the other half is Altiparmak St. on the former we have a statue of Ataturk himself on his horse, theatres, the famous Iskender kebab houses, the city museum, bars, one sitting above a gorge and live guitarists sadly sing songs about impossible love, a favorite theme here and sometimes I can wonder why. and there you can get big 70 ml beers. this is how an american learns the metric system. there are other sizes but I don't know them -- 70ml is the biggest.

at night I can see my friend Ahmet and discuss the plight. perils, minefields, trapdoors of dating in Turkey. he gives me abstract insight which i'm not sure leads me to any helpful solutions other than to find it felt good just to be discussing girls with another man -- whatever he has to say about it. before that we can eat the popular Kofte, meatballs. my "progressive" San Fran Vegan friends would be appalled -- knowing what they know about the meat industry -- I could be appalled too but I have to suppress that feeling if I want to go to other countries.

the fact is people like eating meat and they don't care in large enough numbers how animals are treated in the process. at least for now. the animal rights activists have a long way to go.

from SUNDAY diary (3)

GHOST, CAESAR, MORE SNOW, MOVING

I'm just a ghost wanderer who means nothing more than some cash or at times a curiosity; most of the time a ghost who can say: "I came, I saw, I kept going."

snow snow snow. now it's relaxed and drifts, the snowflakes are sitting on invisible rocking chairs sleepily falling down to the black grit street to join the water and rise to the sky and fall again as rain or snow or migrate to another city like I've done myself a few times in a few years. but sometimes i'm happy being like precipitation moving around landing in different spots only to rise and move again. I am snow and sometimes ice and sometimes I cause a car accident.

from SUNDAY diary (2)

SNOW, WHITE MOSQUES, FROGGER, CURIOUS WAITRESS, BAD COFFEE, GETTING BY, GETTING WARM

Sunday morning on Ataturk Street. Every town has one. from Sehrekustu Station to this Cafe Caffesi, the snow is dumping beautifully -- gloriously! I'm out in it. I walk up the cobbled street from Sehrekustu to Ataturk, a few men out, a photographer, a man calling out something unintelligible pushing a cart of discarded junk -- wires, a broken tennis racket. Coming out under the cover, I follow an off-duty police officer under the snow past the white mosques.

huge flakes drifting down. this is Turkey in its element. 90% of the shops are closed, only a few pillars of kebab meat spinning. the covered markets and bazaar locked up, the minarets cold and snow-covered against a gray wall that is the sky. even Ataturk St. is hard to cross on Sunday morning, and i'm playing an easy level of human Frogger compared to weekdays. no problem i am at the cafe with Turkish rock and snow dancing outside my little window and the lights inside are green, orange and warm. the building is Ottoman-style with its second floor protruding out over the ground floor. the second floor is actually the first floor and the ground floor is a "Z". rattling the coffee cup with my furious pen shaking the table, i get looks from the waitress who attention was alerted when i walked through the door an obvious yabanci (foreigner).

drinking shit instant coffee, which is so popular. don't know why exactly. wondering. oh well, the hell with it. it's warm. and i just need a warm place to write. waiting for Eda. thawing out my head from the cold again. watching boys throw snowballs at shopkeepers just trying to take their tables out on the street. they take no notice. they are men in navy blue jackets and caps, wrinkled eyes, a lifetime of blending into the gritty market streets, black bus fumes grey cobbled walkways, rusted aluminum doors with broken locks. their faces olive and shaded from the dirty shoes of millions passing and going and coming endlessly, scraping their pockets to keep up the struggle, to stretch their lives because what other choice do you have.

but not joylessly. your friends and family and the boy comes around the shops with tea and you talk shop and organize dates for your daughters, hear the gossip, comb the neighbors for pertinent information. stay on top of business, watch your kid's relations. the words are copied on my fingers now. the pen is good and finally warm.

from SUNDAY diary (1)

PLATFORM, METRO, SHAPES, PASSENGERS, VIBRATOR, FUNK SHOES

now at Nilufer station -- wind cleansing the platform, the new snow covers the mountains, the swish of cars on the wet highways on either side of me -- the green Bursaray slides away and I'm waiting for the roar of another. the screech and squeal of brakes and beeps and electric robot sounds; bump and bling tone of the female intercom; and the train dives in and out of the ground into the tunnels like a dolphin -- passing through triangles of hills, blocks of homes, snowy spikes and domes of mosques -- Uludag mountain lost in the morning mist.

people on the metro are framed in the yellow handle bars -- men with strong faces, rock hard and a steady gaze with a thick blanket of whiskers and burly moustache. strong-faced girls, but attractive.. and i imagine these people ruling the world like they once did. they're dressed in browns, greys, greens, blacks. dark dreary coats.

swiftly past the pharmacies, splitting through the highway, an ax through a hair; banks, restaurants, Tuborg signs, Efes signs, mechanics, pet stores. good bye Nilufer station, Acemler, Pasa Ciftili, Kultur Park, Osmangazi. wave after wave of homes crawling up the mountain, like a race of real estate to the top -- then down into the dark tunnel again, my ears are thawing out but my head still stings because I forgot my hat. my leg is sensitive to my phone. sometimes my brain thinks my leg feels the vibration, but it's not. my shoes are blue; ever since I began listening to Jamiroquai I understand the importance of wearing funk shoes because they can literally lift you over the melancholic drudgery of the rat race into more of a soul-satisfying stratosphere.

Chimbo: The Wild Years (4)

from SATURDAY diary (3)

BALCONIES, CHATTING, THE BLACK TOWER, TEXAS, TRANSSEXUALS, EUROPEAN UNION...

Turks emphasize the importance of balconies and open places to chat over tea or Nescafe. in general most apartments have a balcony and half of them have a small hearth where people can barbecue their kebab. more often than not they serve as a shelf for a a flower vase. the strangest building among the mosques the ottoman style homes, hamam domes, Zafer Plaza with it's Vegas style entrance, most be the Black Tower. South of central bursa, near the Terminal, stands alone and peculiar a black high-rise apartment building, and no other building like it. it stand against a mountainous backdrop as if space and time folded over some ordinary American city building and transported it to Bursa.

Texas is a state in the USA. It's also a word spray-painted as graffiti around the city. it refers to a gang of Bursa football fanatics. They supposedly chose the name because tough people come from Texas. They are well-known for extreme rioting at football games, vandalism, fighting, etc. They probably joined the Association of Tradesmen for Bursaspor (football team) to threaten and prevent a planned demonstration in August by an organization for the rights of homosexuals and transsexuals. The police ordered the cancellation of the protest due to concerns for "public safety" -- was is in order to protect its citizen from harm or from homosexuals? The city has since tried to close down the organization known as Rainbow. So far they have been unsuccessful, probably due to the watchful EU and Turkey's bid to join it.

from SATURDAY diary (2)

NIGHTLIFE, DESSERT, WOMEN, VIDEO STORES, CHECK-OUT LADIES, TOOTHY SMILES....

in Nilufer on weekday nights when we don't want to cook we struggle to find a place to get food and beer. we found two places. Kirimizi -- which does everything it can to live up to its name, Red. there's some other place that doesn't matter. some bars here and there -- but the conservatism doesn't embrace a bar scene, yet everyone needs a vice and in Bursa it's cigarettes and dessert. I like cheesecake and coffee -- divine opposites in compliment. I think Turks like that too -- and souffle, Nescafe followed up by a sweet puff of a marlboro. then there are always trays and tray of bahlava -- rectangular deserts with syrup. and always tea, tea, tea which we recently realized prevents iron from being absorbed into the body, tiring alot of women who already have enough to worry about. it's not easy for a woman in Turkey, especially in Bursa. the best chances a woman who yearns for independence has is to move to Istanbul for work, leaving the family in another hometown. the rest of the girls, before they are married, have to deal with stricter rules, can't live alone and be home by 11, for example.

but i strayed off course. the course was to dissect the Bursa sprawl. other areas of interest in Nilufer, my suburban home, are the video stores --one after another all with a handful selection yet aspiring and open for business. strange for me because i'm used to the movie mega-stores. i'm spoiled. my favourite owners are the guy who doesn't charge me for late fees and the two awkward smiling brothers in ill-fitting suits, supporting sincere heads and souls. one guy has dandruff sitting on his shoulder without exception. they're always eager to push dumb action movies on me, shrugging off classics or more thoughtful films for the former they often deem "perfect." but they're cool dudes and they have a translator program on their computer so I can write messages for them, but they pretty much know what i'm saying anyway.

the supermarket check-out ladies have finally begun to warm up to me after 5 months or so, even giving me smiles when they see me. it's harder for women to show these kind of feelings to strangers even though the men, like the deli man, shake my hand and always ask how I'm doing. and always with a big toothy smile.

from SATURDAY diary (1)

NILUFER, CATS, NEIGHBORHOOD, AGGRESSIVE DRIVING, SUPERMARKETS, BURSA'S SLOPES...

apartment in Nilufer.. in my cave wedged in between the apartments -- when Eda drives away at night I'm left standing with the dark buildings looming over me with the golden lights in the windows, eyes looking down at my lonely bones silently sad giants waiting for me to walk inside and nurse me alongside all the other inhabitants, parasites in their compartments and wait for morning. inside I hear the cats. the cats cast out in the night with twisted crying and supernatural screams -- counterparts of the coyotes in Kentucky who come under my bedroom window and laugh at me in child-like wailing and screeching.

I look out my window and sometimes I might see the neighbor looking at me from her window directly across from me before she quickly pulls the curtain over. if I poke my head out I see the mosque rising prominently from the blocks of apartments. the refreshing round dome accompanied by the minaret like a warrior laying down with his shield and spear with one last attack against the sky. maybe saving the people from it's fall. if i turn my head the other way i can see Eda driving up and hear the bad dance music from the fitness center. other than that it's a maze of apartment blocks - like one of the original first-person shooter games -- Wolfenstein or something -- there ore pockets of interesting sites -- the parking lot/driving education courses turned bazaar on Saturdays. the barren filed turned carnival in the Fall. and the dangerous roads come morning when perpetually impatient Turkish drivers bulldoze through each other to get to work. drivers cut through school children, school bus-drivers run over teachers, public buses pound through everyone. other than that it's one different franchise of super market after another -- it's a war of supermarkets, hitting the mattresses, as many as political parties in the government vying for a larger constituency. blocks and domes and blocks and --

i need to take the train that saws Bursa in half from west to east leaving two sectors, one on the plain, the other rising up the slopes of the mountain Bursa hugs. The train leaves the blocks of efficient new developments and hurtles intermittently at various stops into the heart of Bursa. here, the streets zig-zag up and down -- splitting forking spiralling through the shopping districts of Ataturk St., Altiparmak St into Cekirge -- hotels and kebabs up the hill where you can climb from one tea garden to another, like Shoots and Ladders, up to the clock tower and the old walled part of the city near the tombs of Orhan and Osman. On the other side of town, on the opposite side of my home in Nilufer is Cumalikizik, an attractive village that gives you charm and breakfast. below the metro line sprawls the endless roads of auto-part shops and crunched up neighborhoods -- women headscarved, grizzled men and boys and girls that for now, let their hair go free.

Through the Eyes of the French

This is what 5 months in Turkey will do to you if you happen to be my French friends.

Barkamsiniz! Pardon! I'll have what they're having.

Photo courtesy of Pilou

Better Know a Turkish Smoker (Part 2): The Narghile

"Hos Geldiniz."

Open the door and walk into the haze. Hear the clicking of OK, the CRACK! POP! of players brutally slapping down the backgammon pieces. Sit down, and join the big hall of card tables. An old man offers a tea from his tray of red glass bulbs. Take one, let him mark it on your bill, and order a narghile. I recommend apple. Let him set down the blue glass bottom and here comes another man with a hot tin of coals. He selects a few embers with his tongs, then sets it on the foil. Give it a few strong sucks and voila! a fire-breathing narghile smoker. Breathe in, not down the lungs and release. Feel the stimulating blast and the brain will levitate in the skull. The mouth may get dry, so I recommend an Ihlamur tea with a little sugar and lemon.

Bubbling at the floor, sits the glass base of shisha, the hookah, the water-pipe, or here in Turkey -- the narghile. A word descending from Persian "nargil," meaning coconut, which comprised the original narghile. From the base stems a tube the water passes through from the tobacco on top. Snaking out of the side is the smoking tube with a mouthpiece and a disposable reed. Putting it between the lips, draw air through the coals into the bowl, heating the tobacco. The air passes down the tube into the base, which is cooled by the water before slipping up the smoking tube into your mouth.

From there many people believe the effects are less damaging than cigarettes due to the water-filtering process. Most studies conclude that although this is partially true of some toxins, it isn't true for a significant amount of carbon monoxide (from the charcoal), carcinogens, heavy metals and nicotine. Most people don't smoke narghile as often as cigarette addicts and therefore, studies are limited. The few suggest, due to the large amounts of smoke inhaled, a 60-minute narghile session can be the equivalent of smoking a pack of cigarettes.

A limited message on these hazards certainly hasn't helped to quell a rising trend of narghile bars and cafes sprouting up in masses around the Eastern Mediterranean countries. The trend also extends to its growing popularity around college campuses in the US. The water cools the tobacco making it less harsh than cigarettes, therefore more tolerable and even relaxing --though -- no doubt as relaxing as hashish, which was the common smoking substance until the import of tobacco hundreds of years ago from the Americas. The wide variety of flavored tobacco add to the appeal, from fruit to bubblegum to cappuccino.

Most narghile bars are spacious areas with card-tables and chairs, or bean bags and low-level tables with patrons sipping teas, orange juice, apple cider, or the usual unidentified concoction. Like most restaurants in Bursa, alcohol usually isn't served. Although, I doubt it's a gateway to becoming an addict for me, a defiant non-smoker here in Turkey, I can quite easily be persuaded to sit down with the narghile and some friends once a month or so. If I can pull that off living in Turkey for a year, then that ain't so bad.

That is until you consider the 100+ hand narghile smoke.

Chimbo: The Wonder Years (3)

Eda and I Meet God at a Bar in San Francisco

The first bar of the night, light shifting hazily between shadowy waterfalls and colorful jungles. At the tropical bar top I swung my brother's shoulder around and said, "You gotta meet Eda." A soft touch on her shoulder, and her hair turned around.

"This.. is Eda."
"Nice to meet you," he said. And so, between the three of us, began a 3 month party.

For the time being everyone dispersed and rejoined at the next bar -- the one way down on Post and Leavenworth. The Cafe Royal with the unlevel pool table dark jazzy home to many beers, many nights, conversations with the people of the world about the world and nothing. This night they struck up one of the three no-nos. When Eda walked up I was holding my mike, which was my beer, in the midst of an oft-repeated monologue:

"So why can't people just be comforble not knowin? Why they feel like they haf to splain it all, subscribe to some institution for meaning in life. They gotta lunge for some higher-design to tell them how to respect, how to love, why to love, why to respect, somethin that eases the thought that maybe in the end, when we die, there's nothing. People cant stand not knowin. But you know what? I have no problem not knowin. I don't need any being to tell me how or why we should respect and love each other."

"Yeah," she said. "And if there is God, what if God is one of us, like in that song, one of us around here? And maybe he's here just playing with us."

"You mean like amusing himself?"
"Yeah, he's saying weird things to people, just to get them all excited and do funny things."

"Like some sort of divine Ali G?"

"Yeah. And he's like laughing off his ass."

"You mean laughing his ass off?"

"Whatever."
"Hmmm. So who in this bar is God?"
"Maybe that man," she reveals a grey man .at the bar looking forward, minding his own business, drinking his beer .

"You should ask him."
She turns to the man. "Are you God?"
His face lights up. "Of course!"
"Wow! Really?" we all say.
"Yes," he assures us. "Everybody has God inside all of us. You, me, him, her over there. That guy over there..."

He went on until we all realized none of us had spoken for awhile. Then we started wishing he'd stop talking. That's what you get for starting up a conversation like that in SF. We escaped him eventually. But after some more Boddingtons at one point God, a little tipsy, approached Eda.

"You left me."
"...Uh...um...thank you," she replied. He gave her a funny look and walked away. She laughed.
"I don't think 'thank you' was the right response after ditching God," I said.

Just then her boyfriend pulled up in his red convertable Mercedes. I watched her walk out and zoom away. I sighed.

"Could I get another Boddingtons?"

Chimbo: The Early Years (2)

Some Song about Cats in Dutch by WINTERJONG

Kapadokya (Cappadocia) Part 4

The next day I wake up in a cave with pictures on my camera holding a rifle and someone else's rental car parked outside.

After more of Jacky's breakfast and coffee we jump in the car, pick up the owners (who turn out to be our French friends from Bursa) and drive to another extraordinary phenomenon of Kapadokya. Beneath the villages, caves and fairy chimneys is a network of three underground cities. We drive through barren winter plains to Derinkuyu, where our guide, Mehmet, illuminates the sometimes desperate, mostly hopeful and always ingenious lives of the ancient troglodytes. In times of invasion, and in Turkey there were many, the people of this land would descend into a world unto itself. Down here in the deep black depths, despite the lack of sunshine and ensuing skin problems, the townsmen were able to live up to 6 months at a time and fend off bulky-armored warriors, who would otherwise decimate the population. No invaders ever took the entire city.

Not only a haven for defense, this was a fully functional town, complete with classrooms, churches with corridors designed as a cross, a morgue where bodies were hoisted out through vertical tunnels, a well, a winery, a torture chamber, false tunnels to deceive the enemy and a ventilation system where any smoke would immediately find its way to the surface. There was even a wedding tunnel, where the bride and groom would run in and out 7 times and be married. Then the lucky couple would head to the "honeymoon suite," a romantic little hole, where a donkey would be tied up nearby, whose breath provided cozy warmth.

But alas! that is a time long gone and for warmth and comfort tonight, we head to the hamam. The sweat, the humidity, the vapors, the splashing water, the man scrapes big black slivers of dead skin from my entire body, a big belly behind his stocky arms muscles out the tension from my spine. I lay swallowed on the hot marble by a big cloud of bubbles. Rinsing off with tin bowls and sitting down on a lawn chair with some tea and candles, my entire skin is as soft as the ass I was born with.

My thoughts leave my body on that chair in central Turkey where rocks have been massaged by time and elements to create a visual wonderland with hotels, clubs and gift shops sprouting from the foot of the canyon to support and lavish its visitors. Here, a man and a woman haul their relationship to further explore it, inevitably continuing their life sagas and their chapters together. The rocks and people and wine and cold winds pound upon their worlds affecting it as they will. In turn, I can sleep here wondering how the elements, the people, and the rocks are shaping us.

Kapadokya (Cappadocia) Part 3

A creak, a scrape and a bump opening the door and -- "Whoa!" -- a sunny, cool cavern morning. The shadows and spirits have been chased away by the dawn and the people, critters and chimney smoke are stirring. It's time to go out and play. But not before Eda opens her eyes and we charge ourselves up with some coffee and french toast, courtesy of Jacky, Mustafa and Elif of our pension, the Elif Star. Eda gets up.

"Where are you going?" I ask lazy-eyed, fat and happy.
"I'm going to watch some stones."

From here on out it's rock, boulders, stone and more rock. This is Kapadokya. A region of underground cities, eroding caverns, and alien rock formations -- indeed, there is even a UFO museum here which I assume attempts to describe some extraterrestrial goings-on. But a more rational mind will accept the scientific explanation of what is undoubtedly the Grand Canyon on acid.

Millions of years ago one or more volcanoes spread hot ash and rock called ignimbrite across the region. Layer upon layer of ignimbrite piled upon each other, the hardest layer being at the surface. The water, wind and erosion sculpted many strange formations in the region. The oddest and arguably most entertaining of all, depending on your humor, must be the fairy chimneys. These rock towers have eroded faster in the softer middle and bottom, leaving a larger and wider "hat" on top. The continuing process of erosion and the elements have also produced rocky mushrooms, dunes, slopes and columns.

We watch all these stones on an embattled, bickering walk from Goreme up through a cavern to Uchisar, where a large fortress oversees the land. Eda describes the hike as "hard paths which you have to walk like your ass off."

But you never feel alone. Man and pigeon's presence can be seen to this day, as the initial visitor will notice all the holes of various sizes in the cave. Men have built churches (the area was Christian before it was Muslim), food depots, and homes for pigeons in the rock. The pigeons are valuable to the farmers for their fertilizer. Today most villagers have built homes, pensions and nightclubs for themselves and for the blooming tourist industry. As we take several wrong turns, and get lost more, pass a camel-leg next to a scorched patch of earth, we traverse through hibernating wine vineyards, the produce of which awaits us at the Museum Restaurant in Uchisar.

Ahh, the wine. We would bring some back to Bursa with us, but we can't help ourselves. Once you settle in a nice wine state, the bottles easily flow and who cares? Our favorite is a bottle of Turasan Okuzgozu (Bull's Eye) Eda loses in a game of tavla (backgammon). The winner is happy to share this and his personal plastic bottles of home-made raki with us, too. After that I forget that I didn't care about what I couldn't remember in the first place. Only echoes of laughter, smoke, confusion, I think two boys just walked by the window carrying sacks of animal parts, blurry golden light, fuzzy final drinks.

Kapadokya (Cappadocia) Part 2

I love the bus from Bursa to Istanbul. I love it because it parks on the ferry in Yalova in order to cross the Marmara Sea. I can sit in the cozy bus if I want, but I prefer to get out with the wind and waves and the seagulls. Sometimes, the boatmen will throw crusts of bread into the air, playing catch with the incredibly agile seagulls following the boat. They're more coordinated in the air than people on two feet. I don't usually run into anyone I know, but this morning I run into one of my students and his proud father.

"Jack Teacher!"
"Well hello Kemal!" I shake his and his father's hand. A moment of weird silence follows as we all try to figure out if we're going to speak English or Turkish and do we actually know each other's language? My girlfriend chimes in.
"So, you're the famous Kemal!" she says. Then turns to me, "Is he in your strategic class?"
Kemal's father smiles, hinting at some acknowledgement of the joke. But I can't really tell.
"Why, yes he is. Where are you going, Kemal?" I ask. He is unusually, but not surprisingly with his father, exhibiting calm behaviour.
"Istanbul." he says, looking around. The conversation doesn't really go anywhere after that, and they walk up to the canteen. Eda finishes her cigarette. We see them again and politely say hello but I'm totally focused on "tost" -- a hot pressed sandwich of cheese and "socuk," lamb sausage. It's just a minor snack before we gorge ourselves on Istanbul, a tradition every time we have the opportunity to come.

Gorging consists of thick cappuccinos, shopping Istiklal St., Taksim tea gardens, simplistic dilapidated coffee shops -- the kind where a thousand revolutions never gained momentum -- terraced beers and candle-lit dinners overlooking the Bosphorous River where thousands of seagulls harass the minarets of the golden mosques. We take Istanbul like a shot of tequila and a lime: lick it, slam it, suck it. Because we have to catch a plane. "We're going to Kapadokya!"

It's getting dark now and that means more cold. It's a chilly climb up the stairs into the plane. It's even colder in Kapadokya as we search for a way to get from the Kayseri airport to Goreme at midnight. We realize as we stiffly throw our bags in the trunk of a taxi, that we are in another world of cold. My toes are little icy flames. Eda and I smash together in our swishing nylon coats in the back seat. I only have gloves, so I wear one and she wears one. It's stupid but it keeps us laughing. And that's a good distraction. Another good distraction for Eda is the taxi driver. I have no idea what they are talking about. Evidently, it's interesting and funny. But my mind is cashing in. It's one cold, dark, barren 100 YTL ride to our cave pension.

We arrive in Goreme in the quiet shadows. I can't see much, but I know that there are many and large shadows cast. These must be from the fairy chimneys I read about. I hear nothing. It's been a long time since I've been to a place on Earth where there's nothing to be heard. I only see the dark holes of my room carved into the round slopes of the rocks. A ghost jumps out of his warm bed in all white pajamas and leads us to our room. Then our spectre disappears, leaving us to our cave. we turn on the lights and find the walls draped with carpets (for sale) but we only want to jump into the bed that we find pleasantly heated. Wondering how it it's heated I look under the mattress. I'm fantasizing about some ancient technique still employed -- a pile of steamed rocks under the bed maybe. It's not until the next morning that I see the cord snaking out of the mattress into an electric socket.

Kapadokya (Cappadocia) Part 1

At the start of the Bayram holidays, when some people kill a sheep, a cow or a camel and offer the meat to the less fortunate, at a time when over 3000 US servicemen and women and countless Iraqis have been killed in Iraq, as Saddam is hanged, as 2007 looms, I sit down at my quiet Saturday morning eggs in my apartment in Bursa before stepping out in the gushing cold air. Today I'm headed to Kapadokya.

It's the cold, early morning hustle and bustle with people going places and me too. It's a chilly wait on the metro station bench, an awkward seat on the train with stranger stealing glances from stranger, and an exposed moment among the Turks when my girlfriend calls me and I'm speaking English. Then, it's a hop on the endless circulation of the city's shared taxis to the long-distance bus terminal. And there, surrounded by the random collection of characters and personalities that only a long-distance bus terminal could cluster I order a tea, a warm cup of familiarity in an otherwise sea of strangeness. My adrenaline is pumping. I am alert. I am traveling.

I am waiting for my girlfriend, who is being dropped off unwittingly by her parents. They think she is traveling alone to meet with a group of college friends in Istanbul. I feel like I'm in one of those French films in the 60's waiting for a secret rendezvous in a European train station. But no, I'm actually here waiting for a secret rendezvous in a Turkish bus station.

The minutes digitally increase on my cell phone. I'm holding it in my hand because I can't feel it vibrate in my pocket. Also, it's cheap, so the ring is annoyingly stupid. Where is she? More tea? No, it'll just get my heart rate up and make me more anxious. Where is she? BRRRRRRR. The table rattles as if the plate-tectonics under me are shifting. No, that's my cell phone.

"We're going to Kapadokya!" She sings in a fairly boppy little tune. "We're going to Kapadokya!"

And with that a new hit single is born. It will continue to play on the airwaves in our minds for the next few days. We're going to Kapadokya.

Eda arrives with a kiss for both cheeks and her luggage. Days later, in "a couple moment" she will accuse me for not bringing soap or shampoo, depending on her to carry it, which may or may not be true, and come to think of it, not a bad idea. But of course, being a good southern gentleman, I'm happy to haul one of her suitcases through bus stations, airports, and across the city of Istanbul. But all that's foresight, because now "We're going to Kapadokya!"

Birth of Chimbo (1)

"Merhaba! I'm Chimbo please keep me for 5 minutes in the water. Everyday soak me 2 - 4 times. My hair will starts to grow after about one week. You can cut my hair in any style you want."

kompost@kompost.com.tr