The bus ride from Konya to Sivas had taken eight hours. It had left at 9 pm, and my unrealistic plan had been to sleep on the bus and get off to a start early in Sivas. I had slept, but uncomfortably and fitfully, as anyone could have predicted. It was still early in Sivas, and except for Turks sleeping on the terminal benches as they waited their connecting bus and the small crowd in the ubiquitous chai stall, and, oh yes, the man at the entrance to the bathroom whom you paid afterwards, there was no one. A fleet of taxis were parked outside, but not a driver in sight. Well, not in my sight. I was in his. He called out to me, 'Taxi,' and we were on our way. (That's Bashar at the and Oljay below.)
The hotel door was locked, but the driver gave it a couple of good knocks, and soon I was admitted.
I slept until 10, already late, and hurried out to find the park where the old Seljuk madrassas lay. Oh, I felt crappy. When I'm awake, I'm disoriented, here in this unexpected land. And I wasn't fully awake. But on a mission--take pictures. Why'd I choose that as a mission for this trip. Damned heavy camera. The big kind, an slr and three different lenses in my backpack. And all the apparatus--batterıes, memory cards. All just because of that fantasy I'd had and never quite shaken off of being a photographer. Heavy. Tired. Late. Late for the best light, early morning.
And let me tell you, the citizens of Sivas looked none too friendly. This was a provincial town more accustomed to Japanese tourist with an interest in architecture than lone Americans with the big kind of camera swinging from their chests. The old men in their gray caps and raspy beards eyed me disapprovingly unless, as would happen when eye contact was made, I'd brush my heart--meaning salaam alekum--an nod in greeting. The dour eyes would look alarmed, and surprised, and then warm. Well, warmer. Anyway, not hostile. And you know, if I'm the one invoking God in the custom of their land ın that stroke of my heart, what can they do but welcome back?
So I turned left, turned right, touched my chest, carried the weight of the camera and apparatus, and finally came to the park with the old monuments.
Now, remember the touts--my many friends of Istanbul. Many people on this trip had walked up to me, offered their assistance, expressed a desire to just converse, to be friends, to share chai, to become friends. But until Oljay stopped me on the park sidewalk, after the chai or the conversation came the sell.
So when Oljay stopped me and asked if I would spend a few minutes with him and his friend at the chai cafe just there, perhaps to share some chai, I told him thanks but I didn't want to buy a carpet. No carpet, no carpet, he said. Yeah. I'd heard that before. And yet, this young man in the neat suit and tie, I believed.
His friend, Bashar, was similarly dressed. Oljay, a little shorter than myself, was tightly built. Later, I would learn that he has international standing in the martial arts. He had that shock of thick black hair many Turks are blessed with, and an olive complexion.
Bashar's features were European, about as pale as myself. Like me, as well, his hair was thinning, and he wore black, wire-rimmed glasses.
They showed every sign of being genuinely happy to have me at their table, not for the sale, but for the language. Both were English teachers in the nearby high school, but here in Sivas, they had very little opportunity to practice English. And because of economic constrainst, they'd never had the opportunity to practice abroad. How was their pronunciation? they wanted to know. It was, Bashar emphasized again and again, a rare opportunity to speak with an actual native speaker of English. The closest they usually got were the Japanese tourist (who often have some command of English). And that I was myself a teacher of English was an extra blessing. We were, again it was the more talkative Bashar who said it, colleagues.
And opportunity? I don't know if I ever convinced them what an opportunity this was for me, to come wandering into a city in central Anatolia and now have someone--two--to give me some glimpse into the lives of Turks.
And yet, I soon learned, they were frustrated by the limited resources the stogy school bureaucracy provided. Awful, state-mandated textbooks, a badly equipped language laboratory which even then had been a struggle to attained. They were young and wanted to teach their students in better ways. They wanted to innovated, but were stymied by the old school master who cared more about how you dressed and the level of your Turkish nationalism than in your class performance.
Meeting me, and my willingness to talk to them, was a real opportunity. And it would be such an opportunity for their students. Would I come to their classes.
Well, I still wasn't quite awake. But of course.
To be continued...
The hotel door was locked, but the driver gave it a couple of good knocks, and soon I was admitted.
I slept until 10, already late, and hurried out to find the park where the old Seljuk madrassas lay. Oh, I felt crappy. When I'm awake, I'm disoriented, here in this unexpected land. And I wasn't fully awake. But on a mission--take pictures. Why'd I choose that as a mission for this trip. Damned heavy camera. The big kind, an slr and three different lenses in my backpack. And all the apparatus--batterıes, memory cards. All just because of that fantasy I'd had and never quite shaken off of being a photographer. Heavy. Tired. Late. Late for the best light, early morning.
And let me tell you, the citizens of Sivas looked none too friendly. This was a provincial town more accustomed to Japanese tourist with an interest in architecture than lone Americans with the big kind of camera swinging from their chests. The old men in their gray caps and raspy beards eyed me disapprovingly unless, as would happen when eye contact was made, I'd brush my heart--meaning salaam alekum--an nod in greeting. The dour eyes would look alarmed, and surprised, and then warm. Well, warmer. Anyway, not hostile. And you know, if I'm the one invoking God in the custom of their land ın that stroke of my heart, what can they do but welcome back?
So I turned left, turned right, touched my chest, carried the weight of the camera and apparatus, and finally came to the park with the old monuments.
Now, remember the touts--my many friends of Istanbul. Many people on this trip had walked up to me, offered their assistance, expressed a desire to just converse, to be friends, to share chai, to become friends. But until Oljay stopped me on the park sidewalk, after the chai or the conversation came the sell.
So when Oljay stopped me and asked if I would spend a few minutes with him and his friend at the chai cafe just there, perhaps to share some chai, I told him thanks but I didn't want to buy a carpet. No carpet, no carpet, he said. Yeah. I'd heard that before. And yet, this young man in the neat suit and tie, I believed.
His friend, Bashar, was similarly dressed. Oljay, a little shorter than myself, was tightly built. Later, I would learn that he has international standing in the martial arts. He had that shock of thick black hair many Turks are blessed with, and an olive complexion.
Bashar's features were European, about as pale as myself. Like me, as well, his hair was thinning, and he wore black, wire-rimmed glasses.
They showed every sign of being genuinely happy to have me at their table, not for the sale, but for the language. Both were English teachers in the nearby high school, but here in Sivas, they had very little opportunity to practice English. And because of economic constrainst, they'd never had the opportunity to practice abroad. How was their pronunciation? they wanted to know. It was, Bashar emphasized again and again, a rare opportunity to speak with an actual native speaker of English. The closest they usually got were the Japanese tourist (who often have some command of English). And that I was myself a teacher of English was an extra blessing. We were, again it was the more talkative Bashar who said it, colleagues.
And opportunity? I don't know if I ever convinced them what an opportunity this was for me, to come wandering into a city in central Anatolia and now have someone--two--to give me some glimpse into the lives of Turks.
And yet, I soon learned, they were frustrated by the limited resources the stogy school bureaucracy provided. Awful, state-mandated textbooks, a badly equipped language laboratory which even then had been a struggle to attained. They were young and wanted to teach their students in better ways. They wanted to innovated, but were stymied by the old school master who cared more about how you dressed and the level of your Turkish nationalism than in your class performance.
Meeting me, and my willingness to talk to them, was a real opportunity. And it would be such an opportunity for their students. Would I come to their classes.
Well, I still wasn't quite awake. But of course.
To be continued...
3 comments:
Hey! Where are you? Have you forgotten us? More stories! (-:
Hope you are having a good time, David!
Hope you are having a good time, David!
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