In a clearing, woodsmen are cutting logs with two circular saws and then loading the cut wood onto trucks. “The road to Darlık, please.” The man begins to reply but, noticing that I’m not catching much, heads over to another lumberman hard at work a distance away. The man stops what he’s doing and approaches, wiping the sweat running in rivulets down his mostly bald brow. He introduces himself: Selim, and the friend who came to fetch him, he tells me, is Mostafa. In true Turkish fashion, conversation taking precedence over everything else, they shut off the saw whose loud whine would have forced us to shout. We sit down in the shade of the beech trees, and Mostafa yanks out a few ferns that he arranges for me into a comfortable seat.
Selim speaks English fairly well, and he has a soft, calm voice. As soon as he sees my map, he chuckles to himself, revealing a toothless mouth except for one decaying canine. He tells me my map is very old. A large reservoir has since been built to supply Istanbul with drinking water. And the three villages that figure to the north have been moved fifteen kilometers to the south but have kept the same names. That, then, explains how I “drifted” off course this morning. But the rest of what he has to say is less amusing. The change also affected the roads. The one that headed east is now cut off, which means I will have to make a detour to the south or the north of fifty kilometers or so before I can reach the village of Değirmençayırı (day-heer-men’-cha-yuh-ruh), which is where I had planned to stop this evening. Not a very pleasant prospect.
“Of course the forest road is still there,” Mostafa mentions, Selim translating. “But you will get lost, the forest is huge . . .”
“Is there someone in the village who, for a fee, could guide me through?”
The two men exchange a few words, and then Mostafa, striking his chest with his powerful hand, says: “I can guide you through, and it will cost you nothing. But first, I have to finish loading my truck, which will take at least an hour.”
He gulps a great swig of water and goes back to his logs. Selim, with whom I can chat a bit, continues to astound me. He’s forty-four years old and was in the army for nearly ten years. He gave it up to become a woodsman. With his receding hairline, his wide nose, and sparse mustache, there’s something calm about him, something warm and friendly, communicative and serene. Before answering a question, he pauses quietly for a few seconds. He makes fun of himself, and each one of his statements is prefaced by a big silent laugh, revealing his one, yellow-stained tooth.
“I like the woodsman’s life. Yes, I like nature, but I mostly like that I can spend the winter months reading. I have always been fascinated by philosophy. So, from January to March, I read as much as I want, and in the evening, I go to the teahouse and try to win my friends over to the joys of esthetics and logic.” His eyes twinkle, revealing a bright mind and its partner in crime, a kind heart.
“I envy you, you are a true follower of the Peripatetics. I have to be satisfied just reading Aristotle.”
Now that he has started talking, he tells me pell-mell about Nietzsche, Descartes, Plato, Hegel, and Heidegger. I goad him on a bit: “But there is more than just philosophy in life, there are women . . .”
“Yes, Joan of Arc, for example. She is my feminine ideal. I want to learn French to be able to read all that has been written on her, to see all the films that portray her, and to read Aragon in the original.”
I’m astounded.
“Do you have children?”
“No, I am not married. I am the only single man in the village.”
“Why?”
He laughs: “Perhaps because I have not yet met my Joan of Arc . . .”
Mostafa finishes loading the truck. I’m sad to have to say good-bye to Selim. He returns to his work, waving his arms in a big farewell as Mostafa and I disappear into the forest. Spending a little time in the company of these two men who radiate a sense of simple happiness has fully reinvigorated me. Mostafa, leading a way, has slipped on a T-shirt highlighting his colossal torso. The forest is absolutely gorgeous. The logging road glides through hills that rise and fall as far as the eye can see. My guide stops from time to time to point out a particular landscape. This is his domain and he is proud of it. At a spot where we have to ford a small river, a few people resting in the shade of the poplar trees on a Sunday outing ask if we want to join them for refreshments. They, too, live an unhurried life. These are magical moments. I close my eyes and I am the master of time.
We finally arrive at the southernmost tip of the reservoir. As Mostafa is saying good-bye, a group of soldiers pulls up in a jeep out of nowhere. This time, they are jandarmas (zhan-dar’-mas), a police force specialized in the fight against terrorism. The young officer in charge, with the inscription komando on his pea jacket, asks for my papers and then questions me at length. He is very intrigued and wants to know more. Mostafa, making the most of Selim’s translations earlier on, explains my itinerary to him, both past and future. We sit down in the grass, and, at the officer’s request, I take out my map to show him the route I plan to follow. The others, meanwhile, each holding a machine gun or rifle, stand guard near their vehicle. The presence of these armed men is strange on a day like today, surrounded by a welcoming forest bathed in springtime sweetness. I head off again and then stop a short distance down the road to rest. Looking up, I discover a tortoise at the top of the embankment, watching me with its round eye.
Hello there, friend! Just so you know, this is no race.
* TN: A kind of curd cheese.
CHAPTER III
MISAFIRPERVER
Although the village of Değirmençayırı is rich in syllables, it has only a few houses, the mosque, and a grocery. While I stock up on dried fruit at the bakkal’s shop, a rising tide of children gathers at the door to see the foreigner. Where can I spend the night? The grocer thinks for a long while, scratches his head with conviction, and then finally tells me that there is no solution. Giving in to fatalism, I have tea in the adjoining parlor. Probably alerted by some kid, a young man, introducing himself as the schoolteacher, sits down at my table. He has, he tells me, a solution to my problem and invites me to follow him. We traverse the village under the inquisitive eyes of its inhabitants and escorted by a throng of chirping children. This is, I sense, something I am going to have to get used to.
In another teahouse—read, a Turkish “bar”—the teacher introduces me to Huseyin. He’s a retired employee of the military police. About sixty years old, he has a salt-and-pepper mustache and a massive frame, wears a gray hat and brown suit, and is a man of few words. He gestures us to sit down next to him. My guide lays out the situation. The former cop is not about to give us a speech, that’s not his style. Can he take me in for the night?
“Evet.” (Yes.)
The customers, who were waiting for my problem to be solved so they might ask a hundred questions, are finally able to give free reign to their curiosity. Making exaggerated facial expressions and heaving sighs of pleasure—in lieu of conversation—I try to slowly empty at least some of the many glasses of tea that, one by one, they offer me. Huseyin has disappeared to prepare the meal. He comes back to get me, shows me the bathroom, where, to my great delight, I see that I will be able to take a shower, rinsing off two days’ worth of sweat. Dinner with Huseyin, the schoolteacher, and one of the latter’s colleagues who joined in the meantime, is a joyful event. The younger men display great respect for the old man. When they leave, my host, in spite of all my protests, sets me up in his own room. He will sleep on the sofa in the greeting room.
In the morning, after having groomed, I buckle my pack and knock on his door. He has gone out. He is probably over at last night’s teahouse. I go out, slamming the door closed behind me. But he’s not there. I go back and wait a few moments for him. Then I scribble a word of thanks on a piece of paper and slip it under the door along with a banknote, worth five million liras, in payment for my lodging.
Later that afternoon, a Turk explains to me that in so doing I committed a gro
ss error, that Huseyin will be outraged. What I did was contrary to the traditions of Turkish hospitality. In the Islamic world, to welcome a traveler in one’s home and treat him as best as possible is the believer’s duty. To be hospitable (misafirperver), he explains, means that for you, a good Muslim, it is your duty to treat your guest (misafir), the traveler, with the utmost respect. Your house is his, and you must share your food with him. You will reap the rewards of such kindness in the kingdom of Allah. To bar your door to a traveler is the worst crime a believer can commit. Those of us happily living in the world’s wiser regions would do well, I tell myself, to follow their example.
A misty, soothing rain is falling. My feet hurt. And what happens to the soul when you’re busy giving your toes so much attention? Very little, truth be told. The redness I noticed yesterday morning has grown worse. Yesterday evening, in the shower, I observed some chafing on the top of my feet. This morning, a small, pus-filled blister has formed on each of my big toes. If an infection sets in, it would be a serious setback for my walk. But I have nothing to treat them with; all I can do is cover them with bandages. I feel some discomfort for about an hour. Then it passes.
The landscape reminds me of the Haute Loire region in France.* The road dives into vertiginous valleys, at the bottom of which meanders a shimmering river. When the climb is too steep, and the grade aggravates the bend in my shoes, the pain returns. Around noon, in the shade of a thicket of hazelnut trees, I take my shoes off to find that the two small bubbles have burst and are now oozing yellowy pus. The skin around them, having suffered under the pressure of the leather with each of the thousands of steps I’ve taken, is red, puffy, and abraded. I cut away the dead skin with the small scissors on my tiny Swiss knife—can enough ever be said about how useful that portable arsenal is?—and I clean the wounds with what I have at my disposal: two pieces of cloth good enough to work as a compress and a little remaining Mercurochrome.
Once again, I have tremendous difficulty finding my way. The 1:500,000-scale map I have with me is not very comprehensive. But worst of all, it’s quite inaccurate. And yet, going by the caption, it was apparently produced collaboratively between a German firm and the Turkish Ministry of Defense. This is unquestionably one of the Turkish army’s war tactics, meant to prevent attempts at invasion. Certain indications are simply dead wrong. And so, thus equipped, I head in the direction of a small village that my map tells me is on my route, and that has the distinct privilege of having a signpost pointing the way. In reality, it turns out to be located at the end of a cul-de-sac. I’ve walked two kilometers for nothing and have no choice but to go back the way I came. But the detour turns out to be well worth it, since I converse for a moment with Ahmed, the carpenter. His eyes are full of laughter, and he tells me that he makes wooden forks and spoons for a living. While speaking, he whets a kind of small adze, running his thumb from time to time along the blade to check how sharp it is. He could probably shave—he has a short beard—with the tools he makes, for their edges are razor-sharp.
In the forest, I discover huge piles of wood, two stories tall, that are to be transformed into charcoal. I walk all around, but the charcoal makers are nowhere to be found. I would have liked to hear how they go about it. A heavy rain forces me to take out my poncho. In a small village that I traverse, a young man comes over to me, strikes up a conversation, and begins to follow me. I expect him to give up as I leave the village, but he continues to walk by my side for one, two, five kilometers. He doesn’t say much. We traverse another burg: will he stop following me here? No, he presses on, even though his vest has been sopping wet for a long time now. Out of the blue, he asks me what I have in my pack.
I begin to understand what he’s all about when he takes out of his pocket a small flask, which, he assures me, contains a miracle cure-all. Just a few drops and I will no longer feel tired. Despite waving his hands all around to get me to take a sip of his magic potion, he’s not very persuasive. He’s clearly having a hard time just keeping up with me, even though he has no load on his back—and mine is soaking wet—so I tell him he should drink some himself. I think back to what I was told in Istanbul about thieves who use drugs to rob tourists. There’s no way I will so much as touch his vial. First of all, because I’m leery of this fellow’s shenanigans, but also because I abhor stimulants of any kind whatsoever, for they are the instruments of delusion. When we reach the small town of Kargalı (kar’-ga-luh), I spot a pharmacy and suggest that he go in with me. I tell him that the pharmacist would be very interested in his vial, since it’s a miracle cure-all. Lo and behold: is it possible my words have some magic power themselves? They sure do, since the chap, like a jinn, suddenly vanishes. I’ll see no more of him.
The druggist is horrified when he sees the state of my feet. The infection has indeed progressed very quickly. On my right foot, two more toes are starting to fester. He and a colleague attend to my feet, and the result is everything I could possibly hope for: my toes have been transformed from beggars in rags to little nicely aligned, mummified dolls. I’m ecstatic, give them my thanks, and ask if I can buy some 90 percent rubbing alcohol, but the druggist has only half-liter bottles. I would prefer a small, lighter flask to slip into my pack. A nearby shopkeeper, who is enlisted to help, finds a small bottle for me. After hearing my story, he presents me with a gigantic loaf of bread, a large hunk of cheese probably weighing nearly a kilo, and a jar of honey, just as heavy. I wear myself out trying to turn him down. He can’t understand why. Having exhausted all my arguments, I finally invite him to pick up my gear himself. Realizing how heavy it is, he agrees to give me just one large chunk of bread and a quarter wheel of cheese. The man skilled in the art has prepared a small flask of alcohol for me, a second containing tincture of iodine, and some compresses. He won’t allow me to pay and, as if he hadn’t already shown enough concern and kindness, draws up a detailed map of the road that I need to take to get to the village where I plan on spending the night.
My feet like new, I head back into the countryside under a bright, springtime sun. In a beautiful green valley beside a lake, I stop to converse with an old, very old, country dweller by the name of Ahmed, his skin leathered by the weather and baked by the sun. All year round, he leads his only cow—his one treasure—back and forth along the byways so that she can graze as much as she wants. We exchange a few words, and he lets me take his picture.
Doğancılar (doh-an’-djuh-lar) is a sorry town of cob houses crowded along a single street. The successive downpours of the past two days have saturated the soil, creating a pitch-like mix of dirt and dung. The villagers are curious and follow me about. I take a few snapshots of a mud-block, corbelled house falling into ruin. The construction materials—wood, straw, and dirt—are the same as for the traditional, half-timbered houses of the Pays d’Auge or Pays d’Ouche regions of Normandy. As soon as they see I have a camera, the locals want me to photograph their barn, or themselves. In these villages, cameras are rare, and to have one’s photo taken is a special event. That is why I’ve vowed to take pictures of the people who put me up and send them a copy once I’m back home. It’s the only way I can think of to thank them for their hospitality, since they refuse money and the weight of my bag prevented me from bringing along any gifts. For the children, though, I did bring a hundred or so little lapel pins. The first time I took out the bag they’re in was to give a few little gifts to a half-dozen kids. I spread the “treasure” out on the table so that they could take their pick. Twelve hands were suddenly all over them, and I had a very hard time recovering any of them at all. Ever since, I hand them out them one at a time, giving away only the one pinned to my vest.
Leaving the village, I stop in a gas station-teahouse-grocery store. A man wearing a cap and large, strong-prescription glasses with thick, coke-bottle lenses is seated at a table reading a newspaper. Does he know anyone in the village who might have a room where I can sleep? He looks over, scrutinizes me for a second, replies, “me,” and the
n goes back to his reading. I’m a little flustered by his invitation, so quick and devoid of warmth. I sit down, too, and order a cup of tea. The young man who brings my order is also the grocer in the store next door. I buy a box of chocolate cookies from him. Although a bit late, this will be the lunch I had no time to eat. The man who is supposed to put me up gets up from his seat and, without a word, walks out. I’m increasingly confused. Did he go home? Was his “invitation” sincere? The teahouse manager comes over and sits down at my table with another, slightly older man. They ask a thousand questions, and I answer them gladly since they’re so nice; they want to see my passport and the map on which I’ve charted each stage.
“Who was the man reading the paper a moment ago, and who just left?”
“That’s our father, Zekai (zay-kah’-ee). Let me introduce myself, I am Recai (ray-djah’-ee) and this is my younger brother Sezai (say-zah’-ee). As we speak, Zekai is making dinner for us, and for you, too.”
A third brother, the youngest, and answering to the name of Mehmet, joins us. When their father comes in with the meal, his children sum up our conversation for him. They may even be adding to it. My understanding is that, believing that it would be impolite to question a traveler who’s his guest, and yet somewhat wary all the same, Zekai has instructed his sons to find out about this odd pilgrim who stumbled in off the road and into his home. He speaks in a deadpan tone. The dinner is joyful. Mehmet shares his room with me, which has two beds. Before falling asleep, I tend to the wounds on my feet, which have become larger. Once again, I have to cut off the dead skin. I try to let my poor feet air out as much as possible to stimulate the healing process. But in the morning, a kind of transparent layer has formed over the wounds, and pus-filled blisters have reappeared. I break open the abscesses, dab them with rubbing alcohol, and bandage them before I head back out on the road in the rain.
Out of Istanbul Page 5