by You Jin
Upon reaching the spot, we saw no trace of the lions. There were only bones scattered all around. The skull of the great African gazelle lay haplessly on the ground, eye sockets empty; they had even eaten the eyeballs. A jackal was nibbling on the meat left on a leg bone, and a hyena was gnawing on another bone. The jackal and hyena were a good team, always cleaning up the scraps left by the lion.
Carl hopped out of the jeep and squatted on the ground. Sifting through the bones on the ground, he looked to where I was squatting beside him and said, “There are many tiny bones here. That means the gazelle was pregnant, and she was about to give birth. Maybe that slowed her down and that’s why she couldn’t escape, becoming the lion’s prey.”
The light rain in the early dawn turned into very light golden arrows. “The law of the jungle” is played out in the deepest jungles of Africa every single day. Squatting there amid it all, seeing the broken skeleton of the great African gazelle and its huge skull, I felt a chill grip my heart.
Asia
Aishoujin
IN ISTANBUL, THE ancient capital of Turkey, my husband Risheng and I rode a ferry on a sight-seeing tour of the Straits of Bosphorus.
As I looked at the huge bridge, like a flying dragon connecting the continents of Europe and Asia, and the mosque surrounded by doves in the distance, I revelled in the sight.
A Turkish man standing nearby started speaking fluent Japanese. Seeing my confusion, he switched to English. “You’re tourists? Where are you from?”
“Singapore,” I replied, looking around at the breathtakingly beautiful scenery. I couldn’t help but add, “Istanbul is gorgeous. It’s unbelievable.”
“It really is pretty,” he agreed gently. “Some have said that Istanbul is a natural work of art, and also a product of the angels. It is too beautiful to behold. I’ve been working here for so many years, and I am still moved by its beauty.”
Feeling that his speech was extremely cultivated, I couldn’t keep from turning to take stock of him. He was in his thirties, curly-haired, with a high forehead, sharp nose, thick, dark eyebrows, and big, bright eyes. Since his whole face was submerged in the gentle shadows of a smile, it diminished the sharpness in his eyes.
“Before you came to Istanbul, where did you live?” I asked curiously.
“Oh, my hometown is in the central southern part of Istanbul, in Isparta, a very conservative, poor little town. I was eighteen when I left and came here by myself.”
“To work?”
“No, to study. I came to Istanbul University to learn Japanese.”
A Turkish man learning Japanese? My interest was piqued.
“Oh, I was always drawn to the beautiful culture of the east, and I thought language would be a bridge to allow me to enter the domain of eastern culture.” he said with sincerity. “What’s more, in Turkey, there are many opportunities to study English. My English came about through self-study. But there are very few people who understand Japanese, and so formal studies are the only way to go.”
“Do many people study it?”
“Not many.” He shook his head. “I studied for five years, three years for oral Japanese and two more for the written language. Those who graduate from the programme can listen, speak, read and write as well as a Japanese person, but now, fewer and fewer people are taking up the course. They shortened it to a three-year programme, so now the graduates are not as good as before.”
“How are prospects after graduation?”
“When something is scarce, it’s more valuable.” He smiled. “Prospects are not bad. Right now, I’m working at a high school teaching Japanese. I become a part-time tour guide during the summer holidays.”
The ferry reached the bank. He pointed to the guidebook in my hand and asked, “Where do you plan to go now?”
I flipped through the pages and said, “I thought we’d go to this bath house and try a Turkish bath.”
He looked at my guide book, raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and said, “That’s for tourists. It’s so expensive! Baths cost about eight thousand lira. Sometimes they even take tips.”
“Where could we find it cheaper?”
“Baths patronised by many local people are quite cheap. There’s one near my house that has good facilities and it only costs two thousand lira.”
I asked him to write the address for me. He hesitated a little, then said earnestly, “How about this. Tomorrow you go to the tea garden near Istanbul University to meet me, and I’ll bring you there.”
“Don’t you need to work?”
“Tomorrow is Eid al-Fitr. It’s a public holiday.” He smiled. “I have three days off.”
We exchanged names, he writing his in my notebook. He added six Chinese characters: Le Jian Can • Ai Shou Jin. It was a transliteration of his Turkish name.
Early next day, Risheng and I went to the tea garden situated in the university. Green vines covered the trellis elegantly. We sat in the cool shade beneath the wooden canopy and slowly sipped our tea. Not far from the teahouse was a stooped elderly man selling pigeon food. The grey pigeons flew about everywhere, running around and spoiling the peaceful atmosphere.
Time moved slowly along. We had set the appointment for nine, but now it was already 9.30, and there was no sign of Aishoujin. I was a little agitated, but I thought of his honest face, and I felt that he wouldn’t play us out.
At 9.35am, he finally arrived, out of breath. He started apologising once he sat down. “I’m so sorry. I was knitting until late last night and didn’t hear my alarm this morning.”
“Knitting?” I asked, surprised, as I looked at this grown man in front of me.
“Yes.” He didn’t even bat an eye. “Knitting is my hobby. It’s a traditional handicraft many Turkish people are proud of.”
“Oh,” I said, unable to keep myself from adding, “I always thought of weaving and those sorts of handicrafts as being women’s work.”
“Well, in Turkey most women learn to weave rugs because the handiwork for rugs is so intricate. Each stitch has to be very precisely lined up, and women’s ingenious thinking and their nimble fingers are better suited for carpet-making,” he patiently explained. “But for men, many of us like to learn to weave sweaters. Weaving machines are crude and heavy. Women aren’t quite strong enough, so they find it harder to do.”
The waiter brought Aishoujin’s steaming hot tea. He took a sip, swallowed, then continued, “In my hometown of Isparta, knitting is the ‘in’ thing. Lots of families knit for a living. I inherited the craft from my father. I make sweaters, tablecloths, blankets, carpets and just about anything. This sort of creative expression is the spirit of the Turkish people.” He added proudly, “After your Turkish bath, you can come to my house and have a look.”
We went with Aishoujin on a public mini-bus, passing through the busy city, and arrived in a rather crowded residential area. The brick houses stood row upon row up the hillside, reached by a narrow path rising and falling as it wound through them. Many shabbily dressed children ran about, kicking a ball or playing games. We walked up the slope strenuously, staying vigilant against errant balls. Finally, Aishoujin stopped in front of a rather odd-looking building and said to me, “This is the women’s bathhouse. You can try the Turkish bath here. I’ll be back to get you in about an hour.”
When he’d said this, he led Risheng away to the nearby men’s bathhouse.
An hour later, Risheng came to get me. When I asked about Aishoujin, he said he was in the alley playing football with the kids. Arriving at the alley, we saw him happily kicking the ball with several children, beads of sweat glistening on his face, his mouth open wide with laughter.
“Why didn’t you take him to the Turkish bath with you?” I asked Risheng.
“I tried, but he refused,” Risheng replied. “I guess he didn’t want me to pay for him. He said the one he goes to often, where the facilities are relatively simple, only costs three hundred lira.”
Aishoujin ran over to us, wiping
his sweat off with a towel as he asked, “What do you think of the Turkish bath?”
“It’s great!” Risheng and I said in unison. “I feel like a whole new person.”
After walking from the bathhouse for about five minutes, we arrived at Aishoujin’s house. More accurately, it was not really a house. It was just a storeroom beneath a building.
Perhaps because it was not well ventilated, when he opened the door a noxious burst of air hit us. Inside, the house was humid and dark. Even though it was daytime, you could not see your hand in front of your face. Aishoujin turned on a light and when I looked around, I nearly cried out at how dirty it was. It was the first time I’d ever seen such a messy house.
Six or seven carpets were scattered haphazardly on the floor. On a low table, there was a half-empty cup of tea, a knife with residue from a dessert still clinging to it, and half a piece of cake with ants crawling over it. There were several photo albums strewn under the table, along with a few unused roles of film. In a corner of the room was a gigantic weaving machine, standing quietly. A stack of thick fashion magazines was piled up high on the floor. And as for the finished sweaters, there was one here, one there, scattered all about. The desk in the centre of the room held letters from all over the world, a Japanese dictionary, an English dictionary, notebooks, medals and other items. There was a big cardboard box full of books under the desk. In the corner near the door was a table cluttered with a gas stove, cups, dishes, cutlery, coffee powder, tea leaves, a teapot and glass bottles in a dirty mess. It was a miracle it wasn’t covered in spider webs!
Because Risheng was carrying a heavy camera and video equipment, he couldn’t bend and take off his shoes, so I squatted down and helped him untie the laces. Aishoujin stood to one side watching, then said enviously, “Oriental women are so good! Even helping their husbands take off their shoes.”
“It’s nothing to be jealous of,” I said. “When I’m in a bad mood, I’ll take off his shoes and hit him over the head with them.”
Aishoujin believed me, so he did not say anything else.
Once in the house, he shuffled things around and cleared a space for us to sit. As he boiled water for coffee, I asked, “Aishoujin, how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Seeing how his eyes wrinkled up when he laughed, I had thought he was closer to thirty-eight. “Why don’t you find a wife to help you look after the house?”
“Finding a wife is not that easy.” He poured coffee powder into a small copper pot and said, “I always feel that modern women are too liberal. In Turkey, educated women don’t like to stay at home and serve their husbands or take care of children. They are always talking about women’s liberation, and equal pay for men and women. With that sort of wife at home, I’m afraid I’d end up serving her!”
“If you like more traditional, conservative women, why don’t you let your parents arrange a marriage for you?” I asked.
“Marriage is a big deal. How can you let someone else arrange it?” He smiled and shook his head. The small kettle on the stove started to whistle. He poured the water into the small copper pot, then put it on the fire, stirring it slowly. Gradually, the aroma of coffee filled the room. “To be frank, I won’t settle down within the next decade. I would like to visit East Asia before I do. So for now, I am like a windmill that doesn’t quit turning, working like crazy to earn money.”
The strong, bitter Turkish coffee was ready. Aishoujin carried it over and we all sat on the floor and chatted. Aishoujin divulged that, for the moment, besides teaching Japanese at a secondary school and being a part-time tour-guide during the summer holidays, he also knitted sweaters to sell in bulk to various commercial firms.
“If I’m feeling good, I work fast and can knit twenty in a day,” he said confidently. “Each wholesale price is three thousand lira (about ten Singapore dollars), and the department store puts its brand on it, and marks it up to at least seven thousand.”
“Are they your own designs?”
“Yes,” he said proudly. “Sometimes I study design books and modify the patterns according to the current trends. Some of the patterns have even become quite a fad.”
“Do all Turkish men know how to knit?”
“In the past, yes. Now, life is busier and so there are fewer and fewer who learn such a time-consuming, tedious craft. Especially carpet-making. From the design stage to completion, it can take a whole year. Modern people just don’t have patience for that.”
I looked at the thick, warm carpet below me. “You made this carpet, right?”
“Yes,” he said excitedly. “All the carpets in the house are the result of my painstaking work. Each one evokes a different emotion, and all are for different purposes.”
He pointed to a colourful floral design and said, “I like to take a nap on that rug, because you can smell the flowers in your dreams.”
Then he pointed to one depicting a towering mosque and said, “I use that one to study or flip through the newspaper. Each time I sit on it, I feel at peace.”
He pointed at one with the image of the magnificent Straits and bridge. “This is my favourite for writing letters to my friends overseas. The bridge brings our hearts closer, connecting us.”
Aishoujin’s house was such a mess, but interesting things seemed to be hidden everywhere. After his revelations, the whole house seemed to be splashed with beautiful colours. I no longer thought it was messy or dirty, but bright and lovely.
He used the metaphor of a windmill to describe himself, and it was true. Because he had many hobbies, every inch and every minute of his life was stuffed full. Besides knitting, he learnt photography, boxing, played tennis and football, and collected foreign coins and stamps. Besides all that, he was a top-notch swimmer and a master orator. On his desk were two medals for oration contests held in Japanese!
“Aishoujin, you are so busy. We should let you rest,” I said apologetically.
“No, really. Please don’t say that,” he said sincerely. “My favourite thing is making friends from all over the world. You’ve come to Turkey, and it means the same as having come into my house. I hope that I can be of some help to you, giving you good memories to take back to your country.”
Time flew by as we chatted. When I started to get hungry, I looked at my watch and found that it was already past two in the afternoon.
Aishoujin walked out with us. As soon as the children in the alley saw him, they all warmly called his name. “Aishoujin!”
He picked up one boy and carried him on his shoulder, laughing playfully all the way as he walked with us. When he put the boy down, the child seemed reluctant to part with him, shouting, “See you later!”
“Aishoujin, you really have a way with kids,” I said.
“Kids are angels,” he said. “I like them.”
We had lunch in a typical Turkish café. Risheng told Aishoujin he wanted to go to a bank to change currency.
“The banks never give a good rate. It’s not worth it.” He offered a suggestion. “Near Galatia Bridge, there are several money changers. The rate will be about ten per cent better than the bank’s. I can take you there.”
There was a grand mosque by the Galatia Bridge. In front of the mosque was a huge open area with many little stalls set up. There were flocks of customers. It was very lively. Shrewd-eyed money changers stood quietly in one corner, waiting for customers. Aishoujin talked with one of the money changers, then waved his hand and said, “This one won’t do. Even after talking and talking, he won’t budge past five per cent. Let’s try another one.”
I was already fascinated by the simple and beautiful handicrafts on display at the stalls, and just nodded absentmindedly whilst I squatted down for a closer look. Risheng was busy capturing the scene around us with his video camera.
I picked up a few naturally coloured stone necklaces and after bargaining and settling on a price, I was about to pay when I discovered that I did not have enough Turkish currency on me. I looked
up at Aishoujin, but he was still busy haggling with a money changer. As I chose a few more items, he ran over to me and said happily, “All right. One US dollar for seven hundred and twenty lira.”
“Oh! Seven hundred and twenty lira?”
I was pleasantly surprised, but at the same time found it hard to believe. We had changed money several times, never getting a rate much better than six hundred and thirty lira to one US dollar, except for the one time we got six-fifty at a shop. Now, Aishoujin had managed to get us a rate of seven-twenty!
“You really are good,” I said.
He wrinkled his nose and snorted a laugh. Though it looked like the wrinkles around his eyes had been carved with a knife, his innocent smile made him look like an overgrown kid.
After we had changed money, we were very happy. I said to him, “Let’s go for Chinese food tonight, OK? I think there must be a Chinese restaurant in Istanbul.”
“There are two,” he said, as if he was counting his family treasure. “Both are in the northern suburbs. One was opened by someone from Beijing, the other by someone from Taipei.”
I was in the mood for Peking duck, so I said quickly, “Let’s go to the Beijing restaurant.”
That afternoon, we walked around the world famous Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia Museum, and the Topkapi Palace. With the travel guide’s detailed introduction and Aishoujin’s lively explanations, we had everything we could possibly want.
When we walked out from the Topkapi Palace, the late twilight was already quietly slumped over the treetops, as if preparing to gobble up the ancient city at any moment. A shabbily dressed child of eight or nine waited at the door. As soon as we walked out, he stuck out his hand, asking for money. I felt quite surprised—since our arrival in Turkey, I had seen many children forced to do hard work not suitable for their young age, but beggars were really unusual. (More specifically, I mean western Turkey; the eastern part is very poor, but I cannot say for sure.) But now, seeing this pathetic little dirty face, I could not help but open up my wallet. Before I had even taken the money out, an angry expression came over Aishoujin’s face and he caught the child’s arm and pulled him to one side, scolding him in Turkish. The child slunk away.