KADIN (WOMAN)

I had to rack my brain, to remember the encounters I’ve had with the women of Turkey. Besides my visit to the haram, I had almost no real conversations with Turkish women. Most of my interactions have been with only men.

Men are employed in most of the businesses that interact with the public. Occupations traditionally reserved for women, like waitressing, store sales clerk, and cashier are dominated by men. Besides my hotel bartender, the chambermaids, and airport employees, I saw almost no women in the workplace.

My closest exchange was with the hotel terrace bartender. She was young, and based on her modern clothing, non religious. She didn’t wear a headscarf. After checking in, I ordered a beer, at the terrace bar. I asked her for a suggestion of which local beer to try. “What do you like?” I asked. She suggested her favorite. ‘Ahh, she DOES drink!’ She poured the beer in a glass and filled a small wooden bowl with peanuts. “You pay me later,” she said, as she waved me away. I went to sit on the terrace.

The hotel bartender

Commercial break… Normally, I am not a peanut eater. Peanuts are something I’ll eat, if I’m really hungry and there are no other good options available. But, the peanuts in Turkey are absolutely DELICIOUS! They are very fresh, perfectly roasted and generously salted. They had no unpleasant aftertaste, like the packaged peanuts I’m used to. I finished the bowl in about two minutes.

The bartender walked over to see if I wanted another drink. She took a look at my empty peanut bowl. “Yes, please,” I responded. She returned with a second beer and a refill of peanuts. After a half hour she returned to announce she’ll be closing soon. I ordered another beer, to take back to my room. She returned with an unopened beer (I was still working in the second one), and another bowl of peanuts. I paid her for the three beers and gave her a very generous tip. She stared at the tip for a second, gave a little smile and walked away. The sun was setting and it was getting cooler. The bartender returned with a red wool wrap for me to wear. “Thank you, this is so nice,” I said. She waved and walked away.

The next night, I returned to the terrace for a couple of beers and two more bowls of peanuts. Before she closed the bar and after another generous tip, she gave me a bag of peanuts to take back to my room. I love those peanuts.

I never got her name. I left a dress and some tights for her, the morning I checked out. I hope she got them. If I see her again, I will make a point to initiate a conversation with her.

In Istanbul, I met a guy, Engin, who owned an upscale store. It was a very tasteful store with quality Turkish rugs, ceramics, jewelry, hand-woven scarves and home accessories. The sales team were all men. When I first entered the store, I thought, ‘A woman would give this place a nice touch.’ It’s so ironic that women are excluded from being employed in a store that they were expected to patronize. Aren’t they the ones who usually shops for scarves, jewelry and home goods? Strange logic.

Engin took the time and showed me around Istanbul. He invited me back to his store to eat breakfast and lunch. The staff normally eat their meals in the store. I couldn’t make breakfast, but I accepted the lunch invitation. We took a break from sightseeing, and returned to his store for a quick bite.

We walked upstairs to the “employee only” section of the store. There was a young lady sitting at a desk, at the top of the stairs, wearing a headscarf and modest clothing. I said hello and gave her a smile.

As a shoveled in a delicious bowl of savory beans, I asked, “Who made this?” “My accountant. The lady you saw at the desk just outside this room,” said Engin. “Does she cook for the staff, everyday?” I asked.

Lunch at Engin’s store.

“Yes”

“Do you pay her extra for it?”

“No, she likes doing it,” he said.

‘Here we go.’ I thought. “Does she have a family?” I asked.

“Yes, a husband and a few kids,” he replied.

“So, you’re saying, this woman cooks for the staff, everyday, even though she works and has a family to take care of. And you’re telling me that she loves it?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What does her husband say?”

“He’s a friend of mine. He doesn’t mind,” Engin replied.

“She doesn’t LIKE IT!” I stressed. “She feels obligated. That’s not the same as liking something!” I said. “If she continues to cook for you, you must pay her. No woman wants the burden of extra chores when she’s has so many other obligations. You must pay her extra for this.”

Later, I asked Engin about employing women to work in his store. He said, “You would never see women on the sales floor, unless, the store needs a woman to speak Arabic to the customers. Then they would get a Saudi women and put her on the work floor, but only then,” he said.

When we walked to the Blue Mosque, I was concerned that I didn’t have a traditional head wrap. Engin told me not to worry, “You are fine.” I didn’t want to be disrespectful, so I tucked in my bushy hair into the scarf I had on, and covered my chest with my sweater. I removed my shoes, and without incident, I entered the mosque. ‘Beautiful!’ I thought, as I looked up at the colorful hand painted motif on the ceiling. “Amazing!”

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I saw men kneeling in front of a man sitting in front of an alter. I turned to Engin and whispered, “Where are the women?” He pointed to the back of the mosque. Behind a barrier, in the back of the mosque, was a “Women’s Praying Section.” There were a few women bowing and praying. ‘I wonder what THEY were praying for?’

“Do they come out often,” I asked.

“No, they are too busy working at home, so they usually pray at home,” he said. “ They prefer it.”

‘Why am I asking HIM these questions?’ I thought.

During my trip to Turkey, besides a few professional exchanges, I had not one intimate conversation with a woman. No real personal exchange. There was no, “I’m doing fine, and you?” There was no, “Are you married? How many children do you have? What do you do for work?” Or, “Do you like cooking for your boss, everyday?”

The women in Turkey navigate through society virtually unnoticed. The Habibs and headscarves shield their presence, and make them invisible to the public eye. Underneath the multi yards of heavy fabric and colorful scarves there are lives there. I believe, Turkish women, like women everywhere, want to live their best life, not the life that’s dictated to them by men. These women are given roles they might not have ever chosen for themselves.

Kadin (the woman) is her husband’s most prized possession, perfectly wrapped up and preserved to be seen and enjoyed, only by him. She has little choices and no chance for true independence. She can never escape the culture of second class servitude.

A man cannot and should not ever speak for a woman. Next time, I’ll have to go to the source. When I return to Turkey, I will make it a point to initiate conversations with the Turkish women and ask my questions directly to them. I’m sure, they have the same curiosity about me and my life as an American of African descent, living in the US. I’m anticipating an open and honest exchange that would result in a better understanding of each other.

Goreme Open Air Museum

First, a little background on the Open Air Museum:

Göreme is a district of the Nevşehir Province in Turkey. After the eruption of Mount Erciyes about 2.6 million years ago, ash and lava formed soft rocks in the Cappadocia Region, covering a region of about 20,000 km². The softer rock was eroded by wind and water, leaving the hard cap rock on top of pillars, forming the present-day fairy chimneys. People of Göreme, at the heart of the Cappadocia Region, realized that these soft rocks could be easily carved out to form houses, churches, monasteries. These Christian sanctuaries contain many examples of Byzantine art from the post-iconoclastic period. These frescos are a unique artistic achievement from this period.

In the 4th century small anchorite communities began to form in the region, acting on instruction of Saint Basil of Caesarea. They carved cells in the soft rock. During the iconoclastic period (725-842) the decoration of the many sanctuaries in the region was held to a minimum, usually symbols such as the depiction of the cross. After this period, new churches were dug into the rocks and they were richly decorated with colourful frescoes. When the Cappadocian Greeks were expelled from Turkey in 1923 in the Population exchange between Greece and Turkey the churches were abandoned, but at the same time were kept hidden, as their owners were the only ones who knew how to find them.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

 

RMD

It’s a running joke amongst my friends. No matter where I travel, I’d run into someone I know. Just some random thing that happens to me. I did not run into anyone I knew, on this trip, but I did run into to someone that I should’ve known.

The well planned photo shoot was a bust, so I ditched my favorite Camilla dress for some sweats and sneakers and decided to visit the Open Air Museum.

The Open Air Museum of Goreme is a mass collection of historical monasteries and cave churches. Within some of those churches exist the finest specimens of ancient Byzantine frescoes. Most of the churches date from 10th to 12th centuries.

I was prepared to take the fifteen minute hike to the museum, but the hotel driver insisted on taking me. “I’ll drive you there and you can walk back,” he insisted. He dropped me off at the entrance, gave me directions on how to return to the hotel, and drove off.

I will post more photos on the Open Air Museum, in a separate post. But for now, I stick to the story.

As I toured the open air museum, climbing and descending stairs, entering and exiting ancient caves, churches and tombs, I took note of the large number of people. ‘Where did all of these people come from?’

Bus loads of people, mainly from China, pulled into the parking area. Hundreds converged into the park and separated into groups. Each group leader carried a long stick with a flag, a teddy bear, or some type of identifying item attached and held high, so members of their group could locate them, from a distance.

The Chinese tourists were the most dominant group in the park. I came across a group that were very animated and friendly. While I was taking selfies, a few members of the group photo bombed me, and then proceed to take out their own cameras and pose with me, while their friends snapped their own cameras.

I wasn’t quite sure why they wanted me in their pictures, but I was okay with it. It was fun. I just shrugged it off as, “Traveling While Black,” -when random people, who rarely come in contact with African people openly show their amusement and curiosity. So, if you see my face on some random page and say, “That looks like Yvette… Yeah, it’s me.

Generally, when people of African descent are in a place where we’re clearly the minority, we’ll take notice of another person of color. When we cross paths, we would often acknowledge each other with a mutual exchange of some sort, a smile, a verbal greeting, a head nod, or a combination of all three.

As I meandered through the museum. I caught a glimpse of a tall, very attractive Black man and an equally attractive Black woman, strolling through the museum. My eye caught them few more times, while I entered and exited various caves. Strangely, a noticed few Asian young men taking selfies with the gentleman. ‘Him too?’ I thought. ‘I had that same experience an hour ago, in an episode of  Traveling While Black’

I looked at the beautiful man and the first thing I thought of was the Turkish name for man, Adam.

The next time I saw the black couple, I noticed something I didn’t see before, a film crew. As they walked toward me,  I approached one of the crew members and asked, “What are you filming?” If he responded, I didn’t hear him. I shrugged off the shade and walked up to, what I assumed was the person in charge (I’ll call him the producer). I asked him the same question. I also complained to him regarding the guy not answering my question. The director said, “I wasn’t that he didn’t want to answer you, he doesn’t understand English.” ‘Oh.

The producer asked where I was from. I answered, “the US.” He asked if I ever watched Nigerian films.“Not really,” I quickly responded. The producer explained to me that the tall good looking gentleman was the most famous actor, in Nigeria. “Oh, nice” I responded. As I spoke to the producer, the couple approached me.

I introduced myself and asked them their names. The woman spoke, first, “His name is Richard Mofe-Damijo, but if you google RMD, it’ll come up.” The RMD introduced the woman as, Sandra Ankobiah. “She’s known as the Queen of Travel.” he said. “Very nice to meet you both,” I said.

We talked our love for travel, our Cappadocian hotels and the local food. I talked about my Nigerian friends and asked if he knew them. “Maybe,” he said. I spoke about wanting to visit Nigeria, for this trip, but I needed to do more research. “I want to travel to all of the places that matches my DNA. Nigeria is on my list, because I’m nineteen percent,” I said “What about the other percentages?” asked Sandra (QOT) “The most would be the Congo, thirty-three percent,” I answered. “Oh, that’s interesting,” she continued, “when Richard first saw you, he said, you’re from The Congo,” Sandra confessed. ‘Wow,’  I thought. ‘That’s impressive.’

We chatted a little while longer. I looked over and saw the film crew on pause. “Take a photo with me?” I asked. “Sure,” Richard complied. I asked them if they were a couple. Richard laughed. Sandra scoffed. ‘I have to work on my Nigerian pop culture,’ I thought.  I walked alongside them and chatted for a little while longer, and then said my goodbyes. I turned to address Richard, “I’ve never seen your movies, but consider me a fan.”

 

Film crew captures Richard Mofe-Damijo RMD and Sandra Ankobiah strolling through Open Air Museum

Richard Mofe-Damijo RMD

I was very impressed with the RMD, not necessarily with his work (never seen his films), but how he presented himself as a person, a man. In that huge park, amongst hundreds of people, Richard stood in the midst of the crowd. I didn’t see his celebrity. I saw a man who knows his place, in the universe. I saw a man that exudes confidence, a man who’s pleasant and approachable. His celebrity didn’t seem get in his way. He appeared to have a genuine love for life and a genuine interest in others. I’m sure he loves his profession, but it doesn’t define who he is.

When I decided to make Turkey a destination, I downloaded a Turkish language app. One of the first Turkish words I learned was the word for man, Adam

Like me, the young men may not have been responding to Richard’s celebrity, when they embraced him and took selfies with him. They probably were unaware of his movie stardom. When Richard walked through the park, he was radiant and regal. His majestic presence couldn’t be denied. He exuded strength, confidence, kindness, compassion and love. Maybe, those young men ultimately recognized and accepted Richard as a direct descendant of the first human being that walked the earth, the father of the human race…Adam

 

Balloons

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First, let me say this. I have a fear of heights. Now, let’s go back to the photo.

My reason for flying to Cappadocia was to reproduce that iconic photo. Instead of some random black girl posing on the terrace, with a sky full of colorful hot air balls, it would be ME! Yvette, the spectator, who feared heights, arranged the trip. She had no desire to fly. Never even considered it. It was just about the photograph.

My plan was clear, check into the hotel, hang out for the night, wake up before sunrise, put on my favorite Camilla dress (I packed for the occasion), get my three cameras tripod-ready to shoot, climb the terrace and pose. I booked a three day stay at the hotel. I had two, possibly three, opportunities to pull this off.

But then, the front desk receptionist asked a question. “Is hot air ballooning in your plans?” Without hesitation, Participator Yvette, decided to speak up. “Yes, of course.”  Yvette, the participator, showed up and changed the well thought out plans of the spectator. ‘Now, I had only two remaining chances for my photo op.’

People come from all over the world, to get that perfectly staged photograph, but it comes with some risks. Unpredictable winds and inclement weather, make the flight too risky. If Cappadocia experiences heavy winds or bad weather, it’s probably the worst news these far away travelers could possibly hear.

I heard some chatter about the possibility of mother not cooperating. The Australian couple, who checked in right before me, shared their concerns about the morning being too windy. “I’m afraid of the possibility of missing it. We only have three days,” the woman said. “We’ll see.”

“The phone, in my suite, rang at 5:30 am. It was the wake up call I’ve been anticipating. I was already awake and in the shower. “Butterfly Balloon Company will arrive soon for a 5:50 am pick up,” said the voice on the other end.

I hardly slept. I quickly dressed and joined about fourteen other hotel guests, in the lobby. The balloon company arrived and loaded us in a minivan. We were transported, about a quarter mile to their headquarters, for processing. More people, from neighboring hotels, arrived. We were all assigned a mini bus, identified by the pilot’s name, to transport us to the launch site. Each bus carried sixteen passengers, the exact number of the balloon’s maximum capacity. My balloon pilot’s name was Mustafa.

The crew at Butterfly Balloon headquarters served a continental breakfast. It was not a meal I desired. I sat at a table, with a cup of black coffee, instead. ‘What if I have to go to the bathroom.’ I slid the coffee cup away. “Okay, everybody go to your assigned van!” shouted the organizer.

After a short drive to our launching location, we exited the minivan. At sunrise, sixteen of us climbed into Mustafa’s air balloon and ascended. It was an incredible experience, no words could explain, so I’ll show you.

Nomad

After that impressive dinner, at Ayselin Mutfağı, I decided to walk around a bit. I stopped at another nearby restaurant and purchased four pieces of baklava, to go. I never eat it at home, but I can’t get enough of it here.

 

It started to get chilly, so I decided to head back. I turned into a path heading toward my hotel. After about twenty yards, it came to a dead end. ‘This is not the way.’ This empty path, void of any other pedestrians, ended at some unfamiliar private property. ‘I’ll go back to the main street and restart,’ I thought.

The next attempt, ended abruptly. ”Another dead end?’ There was no one around to ask for directions. I tried not to panic. ‘I’ll use my gps.’ At that moment, my phone pinged. It was my partner, checking on my whereabouts. I looked down at my phone. ‘Damn!’ I had very little battery life left. I texted back, “I’m lost!” I took a photo of the dark alley that swallowed up any remaining street light and pressed, “Send.”

 

By the time I received his, “Use your gps,” text, I was well on my way. I barely had a enough of a phone charge, to get back to the opening of the correct pathway.

Later, I realized my mistake. Earlier, when I exited the path and crossed the main street, I didn’t realize that it wasn’t just one street. There were three main streets downtown, intersecting into a perfect triangle.

Now, for the climb up…fifteen minutes. It wasn’t a graceful climb. The passage was dark and empty, so no one was there to witness my struggle up the uphill.

As I labored over the last fifty or so meters, I was slightly startled by someone sitting, in a dark alley, in front of a restaurant. He was reclining, with his legs crossed, in an unusually low antique chair. Behind him was a backdrop of colorful bicycle wheels, artistically displayed on a concrete wall. The light, from inside the brightly lit restaurant, shone through the doorway and illuminated his face.

His name was Mustafa, a good-looking man with dark eyes and dark (almost kinky) curly hair. (Later, I witnessed, one of his rowdy Russian patrons, with probably too much to drink, ruffle his curls and pointed to me and said, “same hair.) He sat with his legs crossed, smoking an “earthy” cigarette.

 

We greeted each other. He asked where I was from. I told him. I asked where he was from. “I’m a nomad, a gypsy.” he replied. “I pick up and go, but I’ll be here for awhile, because this is my restaurant.” I could definitely relate to a nomadic lifestyle. I don’t live it, but that’s how I love to travel.

He invited me to sit down. I sat in the doorway and we continued a light exchange. He walked inside and grabbed a pillow, for me to sit on. “You shouldn’t sit on cold concrete,” he said. My grandmother use to always say that, but she would finish up her statement by saying, “You’re going to get piles!” She never quite explained, to me, what piles were.

He asked me how or why I was there. I told him it was my birthday trip. He asked, “When is your birthday.” I told him, “October 18th? No way!” he shouted. “What?” I asked. He laughed, “That’s MY birthday!” “No way, I don’t believe you.” I shouted laughingly.

He shouted something, in Turkish, to the cook upstairs. “I asked him to bring my passport. I’ll show you.”

Backdrop of bicycle wheels

 

 

The Greek-Belgian visitor on the right.

 

He was born October 18, exactly thirteen years after me. The more we spoke, the more, I realized that we had a lot in common. ‘What are the chances?’

We were joined by a passerby. Out of the darkness of the path, came a gentleman, born in Greece, and raised in Belgium. Because of his heavy accent, I could quite get his name. I should’ve asked him to write it down. The pathway stranger was a fifty-six year old man (not born on October 18th), who found himself downsized from his long term job. He told us about HIS wanderings since his dismissal, including s twenty-six kilometer walk through Cappadocia. He too, was traveling like a nomad.

It was getting cold, so Mustafa invited us both upstairs, to his terrace restaurant, for a glass of homemade wine. ‘More climbing?’

The restaurant was very eclectic, lots of antiques repurposed into beautiful functional furniture. Mustafa’s three-story, corner restaurant had custom-made windows, that collapsed and folded into what looked like a stack of vertical blinds. The stack slid out if the way, into one section of the window. This allowed the outdoors, in and gave us a breathtaking view of Cappadocia.

“I make my own wine,” Mustafa said, as he poured two glasses of wine. “It’s organic. No chemicals” The red wine had an amazing bouquet. ‘Mmmm. Rich, full-bodied taste, it held its full flavor. No sour aftertaste. Delicious!’ “This wine is better than the best California wine I’ve ever tasted.” I offered. He didn’t take that as a compliment. I tried to explain to him that some California reds are second to none. He didn’t buy it. “I’m a perfectionist,” he said. Somehow, I already knew that. “This is the best wine I ever tasted,” I corrected. He smiled, “That’s better.”

 

Mustafa asked, “What do you have in your bag?” “Baklava,” I answered. “I love baklava. It’s my favorite. I love it!” he responded. How could I say no to that? He ate three out of four pieces. The three of us talked about everything: politics, jobs, traveling, relationships, church (or mosque) and state, and our love for good food.

Mustafa’s partner was the cook. The restaurant’s menu was a collection recipes, handed down from Mustafa’s grandmother. His chef duplicated these dishes, from a small kitchen behind the counter, to Mustafa’s high standards, of course.

Mustafa is a nature guy. He grows things, makes wine, nurtures animals, cooks delectable meals, and creates functional art, out of junk. “Sometimes I’ll go out and spend the night in a cave,” he said. And…he sleeps in caves.

I hope he’s still there, when I return someday. I would love to see what new thing he created, and get a chance to finally taste his grandmother’s recipes. I’m sure, his food is as perfect as his wine.

Meeting Mustafa was serendipitous. I recognized a lot of myself through him, some of it I use to struggle to accept. After conversing with him, he made it clear, that he has some of those same struggles, too. “You’ll get over it, give it time. Just tell yourself, Fuck It, nobody cares and move on.” I said.

If I was a Turkish male, born on October 18th, thirteen years after the year of my birth, i could be Mustafa. I could be a wandering soul, nurturer of plants and animals, a builder and creator of art, a winemaker, and an occasional cave dweller.

I don’t like to apply labels to myself. I think it puts limitations on me. But, I think I’ll borrow his, because suits my traveling style, perfectly. I am a (traveling) Nomad.