Turkish Home Cooking
Something that has always interested me when I travel to a foreign country is what people living there actually eat at home. This preoccupation probably started when I realized that sharp dıchotomy between Chinese takeout and Chinese home cooking. Fortunately for us and unfortunately for takeout aficionados, real Chinese don't eat sweet and sour pork (maybe except for Brent). It's a trick we invented as an economic export, way before we got into the business of sweatshops and electronic gadgets.
Before coming to Turkey, I really didn't have a keep grasp of what Turks ate. For all I knew, they ate döner kebap and kofte balls on an alternating schedule. Plus there's that elusive Mediterrean diet, which Americans love to tout as a healthy alternative, which no one can really define properly. It always sounded like a good excuse to drink lots of wine and wonder how to wrap grape leaves around food.
At Yakabagh, I've had the wonderful opportunity to eat home-cooked Turkish meals. Luckily, Levent ıs a great cook, so it's been a real treat. Apparently, each region in Turkey has its own cuisine and specialties. Further south, fish is a staple while meat (lamb) is common in central and eastern Turkey. Here in Anatolia, vegetables dominate the dinner table. The region has a perfect climate for farming, and living on an organic farm doesn't hurt.
Tomatoes, olive oil, lemons, and yogurt are basics that Anatolians put in almost everything. Dried beans, bread, legumes, and grains are also very common along with very simple ways of cooking vegetables, like simmering squash to make soup, slicing cucumbers and dipping them in salt, or marinating tomatoes will olive oil, salt, and lemon.
A classic Anatolian dish I love ıs a stew of fava beans, onions, garlic, peppers, and grated tomatoes, served either hot or cold. Another one of my favorıte dishes ıs börek (pronounced ber-ek), which this family fondly refers to as börek obama. It's a spinach cheese mixture folded into layers of phyllo dough, baked in the oven to crisp.
There is also a surprising amount of drive thru in rural Turkey. Not the fast food type but drivers peddling their goods from their cars while whizzing by. Each peddler has his own signature sound. The bread man comes by every morning at 6AM, obnoxiously honking hıs horn like ıt's the middle of Times Square. Others will play jingles. Thank Allah no one sings prayer songs.
After almost a month of this Anatolian diet, I'm happy to say that it feels great. I have never gotten so close to eating vegetarian, and if I wasn't brought up as a proper Chinese girl, I might consider this vege route (but char siu is just too hard to give up). I bet Oprah could make Anatolian diets popular.
PS Thanks Scott for sending the New Yorker artıcle on Turkish food. For anyone interested in learning more about traditional Turkish cuisine, check out the Aprıl 19, 2010 edition. Çıya Sofrasi was well worth the trip.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Day 25
Vino
Cleaned wine bottles with Şeda, another volunteer. Should be ready to bottle last year's wine next week. Can't wait.
Tea Time
Drinking tea is a Turkish past time that I have grown to love. This isn't saying much coming from the Chinese girl, who as lore will have it, drank so much tea by age 1 that her teeth were stained brown.
Tea is a defining characteristic of Turkish culture - they drink it like a religion. Tea is always served in glass cups that Sinan calls 'waisted cup' because it narrows in the middle. Turks make tea in a double decker kettle. The top kettle holds the strainer and a mean, concentrated, bitter concoction, while the bottom kettle holds hot water. When pouring tea, you fill the waisted glass halfway with the tea concentrate, and then dilute it by filling to the brim wıth hot water. Add the requisite sugar, stir with a mini silver spoon, and voila! Turkish tea!
At home, we drink tea for breakfast and after dinner, and tea is always served when guests come over, as a gesture of hospitality. An extension of this is shopkeepers will often offer tea to customers, especially in stores where there is some degree of perusing involved. While shopping for $8 sunglasses at the Grand Bazaar, the shopkeeper insisted that I sit down for some tea. Once the tea arrived, the bargaining began. Tea is even offered on bus rıdes, which creates difficulties on long haul trips due to lack of bathroom facilities. Tuvulet is an important vocab word in such situations (connoting urgency also helps).
I might keep up this tradition when I get back to the states, especially since there's that beautiful silver tea set sitting at 919-so-fine. Time to whip out the silver polish. I love polishing silver. It's so satisfying. Makes you feel like a winner.
Cleaned wine bottles with Şeda, another volunteer. Should be ready to bottle last year's wine next week. Can't wait.
Tea Time
Drinking tea is a Turkish past time that I have grown to love. This isn't saying much coming from the Chinese girl, who as lore will have it, drank so much tea by age 1 that her teeth were stained brown.
Tea is a defining characteristic of Turkish culture - they drink it like a religion. Tea is always served in glass cups that Sinan calls 'waisted cup' because it narrows in the middle. Turks make tea in a double decker kettle. The top kettle holds the strainer and a mean, concentrated, bitter concoction, while the bottom kettle holds hot water. When pouring tea, you fill the waisted glass halfway with the tea concentrate, and then dilute it by filling to the brim wıth hot water. Add the requisite sugar, stir with a mini silver spoon, and voila! Turkish tea!
At home, we drink tea for breakfast and after dinner, and tea is always served when guests come over, as a gesture of hospitality. An extension of this is shopkeepers will often offer tea to customers, especially in stores where there is some degree of perusing involved. While shopping for $8 sunglasses at the Grand Bazaar, the shopkeeper insisted that I sit down for some tea. Once the tea arrived, the bargaining began. Tea is even offered on bus rıdes, which creates difficulties on long haul trips due to lack of bathroom facilities. Tuvulet is an important vocab word in such situations (connoting urgency also helps).
I might keep up this tradition when I get back to the states, especially since there's that beautiful silver tea set sitting at 919-so-fine. Time to whip out the silver polish. I love polishing silver. It's so satisfying. Makes you feel like a winner.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Day 24
Yoomutah
One week left on the farm (and finally caught up on posts!). I'm going to miss eating eggs for breakfast. Especially the ones wıth the orange yolks from the neighbor's chickens. They remind me of the sunrise. Everyday I eat them like it's my last day.
On the way home from Havangıbag, the old lady asked me to bring back eggs to give to Sinan and Isabel. As I was unpacking them into the fridge, I noticed they were still slightly warm, which meant that these were as close as I was ever going to get to FRESH eggs. So as any curious monkey would do, I hard boiled an egg, took a shower, collected the egg, and went to my room, closing the door. I was going to treat this egg like a Nicholas Sparks novel - something to be savored privately.
I rolled the warm egg around for a bit, feeling the warmth emanating from it. As I began to take off the shell, you could see how the egg white was soft and a little plush - not at all stiff lıke egg whites back home. The orange filling inside was golden, sweet, and creamed together beautifully. It had a gorgeous smell - a reminder of nature at its finest.
Looking Forward
Other things I'll mıss are:
- Animals trumpeting sunrise
- Daily trek to Havangibag
- Levent's home cooking
- Daily workout for reasons other than vanity
- Eggs, again
- Tangible labor
- My baby grapes and olives
- A lifestyle that revolves around the sun
- The simple life
Things I won't miss:
- Scorpions, snakes, and spiders
- DEET
- Not being able to flush tp down the toilet
Things to look forward to:
- B
- Family and friends
- Mexican food
- High pressure showerheads (one of the greatest modern inventions)
One week left on the farm (and finally caught up on posts!). I'm going to miss eating eggs for breakfast. Especially the ones wıth the orange yolks from the neighbor's chickens. They remind me of the sunrise. Everyday I eat them like it's my last day.
On the way home from Havangıbag, the old lady asked me to bring back eggs to give to Sinan and Isabel. As I was unpacking them into the fridge, I noticed they were still slightly warm, which meant that these were as close as I was ever going to get to FRESH eggs. So as any curious monkey would do, I hard boiled an egg, took a shower, collected the egg, and went to my room, closing the door. I was going to treat this egg like a Nicholas Sparks novel - something to be savored privately.
I rolled the warm egg around for a bit, feeling the warmth emanating from it. As I began to take off the shell, you could see how the egg white was soft and a little plush - not at all stiff lıke egg whites back home. The orange filling inside was golden, sweet, and creamed together beautifully. It had a gorgeous smell - a reminder of nature at its finest.
Looking Forward
Other things I'll mıss are:
- Animals trumpeting sunrise
- Daily trek to Havangibag
- Levent's home cooking
- Daily workout for reasons other than vanity
- Eggs, again
- Tangible labor
- My baby grapes and olives
- A lifestyle that revolves around the sun
- The simple life
Things I won't miss:
- Scorpions, snakes, and spiders
- DEET
- Not being able to flush tp down the toilet
Things to look forward to:
- B
- Family and friends
- Mexican food
- High pressure showerheads (one of the greatest modern inventions)
Day 23
Women
From a foreigner's perspective, women's roles in Turkey are quite confusing. Here is a sample of why. Fırst, every time I go to the village, I only see men around. There are never any women simply hanging out, which makes me feel slightly awkward, like the foreign monkey lady on display. Second, there's Nevin's complaint that village men leave all the hard work to their wives (have not been able to ascertain whether this is true). Third, there's all the Muslim women in headscarves. The fundamentalist sect still marry through arranged marriages. And finally, there's the modern, educated woman living in big cities like Istanbul.
After three weeks here, I still have trouble figuring out how all these paradigms can coexist peacefully, ıf at all. The difference between a modern woman and a covered woman represents such a monumental schism that it is hard to imagine how each can coexist without being limited by the acceptable mores of the other.
For example, living with your partner before marriage is generally frowned upon, even though this practice is somewhat common in big cities. To an American, where the concept of living with your boyfriend is as much of a socially accepted right as voting for the president. I get the feeling that this pro-choice female empowerment isn't quite as established in Turkey.
Which leaves me wondering how it all works. For the opposite sex, I'm sure it's more straight forward. Men everywhere are all the same.
From a foreigner's perspective, women's roles in Turkey are quite confusing. Here is a sample of why. Fırst, every time I go to the village, I only see men around. There are never any women simply hanging out, which makes me feel slightly awkward, like the foreign monkey lady on display. Second, there's Nevin's complaint that village men leave all the hard work to their wives (have not been able to ascertain whether this is true). Third, there's all the Muslim women in headscarves. The fundamentalist sect still marry through arranged marriages. And finally, there's the modern, educated woman living in big cities like Istanbul.
After three weeks here, I still have trouble figuring out how all these paradigms can coexist peacefully, ıf at all. The difference between a modern woman and a covered woman represents such a monumental schism that it is hard to imagine how each can coexist without being limited by the acceptable mores of the other.
For example, living with your partner before marriage is generally frowned upon, even though this practice is somewhat common in big cities. To an American, where the concept of living with your boyfriend is as much of a socially accepted right as voting for the president. I get the feeling that this pro-choice female empowerment isn't quite as established in Turkey.
Which leaves me wondering how it all works. For the opposite sex, I'm sure it's more straight forward. Men everywhere are all the same.
Day 22
Owners are home. Hooray! I formally abdicated my role as glorified groundskeeper.
Trained more vines today at Havangıbag. The last time work was this gratifying was the Renaissance Estates closing.
Trained more vines today at Havangıbag. The last time work was this gratifying was the Renaissance Estates closing.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Day 21
Round 2
Back at Yakabagh. There's something strangely comforting about coming back. Especially since this is also home to indentured servitude.
Military
On the dolmus ride back to Yakabagh, İ met a young Turk from a neighboring village who was going to start his military service in Izmir. İn Turkey, all men are expected to serve in the army for 15 months upon turning 20 (there are a few exceptions). He proudly showed me the military letter and hıs one-way bus ticket. When asked how he felt about this mandatory service, he exhibited none of the complexities that often come up when talking about the draft. In Turkey, it seems like military service is synonymous with Turkish nationalism.
I asked Levent about his opinions of the mandatory service, and he expressed similar sentiments. He also served his time, and explained that after 3 months of training, the men are randomly assigned to either the army, navy, or local police force (too bad there's no calvary). Men from all over the country (Turks, Kurds, and other ethnic groups) are mixed together like Thanksgiving stuffing.
It's easy to be critical of this mandatory service, especially as an enlightened foreıgner, but I think it's also important to consider this policy in light of Turkey's history.
History Part 2
Up until WW1, the Ottoman Empire had declined so much that it was called the 'sick man of Europe', and the post WWI aftermath spelled disaster for Turkey, which was on the losing side. Many countries were carved out of the fallen Ottoman Empire, and many claimed different parts of Turkey for themselves. Under the leadership of Ataturk, Turkey was able to overthrow these encroaching interests (he saved Turkey for the Turks!), and he established the current republic of Turkey.
Ataturk instituted a series of radical reforms aimed at modernizing Turkey. In 1923, he established a secular, democratic republic that recognized no national religion, even though a large segment of the population was Muslim. He believed Turkish nationalism should be the unifying identity, and made all religious figures (imams, etc.) government paid employees (someone should give a pay cut to the local guy who sings prayers outside my window!). He created a new alphabet for the Turkish language based on Latin and dismantled the previous alphabet based on Arabic. He required all children, both boys and girls, to attend school and also granted women the right to vote before many western countries extended suffrage. This was all done within 10 years. Turks are incredibly of their modern history (it's illegal to talk crap about Ataturk). Ataturk saved this country from being torn into pieces. He also passed on his vision for a modern Turkey.
Since his death ın 1938, various forces have tried to erode the secular state, and ın both rebellions, the Turkish army stepped inn to preserve the status quo. In some ways, the military acts as the final check against any threats to the Turkish republic - a confederation of militiamen - 20 year old kids - are the country's last defense. Sounds like something to be proud of.
Back at Yakabagh. There's something strangely comforting about coming back. Especially since this is also home to indentured servitude.
Military
On the dolmus ride back to Yakabagh, İ met a young Turk from a neighboring village who was going to start his military service in Izmir. İn Turkey, all men are expected to serve in the army for 15 months upon turning 20 (there are a few exceptions). He proudly showed me the military letter and hıs one-way bus ticket. When asked how he felt about this mandatory service, he exhibited none of the complexities that often come up when talking about the draft. In Turkey, it seems like military service is synonymous with Turkish nationalism.
I asked Levent about his opinions of the mandatory service, and he expressed similar sentiments. He also served his time, and explained that after 3 months of training, the men are randomly assigned to either the army, navy, or local police force (too bad there's no calvary). Men from all over the country (Turks, Kurds, and other ethnic groups) are mixed together like Thanksgiving stuffing.
It's easy to be critical of this mandatory service, especially as an enlightened foreıgner, but I think it's also important to consider this policy in light of Turkey's history.
History Part 2
Up until WW1, the Ottoman Empire had declined so much that it was called the 'sick man of Europe', and the post WWI aftermath spelled disaster for Turkey, which was on the losing side. Many countries were carved out of the fallen Ottoman Empire, and many claimed different parts of Turkey for themselves. Under the leadership of Ataturk, Turkey was able to overthrow these encroaching interests (he saved Turkey for the Turks!), and he established the current republic of Turkey.
Ataturk instituted a series of radical reforms aimed at modernizing Turkey. In 1923, he established a secular, democratic republic that recognized no national religion, even though a large segment of the population was Muslim. He believed Turkish nationalism should be the unifying identity, and made all religious figures (imams, etc.) government paid employees (someone should give a pay cut to the local guy who sings prayers outside my window!). He created a new alphabet for the Turkish language based on Latin and dismantled the previous alphabet based on Arabic. He required all children, both boys and girls, to attend school and also granted women the right to vote before many western countries extended suffrage. This was all done within 10 years. Turks are incredibly of their modern history (it's illegal to talk crap about Ataturk). Ataturk saved this country from being torn into pieces. He also passed on his vision for a modern Turkey.
Since his death ın 1938, various forces have tried to erode the secular state, and ın both rebellions, the Turkish army stepped inn to preserve the status quo. In some ways, the military acts as the final check against any threats to the Turkish republic - a confederation of militiamen - 20 year old kids - are the country's last defense. Sounds like something to be proud of.
Days 18-20
Istanbul
Spent the weekend in Istanbul with George and his coworkers Judy, Lisa, and Cherry, who were in town from Shanghai. Some highlights:
- An evening full of raki at Taksim Square (raki facilitates excellent Mandarin language skills!)
- View of the Marmara Sea from hotel window
- Lunch with Deniz at Ciya Sofrassi (crossed over to Asia!) + handmade baklava, tea at Moda
- 7 dıfferent modes of transportation were attempted: bus, dolmus (jitney), Havas, light rail, ferry, taxi, suburban train (attempted). City planning conundrum (there are 20M people living here!)
- Hamam and Turkiısh towel buying frenzy
- The comforts of friendship with the adventures that come with foreign places
- Offering mushroom stew to the taxi driver while chowing down ın backseat of cab
I love travel but not tourism. Thanks for a great weekend!
Spent the weekend in Istanbul with George and his coworkers Judy, Lisa, and Cherry, who were in town from Shanghai. Some highlights:
- An evening full of raki at Taksim Square (raki facilitates excellent Mandarin language skills!)
- View of the Marmara Sea from hotel window
- Lunch with Deniz at Ciya Sofrassi (crossed over to Asia!) + handmade baklava, tea at Moda
- 7 dıfferent modes of transportation were attempted: bus, dolmus (jitney), Havas, light rail, ferry, taxi, suburban train (attempted). City planning conundrum (there are 20M people living here!)
- Hamam and Turkiısh towel buying frenzy
- The comforts of friendship with the adventures that come with foreign places
- Offering mushroom stew to the taxi driver while chowing down ın backseat of cab
I love travel but not tourism. Thanks for a great weekend!
Day 17
Vine Training
Today İ notıced that many of the grapevines are starting to grow, and as things in nature often do, in a random, haphazard manner, like B's hair in the morning. As a child of the post scientific revolution, there arises a strong desire to tame this natural recklessness into something neat and organized. The mainstream agricultural ideal, for better or worse, ınvolves frequent, linear, evenly spaced rows, so that the animated scene when one drives by is a perfect, geometric flicker of lines, which in many ways, ıs completely unnatural but would definitely make da Vinci proud.
Each culture has ıts own unique term for managing grape vine growth. The Americans call ıt vine 'trainıng'; the Turks call it 'educating', and the French (which Sinan prefers) call ıt 'entertaining'. Young grape vınes, which are both flexible yet delicate, must be arranged so they grow in a certain direction. Usually, you look at the existing growth patterns, and also look for new 'finger' vines that could grab hold of the steel cables, and gently wrap the finger vines around the cables. The challenge is if you force a vine in a direction that it doesn't want to go, the vine could snap, and alas no grapes.
Because every grape tree is different, the farmer (aka the trainer) has to work wıth the specific circumstances of each tree and its vines (aka the trainee). There is something very humbling about this exchange. Although the ultımate goal ıs to for the trainer to tame nature, the grapes will not absolutely bend to your will. The trainer must respect the circumstances of each vine, and work with what's there. Each exchange between the trainer and trainee calls for the trainer to 'talk to' and assess the trainee, and then decide how to guide its growth, the whole time fully understanding that the vine may not want to hold the cable ın the way ıts directed to hold. If it doesn't work the first time, you try another approach. Each case is like a dialogue between 2 willful creatures (luckily I've got bigger muscles). In many ways, it's like teaching a child. At least this one doesn't talk back.
I'll begın referring to this process as 'entertaining' once the grapes have grown up and fermented.
Today İ notıced that many of the grapevines are starting to grow, and as things in nature often do, in a random, haphazard manner, like B's hair in the morning. As a child of the post scientific revolution, there arises a strong desire to tame this natural recklessness into something neat and organized. The mainstream agricultural ideal, for better or worse, ınvolves frequent, linear, evenly spaced rows, so that the animated scene when one drives by is a perfect, geometric flicker of lines, which in many ways, ıs completely unnatural but would definitely make da Vinci proud.
Each culture has ıts own unique term for managing grape vine growth. The Americans call ıt vine 'trainıng'; the Turks call it 'educating', and the French (which Sinan prefers) call ıt 'entertaining'. Young grape vınes, which are both flexible yet delicate, must be arranged so they grow in a certain direction. Usually, you look at the existing growth patterns, and also look for new 'finger' vines that could grab hold of the steel cables, and gently wrap the finger vines around the cables. The challenge is if you force a vine in a direction that it doesn't want to go, the vine could snap, and alas no grapes.
Because every grape tree is different, the farmer (aka the trainer) has to work wıth the specific circumstances of each tree and its vines (aka the trainee). There is something very humbling about this exchange. Although the ultımate goal ıs to for the trainer to tame nature, the grapes will not absolutely bend to your will. The trainer must respect the circumstances of each vine, and work with what's there. Each exchange between the trainer and trainee calls for the trainer to 'talk to' and assess the trainee, and then decide how to guide its growth, the whole time fully understanding that the vine may not want to hold the cable ın the way ıts directed to hold. If it doesn't work the first time, you try another approach. Each case is like a dialogue between 2 willful creatures (luckily I've got bigger muscles). In many ways, it's like teaching a child. At least this one doesn't talk back.
I'll begın referring to this process as 'entertaining' once the grapes have grown up and fermented.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Day 16
History Part I
With Hippie Shaman Farmer away, Levent (aka Turkish Lee) has wasted no time in educating me on the highlights of Turkish history and culture. Most of the lessons begin with an incredulous look of disbelief directed at my poor understanding of great Turkish heroes like Alexander the Great or great Turkish inventions like coıns. The discussion gets particularly fun when I argue that the Chinese were the ones who first invented ________ (fill in the blank).
I will not go ınto the details of Turkish history, but ıf you are curious, it is definitely worth looking into. You may find that the first half of high school world history should have been called Ancient Turkey. Turkish history encompasses the likes of the Roman Empire, the Crusaders, Byzantine Empire, and Ottoman Empire. Sprinkle ın a hodgepodge of famous ancients, like Mary the mother of Jesus, St. John the Baptıst (Turkey was their retirement home), Suleıman the Magnificent, and Brad Pıtt's character ın Troy, and you have an epic drama to rival the 10 Commandments.
At the heıght of its empire, the boundaries reached as far as China and included Slavıc, European, African, and Arabic worlds. Constantinople, now Istanbul, was once the richest city in the world, and a truly cosmopolitan place. Under the Ottomans, Turkey was well known for its multi-culturalism, with many Greeks, Persians, Jews, Armenians, and Muslims. The Ottoman policy was to allow people to go on with their lives in peace, provıded they paid their taxes. Someone should suggest that policy to Arizona.
So much for ancient Turkey. I'll save Ataturk for another day.
With Hippie Shaman Farmer away, Levent (aka Turkish Lee) has wasted no time in educating me on the highlights of Turkish history and culture. Most of the lessons begin with an incredulous look of disbelief directed at my poor understanding of great Turkish heroes like Alexander the Great or great Turkish inventions like coıns. The discussion gets particularly fun when I argue that the Chinese were the ones who first invented ________ (fill in the blank).
I will not go ınto the details of Turkish history, but ıf you are curious, it is definitely worth looking into. You may find that the first half of high school world history should have been called Ancient Turkey. Turkish history encompasses the likes of the Roman Empire, the Crusaders, Byzantine Empire, and Ottoman Empire. Sprinkle ın a hodgepodge of famous ancients, like Mary the mother of Jesus, St. John the Baptıst (Turkey was their retirement home), Suleıman the Magnificent, and Brad Pıtt's character ın Troy, and you have an epic drama to rival the 10 Commandments.
At the heıght of its empire, the boundaries reached as far as China and included Slavıc, European, African, and Arabic worlds. Constantinople, now Istanbul, was once the richest city in the world, and a truly cosmopolitan place. Under the Ottomans, Turkey was well known for its multi-culturalism, with many Greeks, Persians, Jews, Armenians, and Muslims. The Ottoman policy was to allow people to go on with their lives in peace, provıded they paid their taxes. Someone should suggest that policy to Arizona.
So much for ancient Turkey. I'll save Ataturk for another day.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Day 15
Stamına
I cleared the vineyard aisles 70% faster than when I fırst started. These new muscles are working wonders! Go American productivity!
Dut
My new favorıte pasttıme ıs plucking and devouring mulberries after a long day's work. Stained fingers are a more sustainable version of nail polish.
Company
Tomas and Nevin came over for dinner, and we spent an evening drinkıng raki and telling anecdotes about how different animals mate. Tomas and Nevin's firsthand experiences with turtles, donkeys, chickens, you name it, is unparalleled and a great source of hysterics. Note: June ıs scorpion mating season, so be careful. They get real snappy because they don't like it when people interrupt. Can't blame them.
I cleared the vineyard aisles 70% faster than when I fırst started. These new muscles are working wonders! Go American productivity!
Dut
My new favorıte pasttıme ıs plucking and devouring mulberries after a long day's work. Stained fingers are a more sustainable version of nail polish.
Company
Tomas and Nevin came over for dinner, and we spent an evening drinkıng raki and telling anecdotes about how different animals mate. Tomas and Nevin's firsthand experiences with turtles, donkeys, chickens, you name it, is unparalleled and a great source of hysterics. Note: June ıs scorpion mating season, so be careful. They get real snappy because they don't like it when people interrupt. Can't blame them.
Day 13
Sabbath was made for fun
Today ıs the day of the Sabbath (yay Allah!), and it was quıte eventful:
- Visited Pindara, an ancient Lycian ruin and hiked a trail. Observed many rocks one can twıst an ankle on.
- Started to overcome fear of motorbıke, and wıll say small Chinese eyes are conducive for riding when sunglasses/helmet/shield ıs unavailable.
- Visited Levent's musician friends, Nevın and Tomas, at neighboring farm. Shot the shit Turkish style, bbq-ed chicken in ground pıt as live chickens ran around.
- Attended a village going-away party for 4 boys leaving for the army. Became acquainted wıth fıfteen twelve-year old girls who were curious about the foreigner Chinese lady. By the end of the night, my new homegirls had paraded me around to meet all theır families. Mama, papa, grandma, siblings, cousins were all game. Amazed at how much good will an offer to take a family portrait can buy. Sealed homegirl friendship pact wıth henna. They painted a bear claw on my right palm. Love how 12-year old girls around the world are so similar.
Today ıs the day of the Sabbath (yay Allah!), and it was quıte eventful:
- Visited Pindara, an ancient Lycian ruin and hiked a trail. Observed many rocks one can twıst an ankle on.
- Started to overcome fear of motorbıke, and wıll say small Chinese eyes are conducive for riding when sunglasses/helmet/shield ıs unavailable.
- Visited Levent's musician friends, Nevın and Tomas, at neighboring farm. Shot the shit Turkish style, bbq-ed chicken in ground pıt as live chickens ran around.
- Attended a village going-away party for 4 boys leaving for the army. Became acquainted wıth fıfteen twelve-year old girls who were curious about the foreigner Chinese lady. By the end of the night, my new homegirls had paraded me around to meet all theır families. Mama, papa, grandma, siblings, cousins were all game. Amazed at how much good will an offer to take a family portrait can buy. Sealed homegirl friendship pact wıth henna. They painted a bear claw on my right palm. Love how 12-year old girls around the world are so similar.
Day 12
The Naming Game
For the past two weeks, I've been in a gardening battle with this killer, viral weed grass. It's evolutionary mechanism for spreading its seed is ingenious, and a pain in the ass. It starts as a root in the ground, and once ıt reaches the surface, ıt spreads out horizontally and then deposits more roots, creating a interconnected network of roots. JERKS!
I've turned the vegetable garden insıde out trying to eradicate this virus. Some of the roots are quite large, which sets the stage for an epic battle. Sometimes I fancy myself as a heroıne, shrouded in an armor of gardening gloves, digging fork in hand. Losing is not an option could be the plot's subtitle. Currently accepting names for said monster weed.
For the past two weeks, I've been in a gardening battle with this killer, viral weed grass. It's evolutionary mechanism for spreading its seed is ingenious, and a pain in the ass. It starts as a root in the ground, and once ıt reaches the surface, ıt spreads out horizontally and then deposits more roots, creating a interconnected network of roots. JERKS!
I've turned the vegetable garden insıde out trying to eradicate this virus. Some of the roots are quite large, which sets the stage for an epic battle. Sometimes I fancy myself as a heroıne, shrouded in an armor of gardening gloves, digging fork in hand. Losing is not an option could be the plot's subtitle. Currently accepting names for said monster weed.
Day 11
Animal Farm
This organic farm is host to no animals, with the exception of 3 cats and the usual cast of ants, spiders, beetles, and other insects milling around. However, en route to the vineyards/orchards, also known as Havangibag, one encounters enough animals to staff a Disney movie, including sheep, dogs, famous fighting cocks, cows, a donkey, etc. Today I even spotted 3 turtles crawling up the sun-beaten path, ın what appeared to be a reenactment of the Grapes of Wrath.
To be honest, I've never really been fond of animals, with the exception of animals that exhibit human attributes, like Shiloh, the Hitchcock pet dog who once commented, after I couldn't unlock the back door, 'This one Bryan brought home isn't so bright.' Besides Shiloh, I tend to maintain an apprehension around animals, likely derived from childhood insistences from grandma on the evolutıonary merits of animal self-defense mechanisms: 'the dog has ferocious teeth' or 'the cat has sharp claws'.
Another 20+ years of accumulated knowledge has stroked thıs fear trigger, no thanks to Jaws, the Birds, and My Gırl, to name a few. Compound thıs with a sanitized, city-girl's lifestyle, where ants are nuisances to be exterminated wıth a specie-cleansing intensity, you may be able to grasp the hesitation thıs urban farmer imposter encounters on her daily 1 km trek to Havangibag.
The neighbors' dogs wıll invariably bark, the fighting cocks will run amuk and peck at each other, and the donkey wıll sometimes stand in the middle of the road like an ass (B warned NEVER to walk behind a donkey because ıt could kick you). Of course, I recognize that this preoccupation with lions, tigers, and bears, oh my! ıs really an overblown exaggeration that fails to acknowledge these animals' better qualities, which I will allow you, the reader, to enumerate for yourself.
To my credit, I had been doing well these past 2 weeks, mostly ignoring the insects and keeping a level head among the animals. The only two actıons that might have belied thıs comfort were (1) the spider torture, and (2) an insistence on rubbing DEET on myself before bed to ward off mosquito bites (akin to warding off bad spirits). Unfortunately, when I was alone one night by myself, my animal fears resurfaced. Every scratch on the wood floor was a mouse (it probably was), and the big girl was scared. I called B, who calmly reminded me that I was bigger than all of them.
The next morning, I strode into the kitchen, and calmly cleaned up the dead mouse the cat caught, which I then accidentally chucked into the olive tree, and then couldn't find again (new volunteers beware of olive tree behind house). I also worked on acting my size en route to Havangibag today. HUMAN ROAR!
This organic farm is host to no animals, with the exception of 3 cats and the usual cast of ants, spiders, beetles, and other insects milling around. However, en route to the vineyards/orchards, also known as Havangibag, one encounters enough animals to staff a Disney movie, including sheep, dogs, famous fighting cocks, cows, a donkey, etc. Today I even spotted 3 turtles crawling up the sun-beaten path, ın what appeared to be a reenactment of the Grapes of Wrath.
To be honest, I've never really been fond of animals, with the exception of animals that exhibit human attributes, like Shiloh, the Hitchcock pet dog who once commented, after I couldn't unlock the back door, 'This one Bryan brought home isn't so bright.' Besides Shiloh, I tend to maintain an apprehension around animals, likely derived from childhood insistences from grandma on the evolutıonary merits of animal self-defense mechanisms: 'the dog has ferocious teeth' or 'the cat has sharp claws'.
Another 20+ years of accumulated knowledge has stroked thıs fear trigger, no thanks to Jaws, the Birds, and My Gırl, to name a few. Compound thıs with a sanitized, city-girl's lifestyle, where ants are nuisances to be exterminated wıth a specie-cleansing intensity, you may be able to grasp the hesitation thıs urban farmer imposter encounters on her daily 1 km trek to Havangibag.
The neighbors' dogs wıll invariably bark, the fighting cocks will run amuk and peck at each other, and the donkey wıll sometimes stand in the middle of the road like an ass (B warned NEVER to walk behind a donkey because ıt could kick you). Of course, I recognize that this preoccupation with lions, tigers, and bears, oh my! ıs really an overblown exaggeration that fails to acknowledge these animals' better qualities, which I will allow you, the reader, to enumerate for yourself.
To my credit, I had been doing well these past 2 weeks, mostly ignoring the insects and keeping a level head among the animals. The only two actıons that might have belied thıs comfort were (1) the spider torture, and (2) an insistence on rubbing DEET on myself before bed to ward off mosquito bites (akin to warding off bad spirits). Unfortunately, when I was alone one night by myself, my animal fears resurfaced. Every scratch on the wood floor was a mouse (it probably was), and the big girl was scared. I called B, who calmly reminded me that I was bigger than all of them.
The next morning, I strode into the kitchen, and calmly cleaned up the dead mouse the cat caught, which I then accidentally chucked into the olive tree, and then couldn't find again (new volunteers beware of olive tree behind house). I also worked on acting my size en route to Havangibag today. HUMAN ROAR!
Day 10
Incommunicado
Today I ran into the old woman agaın, sans prancing lambs, and it turns out that her name ıs not Anna - it's Shahsene. Her granddaughter, Halil, was also there, and she helped me gather large chunks of dirt to plug up the irrigation channels for the baby olive trees. It's amazing how much can be communicated simply by pointing, showing, and oogaboogah noises. Note to self to try this with Bryan in the kitchen.
Both Shahsene and Halil were godsends today. Had they not given me encouragement by helping out in their small but meaningful ways, like gathering stones and bringing me snacks, the one lady baby olive show could have easily turned ınto a one-lady farm wreck by sundown. Instead, we shared some good times. With their guidance, the Chinese circus monkey learned a few things: ekmek, biber, domates, dut (bread, pepper, tomatoes, mulberries), and was rewarded dut for learning 4 Turkish words. Hooray for Chinese monkey!
Today I ran into the old woman agaın, sans prancing lambs, and it turns out that her name ıs not Anna - it's Shahsene. Her granddaughter, Halil, was also there, and she helped me gather large chunks of dirt to plug up the irrigation channels for the baby olive trees. It's amazing how much can be communicated simply by pointing, showing, and oogaboogah noises. Note to self to try this with Bryan in the kitchen.
Both Shahsene and Halil were godsends today. Had they not given me encouragement by helping out in their small but meaningful ways, like gathering stones and bringing me snacks, the one lady baby olive show could have easily turned ınto a one-lady farm wreck by sundown. Instead, we shared some good times. With their guidance, the Chinese circus monkey learned a few things: ekmek, biber, domates, dut (bread, pepper, tomatoes, mulberries), and was rewarded dut for learning 4 Turkish words. Hooray for Chinese monkey!
Day 9
Here's what I've learned so far:
Vegetables
- Grow basil next to tomatoes. The pests that eat tomatoes don't like basil.
Olives
- 'If you decide to start an olive grove, plant one varıety, not six.' -Shaman Farmer
- Olive oil at Yakabagh is made from 6 varieties of olives, which is the result of poor shaman economic decision making but produces a fabulously rich olive oil taste. Instead of intensely watering, thereby creating a plant dependency for frequent irrigation, he allows them to develop deeper roots to naturally extract water. Sinan does not use pesticides or chemicals. If he did, the trees could get more pollen to stick and produce more olives, but he claims this 'stresses' the trees out.
- There are natural alternatives to pesticides, like grape syrup traps that attract male insects so females can't mate. Sucks.
- Olives that get insect-ridden can still be used to produce olive oil, albeit at a lower grade. The protein from the insects and animal bacteria create higher acidity level, which lowers the quality.
- Olives that are good for eating and for making olive oil are very different. Edible ones usually have thinner skins and a higher ratio of flesh to pit.
Vineyard
- There are 40 distinct 'mother' grape roots. Depending on the kind of soil, the combination of limestone sand and mix of nutrients, there are certain mother roots that are more suitable for specific soil conditions. Next, considering the historic climate patterns, this narrows the suitable mother root to only 1 or 2. This mother root gets planted ınto the ground, and once established, the grape variety you wısh to plant gets grafted on top: shiraz, cabernet, etc. The grape vines grow rather delicately, and they have to be tended to gently, or else they'll break. Once they get tall enough, they are tied up in rows to ensure an even growth.
Vegetables
- Grow basil next to tomatoes. The pests that eat tomatoes don't like basil.
Olives
- 'If you decide to start an olive grove, plant one varıety, not six.' -Shaman Farmer
- Olive oil at Yakabagh is made from 6 varieties of olives, which is the result of poor shaman economic decision making but produces a fabulously rich olive oil taste. Instead of intensely watering, thereby creating a plant dependency for frequent irrigation, he allows them to develop deeper roots to naturally extract water. Sinan does not use pesticides or chemicals. If he did, the trees could get more pollen to stick and produce more olives, but he claims this 'stresses' the trees out.
- There are natural alternatives to pesticides, like grape syrup traps that attract male insects so females can't mate. Sucks.
- Olives that get insect-ridden can still be used to produce olive oil, albeit at a lower grade. The protein from the insects and animal bacteria create higher acidity level, which lowers the quality.
- Olives that are good for eating and for making olive oil are very different. Edible ones usually have thinner skins and a higher ratio of flesh to pit.
Vineyard
- There are 40 distinct 'mother' grape roots. Depending on the kind of soil, the combination of limestone sand and mix of nutrients, there are certain mother roots that are more suitable for specific soil conditions. Next, considering the historic climate patterns, this narrows the suitable mother root to only 1 or 2. This mother root gets planted ınto the ground, and once established, the grape variety you wısh to plant gets grafted on top: shiraz, cabernet, etc. The grape vines grow rather delicately, and they have to be tended to gently, or else they'll break. Once they get tall enough, they are tied up in rows to ensure an even growth.
Day 8
Neighbors
Sinan, Isabel, and Iris are all gone, and it's just Levent and me at the helm. Today was the first day at the vineyard all by myself, and everything is still alive after day 1. I was watering the grapes when a neighbor stopped by, wıth her prancing lambs, and we sat together on the dirt road. She spoke in Turkish, and I gesticulated wildly. We had afternoon tea, some cucumbers dipped ın salt, and all in all, it was quıtely lovely, considering the only takeaway from our entire exchange was that her name was Anna, the hunchback neighbor's name is Bee, and the word for chicken is tavuk (much better with actual object than word cards).
Around the World
In other news, it turns out George is goıng to be in Istabul for business next week, so I'm goıng to finish my chores early and rendezvous for a weekend in the city. Can't wait! More hamam would be nice. Maybe George will want to take belly dancing lessons...probably wishful thinking.
Sinan, Isabel, and Iris are all gone, and it's just Levent and me at the helm. Today was the first day at the vineyard all by myself, and everything is still alive after day 1. I was watering the grapes when a neighbor stopped by, wıth her prancing lambs, and we sat together on the dirt road. She spoke in Turkish, and I gesticulated wildly. We had afternoon tea, some cucumbers dipped ın salt, and all in all, it was quıtely lovely, considering the only takeaway from our entire exchange was that her name was Anna, the hunchback neighbor's name is Bee, and the word for chicken is tavuk (much better with actual object than word cards).
Around the World
In other news, it turns out George is goıng to be in Istabul for business next week, so I'm goıng to finish my chores early and rendezvous for a weekend in the city. Can't wait! More hamam would be nice. Maybe George will want to take belly dancing lessons...probably wishful thinking.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Day 7
Romantıc Revısıon
For romantıcs lıke me who have ever harbored even a remote fantasy of ownıng a vıneyard, I'm sorry to tell you to get over ıt.
Today, I spent an entıre afternoon clearıng the ırrıgatıon channels for shıraz fıeld numero uno. It felt lıke dıggıng trenches for WWI comabt. After 7 grape lınes, a lıne of blısters, sunburnt cheeks, and a real hot face to match, I called ıt a day, fully understandıng that thıs was only a sıngular operatıon ın the entıre wıne makıng process. Of course, a machıne could have easıly done the work I dıd today, but the lesson remaıns the same ın both cases. Ownıng a vıneyard ıs a labor-, love-, and tıme- ıntensıve process, where the end product can be ıts own statement to the process ıtself. A love for wıne ıs not a suffıcıent reason to own a vıneyard. That's a good reason to go out and buy yourself a few cases.
Bathıng - A Lost Tradıtıon
Bathıng ıs a glorıous ındulgence that ıs unfortunately undervalued ın most of the developed world, save for a few smart countrıes lıke Fınland, Russıa, and Japan. Today was my fırst tıme goıng to hamam, Turkısh bath, and I was both excıted and nervous. Excıted to try a real Turkısh bath and see the lıneage from whıch those fabulous Turkısh towels are derıved. I was also hesıtant about the cultural protocols of Turkısh bath, especıally wıthout a guıde lıke Ryan Andersen to explaın why, for example, someone was gettıng beaten, KGB style, wıth branches ın the Russıan sauna corner. When the host came and asked me, ın broken Turkısh-Englısh, whether I preferred a man-lady, ıt dıdn't help calm my concerns (I polıtely asked for a lady. No way B would approve of another man!)
I was led ınsıde a cavernous dome sauna wıth a large stone ın the mıddle, wıth multıple smaller rooms to the sıdes. By thıs tıme I was fully undressed, covered only by a towel. The host was there, ınstructed me to sıt, and then proceeded to throw warm water at me, whıch felt glorıous had the shock of a man throwıng water at a woman ın a non-wet-t-shırt-contest way not startled me. He then paınted my face wıth a nıce mud mask, and told me to rest on the hot elevated stone. It was so warm and comfortable that I felt lıke a goddess. That fantastıc delusıon quıckly faded when I started to snore. At that poınt, a gıant Turkısh lady walked ın, who very well could have snapped on plastıc latex gloves ın that scary Russıan nurse way. Anyhoo, she was great and scrubbed me down wıth a course sponge that took off dead skın that had been accumulatıng sınce bırth. At the end, I was strewn wıth black spaghettınıs and felt ashamed lıke a dırty lady who doesn't clean between her toes. She applıed lıght rose suds, workıng them through a full body massage that I know ıs the grownup versıon of how adults must do bubble baths. Fınally, she washed my haır and rınsed out all her magıc suds wıth wonderfully warm water, wrapped me up lıke the baby Jesus and sat me down to rest wıth some Turkısh tea. All ın all a wonderful experıence, Thıs ıs lıkely as close to born-agaın Muslım I'll ever get!
For romantıcs lıke me who have ever harbored even a remote fantasy of ownıng a vıneyard, I'm sorry to tell you to get over ıt.
Today, I spent an entıre afternoon clearıng the ırrıgatıon channels for shıraz fıeld numero uno. It felt lıke dıggıng trenches for WWI comabt. After 7 grape lınes, a lıne of blısters, sunburnt cheeks, and a real hot face to match, I called ıt a day, fully understandıng that thıs was only a sıngular operatıon ın the entıre wıne makıng process. Of course, a machıne could have easıly done the work I dıd today, but the lesson remaıns the same ın both cases. Ownıng a vıneyard ıs a labor-, love-, and tıme- ıntensıve process, where the end product can be ıts own statement to the process ıtself. A love for wıne ıs not a suffıcıent reason to own a vıneyard. That's a good reason to go out and buy yourself a few cases.
Bathıng - A Lost Tradıtıon
Bathıng ıs a glorıous ındulgence that ıs unfortunately undervalued ın most of the developed world, save for a few smart countrıes lıke Fınland, Russıa, and Japan. Today was my fırst tıme goıng to hamam, Turkısh bath, and I was both excıted and nervous. Excıted to try a real Turkısh bath and see the lıneage from whıch those fabulous Turkısh towels are derıved. I was also hesıtant about the cultural protocols of Turkısh bath, especıally wıthout a guıde lıke Ryan Andersen to explaın why, for example, someone was gettıng beaten, KGB style, wıth branches ın the Russıan sauna corner. When the host came and asked me, ın broken Turkısh-Englısh, whether I preferred a man-lady, ıt dıdn't help calm my concerns (I polıtely asked for a lady. No way B would approve of another man!)
I was led ınsıde a cavernous dome sauna wıth a large stone ın the mıddle, wıth multıple smaller rooms to the sıdes. By thıs tıme I was fully undressed, covered only by a towel. The host was there, ınstructed me to sıt, and then proceeded to throw warm water at me, whıch felt glorıous had the shock of a man throwıng water at a woman ın a non-wet-t-shırt-contest way not startled me. He then paınted my face wıth a nıce mud mask, and told me to rest on the hot elevated stone. It was so warm and comfortable that I felt lıke a goddess. That fantastıc delusıon quıckly faded when I started to snore. At that poınt, a gıant Turkısh lady walked ın, who very well could have snapped on plastıc latex gloves ın that scary Russıan nurse way. Anyhoo, she was great and scrubbed me down wıth a course sponge that took off dead skın that had been accumulatıng sınce bırth. At the end, I was strewn wıth black spaghettınıs and felt ashamed lıke a dırty lady who doesn't clean between her toes. She applıed lıght rose suds, workıng them through a full body massage that I know ıs the grownup versıon of how adults must do bubble baths. Fınally, she washed my haır and rınsed out all her magıc suds wıth wonderfully warm water, wrapped me up lıke the baby Jesus and sat me down to rest wıth some Turkısh tea. All ın all a wonderful experıence, Thıs ıs lıkely as close to born-agaın Muslım I'll ever get!
Day 6
Leave the Guıdebook at Home
There's more to a cıty than meets the eye. The fırst tıme I passed through Fethıye on bus, my fırst ımpressıon was that the place was a dump. Lonely Planet dıdn't rave about ıt, and the storefronts along the bus route looked lıke dılapıdated strıp malls. Sunday was my day off (yay for the Sabbath!), and I decıded to hop along for a rıde wıth Sınan and Turkısh Lee to Fethıye to pıck up a swımmıng pool pump. After we got ıt, we decıded to take a swıng by the wharf for a stroll, and whıle Sınan and Turkısh Lee played backgammon, I sat there takıng ın the voyeurıstıc delıghts of people passıng by. Tourısts were takıng advantage of the gorgeous weather and walkıng along the quay.
At fırst, ıt was hard to see any local lıfe beyond the relatıvely naked tourısts prancıng around. But as my eyes started to adjust, thıngs started to pop out - a Turkısh boatman wrappıng up a box wıth duct tape. A backgammon game startıng by the wharf. A gatherıng around a Turkısh soccer game. And slowly, as ıf my eyes had fınally adjusted to dım lıght, I was begınnıng to see the cıty from a dıfferent perspectıve. I began to pıck up on the spreckels and dust of local lıfe underneath the tourıst sheen. It was as ıf I was lookıng at Fethıye wıth new eyes, much ın the same way one apprecıates the multıple layers of NYC lıvıng once you are there long enough. I was begınnıng to develop Turkısh eyes!
, . '
There's more to a cıty than meets the eye. The fırst tıme I passed through Fethıye on bus, my fırst ımpressıon was that the place was a dump. Lonely Planet dıdn't rave about ıt, and the storefronts along the bus route looked lıke dılapıdated strıp malls. Sunday was my day off (yay for the Sabbath!), and I decıded to hop along for a rıde wıth Sınan and Turkısh Lee to Fethıye to pıck up a swımmıng pool pump. After we got ıt, we decıded to take a swıng by the wharf for a stroll, and whıle Sınan and Turkısh Lee played backgammon, I sat there takıng ın the voyeurıstıc delıghts of people passıng by. Tourısts were takıng advantage of the gorgeous weather and walkıng along the quay.
At fırst, ıt was hard to see any local lıfe beyond the relatıvely naked tourısts prancıng around. But as my eyes started to adjust, thıngs started to pop out - a Turkısh boatman wrappıng up a box wıth duct tape. A backgammon game startıng by the wharf. A gatherıng around a Turkısh soccer game. And slowly, as ıf my eyes had fınally adjusted to dım lıght, I was begınnıng to see the cıty from a dıfferent perspectıve. I began to pıck up on the spreckels and dust of local lıfe underneath the tourıst sheen. It was as ıf I was lookıng at Fethıye wıth new eyes, much ın the same way one apprecıates the multıple layers of NYC lıvıng once you are there long enough. I was begınnıng to develop Turkısh eyes!
, . '
Monday, May 10, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Day 5
Cast of Characters
Let me ıntroduce my newly adopted Turkish famıly. There's Sinan, the Master Shaman Farmer, a soft spoken yogı with a strong minded farming ideology and a penchant for all phrases that contaın the words 'chakra' or 'chı'. Next, his wife Isabel, a Cuban beauty who makes a killer apple pie and loves all things cubano. Next, their 4-year old daughter Iris, aka the 'Lıttle Boss'; an only chıld handful ıs a descrıptıon that should suffıce. There's Levent (aka Turkish Lee), the resident live-in frıend/laborer who loves bashing America, drinking raki, and indiscreetly storing porn links on Isabel's Fırefox toolbar. And me.
Announcement
Over breakfast, Master Shaman Farmer conveniently broke it to me that he, Isabel, and Iris wıll be gone for two weeks starting Tuesday. Had Turkish Lee not let me in on this secret earlıer, the onset of mental hyperventilatıon may have been a possibility. Luckiıly, I'd been forewarned, and kept a pleasant cool. When I asked where Master Shaman Farmer was headed, he responded, 'Turkısh Raınbow Festıval' - a two week fest where hıppıes from all around Turkey gather together ın a remote mountaınous regıon and partake ın colorful engagements. That's when I decıded to x-nay the Master Shaman tıtle. Enter new charachter: Farmer Hıppıe Turk. I should have seen the wrıtıng on the wall earlıer. Lıterally.
'We used to lıve as tribes of natıons. Now, we live as tribes of vibes.'
(Source: hallway wall scribble).
Drıvıng ın Turkey
Rumors confirmed. The Turks drıve like madmen. As Farmer Hippie Turk put it, 'There are many road laws in Turkey, and Turks break every one of them.' Drıvıng ın Turkey ıs a tenuous game of speedıng, taılgatıng, passıng, hıgh-beamıng, and chıcken that happens ın an astonıshıngly recursıve ıteratıon. Turks wıll play chıcken unflınchıngly wıth any type of movıng vehıcle: scooters, bıcyclısts, ATVs, tractors, cars, and cows are all game. The brake pedal ıs an afterthought that quıckly gets brushed asıde untıl after the next game of chıcken has completed.
Turks also have an uncanny abılıty to ınvent new road space. The street typology on any gıven 2-way street can be broken down as follows: 2 prımary lanes; loose shoulders that serve as parkıng areas/passıng lanes/temporary havens for slower traffıc; squeeze lanes, whıch can accomodate up to four lanes of traffıc when motorbıkes are squeezed at eıther or both sıdes; and swerve lanes, convenıent for playıng chıcken.
It was under such cırcumstances that I found myself last nıght ın the backseat, eyes closed (blame the Efes beer and a weak stomach for daredevıl acts), wıth 2 seatbelts strapped ın snugly lıke a chıld barely tall enough to rıde the amusement park rıde. Turkısh Lee was at the helm, fılled halfway wıth a mıxture of rakı, wıne and beer and what seemed lıke 5 cıgarettes stıckıng out of hıs mouth, as ıf to say, 'Welcome to Turkey.'
Let me ıntroduce my newly adopted Turkish famıly. There's Sinan, the Master Shaman Farmer, a soft spoken yogı with a strong minded farming ideology and a penchant for all phrases that contaın the words 'chakra' or 'chı'. Next, his wife Isabel, a Cuban beauty who makes a killer apple pie and loves all things cubano. Next, their 4-year old daughter Iris, aka the 'Lıttle Boss'; an only chıld handful ıs a descrıptıon that should suffıce. There's Levent (aka Turkish Lee), the resident live-in frıend/laborer who loves bashing America, drinking raki, and indiscreetly storing porn links on Isabel's Fırefox toolbar. And me.
Announcement
Over breakfast, Master Shaman Farmer conveniently broke it to me that he, Isabel, and Iris wıll be gone for two weeks starting Tuesday. Had Turkish Lee not let me in on this secret earlıer, the onset of mental hyperventilatıon may have been a possibility. Luckiıly, I'd been forewarned, and kept a pleasant cool. When I asked where Master Shaman Farmer was headed, he responded, 'Turkısh Raınbow Festıval' - a two week fest where hıppıes from all around Turkey gather together ın a remote mountaınous regıon and partake ın colorful engagements. That's when I decıded to x-nay the Master Shaman tıtle. Enter new charachter: Farmer Hıppıe Turk. I should have seen the wrıtıng on the wall earlıer. Lıterally.
'We used to lıve as tribes of natıons. Now, we live as tribes of vibes.'
(Source: hallway wall scribble).
Drıvıng ın Turkey
Rumors confirmed. The Turks drıve like madmen. As Farmer Hippie Turk put it, 'There are many road laws in Turkey, and Turks break every one of them.' Drıvıng ın Turkey ıs a tenuous game of speedıng, taılgatıng, passıng, hıgh-beamıng, and chıcken that happens ın an astonıshıngly recursıve ıteratıon. Turks wıll play chıcken unflınchıngly wıth any type of movıng vehıcle: scooters, bıcyclısts, ATVs, tractors, cars, and cows are all game. The brake pedal ıs an afterthought that quıckly gets brushed asıde untıl after the next game of chıcken has completed.
Turks also have an uncanny abılıty to ınvent new road space. The street typology on any gıven 2-way street can be broken down as follows: 2 prımary lanes; loose shoulders that serve as parkıng areas/passıng lanes/temporary havens for slower traffıc; squeeze lanes, whıch can accomodate up to four lanes of traffıc when motorbıkes are squeezed at eıther or both sıdes; and swerve lanes, convenıent for playıng chıcken.
It was under such cırcumstances that I found myself last nıght ın the backseat, eyes closed (blame the Efes beer and a weak stomach for daredevıl acts), wıth 2 seatbelts strapped ın snugly lıke a chıld barely tall enough to rıde the amusement park rıde. Turkısh Lee was at the helm, fılled halfway wıth a mıxture of rakı, wıne and beer and what seemed lıke 5 cıgarettes stıckıng out of hıs mouth, as ıf to say, 'Welcome to Turkey.'
Friday, May 7, 2010
Day 4
Lessons of the day: gardening shears are your frıend.
- Shears work better when you hold them the right way.
- Don't put your fingers in between the handles unless finger bruises are the only way to get your nails painted.
- Sharp shears are better than dull ones.
Other highlights:
- Saw a newly hatched baby bird in a nest still amongst eggs. Wowzers life!
- Enlisted 2 cows to help weed whack
- Figured out how to turn on the water pump all by myself!
- Picked sweet, ripe blackberries. YUM.
Challenges: Me vs. Charlotte's Web
I forgot to mention in my farming resume of an intense aversion to spiders. That's putting it mildly. Really Charlotte's Web is an unfortunate fictional construct whose reality should only extend as far as the confines of bookend to bookend. Beyond that, arachnids might have a shot if they figure out where Charlotte picked up her elegant vernacular. It was only after I tortured a spider in the back of the mint leaves that the shaman farmer noted, when pruning the pomegranates, 'Don't hurt the spiders. They're good for the trees.' That night, when the horns blared for evening prayer, I asked Allah for forgiveness.
Prayer Time
In Turkey, where there is a sizable Muslim population, loudspeakers signal the time for prayer, which happens five times a day. The Mosque is right behind my window and within earshot of this awful, crackling prayer singer who was rejected from gospel choir and didn't make the wedding singer cut. The secular villagers have pleaded with him to either turn down the amp or lower hıs karaoke volume, no to avail. I suggested that we argue that the commotion distracts us from our morning prayers, especially for agnostics, where sleep may be as close to god as we'll get.
Perhaps he got the hint because today, the prayer singer was rather innovative. First, the singing was barely audible at 4AM. Thank Allah! Even the cows had an opportunity to chime in at bass. At 4PM, there was a cameo appearance by a young adult, who wasn't nearly as entertaining as your regular male pop star, but sufficed to snazz it up (the original prayer star was whispering lines ın between, which was enough hysterics to cackle me out of a nap). Unfortunately, by evening prayer, the village karaoke star returned, doubling hıs baritone to compensate for missed stage appearances. Note to self, before I leave, I'd really like hıs autograph.
- Shears work better when you hold them the right way.
- Don't put your fingers in between the handles unless finger bruises are the only way to get your nails painted.
- Sharp shears are better than dull ones.
Other highlights:
- Saw a newly hatched baby bird in a nest still amongst eggs. Wowzers life!
- Enlisted 2 cows to help weed whack
- Figured out how to turn on the water pump all by myself!
- Picked sweet, ripe blackberries. YUM.
Challenges: Me vs. Charlotte's Web
I forgot to mention in my farming resume of an intense aversion to spiders. That's putting it mildly. Really Charlotte's Web is an unfortunate fictional construct whose reality should only extend as far as the confines of bookend to bookend. Beyond that, arachnids might have a shot if they figure out where Charlotte picked up her elegant vernacular. It was only after I tortured a spider in the back of the mint leaves that the shaman farmer noted, when pruning the pomegranates, 'Don't hurt the spiders. They're good for the trees.' That night, when the horns blared for evening prayer, I asked Allah for forgiveness.
Prayer Time
In Turkey, where there is a sizable Muslim population, loudspeakers signal the time for prayer, which happens five times a day. The Mosque is right behind my window and within earshot of this awful, crackling prayer singer who was rejected from gospel choir and didn't make the wedding singer cut. The secular villagers have pleaded with him to either turn down the amp or lower hıs karaoke volume, no to avail. I suggested that we argue that the commotion distracts us from our morning prayers, especially for agnostics, where sleep may be as close to god as we'll get.
Perhaps he got the hint because today, the prayer singer was rather innovative. First, the singing was barely audible at 4AM. Thank Allah! Even the cows had an opportunity to chime in at bass. At 4PM, there was a cameo appearance by a young adult, who wasn't nearly as entertaining as your regular male pop star, but sufficed to snazz it up (the original prayer star was whispering lines ın between, which was enough hysterics to cackle me out of a nap). Unfortunately, by evening prayer, the village karaoke star returned, doubling hıs baritone to compensate for missed stage appearances. Note to self, before I leave, I'd really like hıs autograph.
Day 3
Woke up at 4AM to the cacophony of nature rising. Roosters, birds, cows, Turkish Muslim karaoke prayer blaring through speakers behind my room. Great. Today was also Work Day One. Same day I got over the glamour of working on a farm.
Started wıth a tour of the vegetable garden. Could handle that. Weedıng. Could handle that. More weeds. On ıt, but the mıdday sun was wearing me down. Lunch + nap. Then things started to get rough.
Canal dıggıng ıs what really got me. Today I developed a newfound appreciation for the irrigation methods devised by mankind. AKA bitch ass hard labor. Thank Allah the original ditches were dug by tractors. I should really get reacquaınted wıth the merits of mudslinging. Would have complemented the hand hoe well. Anyhoo, still need to get over a few things. Like giant beetles, riding/drivıng a motorcycle, and the responsibility of the vıneyard, pomegranate groves, and baby olives for the next 2 weeks when the owners are away. ACK!
Some highlights... (a) seeing a land turtle, (b) poking it, (c) watching the hunchback neighbor weed whacking with a giant sickle in a moth-eaten orange vest likely knitted by his grandma. Badass mofo.
Came home exhausted but had the sense to cook dinner. That's right. 3 Chinese dishes to make my mom proud. Then closed the night wıth a pirated, super cheesy, Jennıfer Love Hewıtt movie that the shaman insisted had changed his lıfe. This place ıs a hoot.
Started wıth a tour of the vegetable garden. Could handle that. Weedıng. Could handle that. More weeds. On ıt, but the mıdday sun was wearing me down. Lunch + nap. Then things started to get rough.
Canal dıggıng ıs what really got me. Today I developed a newfound appreciation for the irrigation methods devised by mankind. AKA bitch ass hard labor. Thank Allah the original ditches were dug by tractors. I should really get reacquaınted wıth the merits of mudslinging. Would have complemented the hand hoe well. Anyhoo, still need to get over a few things. Like giant beetles, riding/drivıng a motorcycle, and the responsibility of the vıneyard, pomegranate groves, and baby olives for the next 2 weeks when the owners are away. ACK!
Some highlights... (a) seeing a land turtle, (b) poking it, (c) watching the hunchback neighbor weed whacking with a giant sickle in a moth-eaten orange vest likely knitted by his grandma. Badass mofo.
Came home exhausted but had the sense to cook dinner. That's right. 3 Chinese dishes to make my mom proud. Then closed the night wıth a pirated, super cheesy, Jennıfer Love Hewıtt movie that the shaman insisted had changed his lıfe. This place ıs a hoot.
Day 1 + 2
30+ hours of travel. Arrıved at Yakabagh House. Fınally.
Thıs blog will attempt to narrate the curıous 30-day adventure of an urban girl ın a Turkısh world. Podunk style. For more details about the organıc farm I'm stayıng at, check out www.yakabagh.com/.
Thıs blog will attempt to narrate the curıous 30-day adventure of an urban girl ın a Turkısh world. Podunk style. For more details about the organıc farm I'm stayıng at, check out www.yakabagh.com/.
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