Don't mess with Mustafa

Mustafa is a name I've heard quite a bit since I've been here in Turkey. The founder of the republic's first name was Mustafa, and he is venerated throughout the country (he changed it to Ataturk, though, which means Father Turk).

I think Mustafa would be a cool name to have. It has a regal ring to it - it commands respect. A Mustafa is not to be trifled with: he would just as soon thrash you as say hello to you. But he is also magnanimous, and sees the good in everyone. If a Mustafa says something, people listen - if ever anyone questions what Mustafa says, someone just answers -- "well, that's what Mustafa says, so....." And they just shrug, because whatever Mustafa says, goes.

Maybe, if I ever have a kid, a boy, I can call him Mustafa. Little Mustafa McCluskey. If he grew up to be a boxer, they could call him the Irish Moose.


Don't worry, Mom, I'm kidding.

A Zombie-less Ramadan

I awoke to the distant pounding of a resonant drum. Or did I? It seems such an odd thing to hear 4am- a bass drum booming in rhythmic progression- could I have been dreaming this? But I got out of bed just the same.

I looked out the window, into the darkness broken only by a pallid streetlight, and saw him slowly marching down the street pounding his big bass drum. He couldn't have been more than ten or 11 years old--a pre-pubescent Turkish band camp zombie, I quickly decided. So, the dream theory was gaining momentum.

I felt a mix of pity and anger - surely this kid was going to get screamed at, or pelted with rancid produce. What was his deal? Was he sleepdrumming? I suppressed the urge to yell from my window and just went back to bed.

The next morning I discovered that it was Ramadan. This was a tradition - the drum sounded well before dawn to wake people up so that they could eat before dawn. During Ramadan, which lasts a month, nothing can pass a Muslim's lips from dawn to dusk: no food, no water... nothing. It helps Muslims remember the suffering of the poor, as well as practice self-control. Plus, they are all in it together - it's a good way to commune with fellow believers.

I respect and admire the devotion of these people, and am happy that the drummer boy was real (and not a zombie).

Quaintness Sabotage

Fethiye is the epitome of the idyllic Mediterranean harbor town, I would say. I have a great view of the bay from my room: mountains in the distance, dozens of docked sailboats in the dogleg harbor, aforementioned terra cotta roofs descending in a patchwork quilt all the way from my window down to the water. It's quaint: wicked quaint, crazy quaint.

So, I got out my camera to capture this essence of Mediterranean. It's only then that I notice that there are objects on the roofs. Satellite dishes everywhere. Antennas. Solar panels. Solar Panels!? This is not idyllic. This detracts from idyllic. Their 200 channels took away my quaintness.

I hope that those people in those houses know that they ruined it. I hope that they are aware that these modern things-- these symbols of so called "progress" -- ruined my 3.2 megapixel digital photograph. And I hope they are happy with themselves.

Long Walk Fondness

I am a big fan of ridiculous and random T-shirts that make no discernable sense. Ridiculous and random anything, actually, but t-shirts especially. I've seen quite a few shirts that I've liked on this trip [can't remember one of them, though... should've written them down] but my favorite has been here in Fethiye.

It was on this guy that works at the pension I am staying at; he's probably mid-twenties, friendly but with an intense sunken face that could frighten you if it was angry. I will write the text exactly as it was on the shirt, so that no artistic intention is lost:

SPUNK.
I am fond
of
Long Walk
Being Tickled
Pink
!

I could sit here for hours and speculate about the artist's purpose here: if SPUNK is a person or a state of mind, whether his fondness for long walks is greater than his love of being tickled pink, but I don't think that would be fair to the t-shirt. I'm just happy to know that there's such brilliance at work in the garment industry here in Turkey.

The picture above is to take the place of a pıcture of the t-shırt. Both were equally ımpressıve ın person, though admıttedly ın dıfferent ways.

Living and the Day

Yesterday I walked around Fethiye, and quickly moved away from the roiling sea of tourism down by the harbor and up towards the mountain. The cobbled streets became quiet, and I enjoyed a sliver of Turkish village life. Women in head scarves hanging wet clothes on the line, the skin of their face leathered and pulled by time. An older man in a dark wool suitcoat, with a form fitting cap (almost like a lightweight ski cap), walking with a cane and regarding me with a mix of curiosity and resignation. The houses were all white, plastered stone, the roofs all orange terra cotta tile. I saw two kids playing in an empty alley, one of them sitting on a skateboard as it went [very slowly] down the hill, bouncing up and down and laughing. I really love observing this -- things and people as they are, Life going on about its day.

Later that day, I went to Kaya, which is a "ghost town" about 10 miles away from Fethiye. This town had been inhabited by ethnic Greeks for centuries. In 1923, after the war between the Turks and the Greeks, they instituted a forced population exchange. Basically, Muslim Greeks were sent to Turkey, and Turks who were Greek Orthodox were sent to Greece. There was no option. So, once a thriving town, Kaya was abandoned. It's pretty surreal there; you can still see fireplaces, and gardens, and the paths that people walked. Quite possibly, those paths once echoed with the same sounds I'd heard that morning - canes hitting stone, giggling kids playing.

Things and times change, still and forever, but Life goes about its day.

Electric in an Ancient Land

Well, the cruise was what a cruise should be: relaxing. I didn't do much except swim, lie down, eat, and look around. My favorite part was probably sleeping on the deck, just looking up at the stars. When you're nowhere near towns, floating on a boat in the Mediterranean, the starry sky can be a silent lullaby.

We did get off the boat in a few towns, most notably a town called Kas (pronounced Kaaash). There were a few ruins and tombs from the ancient Lycians there, so I walked around with a few friends I'd met on the boat. My favorite site was the ampitheatre, which dated to the first century BC, and was renovated in the third century AD. It was still in pretty good shape, with stone benches rising steeply from the stage. The area around the stage, now basically just gravel, was covered by some plywood. I saw my chance for dramatic pioneering.

I went down to the stage where no doubt the Lycians watched centuries of entertainment, and I did a little breakdancing. My boogaloo was electric, in an ancient way.

Ensign Simpleton

Boats can bring out a latent mariner, if there's one there. On my cruise around the western Turkish coast, I found my legs steady beneath me when the seas got rough. I could keep my balance from wave crest to wave trough, bending my knees and riding out the neptunian tumult below. And while others were trying to keep their lunch down, I stared confidently ahead, unaffected. Landlubber I may be, but it seems like I've got some nautical roots somewhere.

But I also have some moron tendencies as well, because on at least four occasions, I hit my head. I just couldn't seem to learn the lesson of ducking. I hit it on door jambs. On masts. Some of the time it was just a brush, and I barely felt it. Other times it was almost cartoon-like-- hitting my head so hard it had me wondering if I actually just felt my brain move.

So, maybe in a past life, I was a man of the sea. From what I can gather, though, I would guess I was an idiot deck hand. The kind of guy who could swab the deck just fine, but whose hatches weren't all battened down, so to speak.