A City Away, A Culture Apart

Zerrin Holle

Allaha sukur, I got a seat by myself on the bus to Ankara. Although it was only nine-thirty in the morning, the temperature was already 103 degrees, and I could see the heat waves rising from the pavement. We were on our way to the vast and open Turkish valleys where all there is to see is the diminishing effect of green vegetation to a desert-like climate.

            As I looked out the window and watched how the hills of green olive trees turned into hills of rock and sand, I saw the place that experts say will be a desert in fifty years. Then, I looked around the bus, and studied the faces that made up this immense culture of diversity. I watched the garcons who were serving Turkish tea and coffee to the rich businessmen reading Yeni Cag. The garcons hummed along to Ibrahim Tatlises’ new arabesque songs about lost love until one of the businessmen shouted at the driver to turn it off. The driver, who wore 1960s aviator sunglasses and held a cigarette in one hand, the non-smoking rule not applying to him, grumpily lowered the volume and shouted, “Off ya.”

            I glanced at the surrounding women on the bus. Some were wearing the all-black religious covering where only their eyes showed. A few wearing the long raincoats with scarves tied tight under their chins, riding with their daughters, who were becoming the new generation of religious young Islamists, who wore a more modern version of the headscarf which had bright pink flowers splashed across a pale and creamy beige, with a matching knee-length coat with tight jeans underneath. I looked a few rows back, hearing the clamn of women’s voices and saw two women wearing the traditional village “shalvar” Turkish baggy pants.  

            After an hour of driving in a two-lane road that snaked around the mountain, we arrived at our rest-stop. Despite the heat, it felt cool because of the thick forests of luscious green pine. Most got off the bus immediately, but some of the village women stayed behind and just drank tea because the prices of the meals were too expensive.

            I walked toward the wooden building perched on the side of the mountain. Hmmm what to order… Sheep bones with hunks of meat still attached over rice, paper thin strips of beef over rice, some meat I couldn’t identify over rice, beans over rice, and finally a heavy soup made with Turkish yogurt and rice. Finally, I sat down at the nearest table with my thin strips of beef and rice.

            After I finished my meal, I left the building and entered the small store next to it. I looked around, and, to my left, I saw a wall covered with cassettes of obscure Turkish singers, out-of-date books and packages of nuts and seeds for the road. To my right were wheels of cheese, pine honey from the mountains, and Turkish peanut butter. I picked out a little white box of “lokum,” Turkish Delight for my grandfather, Dede, and returned to the bus.   

            Three hours later, the bus pulled into the Ankara bus station, and I took a taxi to my grandfather’s apartment. When I walked in the door, I immediately smelled something heavy and unappetizing, something of mutton that had been left in the oven for hours to bake in its own oily juices.

            I pleasantly asked my aunt Onur Hala what she had cooked. She smiled at me and told me the she made “Ankara Tavasi” just for me, sheep’s bones with hunks of meat still hanging on, the same thing I avoided at the rest stop. My mind went blank when I tried to think of an excuse for not eating it. Onur Hala always made this dish at family gatherings.

            As I looked around the apartment, I noticed that nothing had changed since I had been coming here from the age of three. The 1940s burgundy couch set with tassels and a matching lamp that guaranteed no light because of the thick velvet (lamp shade) dominated the room. In front of the couch were the low coffee tables that had lemon cologne and dusty candy in a crystal ashtray. Along one wall was the breakfront with dozens of small knick-knacky gifts that had been collected over the years. The framed posters of Ataturk with his fur collar on looked down on us. There were many framed portraits of Ataturk who was the hero of the older generation for establishing the republic.

            After I kissed Dede on the cheeks and greeted everyone, Onur and I decided to go over and give our selams to my other aunt Ayten who lived a street away.  Ayten answered the door wearing a shawl over her head and her praying beads twisted around her fingers, a small piece of her bleach blond hair escaping through the tight covering of her scarf. Each year she seemed to shrink, and this time she came up to about my shoulders. I looked a few steps forward, and, sure enough, her praying mat was out, a modern matt, just like the young religious women and their fashions, with vibrant greens and oranges instead of the traditional dark colors such as brown, burgundy, and navy blue.

            She excused (herself) for not being “presentable” to guests and ran inside to make a fresh pot of Turkish tea.

            Ever since I could remember, Onur Hala had taught me the “art” of making and serving Turkish tea, offering chocolate, and offering lemon cologne to the guests. Onur Hala always tried to teach her daughter, but my cousin was never willing to learn. So, in a sense, Onur Hala was trying to pass on the tradition that her mother taught her onto the next generation through me. But, this time, instead of asking me to serve the teas, she asked me to join them.

            “Sit down, Zerrin, sit down,” said Onur Hala as she continued to talk to Ayten.

            Onur Hala had been the family beauty- light brown hair, green eyes and a sweet smile. This year was the first time that I realized that she was aging. Her face seemed more lined, she looked tired, and her smile seemed forced.

            “I’m sure you must sympathize with me because our husbands are brothers,” she said to Ayten.

            Ayten returned with a tray of tea that she set down on the table.

            “You think you have it bad. What about Hassan and how he hasn’t lived with me and the girls since he ran off with the German woman and decided to open a bread and breakfast on the coast.”

                My mouth dropped open in shock, so, I thought, those weren’t business trips. Usually they just talked about recipes or Ayten’s failing business selling Amway products.

              “At least your husband isn’t neurotic about his height” Onur Hala said.

            My uncle, Hussein, is five feet on a good day with lifts in his shoes, so perhaps his neurosis is justified. He compensates by correcting everyone and being negative.

            “At least he comes and takes care of Dede,” I add to make the mood more cheerful.

            “Sure, I’m grateful, but it would have been easier if he had made more of an effort to get along with my mother before she died,” Onur said while taking in a deep breath.

            That explained why Hussein never stayed very long at family gatherings.

            I looked at the empty tea glasses sitting on the table and was making my way to the stove when Onur Hala turned around and said, “Sit down, sit down, I’ll get us all some fresh tea, and than you tell us what you’ve been doing… school…friends….. boys…..” She winked at me and went to pour the tea.

            When she came back with the tea, she said, “I have a pair of silver earrings for you that are just like mine.”

            I settled back into my chair, pleased to no longer be a child who served but being one of the group. It was a feeling of acceptance among these older women. I felt I was no longer a child in their eyes from the way they looked at me. I could tell that they respected my maturity. I had made a trip across the Turkish countryside by myself. I felt like I entered their circle as an equal and when I left the next day I would return as a young adult.