All Of Monday’s Reasons - 21
21. Cooling Off
Map
We were driven out to a canyon and dropped off on the plateau above. Hacim and Mustapha arranged to meet us five hours later downstream.
We walked down into the steep valley and alongside the river until midday when it became too hot to walk.
We stripped off and swam in the deep water and lounged on its banks. We climbed overhanging trees and swung ourselves off, splashing into the cool water. When we got hungry we walked until we came to a village. We knew we wouldn’t get lost if we followed the river.
The village was more remote and untouched by what I at the time would have falsely called “civilisation” than any I other I had ever been in. Like the others, mule dung baked on the flat roofs, but twenty children ran up to greet us, as we trampled in through, dusty in our faded jeans and rucksacks. Children smiled up at me and walked alongside.
Mothers stopped washing their clothes in the stream to see what the commotion was. I waved to them and they all smiled and waved back. I looked at the children and drank an imaginary glass of anything. A five year old confidently held my hand and led me and the children to the local bar.
“Lutfen, Allahaismarladik,” I said to them. Thank you, goodbye and may Allah be with you.
This was greeted with endless smiles and a chorus of Allahaismarladiks.
The bar was two tables with some chairs in a dusty clearing by the river. We ordered three beers and mentioned that we would like to eat. The waiter-chef-proprietor led us into the kitchen and showed us an assortment of raw meats and green and red peppers.
I pointed to some skewered lamb and Bertrand and Jean-Luc pointed to the beef and peppers. He picked up the meats and led us outside, motioning for us to sit down. He placed the meat over a small oil drum barbecue, fuelled by mule manure.
We drank our beers and contemplated the standards of hygiene. We watched the naked children bathing in the river as the men washed their mules and watered their sheep and the woman washed their clothes alongside.
The meat was delicious and cheap. We paid the man, waved goodbye to the children and left as strangers.
After an hour’s walk downstream, we came by two ten year olds fishing in the river with a bent needle of the end of a string attached to a twig. I sat on the bank for a rest and watched them wade delicately to where they thought the fish were. I took a few pictures and they wanted to give me their address, but it was no use because I couldn’t speak Turkish and they couldn’t write.
We moved on and met Hacim and Mustapha at the end of the valley. On the way back we listened to some amazing Turkish folk music. All the way back, we were drumming of the backs of seats and tapping the outside of the van. We stood up and danced with Hacim as the van rumbled along the road, while Mustapha looked in his rear-view mirror, smiled and shook his head.
It was getting dark when we returned and at around nine and we ate with the other guests on cushions around a low table in the courtyard.
The next day we took it easy. We sat around on our balcony, talked read and listened to some of Jean-Luc’s many Tom Waites tapes on a small tape recorder he had brought along. We established that this pocket of Asian Turkey was all right if you didn’t mind flies, being stared at or taking a shit standing up.
We went for a walk around Avanos after lunch and bumped into Ahmet, the villa owner, after lunch and he invited us into a carpet shop which was owned by one of his friends. We sat drinking sweet mint tea talking a mixture of French and Turkish through Ahmet, sitting on cushions as we chatted and pleasantly argued. The shop owner and his three friends were trying to convince us that Ahmet was “fada”, or crazy.
“Completement fada,” they told us, laughing each other on as Ahmet shot them looks of strained amusement, much to our own.
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