Anatolia – Just Say it and it Sounds Like Music

Anatolia – Just Say it and it Sounds Like Music

     If you’d kindly look at a world map and pay attention to Turkey, you’d recognize that it’s a land mass that has been called a “land bridge” between Europe and Asia.  Thus, we have Eur-Asia, a geographical hour glass of sorts that has been a passageway and multicultural marketplace for millennia.  It’s historically known as, and sentimentally spoken of by the Turks as, Anatolia.

     We’ve had the distinct pleasure and honor to drop by for a couple of stimulating visits over tea with a retired Turkish lawyer who operates a small boutique hotel (bed & breakfast inn) perched on the side of a mountain and camouflaged by a forest of olive trees, fig trees, maple trees, flowering bushes and plant life.  He lives just up above us and I’d say his place must be what the Garden of Eden must have been like.

     He is a renowned historian of Turkish antiquity and culture, and we’ve been blown away by his ready knowledge of so many peoples - how they passed through this region as immigrants, refugees, or invading forces . . . with good intentions or imperialistic . . . and blended together into this amazing mosaic of cultures.

     The by-product of this cultural homogenization is that the people are so tolerant and don’t get their feathers ruffled about different looking people, and they take news about extremism and ugly things going on in the world around them with a grain of salt.  I came here slightly in defensive mode, expecting these Turks to be overly suspicious of outsiders and religiously extreme, but quickly learned that everyone is an outsider of sorts.  My own bias and suspicions were showing again.  At least in this part of the country, everyone blends, and everyone is welcome.

Our Greatest Fear is Fear Itself

     Thank you Franklin Roosevelt – I couldn’t have said it better.  Coming here and not really having a clear picture in my head of what we’d see and experience, I just defaulted to all the hype and concerns and girded myself with caution and wore it like a hazmat suit.  Why are we so afraid of other people, other colors, and other languages?  Why do we always think our ways of doing things is the best?  May I suggest that fear is the root of this.  We picture ourselves as the entitled know-it-alls, thinking we have the sole right to be known as the leader and that the world should always follows us.

     Here, we see everything working and living together.  In these two weeks here, shuttling to and fro along this Aegean coastline, city after city, village after village, we’ve only seen two women who were wearing the burka (the black covering that conceals all but the eyes).  We thought we might stand out as we walk through the market places, but no – they were the ones who looked different. They were probably visitors from the far eastern regions that do reflect the more extreme religious dress code.   The only thing here that set us apart from the masses is whenever we speak.  I liken this to the orthodox Jews you see in New York, but rarely seen anywhere else around the states.  They’re mainly in the eastern part of the US.  Here, in the westernmost part of Turkey, we are is much like being on the West Coast back home where anything goes.

     There are so many people groups that have influenced this land, including Roman, Greek, Arabic, European, Persian, Ottoman, and Turkman . . . just to name a few.  Around here in the villages, the majority of the older Turkman women wear either the full length trench coats and head scarves, or the MC Hammer pants with sweaters and headscarves.  Other women just wear scarves with what we think of as modest but regular street clothes.  The young women are trendy with skinny jeans, miniskirts or leggings, as a more cosmopolitan generation emerges. 

     Same for the men - the old village farmers wear dirty work clothes, Ben Hogan caps and rubber boots.   A lot of the older gentlemen who aren’t farmers are seen wearing slacks, sleeveless sweaters over collared shirts, and perhaps a suit jacket, and of course, the Ben Hogan cap.  Younger guys wear jeans, T-shirts, jerseys, etc.

Some philosophical musings from Les.    

  So, I say again, this is a mosaic of peoples, colors, shapes, sizes and attire.  The cultural traditions are just as varied and you can’t pin the tail on this donkey.  So why did I come here on the alert for those men we see every day on the nightly news?  Because all my information has come from the media, be it conservative or liberal, and we have to remember this one thing:  if news isn’t scary, if it isn’t glamorous or hyped up, it doesn’t fare well in the ratings.  Ratings draw advertising dollars which pay the bills and that always trumps what is reality.

     So I feel cheated, but it’s my fault.  I need to be more discerning who I listen to and what I buy into.  Fear begets fear, and we all need to be careful of our sources and not drink from the same cup of the fear merchants who sell their goods while waving the stars and stripes.  Isolationism and fear mongering is not patriotic.  Our nation is represented by a statue on Ellis Island that says we welcome all people into the bounty of our land.   True patriotism is about appreciating all peoples.  We exist as a nation of mixed colors, tongues, and traditions, and I hope we don’t try to undermine that.

     People say extremists will never get a foothold here, where history records so many attempts that have failed over the centuries.  Like the people of Turkey, our strength is our complexity.  Democracy and freedom are the means – not the end.  The end is diversity.  In a democracy, people are free to be different and unique.  Therein lies our strength. 

History!!!

Today, we drove north for some historic touring.

First, we visited the ancient village of Yesilyurt, in the mountains. I will let the pictures speak for themselves.

 

 

We then drove to Assos. The city was founded from 1000 to 900 BC.  This picture shows a bridge from possibly the Roman Empire time periods.

 

 

 This is the Roman Amphitheater

 

 This is looking down on the entrance to the old city.

  The settlers built a Doric Temple to Athen on top in 530 BC. Some of the pillars of this huge temple are still standing.  (this is a picture, so you can see what it looked like)

 

 

 

 In 348 BC Aristotle came and built a school for philosophers. The ruins of the school are still visible.

 

 

 

 

 

The apostle Paul traveled in Assos on his journey from Greece to Jerusalem.

Act 20:13-14  But going ahead to the ship, we set sail for Assos, intending to take Paul aboard there, for so he had arranged, intending himself to go by land.  And when he met us at Assos, we took him on board and went to Mitylene. 

There is a newer dock at Assos now. The dock that Paul would have walked on to board the ship is under the sea,  but the rocks are very visible through the clear water.  Amazing to think that we walked where the apostle Paul walked.

 

This Adventure Just Keeps Getting Better

From Saturday, by Les.

     Slam dunks and fist bumps are in order for yesterday’s Roman house site adventure, but yes my friends, there was LOTS more.  We were invited to come to some friends house in Altinoluk that evening.  Expansion and development of their city over the last century has made its way downhill to the sea shores, while the original ancient village of Altinoluk is at the top.  The road leading up there got increasingly steep as we drove up, and our mouths dropped as we beheld its structures from the middle ages that are built on its ridiculous slopes. 

     The streets, like all the old villages in these mountains, is very narrow, very winding, and very cobbled.  But this one is much steeper, more picturesque, more panoramic and more unbelievable to these Texas eyes.  Stone and mortar houses dating back hundreds of years still stand with maybe an occasional crack or two, or a few missing roof tiles.  The really old dwellings possibly 400 years old still stand there like a colony of senior citizens – perhaps a little crooked and showing their age, but just happy to be here.

       It’s hard to process the way the predecessors put this town together in such a tight space.  Think of it like a Lego village.  Each house practically connects to another on the sides or to the one below.  What would normally be a back yard is actually the tile roof of the next house below.  This is so incredible and they must have figured out this makes them stronger because this has been an active earthquake zone throughout history.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  As hard as I try to paint word pictures of what I see, it’s a challenge to describe this village.  All of the TV travel shows and House Hunter’s International episodes are converging in my head as we walk about in wonder.  Of course, at the center of the village is an iconic square with its typical over-sized bronze statues of some historical figures.   Little mom and pop shops are all around . . . you know, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.  A sidewalk café seems to be “the place to meet” with enough tables to seat hundreds – and it sits facing the most spectacular panorama of the Aegean Sea. 

 

                   

 

 

     What really catches my attention are the old wooden doors and window shutters that have weathered gracefully, while boasting of their craftsmanship that preceded modern era carpentry machinery.  If you fancy rusty old iron hinges, knobs, latches and handles, this is a treasure trove.  Door after door bears large loops of hand forged iron rusted by the salty air, and the way they complement the intricate wooden panels makes my mouth water.

 

                                    

     We only had less than an hour to take a quick survey as the evening shadows turned to dusk, and the little shops were closing.  So, our hope is to get back there during daylight hours and try to drink it all in.  We’ve been warned, however, that the best is yet to come when we get to sail across to an ancient Greek island.

    No regrets about the evening, though, as we spent a few hours with a precious family, and were able to get some play time in with two little girls!

The three year old kept talking to us, speaking as loudly and clearly as she could so that we could understand, repeating the same questions and never satisfied with the answers we could give! She finally gave up and played tickle games that did not need words. Fun times.

    

              

Water Runs Downhill – and that’s a Good Thing

               

     Jeannette has already posted about our amazing visit to the nearby archaeological site of an ancient Roman house at Antronados.  We both were awe struck to say the least, and as she mentioned, we had the rarest of privileges to actually step onto those mosaics and into the rooms. My feet were still tender from the new shoes I bought the other day, so I wore my slightly beat up every day working loafers that have a soft crepe rubber sole.  It was a good day to wear sneakers and soft soled shoes like that because the archaeologist/guide said he’d already noticed we all had shoes on that would not hurt the surface.  High 5!

     I’ve heard of ancient civilizations such as the Greco Romans whose engineering skills were “modern and advanced” enough to have indoor plumbing - but I could never picture that in my head because my scope of plumbing understanding is limited to our kind of underground water pipes that are pressurized and pump the water to your house.  Duh.

     But when you build a house that is dug into the side of a mountain, and fresh water springs abound up above the house, you let gravity flow be your “plumber.”  All you have to do is channel the water, and so these people of yester year did just that.  An elaborate schematic of collection cisterns were built up hill from the house where the water would pool, and branching from there they laid clay pipe sections that were about 18 inches in length which interlocked just like today’s water pipes are made.

     The pipes descended from the cistern and came through the outside walls, where they poured into another indoor cistern, from which one would probably use a dipper of sorts to get a drink or to fetch water for cooking.  Overflow water cascaded down into a shallow gutter that carried water downward through room walls to the lowest level which would have been their toilet room.  It looked as if a “toilet” would have been a stack of stones forming a perch upon which to sit.  (I don’t know what they did for paper.  Eeeek!)  From there, waste water flowed out of the house and down the hill.  Pretty clever I’d say.

     This reminds me of the movie “Shangri-La” from the 70’s in which a team of American explorers climbed a forbidding Himalayan mountain and came upon narrow passage that led to a fertile valley with a perfect climate.  This was the mythical place they had heard the folklore about and sought to prove its existence.  There, they discovered a village of beautiful, ageless, guileless and friendly people who cordially welcomed them.  (This movie was really popular during the Hippie movement).   One of the explorers was an engineer who showed them how to capitalize on the springs of water flowing down for hydraulic power.  Typical of us Americans always thinking that our modern ways of doing things are better for people everywhere.