Hello friends and
blog followers, this is Les. Jeannette spent the day at the hospital with a friend, praying for her recovery and healing,
as well as encouraging her spirit. The
love they showed her was just what she needed.
So, it’s about
time for me to chime in and write something about our adventures here in
Turkey. Since taking photos of the local
people is not advised, I’ll try to trigger your imagination instead with some word
pictures and descriptions about what we’ve been experiencing.
The Edrimit Bay coastline
is a series of small commercial districts much like any coastline back home,
connected by one main highway like a string of pearls. Many of the buildings along the highway bear
a bit of architectural resemblance to those famous Florida South Beach condos,
bars and hotels.
However, just a
stone’s throw behind those businesses and seasonal apartment rentals, the
mountains begin their steep ascent with narrow winding roads, upward to the old
villages nestled on the slopes. From any
vantage point you can see a good number of these mountain villages overlooking
the coastline and the azure blue Agean waters.
Yesterday, we went
back for our third dose of the village life, and as you enter each village, you
find very narrow cobblestone streets that wind here and there like a maze. They’re only wide enough for a single compact
car to navigate, even though the traffic goes both ways. Occasionally you encounter a very old and
rusty tractor pulling an even older wooden wagon. The wagons probably have never left these
villages which typically date back over one hundred years, and most of the villagers
are third and fourth generations to live there.
The houses pretty
much all look alike except for a few newer structures that have cropped up in
recent years, much to the shagrin of the preservationists. Basically, the traditional dwellings are made
of stones covered with mud and straw that is painted white, making it look like
stucco. The roofs are all terra cotta “Spanish
style” roof tiles that have weathered the ages well. Each house typically has a security wall with
a metal doorway, through which you enter into a garden/patio area before you
enter the house. The doors and
passageways were definitely made for short people, and the interior ceilings
are low as well boasting exposed wooden beams that were hand hewn from timbers.
Nearly all the
village men work in their groves of olive trees and fruit trees on the
hillsides. The women work hard in their
gardens growing just about anything you could imagine . . . and then some. It seems to keep them strong and vibrant well
into their old age (80’s plus).
Meandering through
the village streets we pass many ladies walking home with a basket full of
freshly picked greens, or perhaps a loaf or two of artisan bread; and carrying
a big jug of freshly squeezed milk. These ladies are usually wearing long
trench coats in drab colors, but have their heads covered in very colorful silk
scarves. Most of them waddle along
slowly but steadily with worn feet from a lifetime of walking these very uneven
streets.
Throughout the
village we pass clusters of men sitting at small tables playing backgammon,
smoking cigarettes, drinking chai (hot tea) and discussing those kind of things
old men like to talk about. As we drive
by slowly or walk past, they find us an interesting sight and we become their
new topic of discussion. All of this is
very iconic, although there are obvious signs of decade’s long decline and
neglect. However . . . there is
increased optimism as a new wind of interest from younger urbanites has been
blowing in and things are starting to rejuvenate as artists, cultural romantics
and such seek refuge in the quietness and serenity of the mountains with
breathtaking vistas of the sea (sort of like the hippies went to the mountain
states back in the 60’s and 70’s).
My culture meter is leaning heavily toward the red zone.
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