Today, Jeannette
spent the day at the hospital in Akchai 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.
I split
off from the girls and went for a stroll throughout the seaside business
district that caters to the summer tourists.
In a few weeks, the throngs of summer vacationers will begin arriving
and the streets will be bustling with night life akin to those boardwalks Coney
Island and Santa Cruz. For now, they are
just busy . . . not bustling.
We popped into a
travel agency to check out a possible day trip on a ferry across the bay to a
Greek island, and we reconnected with the agent who was an acquaintance from
several years ago. A very large and
slightly intimidating man sat there and laughed robustly when T. introduced me
as a friend from Texas – and I said those two magic words . . . DALLAS
COWBOYS. It works every time, no matter
where you go. To the second world - -
the third world - - or even beyond. It
works every time! He responds quickly
with “WHO SHOT J.R.?” Now we are bosom
buddies.
From there we
proceeded to walk along the waterfront businesses and turned back toward the
main road to catch one of the minute buses (one comes along every minute) and
head back to Gure. As we crossed an
alley where the trash dumpsters are located, we noticed a gypsy couple on
their horse drawn wooden cart turn the corner right behind us. The gypsies around here are the scavengers
who pillage through the trash after each daily bazar (farmers market).
 |
| If you look closely, you can see a man in front of a dumpster. That is the gypsy that Les and Todd talked to, and his horse and cart are nearby. |
Anyway, their
horse was a strange looking animal, like an overgrown Shetland pony, long
haired, very shabby, and desperate for some grooming. Without horseshoes on these bumpy cobblestone
streets, their hoofs are really torn up and must be painful. The couple pretty much looked the same –
freakish mixture of filthy clothing, very dirty in appearance, rotten teeth,
mysterious eyes that did not want to make contact. They subsist from food scraps found in
dumpsters and sell anything they can salvage.
My impression was a people culture that traditionally has been void of
nutrition, healthcare, personal hygiene and minimally decent living habits.
Going on we walked to another waterfront where
the commercial fishermen dock their boats each afternoon and clean their nets
as they make ready for the next day . . . which starts at 4:00 am. Most of the boats were in and the fishermen
were sitting around tables drinking chai.
Todd noticed one fisherman a bit further down the dock busy mending his
nets and my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. I had already mentioned to Todd a few days
ago that I really hoped to get a chance to observe and maybe even talk to an
old school fisherman since they still fish by casting the nets the ancient way
we read about in the gospels. There he
was - so we approached him to get a sneak peak.
He cut torn
sections of net off with a pair of tiny scissors, then sewed new netting to the
old using something like a crochet needle wound with line. Todd began to speak to him when suddenly a
man who appeared to be the dock supervisor intervened as if we had crossed some
kind of social boundary. When he
realized I was nothing more than a curious onlooker from Texas, he seemed satisfied
that we were no threat to the fisherman, nor a distraction from his need to
mend those nets. Of course, I spoke the
magic words again. They worked again.
About three
questions into our inquiry and suddenly the fisherman jumps up and invites us
to enjoy a cup of chai with him at the tables where we can talk more about his
trade. As we assembled at the table, two
more fishermen joined us as if they didn’t want to miss this chance to tell
their story. It was A W E S O M E !
These guys had
skin that was so dark and bloodshot eyes.
They reminded me of those old photos of our native American tribes taken
in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s.
These men were the sons and grandsons of fishermen – a generational
heritage with their crusty hands and weathered faces from a lifetime on those
waters. Every evening before sunset they
cast their nets for the night, some of which stretch out for nearly a mile. At dawn they go back out to draw in their
catches averaging about 1000 fish, and sell them to the market at the dock. This was such a treat as I asked question
after question to hear their stories and techniques. They seemed to be more than eager to talk
about their trade to someone so interested.
Every man loves to discuss his work, and this is a door through which we
can reach a man’s soul with our hope.
Eventually we were
joined by another friend and I bid a grateful farewell to those fishermen. As if that weren’t enough for one day, we went a short walk away to visit the tailor. He’s a man about my age who’s preparing to
sell his shop and retire to his home in the mountain village. He owns a vast plot of acreage that is an
olive tree grove and he wants to tend his land from now on.
What can I say . .
. it was such a rich day for me, and boy do I have lots of thinking and
reflecting to do. I’m thankful to be
here.
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