24 Nov 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.
11/24 Selesck, Turkey
As the storm cleared we helped put things back into place and decided to hang around another day. About midday we took a walk into town and bought two bus tickets north toward Ephesus. Our bus was scheduled to leave early the next morning. All in all this was good company and I had enjoyed the time off the road. I didn’t know what to expect heading into Turkey’s interior. I was never taught in school much about Turkey. Turkey wasn’t part of my original plan so I didn’t spend any time studying or identifying the places I wanted to visit. My only recollection was the movie “Midnight Express”. We gathered up some food and beverages for our trip and said our goodbyes. The bus was new, an air conditioned luxury Mercedes.
Our driver was out on the road as if he needed to make up time. I wasn’t accustomed to being on bus with the accelerator literally pushed to the floor. We were flying along a road that had very little if any guard rails. I focused my eyes onto passing objects in case I needed to brace myself before impact. At that speed and in that terrain the odds were against us, bracing wouldn’t do any good anyway. I’m disappointment when I fly by at those speeds and pass places I wished I could have discovered at a walking pace. I was always wishing to have the ability and time to stop and walk about. There was a bridge that spanned across one of the ravines. I swear my mind believed that it had been there before. I knew the experience of stand on that bridge.
Sometimes, no quite often, when concentrating, I would notice something out of the corner of my eye as if somebody were there, watching me. At the moment when I changed my focus it would always be something inanimate. I questioned whether I was alone and worried that perhaps that was the first sign of mental illness. Mental illness or the inability to function physically is my greatest fear. My grandmother on my father’s side had multiple strokes and it pained me that I only remembered her as bedridden. I had a hard time correlating my memories with the pictures I saw of her when she was young with those images of her bedridden. It also made me think about whom I was and what I valued in my life. If memories and experiences are valuable to me and if I used them to define who I am, then who would I be if I could no longer remember? It’s a scary thought.
We got off the bus in Selesck and everybody followed us around like we were dropping gold behind us or something. They had all been waiting to petal something, a room, food, whatever, and we were the only ones that got off the bus. We ended up following one of those gentlemen to see the accommodations he was offering, then another and another. The rooms available were very bad but it appeared we didn’t have much of a choice.
Once we got our things locked up we headed into town to meet up with another gentleman we had met right off the bus. He kept insisting that his sister loved to cook for Americans and since there didn’t seem to be any restaurants in the area we agreed to have dinner with his family. Based on what we had already observed I felt better knowing that whoever cooks the meal is also eating it. Young children greeted us at the door and we sat directly across from their grandfather. He had just received his first cassette player and was excited to share his music with us. Jenni had been carrying around a few tapes of her own and shared them with the grandfather. He didn’t like the Stones but really enjoyed Eric Clapton. Due to the language barrier our conversation was limited. We pretty much just traded smiles and nodded our heads a lot. They brought out the meal on a large circular tin plate about the size of a trash can lid. At first I felt bad because they really didn’t have much to offer. Then I felt grateful that they offered what they did have. After the meal we sat in their living room attempting to have another conversation. The mother questioned “We not criminals, why no Americans come here?” Trying to explain the effect that the Midnight Express had on our culture wasn’t understood. They understood tourism was an easy way to supplement their income and just didn’t understand why they never saw Americans.
We gave our thanks and headed back toward our room. When I was a kid I felt I had control, patience and a strong will but somehow I had let that wall erode into impulses. Marijuana, then cocaine. I never smoked cigarettes while attending high school but after months of using cigarettes to enter various social arenas somewhere within my unconscious mind, I was always looking for the next opportunity. I know it affects my body in a negative way yet we remain friends. The streets were dark and what little light there was drew long shadows against the walls that lined the streets. It was an uncomfortable feeling that everybody we passed on those dark streets wore robes long enough that hide their hands. I noticed a man who appeared to be a leader of a small gathering alongside a wall that separated paths, smoking a cigarette. As I approached I gave the universal signal with my forefinger and thumb gesturing that I was interested in a smoke. He agreed and asked me something in Turkish. Responding in English gave notice that I wasn’t from there. We traded gestures in an attempt to communicate but only found ourselves a commonality in the smoke.
Many times desires, have conquered me, changing the objects of my will,
but this continues to enlighten me, just and how I feel
God shows me love, a debt to pay, while unthrift fools, throws theirs away
I’m learning to heal, this given pain, a captive’s captive I remain
The height of it all, I know will be, to cry for those who wait to see
those allowing their love to still and search no more, only beggars at a beggars door
The light at the end of the hall leading to my room indicated trouble. The light bulb experienced difficulty getting its light past a blanket of flies. No lie. Breathing was almost impossible without inhaling one of two. I got a towel from the bathroom at the end of the hall, wet it, rolled it up and wedged it under the closed door of our room. Then I did the same with wet toilet paper on the window. Once the room was secured so that no flies could get in I killed every fly in the room. Through blurred eyes the once white walls looked like spotted wallpaper. The girl I met in Portugal who questioned the fly’s intent resonated in my mind. I brushed the dead flies that then littered the floor into each of the four corners and then we slept.
