August 26, 2012
Conversations among the deaf: Umurci - Sarkoy
'HE'S DEAF; he can't hear you,' the stocky man said. He'd been sitting outside on a bench on the shady side of the road, chatting with a friend. But once more two dirty people on bikes provided too great a chance to be both friendly and nosy and so he came into the bar to join us.
He pointed to one ear, shook his head and pointed to the little man behind the tiny, plastic-topped counter. The barman enjoyed the notoriety of his deafness and smiled back excitedly as his shortcomings were explained.
There is only one way to run a bar if you're deaf and that's to know what your customers drink. With strangers - and evidently there weren't many of them - that isn't easy but he took the guess that we were chai people and brought two glasses instead of the cola we had asked for. Makes no difference, I shrugged to our new friend from across the way. 'He can't hear and I can't speak Turkish, so...' He chuckled. The bar owner, who'd understood nothing, joined in.
That same picture of Ataturk was on one wall. But there was no beer. Ataturk was determined to create a secular society so presumably there is no ban on alcohol. But we have trouble asking for directions so it's a bit much to discuss licensing law. For the moment, we are assuming Muslim bar owners with Muslim customers simply choose not to stock it.
These exchanges in Pubs With No Beer are rewarding but they are tiring, of course. A phrase book would help, we thought, but then decided not, since things cyclists need - is there a shop with cycling shoes round here? - don't get in your everyday tourist suggestions. But we have learned one useful word: asphalt. No matter how it's spelled in Turkish, it's pronounced as in English and it's a great word in a country where the best country roads are fit for tractors.
The rest of our day was indeed asphalt, once we had reached the end of the path beside which we spent the night. We passed sunflower farms and saw the crop being tossed for seeds. We passed rickety sheds with immaculate insides and shining, spotless tanks which churned butter or yoghurt. And we stopped for cows and sheep to cross the road. And everybody waved and smiled.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
But of course gradually we were heading for a peninsular and the traffic increased. We rode after 30 bleak, hilly and unsheltered kilometres into the dislikeable town of Malakay, then along the gratefully received wide shoulder of the main road to Istanbul - already pretty awful as we'd explained to the Swiss Miss, even though we were a hundred kilometres away - and then on a tormented road across endless ridges to the seaside town of Sarkoy. A line of container ships are making their way to Istanbul and the Black Sea.
We are having a day off here. Tomorrow we will ride to the Gallipoli beaches, one of Churchill's great blunders that killed thousands, assured victory to the Turks (Johnny Turk, Churchill and his generals assumed, would never have the guts to stand up to British and Anzac troops) and cost him his job and, for a long time, his reputation.
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 2 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 0 |