Turkey: One week away and reading

When I’m planning a trip I read about local culture in novels and traveler’s tales rather than guidebooks. These latter certainly are useful once I get to where I’m going. But, for me traveling is about people in context and history. What is the point of seeing Troy or Gallipoli without a sense of all that went before my visit?

By sheer accident and grace of the Los Angeles Public Library system my intro to Turkey was Phillip Glazebrook’s  “Journey To Kars.” Most pertinent to me was how he distinguished between the  “traveler” steeped in literature and history of the place and the “tourist” who clutters the environment while seeking “gaudy souvenirs” 

He was interested in the divide between Christian Europe and Moslem Turkey and frequently referred to English authors of the mid-nineteenth century. I loved his comment,” What was the impulse which drove middle-class Victorians to leave the country they loved so chauvinistically, and the company of the race they considered God’s last word in breeding, to travel in discomfort, danger, illness, filth and misery ….. in lands which, at best, reminded them of Scotland? This was the question I set out …to answer.”  I can’t take the same trip, he traveled in the 1980s, and times have changed, but I can carry the sense of history and mystery through the journey. Also, I’m not going to Kars though it seems to come up often in stories from Turkey.

 

“Snow” by Orhan Pamuk was next. And this novel takes place in Kars. Pamuk is concerned about the clash between the religious right and the secular state. No one comes out looking good; both sides are refuges of charlatans and farcical players. Religion vs. secularism is being played out every day in Turkey with women wearing or not wearing the headscarf.

 

My book club elected to read “The Bastard of Istanbul,” by Elif Shafek. A rape, a bastard, choices made and the ties between modern Turks and the Armenian genocide are played out here. It also describes growing up in present-day secular Istanbul. Seems there is a lot of spiritual and emotional malaise for at least one group of teens and those who are long past that age.

 

“Bliss” by O.Z. Livaneli came next. His themes are rape, spiritual malaise, military action in the mountains, a suggestion of female suicide and a journey to Istanbul from the extremely rural and poor countryside. The headscarf looms large and is a political as well as religious symbol. Class and location seem to determine the relationship of men and women. In “Bliss” a young woman is quietly urged to commit suicide because she has disgraced her family by being raped. In “Snow” young women commit suicide because they are forbidden to wear the headscarf. I wonder how high the suicide rate is among young women in Turkey. It is so curious that two current authors would write about this.

 

All the authors write about the “old Armenian houses.” So I guess I’m going to make sure I identify these. I’ve got some ideas now about Turkish culture (of course I also read the newspapers) and I’m off to experience the new, eat some wonderful food, and hopefully see more than the sights.

 

Getting ready for Turkey

What a difference a 1 makes. With my Turkey trip a week away I tried faxing information to the Grand Rabbis in Istanbul so that my traveling companion and I could enter the various synagogues there.  I dialed 01, country code, city code and number. Suddenly I was being asked for a credit card number or a pin number. Shock, confusion, call ATT and get lost in voice prompts. Finally reached a real person. Did this person ask what I had dialed? No. She simply said, “You must not have that service on your phone line.” This despite my having faxed stuff recently to England. Two hours later, service disrupted and changed at who knows what expense, I tried again. Same message. This time when I called back I was told, “You don’t have any service on that line.” Frustration reigned.

I checked my phone book for proper calling techniques, and lo and behold- dial 011 and all is solved. 01 is the code for credit card calls. Who would have guessed? Certainly not anyone at ATT.

 

Lamu, Day 3

Today we experienced the essence of Lamu. When I got up this morning and looked off our balcony-at about 7am, I saw three young men rigging a dhow. It took them about 20 minutes to raise the mast and secure all the ropes. Then they moved the boat to the steps-the tide was in.

We had our almost usual breakfast, a huge plate of fruit but no mango today, instead we had passion fruit, along with the pineapple, papaya, and a whole banana. Then came the eggs and bacon, accompanied by a basket of breads, including toast, croissants, little oval fried bread with some cheese and large triangular fried bread similar to doughnuts. Starter was, as every morning, passion fruit juice. The juice must have sugar in it because the fruit is sour.
Then we went to look for our dhow. I thought I knew which one it was, but the very young man sitting in front of our hotel wasn’t sure he was waitng for us. Standoff until our hotel manager, Florence, showed up and made the introductions. Elaine got a life vest, we climbed on board and off we went with Abdul, age 17, Karem, the old man at 21, and the captain Said, age 18. A dhow uses human balast to level the boat, and Karem and Abdul were hanging off the balance beam on the side of the dhow  and Occasionally shifting ballast  in the bottom of the  boat. Ballast=sacks labled 100 pounds of rice. Filled with wet sand they probably weigh more than that.  Elaine and I both clutched the sides of the boat-of course everyone was on the same side to balance the sail as we raced across to Manda Island. It took about 45 minutes. They deposited us close to the sand, and we scrambled over the side of the boat in a not very seemly manner and waded to shore in clear warm water of the Indian Ocean. Then Abdul brought a large straw mat for us to sit on in the shade of a small tree.

After about a half hour we decided to take a walk. The beach goes for miles and there is the occasional occupant or two. We walked for about a half hour and I went for a wade and and short swim. Then I got Elaine to get into the water. After all, one has to say they swam in the Indian Ocean. Elaine has been a very good sport about this-as this is not her idea of fun.

On the way back Marco stopped us. He is a fellow who targeted Elaine while she was in town. He has a tiny shop on the beach, and also rents snorkel equipment. There is a reef here-though the water is very shallow. We also explored the a very rustic (to say the least) hotel right on the beach. A little isolated for my tastes. They were full.

When we got back to our boat the guys had picked up our stuff off the beach and put it on the boat. Another group had taken over our shade tree the guys didn’t think it  a good idea to leave our things there.

 They prepared lunch for us–on the dhow. Said cooked smapper with tomatoes and some spice on a charcoal burner made out of a large can. He also made a swahili dish of cabbage, onion, tomato paste,and something else-all served with rice. For desert there were bananas and oranges(green). The food was delicious and fun to eat on the dhow.

The guys ate with us, but we had table spoons and they had fingers. Since we were on the water it was easy to wash our hands.

This is  what Lamu is about, water, sand, and I suspect if you know the right people, or you stay for a while, a very pleasant expat social life.

I took another swim, now I can say I swam in the Indian Ocean twice-and we got back to our hotel around 2.30pm only to find there was no water in the room.

I went  to find |Florence and the water, twice, getting stripped each time, and when I came back the second time with the plumber there were two other men in the room. The door to the patio had blown off its hinges.
One guy stood there for about a half hour waiting for the other man to come back. He  gave up and left. Then we left. Then he showed up as we closed the door. We decided too much activity in the room!
Last night had a fabulous meal at an absolute dive called Olympic Cafe. Lobster-but called a “spiney lobster. ” It is similar to a large langoustine. Since we had spoken,earlier to another Said, and come back, he plunked a large grilled prawn on our plates as well. And, much to my delight, the lobster was served with fabulous red bean, rice and three types of curry sauce. 

The only problem with these cafes is the walk back to our hotel. There is no street lighting-though there are lots of people on the street–mostly men, but some Moslem women too.  The dark isn;t the issue, it is the donkey poo. It is all over the place and if you can’t see where you are going….

Tonight is New Year’s Eve. Jean Paul, the man running the restaurant at our hotel is French, as is the manager, Florence. When we asked about tonight he said they would serve until about 10 or so. He thought people were too tired to stay up to midnight. I think he is showing his age. -about 56-65.

We decided to have dinner at the hotel. The atmosphere is so much more pleasant than any of the restaurants at which we’ve eaten. It is more than twice as expensive as any of the others, three times more pleasant and the food isn’t quite as nice.

Lamu, Day 2

Today was explore the old town of Lamu day. We walked through narrow alleys and up steep stairs to look at one of the hotels we contacted but didn’t stay at. Then my travel companion researched sillver jewelry-and ended up with an antique Yemenite necklace, rather like Indian jewelry. We lost each other for an hour, and I strolled the streets alone. Put my head into the meat and fish market and withdrew it rather rapidly. A hip and thigh bone from a medium size animal was lying in the middle of the floor. I thought I didn’t need to explore this market. Next door, the fruit and vegetables were grim enough.
Sunday is a busy day here. Everyone was in the streets. A little girl ran in front of me taking my photo with a toy camera-and saying Jambo- which is hello in Swahili. I posed for her and she was delighted. A fellow named Alfred or Arafat attached himself to us for a while. He pointed out thing he thought we should note as we walked and discussed the Kenyan elections. He remarked on a  wood carving studio, and set us towards the hotel we were looking for. At the far end of the old city the street is dirt and sand.  ”Everything is slow here in Lamu,” he said . No kidding. This was the main street. A little further down the road was paved. But still full of donkey dung.
Everyone here is talking about the election. I stopped to look at the newspapers hanging in the doorway of a book store and the three men inside were listening to the radio. One said,” I don’t understand the incumbent was behind by a million votes and now it is 40,000.” “It sounds like he is stealing the election, just like in the US,” I said. He was surprised. “Wasn’t Bush elected?” he asked. “Not the first time, “I responded. At which he said, “I thought the US was ok, but there is corruption everywhere.” He left muttering. The book store only sold newspapers and school materials. No books.
We had lunch in a local cafe. Poached crab- with rice on the side. Elaine had vegetable soup to start-it was thick and slightly spicy, like an Indian soup. We drank these “juices” passion fruit and lime. They taste really good, but I have a hunch they are made with the local tap water.Lunch cost $15.00 which is not bad-though prices here are like the States for most things.
Who knows what tonight will bring. Try another eatery!.

here we are in Lamu

Arrived yesterday afternoon. This is the busiest airport in all our travels. It isn’t really an airport, it is an airstrip. But it was busy. What they don’t tell you about Lamu is how you get there. Yes, I knew there was a boat, but no one said anything about walking down a boat ramp on to dried mud under the pier. The bags were carried in a wagon and then by man to the boat. It was very windy and rocky. In fact, all the rides over rocks in the Mara were good preparation for the three minute rush across the water. At one point it seemed as though we would go over.

Then, a walk from the pier to our hotel, Lamu House. Already I was in culture shock. We came from this very cared for environment, and suddenly we were thrust into a raw world. Lots of people and donkeys on the street. And unfortunately lots of donkey droppings too.

The hotel is  a new building based on a Swahili house. So it has the best of the old and the new. We walked though the old town in about 25 minutes, with stops along the way to look at the wonderful wraps that everyone, men and women wear. There was some sort of demonstration going on, with two fellows drumming on tin cans followed by a crowd of kids and a swarm of women covered in black. One curious thing though, even though they may be covered in black, some few wear a brightly colored scarf over the black. I’d never seen this before.

Nothing I’ve done before prepared me for this town-though my traveling companion swears it is like any other Arab or Israeli town.

I think the most noticeable thing about Lamu is the donkeys.

Shela is another story. It is a 45 minute stroll from Lamu and a world away. It is much cleaner, and therefore prettier. The beach is incredible and if you are inclined you can do all kinds of water sports, including snorkeling, kayaking,para-sailing or you can just do what we did. Find a shady spot on the beach among the palm trees and read.

We had lunch at the Stop Over restaurant, crab salad, grilled giant prawns, passion fruit juice and water. Then the patron showed us his guest house that is another modern building built in the Swahili style. Airy, spacious, and not nearly as expensive as our hotel.

We walked back again to Lamu. It hadn’t changed. At the hotel we were told to be careful of the tide. If the tide was in there might be a lot of wading to do. The water is like a bath, and clean, except where we might have to wade. There, all manner of garbage was on the beach.

Oh, even managed to see a few of the “cats of Lamu” in Shela. And to feed them a little rice from our lunch. They were, after all, sitting under our table.  

This is day one. For tomorrow, swiming.

Less than one week to go

I’m still doing my homework. Although I’ve left the pre-WWI colonial Kenyan set behind, most of what I’m reading is still American-European. I started with Bill Bryson’s tiny book, African Diary (2000), that he wrote as a fund raising device for Care International. There are some terrific word pictures about refugees, travel on light aircraft and on trains to Mombasa. We will be doing the first, and I am holding on to my valium. As for the second, Mombasa is not on our schedule.

A real find was Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye’s The Present Moment, (1987). She’s English, came to Kenya in 1954 as an Anglican missionary, stayed and married a Kenyan. The Present Moment is about seven African women living in The Refuge, an old people’s home in Nairobi. The women, from different ethnic groups, Kikuya, Seychelloise, Luria, Luo, and Swahili, all ended here because of the shattering of tribal support systems brought on by changes in Kenyan society over 50 years. Macgoye raises issues about Moslem and Christian conversions, the so called freedom fighters, and the roles of women in this developing society.  The book makes interesting reading about a non-European segment of Kenyan society.

  

And then there was the Jewish experience of Kenya. I didn’t even think about Jews in Kenya until I started to read Nowhere in Africa by Stefanie Zweig. I forgot seeing the film a few years ago. This is a different world from that of the pre-WWII European settlers. The German Jews who fled to Kenya were mostly from the cities little prepared for farm life. Zweig, as a child, appreciated the beauty of the country but her parents experienced  drudgery, isolation, hardship and strangeness. Worse, English anti-Semitism was not dead. And, not unlike the U.S., émigrés from hostile nations (Germany) were interned, though only for a short while.

My last effort before leaving is True At First Light, Ernest Hemingway’s posthumous “fictional memoir.”  There are vivid depictions of  life in a safari camp during Mau Mau days–a lot of sitting around, psuedo-philosophizing and drinking. Also there was a constant search to kill a prize lion. It made me cringe. I never got why anyone would want to kill an animal just to say “ I did it.” But–there is an interesting tie in to a made up religion. Maybe even Hemingway couldn’t really justify the killing. Tribal conflicts between the Kenyans keep surfacing and of course relations between the white man, in this case Hemingway, and the natives, both men and women. He was a womanizer, no doubt. Must have been amazingly charming, though judging from this book I think alcohol also played a large part.

All these people, real and fictional  pasted their lives on to the countryside. I’m curious what my experience will be.

One month to go

In exactly one month I’ll take a two-day plane ride to Africa; Kenya to be specific. I made the plans. I paid for the trip. Immunizations are in progress. I have the prescription for malaria drugs. And now– it’s time to ruminate. At intervals each day I ask myself will we have enough time on safari? Are we going to be bored on the island?  What happens when I get sick? (I do this wherever I go.) And most pressing, where can I find a safari shirt? Khaki shirts in my size seem to have disappeared out of the stores and off the web.

This trip started, as do most of my trips, with some literary impetus. Approximately three years ago a friend asked if I wanted Jack Couffer’s book, Cats of Lamu.So, instead of her tossing it in with some old clothes for the battered women’s shelter sale, I tossed it onto the pile of books in my office. Occasionally, when I had some spare time, I looked at the stunning photos of wild cats wandering along an African beach or ensconced between colorful houses. One day, I had excessive time to spare.  I read about the cats and life on the island. Hooked. I wanted to experience Lamu. 

Then, last May, another friend informed me she was planning a trip to Kenya that included Lamu.  I decided to tag along.   

Now, a month to go, having done all the detail stuff related to travel, I’m mentally preparing myself. I read Beryl Markham’s West Into the Night, Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa and Sara Wheeler’s Too Close To The Sun: The Audacious Life And Times of Denys Finch Hatton. There’s lots of overlap among these books, but they all contribute to a mental photo of Kenya in the early twentieth century. Although this Kenya has disappeared it is part of whatever I will find there. Since we mostly travel in others’ footsteps, I like to know who went before. Knowing informs, deepens and enriches my sightseeing. Perhaps I’ll be nostalgic for a place, ambiance and people I only know through my imagination.

On the other hand, for current reality, I have a guidebook. I think that can wait until I’m on the plane. It is a long ride.

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