The Saloon

Went to the barber shop today with my host brother Ziad. He just wanted a shave, didn't have a razor at home. It's cheaper just to get a 1JD trim than buy the do-it-yourself version.

We pull up. Looks like any old haircut place. Go inside, sit there and watch Ziad get a meticulous close-shave from an old Arab man with one of those old-fashioned straight razors. The guy the chair over was having his neck applied with what looked like tar. I think it was some sort of even more insidious Nair (cuz that stuff sucks to begin with).

Ziad finished, paid the man, and as we were walking out I figured what was odd about the gold English lettering on the window: "Saloon".

I started laughing. Ziad stared at me. "What?"

I asked "Do you know Clint Eastwood?"

"No".

"Well...nevermind".

Camels

An American girl was wearing a skirt at University today. I came out of class behind her, and watched, amused, as every single guy on campus watched her. Not those discreet side glances, but full on stares, like follow the skirt with the head and then turn completely around to watch the skirt sway off. And then the guys would turn to their group of friends and they'd all grin and sling out slang words in low voices. Jemel. Or Ghazel. I learned the other day that yes, they actually do refer to attractive women as camels and gazelles. It has something to do with the eyes.
Which if you think about it makes sense; camels and gazelles do have large, mesmerizing eyes--like most of the women, and men, here. And because of the hijab, ordinarily men only have a woman's eyes to fixate and salivate over. (I've been doing random counts of covered versus uncovered women on the streets during my daily taxi rides, and consistently find that 80 percent of women cover here--the actual figure is probably higher, because many women never leave the home). So I guess it's little wonder that when the pretty American blonde struts down University lane, baring her calves for all, men treat it as a spectacle. Because really it is.

To Westerners, I know, this scene comes off as bit misogynistic or objectifying of women. But my understanding of the thought here is that if a women shows her legs, or arms, or breasts, she intends them to be seen. Most women here, even the beautiful ones, don't get this kind of ogling.

I was talking with my Jordanian friend the other day, and we wandered on the topic of women in America. He told me, like every guy I meet here, the women in America must be very beautiful. I told him maybe, they certainly dress more provocatively, to which he replied "O, so they all must want boyfriends?" I wasn't sure if he was joking, but I guess it made me realize how rigid the gender binary of female modesty must be to a guy who sees most women covering their heads (because woman's hair is seen as sensual, a thing of beauty only revealed in private spaces).

Anyway, while men, and women, can stare and swoon all they want at one another (and guys do get long stares from lots of girls, though more discreetly), it's certainly frowned upon for unmarried men and women to show public physical affection. On campus, I've seen many a-touching couple accosted, either by fellow students or Administration. Because so much of social interaction here is about saving face, about honoring your tribe and your past, and producing an image that says "I am one of you, we can relate to one another on a basic, non-verbal level because we come from the same society." I tend to see the hijab as a manifestation of this traditional social desire to be a member of one community; the cover has little to do with being Muslim, though most tend to associate it with traditional Islam. For women in the Prophet's time wore their hair out, and it was not until three centuries after his death that reactionary Muslim scholars and leaders imposed the head covering. Most Muslims today claim that covering helps ensure people's duty to be modest to one another. Judging by the utter lack of promiscuity here (and I've been in some dingy bars here), I'd say the cover helps with this.

Side note: The concept of human rights is an entirely Western concept; in Islam, each person, regardless of creed or composition, has a duty to "enjoin mercy on one another [Sura 90]". What Americans refer to as human rights of freedom of worship, of speech, of employment and movement etc, people here frame as duties between Muslims and their non-Muslim brethren under Allah. Thus when one denies another of the right to worship, for example, he not abridging a human right but rather committing an un-Islamic action and must face Islamic, and not civil, inquiry. Likewise, people here follow their perceived Islamic duty of modesty toward one another. I don't intend to make any judgments on the merits of human rights and Islamic duties, and realize the hijab/niqab certainly offends many feminists/human rights activists.

That said, the whole modesty issue seems to be a one way street. Men here dress very provocatively, and wear shirts that look about two sizes too small for them. They rarely cover their arms, or heads, they never wear gloves, and in general talk louder, laugh louder, and generally carry on like third graders in a playground. The whole silly ordeal of the huge brawl between male students of opposing tribes last week evidences this.

On the cab ride home today, the driver and I both found ourselves staring at an extremely attractive, dark-haired woman walking down the street. I caught his eye and said "Jemel". He laughed at my slang Arabic, and then asked me what word we use in America. I told him the most popular is "hot" or "hottie", and he looked at bit let down. "hmm", he said, "I think Jemel is more beautiful".

The beach all sunny in Olympos. It wasn't sand, instead little sharp pebbles right up to the water, so it didn't exactly lend itself to frisbee. But the water was cool, clear, so swimming was in order.

A stream cut the beach into two sections. There was no bridge, and if you wanted to cross you had to ford across the stony bottom. The current was so strong it snapped the plastic connector on my flip-flops. Normally I wouldn't care but the pebbly beach kinda hurt to walk on, so at first I just hopped around on one foot until I sat/got in the water. That got old so I began looking for a way to fix the flip-flop, but I didn't see any duct tape. I did find an ancient leather sandal, half eaten by something or someone, and so I used that for the rest of the day. It was for the wrong foot.

Also, Colin and I were coming back from a little village, had just crossed the stream, and saw what we thought was a shirtless man sitting with his child. Walked closer and realized it was a woman, just sitting there completely naked with her kid. I'm all for nudity, it doesn't embarrass or fascinate me, but the local Turkish boys seemed to feel differently. They unabashedly orbited around the woman, just walking up and down the beach giggling. But the point of the nude woman: she later came up to my friend Colin and began speaking in German. Colin made confused hand gestures, mumbled something like "huh? wait, what?" while trying to look this woman in the eyes. She just kept pointing to herself, and then to Colin, and saying "child, child" ; I took it as a marriage proposal...and more. But eventually we figured out she wanted Colin, a strapping lad, to carry her kid across the strong stream. He did, and when he came back he told me "I can check that one off the to-do list".

Islands of Kekova. A guy working at our Pension in Olympus offered us a trip to his hometown in Kekova. He drove us there, hired a local fisherman to ferry us around the waterways, took us to an Old seaside castle--all for free. The place was paradise.

The azure water of the Mediterranean. Under the water is a sunken city from Hellenistic times.

A 13th Century Genovese castle above the Olympos Beach. A 21st Century Matthew atop the castle.

We felt an uncontrollable urge to climb a rock and then test how deep the water was....it was deep enough.

Below are a few pics from Cappadocia, a mountainous region in Central Turkey. My friend Collin and I spent a day riding around on the this little 125cc Honda scooter, exploring the crannies of the awesome rock formations ("fairy chimneys"). These pics were taken outside the town of Goreme.

The mushroom caps, the wizards hats, the wild rocks towers of Cappadocia, Turkey. The landscape felt like something out of Lord of the Rings, maybe a benevolent Mordor. It too was ringed by mountains on all sides, the strange rock formations created by pre-historic lava flows.

The windowed rocks of Cappadocia. Not sure when they were carved out, but they're ancient and abandoned now.

So the pics below are from Istanbul, the one above my favorite from the Hagia Sophia...more pics from the rest of Turkey in a bit

Park next to Topkapi Palace...tulips were in bloom

At Topkapi Palace, the "Circumcision Room" where all royal Ottoman men were...well you get the picture. Awesome mosaics




Vaulted main chamber of the Hagia Sophia; all below from Hagia Sophia






The Hagia Sophia in the background, rising like a spaceship


Twelve Days in Turkey

From the plane's window, the first thing that strikes you are Istanbul's pastel highrises. Sky blues and creamy yellows, off whites and cinammon browns. Then the precision of minarets resolve themselves against the maze of streets. Beyond them the Bosphorus shining with hundreds of ships. It's hard to fathom the scale of this city that spans two sides of two continents.

Our subway into the Old City sped past rows and rows of apartments and storefronts, all busy with the quiet industry of afternoon. It was Friday, yom al-jum'a, day of prayer, rest and cleaning. Laundry waved from balconies, each piece an inimitable sqaure of color. Towards the Old City, or Sultanahment, the skyline opened up and we saw the strait below. On our side, the European sector of Istanbul sprawled out, further separated by the Golden Horn waterway into the older southern half and the newer, chic northern half.
Our train stopped at the tip of the southern half. Collin and I walked out, backpacks on and necks crooning up. We were thirty yards from the walls of the Blue, or Sultan Ahmed, Mosque. I turned to Collin and said "I feel like a cheap little toy", which I guess is what its builders had in mind. Six marble minarets towered over us. Each had three ornate balconies, which I later read were build in succession for the sultans' wives. The walls were inlaid with Quranic verses and set off every forty feet by two-story arched entrance ways. We climbed up the steps of one, and into the Mosque's courtyard. The entire wall, probably one hundred yards by eighty, was tiled with polished, but faded, blue tiles (hence the Mosque's English name). At the tops of the inner walls were ornate golden scripts, from the Quran or naming the caliphs. Men in abayas were filing past us, removing their shoes at the main doors, and entering with bowed heads. We couldn't go inside because of their Friday prayers. From the way they ignored all the tourists snapping pictures of them, and their mosque, they seemed used to visitors. For me, it's hard to imagine going into a church service with hundreds of tourists taking your picture or crooning for a peek inside. But then again I've never been to service at the Blue Mosque.

So the interior of Sultan Ahmed was closed to us for now. But we weren't too stressed because the Haiga Sophia was the next block up. The Haiga Sophia, seen from its exterior, is less visually engaging and more worn than the Blue Mosque. I mean it is one thousand years older. It rises from the city like an eerie Byzantine spaceship. It had just closed for the day, but I got a chance a few days later to go inside, and my God...literally.

Can't say too much about the Haiga Sophia. The last time I felt that exhilarated was climbing Long's Peak. The place is mountainous, monumental, but the best parts were the intricacies. Like the pre-Islamic mosaics on the vaulted ceilings, sparkling next to Quranic calligraphy. Or ancient Greek characters carved into even older marble building slabs.

I spent five hours wandering through the Haiga Sophia. I didn't even see one balcony and the inner courtyards and residencies.

We stayed at old City Hostel, about a two minute walk from the Haiga Sophia and Blue mosque. It was simple, clean, complete with a rooftop bar that looked out on the Strait and the city's landmarks.

The Spice Bazaar, for me, captures Istanbul. It's a covered market; the outside is lined with hundreds of stalls selling everything from rye grass to tulip bulbs to garden tools. Inside, rows and rows of little shops, mostly specializing in every imaginable spice--cumin, paprika, this orange curry powder, giant chunks of sea salt...most shops have a sweets section too, and because I really wasn't looking to buy spices in bulk, I headed straight for the candy. Turkish delight (chewy, semi-sweet starchy blocks), candied peanuts, pistachio-filled truffles, dried apricots, brown sugar coated almonds...really paradise realized for the senses. The smell of spices, the color of the candy, the free samples from the shop vendors--it was like an authentic Turkish costco. My Arabic came in handy too, many of the shop owners knew a bit of Arabic, and the word for 'apricot' and 'chocolate' are the same in Turkish and Arabic; I was on a quest for apricot-filled truffles. Didn't find any in the end, but after hours of wandering through the Bazaar I came out with 5 pounds of food (mostly sweets); got most of them for really cheap (like $25 total) because I used my Arabic to whittle down the prices.