Day 323: Life with a capital L for Love, Luck and Laughter — A small village in Turkey

I don’t see anything to add to this passage. I met the best people in Turkey. People ready to give me food and shelter without me being able to communicate with them.

They opened their doors, their rooms, their kitchens to me, a simple silly tourist who foolishly decided to walk a road nobody takes as a tourist. They had no idea who they were welcoming inside their home yet with open arms and the warmest of hearts, they gave me more than I could dream for.

I was ready to sleep outside. I had been hearing gun shots while walking towards the village. I had nowhere else to go so I went. I just wanted some water and a chocolate bar. I got a life-long memory and a heart-full of gratitude to the end of my days. If anyone reads this page and knows or is from Ekinli, please send all the villagers my best. It was almost ten years ago and there is not a day I don’t think about it.

“13.06.2015

(…)

All the beauty of the human race showed itself today in the welcome of this Turkish village. If this isn’t proof that humans are fundamentally good — but worried, fearful — I don’t know what more is needed to prove it. Just a magical, poetic moment.

I want to sleep and write tomorrow.

To write the encounters, one after the other, the gunshots at the village entrance, everyone stopping to check on me, the German, the tea offered because I’m a woman, the four daughters invited (the mother and the three daughters), the “you look 15” from the oldest of the three.

This Turkish-English-Mano discussion. Wow, this is Life with a capital L for Love, Luck and Laughter!

14.06.2015

So there I was, imagining myself having to spend the night outside, between snakes (I saw a huge one!) and rifle shots (to scare off wild pigs, but how was I to know?).

Smoking a fag in the middle of this village, around 4pm, I mentally prepare myself.

I need water for a quick shower and a drink, and some food, my meagre victuals having dwindled drastically during the day. A Turkish friend writes me how to say store in Turkish and I stop the first passer-by. She says a lot of things under my stunned gaze. I thank her and move on. She yells at me, gesturing for me to keep going up. The village is at the top of a hill, and I’m aching all over, every step sending shocks of pain from my hair to my toenails. Closed. Empty bottle in hand, I wave to an old man, well like 60, indicating the store, my bottle, spreading my hands in a sign (I hope) of desperation. He beckons me to follow him and we head back down the hill I’d painstakingly set out to climb. I restrain myself from putting my bag there, and sit down, refusing to move another centimetre.

He leads me into a bar, a sort of vast room with high ceilings, white walls, about 40 square meters of pallets of bottled water, two fridges and furniture made of metal tables and chairs of the same ilk.”

“13.06.2015

(…)

Toute la beauté du genre humain s’est montrée aujourd’hui, dans l’accueil de ce village turc. Si ça, c’est pas la preuve que l’humain est fonctièrement bon — mais inquiet, peureux — je ne sais pas ce qu’il faut de plus pour le prouver. Juste un instant magique, poétique.

J’ai envie de dormir et d’écrire demain.

Ecrire les rencontres les unes après les autres, les coups de fusil à l’entrée du village, les arrêts de tous pour savoir si tout va bien, l’allemand, le thé offert parce que je suis une femme, les quatre filles invitées (la mère et les trois filles), le “tu sembles avoir 15 ans” de la plus âgées des trois.

Cette discussion turco-anglais-mano. Ouahou, c’est la vie avec un grand V de victoire, vitesse, viva!

14.06.2015

J’en étais donc à m’imaginer devoir passer la nuit dehors, entre serpent (j’en ai vu un énorme!) et coups de fusils (pour effrayer les cochons sauvages, mais comment je pouvais savoir, moi?).

Fumant une clope au milieu de ce village, vers 16h00, je m’y prépare mentalement.

Il me faut de l’eau pour une douche sommaire et pour boire et un peu à manger, mes maigres victuailles ayant diminué drastiquement durant la journée. Une amie turque m’écrit comment dire magasin en turc et j’arrête la première passante. Qui dit beaucoup de choses sous mon regard ébahi. Je remercie et avance. Elle me hurle dessus faisant des gestes pour que je continue de monter. Le village est en haut d’une colline, j’ai mal partout, chaque pas me lance des décharges de mal des cheveux aux ongles des orteils. Fermé. Bouteille vide à la main, je fais des signes à un vieux monsieur, enfin genre 60 ans, indiquant le magasin, ma bouteille, écartant les mains dans un signe (que j’espère) de désespoir. Il me fait signe de le suivre et on redescend tout ce que j’avais péniblement entrepris de gravir. Je me retiens de ne pas déposer mon sac là, et de m’asseoir, refusant de bouger un centimètres de plus.

Il m’amène dans un bar, sorte de vaste pièce haute de plafond, mur blanc, environ 40 mètres carrés de palettes de bouteilles d’eau, deux frigos et un mobilier fait de tables métalliques et de chaises du même accabit.”

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