What a day... Having explored all of Burgazada, I decided from last night, to visit Kinaliada and Heybeliada today. Since I get up very early, I will have breakfast by the water not at the guest house. I head to Ergun Cafe where we had the delicious dessert yesterday. It turns out this is the place that the locals frequent the most. An Istanbulite Greek couple, the male has lived on the island forever and a German woman are my company. They all have become year-round residents for some time. They are reminiscing of their own grandmothers with sweet attributions.
We leave together, they to catch their seabus and I to catch my city boat. Once I get to Kinali, I really need a place to have a cup of tea to warm up. I am told Burak patisserie is the place to go. Islands are very quiet both due to the season and today especially due to the weather. I join two gentlemen and a woman, who are also finding refuge from rain and wind in this warm place. Although I had breakfast with spinach pie and tea at Burgazada, I can't say no to a bogaca with cheese and dill, that just came out of the oven, delicious.
The other customers apparently all know one another. They are thrilled to help me with guidance for the Greek and Armenian churches I'd like to visit. Greek church is a small one under lock as all the other churches have been so far. When I get to the Armenian church, which is much more impressive, I find a side door that is unlocked and enter. I sit at a bench and start meditating. In five minutes a lady is at the door inquiring what I am doing. It looks like, people responsible to maintain these religious homes are uncomfortable with visitors. I learn from her that even their cemetery is under lock. If not, people would come in drink and trash the cemetery or break the headstones, etc.
I have heard from other people that, people vandalized churches and stolen the donation boxes, chandeliers, faucets to name a few. It is no wonder that they supervise anything and everything. I recall the young man at Eyup Mosque and Complex my American colleague and I encountered a few days ago. When my friend and I tried to approach the group praying around the tomb of Eyup Sultan, who had fought in the Islamic armies along with Mohammed, this man approached us and told us we couldn't join the group. His explanation was, we have nothing to do with their churches, she shouldn't have anything to do with our mosques. I highly doubt, AKP is doing anything to eliminate this school of thought, in fact most likely they do everything to secure it. The lady unlocks the cemetery gate for me and my visit becomes a walking mediation, completing what I had started in the church. Where the Armenian cemetery ends, starts the muslim cemetery. A gentleman is digging a grave, yes he is doing it for the person, who died on the island, whose relatives I came across at the patisserie an hour ago. I have already become part of the island culture. The graves are so similar, there is in fact no difference among us after death, we are all the same, I wish religious fanatics could see this.
I then continue my walk up the hill toward the cable towers, assuming that would be the highest point on the island. The higher I go, the more spectacular the vistas become. Istanbul seems very friendly from this distance, but I know better what a sprawling urban monster of this size is like, when you get too close to it. At the summit is a small house, which I assume was built for the security guard of the premises. When I talk to him, he states he was indeed filling that role in the past, but no more. I can't ask him how it is that he and his family are still living in that house. That question may be too touchy for “political can of worms” reasons… I have learned that on each island there are small pockets of squatting communities consisting of a few houses per pocket. His house and 4-5 houses down the hill must be one such pocket on Kinali.
Mini squatting community on Kinali island
When I go down to the dock to board the Heybeli ada boat, I will meet a man that came to the islands 40 years ago from a Central Anatolia town Tokat. He will tell me that when somebody has lived in a particular home for a certain period of time, even if it is in an illegal location, say on state property, the occupiers are offered to pay a certain amount of occupation fee as long as they live in the property to avoid eviction; thus they become the state's tenants, the state having no choice in this.
I wonder if this man, who works in constructions is one of such tenants since I doubt he would be able to buy or rent a home on this very-expensive-to-live place. No wonder he advocates for the government with such fervor when I ask him how things are going with "Who else is there that is better than AKP, everybody coming to that post helps themselves" referring to and normalizing the corruption that made the Erdogan family one of the richest in the country.
As I head down, I come across prickly pear cactuses on the road side, which is peculiar since this part of Turkey receives a lot of rain and is very green, not the cactuses' native environment. Nobody to ask. I go through another wild strawberry patch and devour at least a pound of berries feeling like a "bear", knowing that the bears of national parks in the USA feast over berries in the high altitudes. I have lunch before I leave Kinali, at Durak restaurant that serves Turkish home-style dishes. I choose a dish called tas kebabi made with cubed beef, cubed potatoes, tomato sauce and spices cooked in the oven in a clay bowl. Turkish rice and yogurt/cucumber cold soup (tzatziki) complete my menu. It is indeed delicious. I learn that the young owner learned how to cook from his father in law, a former 5-star hotel chef. The same family is running this small but cozy restaurant.
I am finally at Heybeli ada after a brief boat ride. I would like to head to the Greek Orthodox Theological school located at the highest point on the island along with a monastery in the school yard. I hear that this school was shut down after the military coup of the 1970 and although it has a plate at the entrance that states "Istanbul Private Greek High School for Boys", it is almost a museum arranged in a school format. It so happens that there is a big Greek tourist group visiting the school. The gentleman at the gift shop, who speaks only Greek and English welcomes me to visit the church along with them.
I join the visitors, who all go to a painting of the Virgin Mary and Christ and kiss the eyes of at least the two, but some all the figures in the painting. After drawing the shape of a cross on their chest, most bend forward and as they come back up, they make a three-level greeting movement with their hands just as the greeting of the Ottoman era especially before a person of higher social stature. Interesting combination of religious beliefs and historical royal attitudes. The group is now invited to visit the upstairs of the school, which is closed to public. The gentleman downstairs, who speaks only Greek, neither Turkish nor English first tells me "Only the group", I am saddened. He changes his mind, I guess seeing the sad expression on my face and tells me in Greek "Come on, go on..." I am pleased and thank him in Greek "Efharisto poli". People are good and they are meant to be helpful. On top of the stairs though, is the third staff, who speaks both English and Greek. He is firm "Only the group, you can't enter." My heart breaks, but I won't argue, calmly turn around and descend.
My benevolent Greek friend is sad, but neither of us has the language to tell the other how we exactly feel and that we appreciate each other. I want to believe he would have told me he was sorry, I would have thanked him for trusting me. I head down taking the same trail only to take the gravel road to the left instead of the right at the foot of the woods. More of the Greek group is coming up on foot. One of the younger women looks at me and smiles with a "Yasas", which means "hellos". I smile back, those who are willing to connect with all women and men on earth will win in the end. I thank her and forgive the priest upstairs.
Down by the waterfront, as I wait for the boat to arrive, my company is Polin, a young Greek Istanbulite, who's graduated from a vocational school teaching tourism and hospitality. She seems to be working at this cafe and tells me a lot about her life, her mother is a housewife, her father is an accountant. She stayed with her aunt for 11 months in Canada. She thinks Walmart would be great for Turkey since you could find everything you wanted at a Walmart! I tell her all that I know about Walmart and explain why it would be a very bad idea to have a Walmart in Istanbul. She smiles, I am not sure if she understands all that I try to convey.
It turns out this is a cafe that the Greek women of the island get together to play card games. Conversations are fluid between Turkish and Greek, how sweet, just like our conversations in Iowa City between Turkish and English. I will go back to Ergun Cafe this evening to have tea to discover that they also serve dinner items from a group ordering soup. The same group will add English to the mixture of languages since I understand there is a Greek in their group from mainland Greece, whose accent may not be fully accessible to the Istanbulite Greeks. At that point, they switch to English.
Adalar is a unique place. Greeks, Armenians, and Jewish on the islands seem to be a very significant existence, which has been lost to the rest of the country. It was indeed the case in entire Turkey until the “Catastrophie” as Greeks call it; the streets of major cities were vibrant with music and language of minorities that made a significant impression on the social life and culture of especially Istanbul and Izmir among other smaller provinces and towns. All the way to Kayseri, at the heart of Anatolia, there was Greek, Jewish, and Armenian presence.
What better place than this to designate as a national park?
The two world wars unfortunately swept away the cultural heritage these minorities gifted Turkiye with for many centuries. Especially, after getting to know Adalar a bit better and after discovering how rich the social life is with Greeks, Armenians, Jews, Muslims, Alevis, and Sunnis along with seculars, I ache for this loss imperialists caused more than ever. Although, Adalar represents the class difference in addition to ethnic differences, which at times may hurt those Turks that do not have, I still feel it is such a cultural, natural, and historical treasure and heritage, it would be a very wise idea to designate the non-private lands as a national park just as wisely the archipelago has been designated historical site with no permission for new construction.
Last morning on Burgaz. I thought I would sleep late and head to the boat. I wake up at 6 am to the symphony of the seagulls one more time. I treasure this, which I won't hear again for who knows how long, I get up and head to the Hristo Metamophosis monastery one more time. It is so peaceful, so noisy, yet so quiet. The only sounds that I hear are of the seagulls singing another playful operetta along with the background music of the Marmara with its boats and waves, oh, and the wind from the north: The rain of the night before has left a harsh wind to command the island.
As I climb up high, the birds follow me. How many video clips of their singing and dancing have I recorded for the last three days. More than I ever did all my life for sure. I take my “eye's share” off the wild strawberry shrubs. I notice that I lost one of my ear rings in the shrubs of yesterday when I had tried to take an alternative route down the trail from the Theological School of the Heybeli Ada. I smile and murmur to myself "Who knows when and if ever it will be found and by whom". I wonder if in the next several centuries somebody will find it and wonder where the second one might be. I wonder what kind of documentation about this single gold ring they will make in their museums. Or is it going to find its way into the hands of another adventurous hiker next season? Who knows, I send my wishes of happiness to whoever finds it.
I close my trip to Burgaz by having a cup of Turkish coffee at the balcony of the second story served by dear Erol, our server at the guest house, who has been living here for the last 9 years, his accent tells me he is from eastern Turkey. As I sip my coffee looking down on Marmara through the trees of the lot across the guesthouse, I think of my impressions of the last 3 days:
The last coffee on Burgaz island
distance
what is it that separates us
from one another
from all… our lives
is it the miles
when i am closest still, to you
when there is an ocean between us
a continent
when i am farthest to istanbul
when it is just 15 minutes
away
is it the concrete conglomerate
of ugliness
i want to distance from myself
as much as i can
all i see in it is
filth smeared on bills that change hands
smearing the filth to all
spilling the filth into
rivers, streams, lakes
oceans all over the world alike
i am closest to all
that is meaningful to me
when i am closest to earth
to her sons and daughters
be it her birds, be it her shrub
be it her wild berries
be it her rocky cliffs
be it the wild surf thrusting
itself onto the bosom of
the Mother Earth
big and enormous enough
to embrace it all.
listening to the melody
of all her sons and daughters
takes away all the distance
with those who can feel it,
who can hear it, who can smell it
who can see it with the eyes
that sparkle with the sunshine
that i so adore...
then... whether there is an ocean
or a continent or both in-between
it matters none
we are together
we speak the same language
we are on the same path
to bliss
hand in hand...
 |
| Istanbul from a distance.... |
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