Getting to this 14th Century BC town took another crack of dawn start hailing down a dolmus to an otogar to begin our journey up towards the highlands of the ancient Hittite empire. In the days of the Qadesh battle that bore the first written treaty, what took battalions of marching soldiers scaling the cutting heights and fertile promise of green fields, was conquered by us two feeble mortals in three long bus rides, each a different bus carriage that was shared with other colourful travellers en route to their homes in this small village nestled in a crater walled by mineral-rich mountains and simply vast stretches of land that testified to the greatness of Man's ambition to expand the limits of his kingdom.
Most of the precious remnants of the likes such as Lion's Gate, Sphinx Tower and hoards of Byzantine churches and temples to honour 1,000 deities were held in modern Ankara. The hike around the city was more like a workout given the searing heat of the day that spiced up a magnified glow to the morning. While hubby took the challenge, I accepted my own calling to venture into the road unmapped along the village. Suspended between the boundaries of two mosques, this tiny village held the lives of many families that built their stories in charming characteristic homes spanning the chatter and daily noises of many generations. At times, even four is not a number uncommon here.
The walk took me to an opportunistic day in making friends with my limited Turkish at the wheat mill, local geese herder, free-roaming cows and goats, anxiety-driven roosters and a loving mummy dog with her five puppies that we helped to rescue amidst the many independent cats that hopped on and off the local dust bins like the Red Buses of London. I was invited simply for being curiously a wanderer. Being lost was the furthest I came to that day. I learned what it was like to bask in the gift of a summer and prepare for the long winters ahead. Helping three generations of women cutting, chopping, peeling and laughing with the kids frolicking in the cool courtyard, I connected with a part of life that I didn't realise that I had missed so much. Even though most of them were fasting, they insisted of serving me nibbles and drinks fresh from the fields of their own hard work. Aubergines were fried, some smoked and soaked in buckets of river cold water to help faster peeling. Their charcoaled purple robes slid off as our nimble fingers gently coaxed them while we laughed so much over tiny comments that somehow meant something meaningful even if they were innocent jokes.
I sat in the evening cool wind watching my new acquaintance Harun, herding his own gaggle of hissing geese home. The latter, still determined to cajole the last bit of free bread from my table. Coming back from a local politically-sponsored "concert", I laughed at my own little gust of luck when the wind blew a piece of the lucky draw coupon to my feet. My quick reflex brought a disappointed sigh to the crouching man trying to dive for my coupon as I retrieved it under my shoe (my left foot may be bandaged but it sure could step on a stab at Lady Luck!). Tipping his beret he explained gruffly in Turkish that I would have to watch the numbers shown by some really glitzy blonds that were holding up the number paper-cutout announced from the cauldron of popping balls. Turned out I was one number short from winning an LCD television. I wouldn't be able to figure out how I will bring it home anyway.
As I sipped the last drop of coffee from the delicate white China, mothers called out in a soft resolute tone to their hyperactive Mehmets and Mustafas to come home for the day. The last ray of dusk had long faded to slumber but the people of Bogazkale were only finally closing the last door to their cay salonu, switching off the lollipops of light bulbs circling the tiny town centre's roundabout. Tomorrow we all began again.
The bustling market, the flaky chilli and sliced aubergine laid out on rooftops, more rambunctious donkeys and geese announcing their noisy ascent up the hills for more of last night's disposed vegetables. Another day of something smaller, something more intimate. Where there is always time and room for even the tiniest of significance - young or old, new or familiar.
But tonight, as the thunder rumbled afar from my little 300-year old Ottoman House in Safronbolu, I dreamed inside a little village of another one similarly variant. It is a wonderful feeling to hop into a village completely unaware of anything and leave learning something deeper, and then moving on to another that hold the same kind of introduction yet I know somehow it will be a little bit different but affable nonetheless.
I must really go now. I hear window shutters rattling and a few stray cats shrieking. Fat drops of rain were already prattling on the vine leaves outside my room and it is time for dreams now.
Most of the precious remnants of the likes such as Lion's Gate, Sphinx Tower and hoards of Byzantine churches and temples to honour 1,000 deities were held in modern Ankara. The hike around the city was more like a workout given the searing heat of the day that spiced up a magnified glow to the morning. While hubby took the challenge, I accepted my own calling to venture into the road unmapped along the village. Suspended between the boundaries of two mosques, this tiny village held the lives of many families that built their stories in charming characteristic homes spanning the chatter and daily noises of many generations. At times, even four is not a number uncommon here.
The walk took me to an opportunistic day in making friends with my limited Turkish at the wheat mill, local geese herder, free-roaming cows and goats, anxiety-driven roosters and a loving mummy dog with her five puppies that we helped to rescue amidst the many independent cats that hopped on and off the local dust bins like the Red Buses of London. I was invited simply for being curiously a wanderer. Being lost was the furthest I came to that day. I learned what it was like to bask in the gift of a summer and prepare for the long winters ahead. Helping three generations of women cutting, chopping, peeling and laughing with the kids frolicking in the cool courtyard, I connected with a part of life that I didn't realise that I had missed so much. Even though most of them were fasting, they insisted of serving me nibbles and drinks fresh from the fields of their own hard work. Aubergines were fried, some smoked and soaked in buckets of river cold water to help faster peeling. Their charcoaled purple robes slid off as our nimble fingers gently coaxed them while we laughed so much over tiny comments that somehow meant something meaningful even if they were innocent jokes.
I sat in the evening cool wind watching my new acquaintance Harun, herding his own gaggle of hissing geese home. The latter, still determined to cajole the last bit of free bread from my table. Coming back from a local politically-sponsored "concert", I laughed at my own little gust of luck when the wind blew a piece of the lucky draw coupon to my feet. My quick reflex brought a disappointed sigh to the crouching man trying to dive for my coupon as I retrieved it under my shoe (my left foot may be bandaged but it sure could step on a stab at Lady Luck!). Tipping his beret he explained gruffly in Turkish that I would have to watch the numbers shown by some really glitzy blonds that were holding up the number paper-cutout announced from the cauldron of popping balls. Turned out I was one number short from winning an LCD television. I wouldn't be able to figure out how I will bring it home anyway.
As I sipped the last drop of coffee from the delicate white China, mothers called out in a soft resolute tone to their hyperactive Mehmets and Mustafas to come home for the day. The last ray of dusk had long faded to slumber but the people of Bogazkale were only finally closing the last door to their cay salonu, switching off the lollipops of light bulbs circling the tiny town centre's roundabout. Tomorrow we all began again.
The bustling market, the flaky chilli and sliced aubergine laid out on rooftops, more rambunctious donkeys and geese announcing their noisy ascent up the hills for more of last night's disposed vegetables. Another day of something smaller, something more intimate. Where there is always time and room for even the tiniest of significance - young or old, new or familiar.
But tonight, as the thunder rumbled afar from my little 300-year old Ottoman House in Safronbolu, I dreamed inside a little village of another one similarly variant. It is a wonderful feeling to hop into a village completely unaware of anything and leave learning something deeper, and then moving on to another that hold the same kind of introduction yet I know somehow it will be a little bit different but affable nonetheless.
I must really go now. I hear window shutters rattling and a few stray cats shrieking. Fat drops of rain were already prattling on the vine leaves outside my room and it is time for dreams now.
