Serendipity brings good and bad, but mainly good,
The women who invited Kartini and her friend into their home. The toddler is on the left, then her mother and the host. Kartini is third from the right; her Korean friend is holding the boy. You can barely see the plate of
cakes and glasses of Ayran on the floor.
“Gel, gel, gel, gel!” Pronounced like the English “gal”, this was probably one of the phrases I heard most frequently while travelling around Turkey. It means “Come!” and in addition to hearing it every time a local beckoned me, it was also the one line I could make out from a popular Turkish pop song that was all the rave in June 2001. In fact, I probably heard this song on every bus ride I took in the country, and in as many stores and otogar bus offices I strayed near.
When the locals shouted out “gel, gel, gel” but not in song, I found that it was often a precursor to instances of warm, Turkish hospitality. I recall one hellishly hot day. My Korean roommate and I had just spent the last two days hiking in Ilhara valley and were grimy, smelly and sweating profusely as we puffed our way up a hilly road, hoping to hitch a ride back to Goreme, Cappadocia. Three women were sitting in the shade of a tree by the road, and we just about managed to puff out a “Merhaba” between gasps for breath.
Maybe the sight of two Asian girls walking around their quiet Turkish town was too curious to let pass by. Maybe it was simply because we agreed very enthusiastically with them that it was “cok secak” (very hot) that day, and we were all probably thinking how much we really wanted to be indoors. Whatever their motivation, we soon heard them shouting out to us, “gel, gel, gel!” with the appropriate smiles and hand actions to ensure we understood them, if not the words.
It did not take us long to accept their offer. After all, they were women and there were two young children there as well, plus it looked blissfully cool in the shade of that tree. So we dragged our aching feet a little further up that hill, and smiled weakly as we approached. We chatted awhile in what little Turkish we knew, and learned that the little boy had come in first in his class at school; one of the women held a report card in her hand and was beaming at him. I made the appropriate sounds and gestures of being impressed, and he blushed shyly in the corner.
There was some discussion amongst the women, but all I understood was “ayran” (a local yogurt drink). Soon they all stood up and started walking. “Gel, gel, gel,” yet again, and we were ushered to one of their houses just down the lane from the tree. It was a completely unexpected move of hospitality, and I was now very excited. Not only would I finally see the inside of a Turkish home and find out what the women did all day (for I saw very few on the streets or in public), but truth is, I also half-hoped and guessed that I might be drinking some cool ayran very shortly. (I loved the stuff, and had been unsuccessful in trying to buy some from the town’s shops just minutes earlier).
We took off our shoes and gingerly stepped into the cool living room, praying that nobody noticed the odours emanating from my socks. The room was small and simply furnished � they were not wealthy folk � and we were led to two cushions on the floor, which we gratefully collapsed into. Three rooms opened out into the living area � a kitchen and two bedrooms � and our hostess busied herself, walking from room to room. Meanwhile, her friends and the children entertained us, and we, them. Very soon, the hostess brought in glasses of cool ayran and plates of sweet sponge cakes for everyone, and joined us on the floor.
The amount of information that we exchanged that day still amazes me. Through simple Turkish words, the help of my phrasebook, a lot of gesturing and what I dub “International Sign Language,” we learned about one another’s ages, love lives (or lack thereof), family situations and educational histories. Mostly though, it was a lot of laughing and playing with the baby, who was toddling around happily and dropping crumbs all over the carpet.
When that awkward lull in conversation arrived, as it inevitably does, our hostess went into her room and emerged with a glass box in her hands. She then proudly displayed the fruits of her labour. It turned out that her hobby was stringing beaded necklaces and bracelets. They were beautiful, colourful and intricate, and we were allowed to admire a few specimens.
Then, they took out a scarf and proceeded to tie it around my Korean mate’s head. One woman produced a hand-held mirror and we all had a good laugh at how she looked. Soon after the process was repeated on my head, with more booming laughs from all around. The scarf felt surprisingly cool on my head and face, and I now understood how all the women could bear to wrap themselves up in them, even in such torrid heat.
Eventually we parted company, with profuse thanks in Turkish. They walked us to the end of the road and showed us where we could catch a bus. We sneaked back into the town to buy some chips, for we wanted to leave them a token of our appreciation. It was a pleasant surprise to them, and one they happily accepted. By the time the bus arrived, all the folks boarding with us knew where we came from and where we were heading. As our newfound friends waved us goodbye, we found ourselves charmed and re-enchanted. So it is true after all: not everyone in Turkey is friendly just because they want to sell you a carpet!
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