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Kartini (far right) with the girl and two boys who taught her the farmers’ dance, on the deck of the Black Sea Ferry. |
The Hills Are Alive…
I never caught the name of the artiste who made the “Gel, gel, gel, gel” song so popular. However, I did arm myself with the names of a few Turkish singers � such as Ibo Tatlises and Tarkan � for I learned that talk about music, and music per se, are terrific conversation savers for when you reach those awkward silences after all the usual information has been exchanged.
We befriended a group of university students, about 10 young men and women, who were in the same boat as us headed towards Akdamar Island in Van. We chatted briefly in the boat and again when we met on the beach. Back on the mainland a few hours later, one of them came up to us and asked if we were heading back to Van. “Gel, gel, gel, gel!” she shouted and beckoned us toward their minivan. We gratefully accepted the ride, as we had been wondering how we would get back into town, for there was no dolmus service, nor any public buses serving the route.
In the van, they asked us if we liked Turkish music, and I proudly named the few artistes I knew of. Then, they cautiously asked us if we liked Kurdish music. I had heard another group of university students singing some a few weeks ago. As I had befriended them in Pamukkale, I could honestly say yes.
Before we knew it, we were being treated to our very own, private Kurdish concert. The woman in the back started singing first; she had a strong, deep, mellow voice. The rest joined in at what seemed the appropriate moment. Kurdish songs sound very nationalistic, the stuff national anthems are made of. Looking into their eyes as they sang, I could sense the pride, the yearning, the quiet indignation at the perceived injustice.
After a couple of songs, they requested one from us. I looked at my Australian mate, but we were stumped. Not having grown up in the same culture, and having just met the day before, we had no idea which songs the other person knew. So we went for “Do, Re, Mi” from The Sound of Music. We were absolutely terrible. Off-key from the beginning, and we kept mixing up the words. It was all we could do to keep from laughing.
The students applauded politely once we had ended, even though it was probably the worst singing they had ever heard in their lives. Then they promptly proceeded to sing the very same song, in their language! And it goes without saying, it sounded a lot better coming from them. It was absolutely hilarious, and we all had a good laugh afterwards.
We pulled into a gas station and they hushed one another up. I guessed that the attendant was not Kurdish and would not be too pleased to hear Kurdish songs being sung, so full of zest and spirit. Once we pulled out though, the singing resumed, with us clapping and singing along to the simpler words, all the way back to Van.
My mate and I wanted to compensate them for the ride back, because petrol was expensive and they had probably hired that van for the whole day. We knew they would not accept money if we handed it to them, so we hatched a plan: we would pretend to “accidentally” leave a banknote on our seats.
We arrived in the town centre and were almost home-free when they spotted the note and rushed to give it back to us. Damn, the plan failed miserably! So we played a sort of reverse tug-of-war with the money, each party trying to get the other to take it and keep it. They even chased us as we hopped and ran away from the van, everyone laughing all the while.
In the end, we kept the cash at their insistence that the ride was sincerely offered as a token of their friendship, hospitality and culture. We left them with as many ways of saying thank you � in Turkish and Kurdish � that we knew. We all waved frantically as we parted company, and the second goodbye was even more enthusiastic than the first. The second goodbye, which happens a few seconds after you first turn your back, implies that your relationship does not just end at the door. And on that second goodbye, everyone � but everyone � in the van was smiling and waving with all their might.
Dancing with Cubs
“Gel, gel, gel, gel!” This time it was I saying those words, panting them out rather, and in song too. My arms were linked with a handsome 10-year-old boy and a bubbly 8-year-old girl. We were skipping sideways in a semi-circle, doing a mild version of the can-can with our legs. They were teaching me how to dance to the song.
We were the only ones left on the upper deck of the Black Sea Ferry headed back to Istanbul. The sun had set, the stars were out, and it was rather chilly. They had approached me when we first boarded the ship in Trabzon. My Turkish had improved considerably by then, enabling me to joke and have simple conversations with the children, even talk about futbol and music. When that inevitable lull in conversation came along, they simply stared at me and smiled, in that unselfconscious way that kids do.
As we panted out the song and danced what I was later told was a farmer’s dance, I gazed at the wide smiles on their faces and their patience in teaching me. Children have always been the friendliest locals I meet whenever I travel, and my best teachers too. I struggled to keep in time and not to mess up my footing, and belted out the only words I knew to the song: “Gel, gel, gel, gel!”