Sunday night in Ortahisar
Crazy Ali graduated high school in 1969 and left his notebook and pencil to collect dust in some abandoned corner of his mind. He now owns an antique shop in the middle of the small town of Ortahisar and for the past ten years has found a calling in poetry. After spending two years in the Turkish army he traveled to Germany, to Holland, and to Belgium. “98 percent same culture,” he said between the “West” and his concept of the true Turkey. But to him, the concept of hospitality and true personal exchanges are key differences between the two worlds.
Ali is generous to a fault. In the past two days he has offered us two rounds of Turkish coffee, three Turkish tea times, “Holy Waters” (Cappadocian red wine) and a traditional pide (pronounced “peeddah”) lunch. On our arrival our host, Evelien, introduced us to him as we all sat around a circular metal-etched table, sipping Turkish tea. He ordered us pitas and argued with Evelien that he should pay the bill as it was his porch that Emma and I had landed on when we arrived from Istanbul.
Two days after our arrival and several “merhabas” later, we had our first lengthy conversation with what we have found to be an impressive and progressive human, from a conservative and often short-sighted corner of the world. “Five times a day gives my God a headache,” Ali said disprovingly about the billions of Muslims who pray for this or that everyday. “I only go to Mosque twice a year, so, when I ask my God for things, He thinks to Himself, ‘Hmm, Ali doesn’t give me such a headache, so, I’ll give him what he wishes for.’”
We sat down sipping (to avoid drinking the grounds floating around in the cup) on Turkish coffee for only three minutes before his eyebrows raised and his pointer rose into the air. “I have an idea,” proclaimed Ali. “Can you drive a moped?” he asked me. I nodded and explained as long as it didn’t shift, I would be okay. He smiled and practically threw the keys at me. The sun was setting and our mission was to catch it at the sunset panorama about three kilometers up the main road. We were both shocked, but couldn’t miss this opportunity. We turned off before the official sunset point and went down a white sand Jeep road to where a small gathering of like-minded individuals had come to watch the pink sun dip below the peaked horizon.
On our return, we were grinning ear to ear and found ourselves completely humbled by his generosity. We sat and drank “Holy Waters” out of Chinese tea cups, as this is a Muslim country, where drinking is “officially” not allowed. He told us of many stories, with fantasy woven in with history and where sad endings become happy beginnings.
His imagination is a delight to watch unfold as he tells tales of going to the moon with elephants and camels before the American’s took it from his imagination in 1969. I thought of telling him that maybe America took the moon so that he would have to dream of more distant places that he couldn’t even see from his porch, but tonight, I just listened.
Before leaving he invited us to listen to some of his poems and we eagerly accepted. We stood there in his shop, surrounded by beautiful objects listening to beautiful words. He stared at us both from beneith his black, typically-Dutch hat, and swung his arms in the air as if he was throwing a lasso to catch our imaginations too. With animated gestures, Crazy Ali recited three poems for us.
Ali thanked us for listening and invited us to his porch, which he likens to a train station, anytime we are passing. He is genuine, kind, and we are both extremely excited to hear and see Cappadocia through the eyes of this Turkish, local gentleman.
