I’ve been wrestling the last few days with how to describe four of the most eventful days of your life in one or two blogs. It’s a impossible task, a task I’m not sure I am even interested in starting, but for your sake, I am trying, failing really. It’s these times when I resent the fact that I have been labeled the writer because now I know I am going to let you, me and everyone down. Here’s hoping God is still on my side.
Diyarbakir? Where to start?
Diyarbakir was the first stop of our
Turkey Tour and we played our songs in the city
square for three hours for tan, mustached Turks in suits and school
boys who crowded us and our guitar case, open for donations, getting
within a foot of us as we sang. Sometimes the adults would chide
them to step back, even shepherding them back with their big olive,
Muslim hands, hands connected to big, olive Muslim ears which were
hearing our songs and doing nothing but enjoying them
because they were sung in English–and yes we pulled a fast one one on
them, but really we weren’t playing to entertain them, although it
was a good cover, we were playing our songs for God and asking him to
come and meet with all of us there.
Turkey Tour and we played our songs in the city
square for three hours for tan, mustached Turks in suits and school
boys who crowded us and our guitar case, open for donations, getting
within a foot of us as we sang. Sometimes the adults would chide
them to step back, even shepherding them back with their big olive,
Muslim hands, hands connected to big, olive Muslim ears which were
hearing our songs and doing nothing but enjoying them
because they were sung in English–and yes we pulled a fast one one on
them, but really we weren’t playing to entertain them, although it
was a good cover, we were playing our songs for God and asking him to
come and meet with all of us there.
Diyarbakir was
bruises on my right hand from playing three hours of djembe (an
African drum like a bongo) and forty-four lira of donations thrown in
by those olive, Muslim hands over those three hours, almost ten
dollars an hour, of which we gave five lira to Diyarbakir Evangelical
Church and twenty to pay for coffee and tea while getting to know one
of Diyarbakir’s finest gentlemen, Deniz, who spoke perfect English,
looked like Sean Connery in his younger days and even had blue eyes,
a rarity for a Turk, who entertained us with his jokes, picture
taking skills, flattery, and genuine enjoyment of life for seven
hours over two days, who taught me how to kiss men like a Turk (they
kiss here, a very affectionate culture across same gender lines), who
took us to meet his friend, and barber, the barber that gave me my
first hot shave (which was wonderful by the way, if you haven’t tried
it, I greatly suggest it) and my first European metro hairstyle.
bruises on my right hand from playing three hours of djembe (an
African drum like a bongo) and forty-four lira of donations thrown in
by those olive, Muslim hands over those three hours, almost ten
dollars an hour, of which we gave five lira to Diyarbakir Evangelical
Church and twenty to pay for coffee and tea while getting to know one
of Diyarbakir’s finest gentlemen, Deniz, who spoke perfect English,
looked like Sean Connery in his younger days and even had blue eyes,
a rarity for a Turk, who entertained us with his jokes, picture
taking skills, flattery, and genuine enjoyment of life for seven
hours over two days, who taught me how to kiss men like a Turk (they
kiss here, a very affectionate culture across same gender lines), who
took us to meet his friend, and barber, the barber that gave me my
first hot shave (which was wonderful by the way, if you haven’t tried
it, I greatly suggest it) and my first European metro hairstyle.
Diyarbakir was devil children stealing
cookies and juice from our backpacks, which we wereguarding while we were
waiting for Yemet (name changed to protect his identity), the 18 year old future English teacher, to take us
to his to stay for two nights at his uncle’s beautiful Turkish villa–which would have been
wonderful except for the fact that his uncle didn’t know we were
staying there, and also the other fact that Yemet was charging us and possibly pocketing
the money from selling out his uncles’ place for himself–cookies
and juice we didn’t particularly need, but which still unsettle us to lose because of the fact that
they were stolen by the snarling pack of hyena children. They
thankfully were chased off by Suleman, Yemet’s friend, also a future
English teacher (they all spoke only passable English), and another
man whose name I believe was Jihan.
cookies and juice from our backpacks, which we wereguarding while we were
waiting for Yemet (name changed to protect his identity), the 18 year old future English teacher, to take us
to his to stay for two nights at his uncle’s beautiful Turkish villa–which would have been
wonderful except for the fact that his uncle didn’t know we were
staying there, and also the other fact that Yemet was charging us and possibly pocketing
the money from selling out his uncles’ place for himself–cookies
and juice we didn’t particularly need, but which still unsettle us to lose because of the fact that
they were stolen by the snarling pack of hyena children. They
thankfully were chased off by Suleman, Yemet’s friend, also a future
English teacher (they all spoke only passable English), and another
man whose name I believe was Jihan.
I know, it’s too much. It’s poorly written. It’s unclear. I’m sorry. I hope you understood some of it anyway. I have to go now. The Turkey tour ends tomorrow because we’re going to do ethnography to a people group in Trabzone until the 21st, a people group who has likely never met a single American. We’ll be camping and cooking by the fire. There won’t be any internet.
I might have another information overload blog when I get back. There will be a lot of experience to be shared.
