Table Of ContentThe Caravan •.•+
Moves On
Three Weeks among Turkish Nomads
IRFAN ORGA
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The Caravan
Moves On
IRFAN ORGA
Dogs bark but the caravan moves on.
OLD TURKISH PROVERB
ElAND
London
2002
First published by Martin Secker & Warburg in 1958
This edition published by Eland Publishing Limited
61 Exmouth Market, London ECIR 4QL in 2002
This abridged edition copyright © Ate~ D'A rcy-Orga 2002
Afterword copyright© Ate~D'Arcy-Orga 2002
ISBN O 907871 97 6
All rights reserved. This publication may not be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without permission in writing from the publishers.
Cover designed by Robert Dalrymple
Cover image © Getty Images
Map drawn by Ate~ D'Arcy-Orga
Text set in Great Britain by Antony Gray and
printed in Spain by GraphyCems, Navarra
For Ma1lJarete and Ate;) with love
I. 0.) 1958
For Isabelle and Guillaume) with love
A. 0.)
2002
Contents
Izmir- Family Reunion - The Tame Communist - The
1
Youth of Smyrna u
The 'Fish Porters' - Ottoman Manisa - Travelling
2
Companions -Afyon - Konya - The Dumb Hotelier -
The First Yii.rii.k - Dervishes - Hikmet Bey-Meram
21
3 'Dogs bark ... ' - Peasant Problems - Snakes -A Model
Farm - Village Institutes - Catching our Dinner -
Erotic Dancing 37
4 A Model Village - Islamic Customs - Camels - More
about the Yii.rii.k - Talking Politics 53
5 Hikmet Bey arranges an Expedition - Karaman - My
Adventurous Ancestor -Amateur Mountaineers -
Alevi v. Sunni - Phantoms oft he Night
6 Semi-Nomads- The Thousand and One Churches -Lords
of the Mountains - Fingers before Forks - 'For Guzel!' 84
7 The Man of the Mountains - Yii.rii.k Wedding-Riding
Bareback - The Mad Shepherd - Folk Tale - The
Sword Dance
103
8 Womens Work - Herb Medicines and Superstitions -
Childbirth - Black and White Magic - Jinn
121
9 Yii.rii.k Dress Customs - Mainly about Women - Marriage -
Symbolic Language - the Karadag Bear 137
The Temperamental Autobii.s - Lake Beyfehir -Antalya -
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Mersin -Adana - The Professor -Au Revoir
151
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.SYRIAJ
1
Izmir - Family Reunion - The Tame Communist -
The Youth of Smyrna
T
HE AEGEAN SEA sparkled and, from the shore, windows winked
in the sun. Izmir came closer, a toy city of white houses and new
concrete wharves. The boat heaved gently, creaking. The glare from the
noonday sun was intense, burning my eyes even behind dark glasses.
There was a smell of salt in the air, and something tangyer, lemon
trees perhaps. The seagulls swooped, cruel-beaked, low over the water. A
gannet cruised on long wings, dazzlingly white where the sun caught the
downy underbelly. It fell suddenly, like an arrowhead, sending up a tall
shower of spray as it plunged into the sea after fish.
In the foreground the peak of Kadife Kale rose mistily, heat hazed,
the shifting shadows violet coloured and tenuous as spun sugar. Farther
back, the undulating curves of Manisa Dagi were like pale watered silk,
their peaks growing less and less substantial as they climbed to the
brazen sky.
Passengers began to crowd the rails, their suitcases, wicker baskets
and other belongings dumped beside them, so that to step back was to be
in danger of breaking onfs leg.
It was hot. We all complained of the heat, resenting its invisible
presence. We mopped our steaming faces, loosened our too civilised ties,
discarded our jackets and commiserated with each other's discomfort.
We sailed close inshore, the wake widening out behind us like quicksilver
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The Caravan Moves On
broken into little drops by the eddying waves. Sickened by the smell of
sweat mixed with stale perfume, I took my small case and went under
the captain's bridge where it was shadier but just as hot. With the aid of
binoculars I watched the city coming closer. On Inciralt1 Plage a few
people lay about in swimming suits. There was a casino with a bright
striped awning. Shifting my gaze I saw the hangars of the old sea-planes,
and felt a surge of nostalgia for my youth that was gone. I had once spent
two feverish years there. I looked at Giizelyal1, where the villas and
summer residences of the rich stood in large gardens and the sea washed
their lower windows, so close were they built to the shore. On the
opposite side was Kar~1yaka, my destination. In Kar~1yaka the houses
stood well away from the sea, yet in summer the spray flung itself against
the windows and in winter metal fastenings became brown with salt.
The boat was nearly in and I put away my binoculars, leaning over
the rail as we turned before docking, the water foaming madly under
the propellers. The harbour was full of fishing boats. Greek, American,
Swedish and British flags hung limply in the heat, and on shore lorries
were unloaded by sweating men in their vests.
A group of people had assembled to watch us dock. Greetings were
called, handkerchiefs waved and I searched for my brother, Mehmet,
catching sight of him at last seated on a crate of dried fruit. His eyes
caught mine and we waved laconically. His first words after I had dis
embarked were: 'My God, haven't you got fat!' to which I agreed sadly,
noting his own slender elegance.
His young son, Kaya, was waiting for us in the car which was parked
in the main street. In the back of the car lolled an enormous Afghan
hound who bared his teeth when he saw me but fawned over Mehmet. I
said very firmly that I would sit in the front and pushed Kaya into the
back with the dog, who made a great fuss of the boy but growled every
time he caught my eye.
Driving out to Kar~1yaka my first impression of changed Izmir was
of light and too much open space. The main boulevard was too wide
for the numerous small shops. There were public gardens everywhere,
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The Caravan Moves On
the bright flowers drooping wretchedly and only the lush palms revelling
in the almost tropical heat. We passed a statue of Kemal Atatiirk -
something that was to become an inevitable part of one's wanderings
across the country, as familiar as a landmark. His memorial in Izmir
showed him stern of face, implacable, his hands pointing seawards.
Certainly the new wide white Izmir would have been after his own heart.
A vast building, nearing completion, was, so Mehmet told me, a hotel
which would house two hundred and fifty people. It was to be all chrome
and plush, luscious introduction to the Aegean for rich Americans.
The heat was intense. The glare burned the eyes and the sea glittered
like a gigantic sunburst of diamonds. The leaves of the city trees hung like
green rags, weighed down by the intolerable burden of the heat. Mehmet
opened all the windows, remarking: 'In about an hour's time it will be a
little better. At one o'clock inbat will come' - looking at me anxiously to
see if after ten years I still remembered inbat, that westerly sea wind which
is the breath oflife to the people oflzmir.
We ran along the kordon and the sea seemed to shine like a vast
mirror, reflecting light whitely, bleaching the pastel-tinted houses.
I think, that first morning, I was struck by the brightness of every
thing, by the cleanliness, the elegant little villas and the purple bougain
villaea that flung itself luxuriantly across garden walls, about public
gardens and over the fac;ades of old houses. The scene was un-Turkish.
It had wit and gaiety. It was hot and Mediterranean. Furthermore, there
was an absence of mosques. There was an air of sun-washed expectancy,
and a flaunting lewdness that was enchanting and wholly Levantine.
Reconstruction and demolition seemed to be going on in about equal
proportions. Marble-faced blocks of flats stood eyeless, facing the sea. A
new port was under construction, which would benefit the export trade.
Here and there, villas stoo..d raw and new in weedy gardens. In one street
a whole row of old houses was being pulled down.
Used to living in the restricted space of a London flat, I found
Mehmet's house too large for me. It was all doors and windows, and
immense balconies fretted the front of the house in fussy ornamentation.
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Crossing what appeared to be an illimitable ocean of polished floor, I was
met at about halfway point by my sister-in-law, Bedia, and meeting her
again was like coming face to face with a ghost, for the girl I remembered
was only palely discernible in her large blue eyes. I was horrified to see
the streaks of grey in her hair, although I had long grown used to my
own. I dare say I was as much of a shock to her, although she was far too
cool to make a personal remark.
My seventeen-year-old niece, Oya, greeted me with a formality I
found charming. Kissing my outstretched hand she seemed a stranger;
offering me bon-bons and orange liqueur she stood before me with
downcast eyes, betraying only by an upward flicker of her eyelids that my
scrutiny was embarrassing her.
Lunch was served on a balcony filled with flowering plants. As the
meal proceeded, and small talk petered out, I discovered I had nothing in
common with them. This made me feel superior and self-conscious.
They talked for the most part about times past, believing, I think,
that this would please me. They resurrected the dead, or spoke of
people I had never known. Despite their smattering of culture they
knew nothing of life outside Turkey, except what the flaring banners of
their newspapers told them. They were as superbly indifferent to world
events, to world conferences, as any mountain tribe. The might of the
hydrogen bomb passed them by. Time, save in such instances as getting
the children off to school or Mehmet to the Nav~ Hospital, where he
was a surgeon-commander, did not govern them. I was continually
embarrassed in trying to find some subject of mutual interest. They were
indifferent readers, and the books I saw in the house were either medical,
printed in French and German, or earthy Turkish novels, products of
newly literate Anatolian authors. I tried to talk about these, but it was
obvious that they thought I was being rather precious and chi-chi. Bedia
remarked distantly that she read for pleasure. It would bore her, she said,
to dissect what she was reading while she was reading it and afterwards it
usually wasn't worth while. There were so many other things.
My brother's strict Muslim habits forbade him to drink wines or
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