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Buku Out of Istanbul by Bernard Ollivier

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Out of Istanbul by Bernard Ollivier

Author:Bernard Ollivier

Language: eng

Format: epub

ISBN: 9781510743762

Publisher: Skyhorse

Published: 2019-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

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Out of Istanbul by Bernard Ollivier

The man driving three young calves out of a pasture has a friendly face. He has a slight build, a dark complexion, a short mustache, and a three-day-old beard. He chuckles and says, raising his hand in friendship:

“And just where are you headed?”

He smiles and so do I.

 

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Out of Istanbul by Bernard Ollivier

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Out of Istanbul by Bernard Ollivier

 

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Out of Istanbul by Bernard Ollivier

Author:Bernard Ollivier , Date: June 20, 2019

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Author:Bernard Ollivier

Language: eng

Format: epub

ISBN: 9781510743762

Publisher: Skyhorse

Published: 2019-05-14T16:00:00+00:00
The man driving three young calves out of a pasture has a friendly face. He has a slight build, a dark complexion, a short mustache, and a three-day-old beard. He chuckles and says, raising his hand in friendship:

“And just where are you headed?”

He smiles and so do I.

I string together, in Turkish, something that I intend to mean:

“To Erzurum. Don’t tell me it’s far, I know that. I’ve come from Istanbul on foot, and that’s even farther, right?”

My vocabulary and grammar didn’t betray me: he bursts out laughing. He’s exuberant, he pokes at me as if we were two partners in crime and drags me into his house. The calves go back in their stable, which occupies the ground floor. Fazil Önel, which is his name, protects me as I head up the stairs to the second floor, because lurking just under the steps is a Kangal as big as one of the calves, ready to swallow both me and my bag in two gulps. The first question I ask, of course, is whether there are any terrorists in the area. Again, he laughs. He has a hearty laugh and an open, trustworthy face.

I will indeed encounter terrorists, he tells me, if I continue heading east. In his opinion, there are three Shiite villages where I really ought not wander, and he advises me to make a detour around them. I draw a circle around the three names on my map, a precaution that, no sooner having done it, I regret. Yes, the names of these little villages are impossible, and I mix them all up. But if I’m stopped, I’ll look pretty slick with these rebel areas underlined and gear that everyone thinks mistakes for a portable arsenal!

I had indeed planned to go through one of them, Ovatabök. Fazil’s daughter, a pretty fifteen-year-old brunette, gestures desperately to her father. She clearly wants to talk to him. He gets me settled out on the patio, then goes to see her. He comes back laughing harder than before:

“She’s afraid you are a terrorist!”

One Turk thought that I had a motor hidden in my bag. Does his daughter think it conceals a bazooka?

The girl and her sister prepare the tea. In the meantime, Fazil and I chat, along with Ali, an elderly neighbor who bears the title of “haj” ever since he made his pilgrimage to Mecca. This evening, I’m planning on seeking hospitality in a village that has the same name as he does, “Alihacı” (ah-lee-hah’-djuh) (Ali the Haj). The prestige of those who, in olden days, went on foot or by horse all the way to Mecca was such that the entire village shared in it. And the inhabitants sometimes even renamed their town with the name of their hero.

Fazil tells me that he has seven children: four boys and three girls. The boys aren’t here, they’re all in college.

“And the girls, they’re not in college?”

He has trouble understanding my question.

“But the girls work on the farm!”

“And they’ve never gone to school?”

“Yes of course, but only the usual studies, age seven to eleven.

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