Saturday, July 10, 2004
Yes, but you’ve still got to see…
Today, a private excursion to the Thracian town of Edirne. Secretly, I long to hide-out at the hotel and sleep, but the organizer of our trip insists that it's an opportunity that can't be missed. My tormenter is a relentlessly energetic guy called Nimrod, an Israeli geographer who once worked as a tour guide in Istanbul and still has a driving need to ensure everyone experiences the best of every aspect of Turkey. It’s a noble but exhausting agenda. (And yes, I’m using his real name; I could change it to protect the innocent, but Nimrod is hardly innocent, and he's more than capable of protecting himself.)
Edirne is a "small" town of 120,000 people on the Turkish/Greek/Bulgarian border. And Nimrod assures us it will provide a taste of what life is "really like" in Turkey. But more importantly, it is the site of the Selimiye Camii, Sinan's masterpiece, the mosque for which he claims Süleymaniye was only a trial run.
Nimrod's rounded up five of us to go-in together on a rental car, and so K and I drag ourselves down to the street, running strictly on nervous energy. And what sort of car should the rental agency provide? Naturally, a Ford Focus. I ride in the front, feeling more foreign riding in the passenger seat of my "own" car than I would have in the back seat of a Fiat Taxi or a Renault driving on the wrong side of the street.
Nimrod’s at the wheel, and he sets a grueling pace. We cover the 150km in less than two hours, cruising well over 140kph once we hit the wonderfully maintained and nearly empty highway - Turkey's stretch of the TEM (Trans-European-Motorway). Nimrod assures me I'd be much less impressed with the roads if we crossed over into Greece.
We stop for a quick pida (doughy-pizza) in a café, with friendly waiters and the ever-present pictures of Atatürk. The reverence for Atatürk is astounding. There are many different images to chose from: the young soldier in military garb, the political reformer in a simple western suit – and this café seems to have one from every stage of his life. But it’s not uncommon. Every establishment of any kind has a representation of him in a place of honor, somewhere. It’s an almost religious reverence for the man that pioneered the modernized, anti-religious state; he’s the secular Dali Lama of Turkey.
After our lunch we’re lead to the most important sites first. Nimrod assures us that “the day is yours” and “we do whatever you like” but I sense there’s a list that must be checked off, and Selimiye is at the top.
And it is an amazing structure. It’s been said (though never by me) that once you’ve seen one mosque, you’ve seen them all… And this jaded attitude contains a kernel of truth. Unlike the often cluttered but enormously varied baroque or gothic Cathedrals of Europe, packed full of marble statuary, exquisite frescoes and the odd gruesome reliquary, mosques tend to be simple affairs. Large open spaces – perhaps a hint of delicate decoration in the vaulted ceilings or domes. But no Bernini altars. No Caravaggio paintings or Bayeux tapestries.
But the mosques in Edirne are somehow unique. The Selimiye is a vast, light space. A unique design of integrated load-bearing pillars allows for the weight of the massive dome to be shifted from the walls, and thus ornate windows illuminate the space from every direction. (Our guide yesterday counted “too much light” as one of the anti-mosque failings of the Nuruosmaniye Camii, so I wonder what she would think of the magnificent symmetry but brilliant openness of Sinan’s work in Edirne.) Again there’s the laid-back atmosphere, a few men praying, more men just clustered in conversation. A little fountain and pool occupies the center of the mosque, beneath a prayer reader’s platform. It’s makes for a simple but striking centerpiece.
We sit on the carpet off to one side and marvel at the detail of the tile work and the unique design. Unlike mosques in Egypt, in which I always felt an out-of-place invader, here I feel comfortable. Relaxed.
Nimrod tells us a lovely little anecdote about how even the soot from the candles that hang in a ring around the center of the mosque was once considered holy; scholars used to hang tarps above the candles to collect the soot, which was later used when copying out holy texts.
The Eski Cami across the street is older (1414) and less refined, but equally inviting. Reused Roman columns line the front, and massive 20 foot high calligraphic symbols decorate the walls inside and out.
The fearless Nimrod strikes up a conversation with a bearded and black-robed holy man in the mosque, kneeling beside one of the few windows and studying a tome that looks nearly as old as the mosque itself. In such cases, Nimrod slips easily into Arabic conversation, and always explains quickly that he’s Australian (and he passes as easily for a butch Australian as he does for the Israeli he is) and manages to dodge any potential political hassle. The holy man is happy to share the text, though seems intent on keeping the end of each passage secret. Nimrod can’t quite figure out why. Mysticism, I suppose. (Or maybe he knows Nimrod’s secret.)
He starts up another conversation with some tourists from Arabia, and tells me quickly in English, “You’re Greek now, OK?” I’m not sure I want to be Greek, (I don't think I have the love for life or the gregarious spirit of the Islands. A descendant a Plato, maybe…), but I nod and listen-in anyway, not understanding a word. Nimrod later explains that the men thought I looked Turkish, and the easiest explanation was that I was Greek. This seems to be a common misconception. In all the markets, often men speak first to me in their native tongue, then ask, “Turkish?” I thought it part of a standard spiel – “Ah, you look Turkish. For you, special Turkish price.” But that sales-pitch never materializes, and maybe there’s something to it after all…
Nimrod is clearly in tour-guide mode, and has an extensive list of places we just MUST see: Uşçerefeli Cami, Atatürk’s statue in Freedom Square (celebrating the reclamation of Edirne from those pesky domineers of Thrace, the Greeks), the tumbling wooden houses of Kaleichi, tea by the Ottoman bridge, the supposedly before-its-time hospital of Beyazid Kulliyesi, where new age concepts like Music Therapy were employed to treat the mentally ill. There’s a little re-creation of a period treatment, with docile looking mannequins politely taking their treatment, one or two patients to a room. Probably nothing like the screaming, stench-ridden madhouse it was. But at least there was music.
Finally, after some of the ice-cream Edirne is supposedly famous for (it’s got a strange, gelatinous consistency, like half-frozen marshmallow cream), a stop at an old Caravanserai and a photo-op at a Roma encampment, we’re back on the motorway and speeding home.
I’m in the front seat, and the more nervous passengers ride in the back. It’s a good thing, because Nimrod is determined to push the Focus to its limit. We fly along at nearly 160kph most of the way, but at one point (admittedly, going down hill) we actually top 200kph. That’s a land-speed record for me, I think. The speedometer goes up to 220, but reason prevails and we don’t go for it. I does make me think that I’m wasting the powerful racing potential of my Focus back in the States.
As we zoom along, Nimrod spouts off bizarre nonsense about automobile engineering (always drive through rough, bumpy gravel very fast, because the shock-absorbers don't start working until 60kph...) and regales us with joyous memories of driving across the U.S. "People there really know how to drive. They stay in their lanes. They drive the same speed." he says as we veer across three lanes at 150kph, dodging a tractor and a cluster of daring cows. More often I hear just the opposite from European visitors, frustrated with the Americans’ lack of "lane-discipline" - slow cars in the left lane, the casual approach to signaling turns, etc. But I suppose if staying between the lines impresses you, then US highways are a automotive paradise.
It’s dark by the time we get back to Istanbul and navigate the mad congestion at the toll booth. One thing that’s certainly not “western” about Turkey is the refusal to respect any kind of line. Cars zoom along, over shoulders and between “lanes” doing their best to push ahead as boys run between the cars, hawking cigarettes.
It’s an adventure to be sure, but I’m glad to see my bed.
|
Edirne is a "small" town of 120,000 people on the Turkish/Greek/Bulgarian border. And Nimrod assures us it will provide a taste of what life is "really like" in Turkey. But more importantly, it is the site of the Selimiye Camii, Sinan's masterpiece, the mosque for which he claims Süleymaniye was only a trial run.
Nimrod's rounded up five of us to go-in together on a rental car, and so K and I drag ourselves down to the street, running strictly on nervous energy. And what sort of car should the rental agency provide? Naturally, a Ford Focus. I ride in the front, feeling more foreign riding in the passenger seat of my "own" car than I would have in the back seat of a Fiat Taxi or a Renault driving on the wrong side of the street.
Nimrod’s at the wheel, and he sets a grueling pace. We cover the 150km in less than two hours, cruising well over 140kph once we hit the wonderfully maintained and nearly empty highway - Turkey's stretch of the TEM (Trans-European-Motorway). Nimrod assures me I'd be much less impressed with the roads if we crossed over into Greece.
We stop for a quick pida (doughy-pizza) in a café, with friendly waiters and the ever-present pictures of Atatürk. The reverence for Atatürk is astounding. There are many different images to chose from: the young soldier in military garb, the political reformer in a simple western suit – and this café seems to have one from every stage of his life. But it’s not uncommon. Every establishment of any kind has a representation of him in a place of honor, somewhere. It’s an almost religious reverence for the man that pioneered the modernized, anti-religious state; he’s the secular Dali Lama of Turkey.
After our lunch we’re lead to the most important sites first. Nimrod assures us that “the day is yours” and “we do whatever you like” but I sense there’s a list that must be checked off, and Selimiye is at the top.
And it is an amazing structure. It’s been said (though never by me) that once you’ve seen one mosque, you’ve seen them all… And this jaded attitude contains a kernel of truth. Unlike the often cluttered but enormously varied baroque or gothic Cathedrals of Europe, packed full of marble statuary, exquisite frescoes and the odd gruesome reliquary, mosques tend to be simple affairs. Large open spaces – perhaps a hint of delicate decoration in the vaulted ceilings or domes. But no Bernini altars. No Caravaggio paintings or Bayeux tapestries.
But the mosques in Edirne are somehow unique. The Selimiye is a vast, light space. A unique design of integrated load-bearing pillars allows for the weight of the massive dome to be shifted from the walls, and thus ornate windows illuminate the space from every direction. (Our guide yesterday counted “too much light” as one of the anti-mosque failings of the Nuruosmaniye Camii, so I wonder what she would think of the magnificent symmetry but brilliant openness of Sinan’s work in Edirne.) Again there’s the laid-back atmosphere, a few men praying, more men just clustered in conversation. A little fountain and pool occupies the center of the mosque, beneath a prayer reader’s platform. It’s makes for a simple but striking centerpiece.
We sit on the carpet off to one side and marvel at the detail of the tile work and the unique design. Unlike mosques in Egypt, in which I always felt an out-of-place invader, here I feel comfortable. Relaxed.
Nimrod tells us a lovely little anecdote about how even the soot from the candles that hang in a ring around the center of the mosque was once considered holy; scholars used to hang tarps above the candles to collect the soot, which was later used when copying out holy texts.
The Eski Cami across the street is older (1414) and less refined, but equally inviting. Reused Roman columns line the front, and massive 20 foot high calligraphic symbols decorate the walls inside and out.
The fearless Nimrod strikes up a conversation with a bearded and black-robed holy man in the mosque, kneeling beside one of the few windows and studying a tome that looks nearly as old as the mosque itself. In such cases, Nimrod slips easily into Arabic conversation, and always explains quickly that he’s Australian (and he passes as easily for a butch Australian as he does for the Israeli he is) and manages to dodge any potential political hassle. The holy man is happy to share the text, though seems intent on keeping the end of each passage secret. Nimrod can’t quite figure out why. Mysticism, I suppose. (Or maybe he knows Nimrod’s secret.)
He starts up another conversation with some tourists from Arabia, and tells me quickly in English, “You’re Greek now, OK?” I’m not sure I want to be Greek, (I don't think I have the love for life or the gregarious spirit of the Islands. A descendant a Plato, maybe…), but I nod and listen-in anyway, not understanding a word. Nimrod later explains that the men thought I looked Turkish, and the easiest explanation was that I was Greek. This seems to be a common misconception. In all the markets, often men speak first to me in their native tongue, then ask, “Turkish?” I thought it part of a standard spiel – “Ah, you look Turkish. For you, special Turkish price.” But that sales-pitch never materializes, and maybe there’s something to it after all…
Nimrod is clearly in tour-guide mode, and has an extensive list of places we just MUST see: Uşçerefeli Cami, Atatürk’s statue in Freedom Square (celebrating the reclamation of Edirne from those pesky domineers of Thrace, the Greeks), the tumbling wooden houses of Kaleichi, tea by the Ottoman bridge, the supposedly before-its-time hospital of Beyazid Kulliyesi, where new age concepts like Music Therapy were employed to treat the mentally ill. There’s a little re-creation of a period treatment, with docile looking mannequins politely taking their treatment, one or two patients to a room. Probably nothing like the screaming, stench-ridden madhouse it was. But at least there was music.
Finally, after some of the ice-cream Edirne is supposedly famous for (it’s got a strange, gelatinous consistency, like half-frozen marshmallow cream), a stop at an old Caravanserai and a photo-op at a Roma encampment, we’re back on the motorway and speeding home.
I’m in the front seat, and the more nervous passengers ride in the back. It’s a good thing, because Nimrod is determined to push the Focus to its limit. We fly along at nearly 160kph most of the way, but at one point (admittedly, going down hill) we actually top 200kph. That’s a land-speed record for me, I think. The speedometer goes up to 220, but reason prevails and we don’t go for it. I does make me think that I’m wasting the powerful racing potential of my Focus back in the States.
As we zoom along, Nimrod spouts off bizarre nonsense about automobile engineering (always drive through rough, bumpy gravel very fast, because the shock-absorbers don't start working until 60kph...) and regales us with joyous memories of driving across the U.S. "People there really know how to drive. They stay in their lanes. They drive the same speed." he says as we veer across three lanes at 150kph, dodging a tractor and a cluster of daring cows. More often I hear just the opposite from European visitors, frustrated with the Americans’ lack of "lane-discipline" - slow cars in the left lane, the casual approach to signaling turns, etc. But I suppose if staying between the lines impresses you, then US highways are a automotive paradise.
It’s dark by the time we get back to Istanbul and navigate the mad congestion at the toll booth. One thing that’s certainly not “western” about Turkey is the refusal to respect any kind of line. Cars zoom along, over shoulders and between “lanes” doing their best to push ahead as boys run between the cars, hawking cigarettes.
It’s an adventure to be sure, but I’m glad to see my bed.
|
