My most recent ride took me to the most beautiful spot I've ever seen-- after more than one-and-a-half hours of navigating my way. Finally, I reached a stretch along the winding hillside roads with no cars in sight for another 45 minutes. I made it to a small village outside of another small village for the first time. Getting there was breathtaking. I felt such a sense of wonder and awe-- as one tiny human peddling across these magnificent expanses, surrounded by farmland mixed with unspoiled nature. On one side I saw trees and wild brush growing up the sandy dirt of the rocky hillside. Hundreds of yards below I saw a cultivated field of trees. Further downhill, in the distance, cream colored hills were exposed, barely covered with vegetation. From my elevation, they looked like rolling loaves of partially baked dough... cooking in sun.
I was conserving liquids, and knew that I should turn back to one of the larger villages for water and fruit juice... but I really wanted to continue. Lesson: Now that it is summer, I must bring two bottles of water, and if there is a village with a shop, always stop for a quick refueling. You never know if (or when) another shop will appear next to the road.
On my way back, a man crossing with three cows asked me (in German) if I speak German. I don't, really, much more than enough to understand what he had just said plus a few more words and phrases. Even my elementary Turkish is better than my German. (French is another story... The day before a man in the city center gave me directions in French. I am not sure that he was Turkish; most Turks don't speak French.) But on my morning ride, I was too focused to do more than reply with a shrug, smile and wave to this farmer. As I peddled away I wondered if any German cyclists had been through his territory before me.
I love riding through the tiny villages-- and over time my interactions with the regulars I meet along the way become more familiar. Their surprised, quizzical faces have evolved into amused nods of recognition, and sometimes I am greeted with a loud "Merhaba!" (hello) or even "How are you?" in English-- especially from the kids.
I will never forget these people. Young children sometimes point and laugh at the lady in the helmet riding a bike... and other times make a sincere effort to communicate with me. Older women sometimes wave at me from the field, making a space on the blanket where they all sit together, watching their children run and play. They wave and point for me to sit down. Sometimes they grab my arms, hug and kiss me, and talk at length in Turkish, trying to explain things. We all do a lot of pointing, smiling and talking. I try to at least say something back-- the baby Turkish version of: "This is a beautiful day! This countryside is beautiful! Beautiful children! Thank you! How are you? I am an English teacher.." This is not exactly Oscar winning dialogue, but we break the ice as we form some kind of bond. I almost feel sometimes that my lack of language is a unique kind of icebreaker. They laugh and smile and seem comfortable having me there. Maybe if I could speak more fluently in Turkish we would try less to communicate... I could just quickly converse without even leaving my bike. I realize that in theory we could have a qualitatively richer conversation if I knew Turkish-- but would we? Is some of the magic my newness-- that I am alone, without a lot of words, just there? Present, and in the mix of their village for a brief time? Do we almost need this kind of whimsical beginning as a motivation for trying to learn more about each other? Is the challenge part of the process?
Once, an approximately 10-year-old girl put her hand out to signal "stop" before grabbing my bike handle and proceeding to introduce me to the entire group of kids standing with her: "My name is Tuba! (pointing to herself). My name is Ali (pointing to a little boy near her). My name is ....." -- pointing to yet more children. She got the concept of using a possessive + "name is" part of introducing her friends, and ever since then I've taken a tip from her: Don't be afraid to make mistakes, and just try to communicate. With little Turkish of my own, sometimes I go ahead and take language risks, and say something that I know is only partially right-- using mime to make up for my errors. Impromptu and along the side of a road, young Tuba had gotten her point across to me; and in so doing, she taught me one way to get my own points across even when I don't have or can't remember all of the Turkish language skills to say it correctly.
The conversations, mimes and "chats" are all wonderful. But that part of me that searches for quiet beauty, for communion with nature and my more spiritual side-- also longs for the breaks in the conversation. The 40 minutes I spend peddling in silence between villages is not at all lonely. I hear birds singing. Especially as the temperatures warm up I notice more and more butterflies flying across the road from field to field. I see dogs sleeping with abandon, completely relaxed in all of their muscles along their legs, paws, and necks... sleeping in the sun, they are barely aware that I am passing nearby on their road. Sometimes they nod awake, a few times they bark a bit. As I ride up, down and along the hillside, I notice farmers working hard in the fields. I see homemade scarecrows staked in the middle of fields and wonder who put them there. A rare car will pass. Sometimes those inside will wave or honk. Tractors or trucks roll past, filled with young and old people in the back-- and these faces generally smile when they see me. In the city, everything is faster and louder. My rides through the villages.. to the serene hills dotted with cypress and olive trees... and sometimes mandelina trees... help me to find my own inner peace. I find my own connection with the place, as well as the people. These people I meet are truly from this place-- but when I joke with shopkeepers that "I'm from 'Antep"... I am only partially joking. A part of me stays on those hills all week long... waiting out the week, and remembering that there are many ways to find and connect with people and the beautiful parts of life around us.
