chai bahcesi

4 de la tarde y el viento sopla. No se ve a nadie en la calle, pero pon un poquito de atención y por entre árboles, bajo su sombra, medio escondidos, andan los clientes del Jardín de Té (Çai Bahçesi) cada uno con su grupito, ya sean dos o seis;cada uno con su jueguito, sean cartas, ok, tabla; y cada uno, por supuesto, con su propio estilo...
¡como es que el tiempo vuela entre jugadas y bocanada de humo!
y ¡Qué bien sabe aquí el té!!

ya llevo un buen par de horas por aquí  y se me figura, este humilde jardín, un gran tablero de Karpov: cada mesa a mi alrededor, cada comensal que por aquí pasa, cada mujer que de cuando en cuando pasa a llamar a su marido, todos y cada uno tienen su posición y su función. Yo me arriesgo a adivinar cuales son las de los niños:

el futuro capo; ese q mira con atención cada jugada en cada mesa y de cuando en cuando se atreve a sugerir una movida;
el capo frustrado; ese q hace casi lo mismo pero a cada sugerencia es mandado a callar;
el mandadero; ese q con su bici va y viene, llevando y trayendo encargos desde cualesquier esquina del pueblo hasta y desde aquí;
el amiguero; ese que va de mesa en mesa saludando a sus "tíos";
el niño bueno; ese que viene en busca de su papá por encargo de su mamá;
el futuro dueño; ese que ayuda desde ya con las mesas y los pedidos;
el suertudo; ese al que los tíos le estiran las manos llenas de dados para que les sople la buena suerte.....

y el tiempo sigue pasando
y al pasar todo pone en movimiento: el sol, en su camino a morir a la mar, mueve las sombras ya predispuestas y con estas sombras nos movemos también nosotros, pareciéramos sillas musicales. ¡Qué juego de niños!

Llega una moto, dos palomas se van volando, el conejo se esconde tras la pileta de agua... tanto movimiento y uno muriéndose de calor.....

Freedom

And as I started thinking of a reason as to why I've been pushing back writing this entry, the reason becomes obvious: the subject itself makes it more than just an entry. If Beyoglu is the heart of Istanbul then Istiklal is its carotid: were it one day to fail, the heart and the body will also stop. Fortunately, that chance is far from ever becoming reality....
Istiklal is a mini mirror of Istanbul. In its streets you´ll find anything and everything Istanbul has to offer. Not only embassies, hotels, bars, discos, restaurants and clothing and souvenir shops but also family homes, student flats, executive flats, hostels, shoe makers, bag makers, tailors... the list can go on and on. There isn´t one time of the day in which Istiklal is empty. Maybe (just maybe) Tuesday at 6 am. maybe....

The crowd is an ocean in which all of us are but drops following the current. Try to go from one side of the street to the other one on a Saturday afternoon. Try and fight that current. It´ll be for certain the longest crossing you've ever made, as it will also be 15 minutes of pure excitement :)

It is rumored that Istanbul has 18 million people and that on a Friday night, at least 8 of them are somewhere in Beyoglu :)


I overheard a tourist yesterday making a comment to her loved one: "let´s be careful, look at all these people! there must be a demonstration or something!" I couldn´t help myself: "nah, Istiklal is like this, everyday. Hurry up and enjoy the view before it gets too crowded"....

And I say "enjoy it" because Istiklal is more than a meeting point: It´s a treat to the eye. Beautiful buildings adorned each flank and in between them, long gorgeous alleys take you from the central vein to its affluents.. whenever you come, take the time and look up :)

But it's my opinion, the beauty of Istiklal comes from it being a place that is alive:
6 o'clock in the morning marks the time for some people to start heading to work: shirt, shoes, and tie in hand, they make their way through the almost empty street, on their way crossing yet another group of people who are just coming into the street: jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers, getting ready to open their shops.

But to this crowd of comers and goers we must add our special characters who complete our Istiklal: our simitci; the dialy brakfast is never complete without this sesame round bread delicacy. Either pushing his red cart or balancing a big tray on his head, our simitcis stay busy all throught out the morning, even mid afternoon when another character comes in to replace him:the castagne guy. A strong perfum fills the air as he makes his way through our Istiklal.

And from midday on, a non-stop chain of characters will fill up our street: our mısır (corn) guy,the dondurma (ice cream) guy and our most lovable and cherisehed character after long dancing nights: our midye (mussels) guy.....















Funny how almost all of Istanbul can be experienced in just a few kilometers....

And because life in Turkey is about music, streets musicians are never absent in this our street.......

maybe a little show as well....

a few clowns advertising a new shop, some acrobats boucing around for an upcoming festival, a few protesters raising their voice, a few more thousand protesters making sure their cause is not forgotten.....

Anything that needs to be remembered, needs to pass by Istiklal....

and so I also passed....

girando

The beauty of stories without a defined beginning, we can choose the one we like best....
Upon hearing of the disappearance of his good friend, great sadness came upon Rumi. He grabbed a hold of a column and started going around it. As he rotated and started going into a trance, thoughts started pouring out of him: why search for one that is myself, "...I've been looking for myself ..." and so the idea was born, no matter where you turn, you turn to him, or later on, Him, it (the universe), us (society), it (love).....

Since I chose to choose the origins of this ceremony, I think I will choose the meaning as well....
" ...still inside the dressing room but I can already hear sounds of people, sounds of people talking, laughing, getting ready. I'm still inside the dressing room but I can already feel their looks staring at every part of my body, examining my every move. I´m still in the dressing room but I can already feel the sounds of the ney, I can already start becoming one with the universe..."
In a mix of dance and penance, the dervishes wear their death (white), grave (black) and tombstone (brown)  attire and whirl around to lose themselves into these attires and out of the constellations they have danced to signify....
One turn after the next, to the melodies of the ney, their arms start rising up to grab the energy that is ..everywhere, that is me and you...".
"
"... I raise my arms and my spirit follows. Once.. twice... around the sun. I now confide in him. entirely. He will keep me from colliding with the other planets... 
... the ney cries, cries my name which is also hers. While whirling, Rumi found his friend within himself. I long to lose myself in the whirling. The music helps, the ney is also lonesome: Listen to the story told by the reed, of being separated: 

"Since I was cut from the reedbed, 

I have made this crying sound.

Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say.

Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back... " 

and in losing myself, let me forget hypocrisies, masks, and charades, let me be one, a true one, one with the rest of the universe. Turn, turn, as all that turns, turns toward love....

.... the tombstone of my head is nothing more than decoration now...."

Mesut. 1st on the right, 3rd photo

Two parting thoughts:
The Turkish government has, ever since 1925, banned all demonstrations of Sufism. Despite it being a monastery the place where the ritual took place, and that more than half the attendants were praying as the dervishes were whirling, these rituals are tolerated today only as a tourist attraction. This was made clear when a group of 20 tourist came into the hall10 minutes into the ceremony and left 30 minutes after having come in and taken all the photos they needed.

The second thought goes to the music. A sublime sound that takes control of you to drown you first and save you from your sorrows and pains two minutes later. The reed-ney was Rumi's preferred instrument as the sounds it makes talk of lonesomeness, wandering, strength, light and guidance.
Following, a bit of retake on it....
Ab-i-Hayat

Wishes

Be it high in the Andes, low in the lowlands, deep in the jungle or next to the sea; in places as cold as Murmansk in the North Circle or as hot as the Equator; the idea of a wish seems to be omnipresent, but maybe more so the idea or hope that a certain wish could be granted if we somehow find the correct formula/prayer/petition/ritual. Of these rituals, many mesmerize me, be it for its intricacy or for its simplicity.

Delightful every one of them.
I got to try some more today as I strolled along these gipsy-for-a-day streets:  jumping over a freshly started fire, scribbling some unconnected words on a piece of paper and later paste it onto a wall were my ways of tempting fortune today.

The becoming true or not is probably the least of the worries, too trivial, the biggest wish was to be present this evening. Wish granted. Second wish, for it to be a big party. Yet another wish granted. Third and last wish, to be surrounded by good people. Granted granted granted.
There is nothing much more to ask for, so I don't bother going into the more traditional way of getting a wish: buy a balloon and ask your love one to grant it ;) 

Maybe next year....

Matri - Más sabe el Diablo por Viejo.....

Son esas las palabras que resuenan para mis adentros: "viejo yo? viejos los cerros! Además, más sabe el diablo por viejo que por diablo..." como reíamos al verlo ponerse morado al Cachito explicándonos la diferencia entre vejez y experiencia. Reiría él también hoy al ver a uno de "sus" compadrones (otro país, otros tiempo, pero sin duda es uno de sus compadres) hacernos "cholitos". 

Para que negarlo, mucho saben los viejos.... 

En pleno matrimonio, entre tanta gente, tantas parejas bien vestidas, tantas niñas lindas y tantos varones buen mozos, a la tela, al acecho, al pespunte, entre todos estos, desde el arranquín se siente la presencia del que todo lo gobierna, del cabecilla. Caminando como dueño del lugar, mandando a su gente aquí y allá, a hacer esto, a traer el otro, es todo un capo. Y se mueve así pues es la experiencia lo que lo hace moverse, bien adentros en sus 60s estaría.
Canta, toca y baila como ninguno en el salón.

Dos horas en la fiesta y el baile se nos mete. Entra por el cogote y se acomoda en los pies. Difícil de resistirse pero no es simplemente mandarse, hay que saber como hacerlo. Y de quien aprender sino del capo, de aquel cabecilla que cada cabeza hace girar...

Nos acercamos. Pedimos permiso para conversarle (desde luego, así nomas no se le acerca). Le explicamos la situación: "¿nos enseña a bailar?" Y de seguro que asintió, no sin antes darnos la historia del baile, de la tradición, de lo importante que es seguir estas tradiciones y de como le invade la pena al ver que poco a poco estas se van perdiendo en sucesivas generaciones. "Pero si tradición es mi segundo nombre" dice uno de los nuestros, y se dispuso a quitarse los zapatos para bailar como ya nos lo había indicado.

El Don nos mira, y agrega que esa es la "nueva" tradición, la verdadera es a pie desnudo. Ni corto ni perezoso, ese de los nuestros se saca primero la media izquierda y luego la derecha y acto seguido salta a la pista de baile. Y que baile que dió, un tremendo show, digno de cada aplauso que le arrancó al público: Izquierda, derecha, finta, derecha de nuevo, vueltita, una finta más, amague, doble amague, izquierda, saltito... p-a-p-á que buena...

pero casi mejor fue verlo al abuelo, doblado en dos de la risa, al habernos echo creer eso de pie desnudo.

Os lo repito "Más sabe el Diablo por viejo que por diablo"....


¡Cómo estarías riendo tú tambien por allá Cachito!!

Matri - The Beginnings

Y si, ese soy yo, el que caminaba con su chullo, sin saber en verdad lo que se esperaba venir....
My second time around in Istanbul.
Upon leaving I knew I was coming back; I couldn't tell you why. I simply knew I hadn´t seen enough, there was still so much more to see. A few days after arriving in Istanbul, an invitation to see that more presents itself: "There is a wedding in Eskisehir, want to come?" The question, almost redundant.



Finally, a bit over two months later, the wait is over and we start heading toward Eskisehir. 4 men, one car and many interesting ideas on how to spend this weekend. But it goes without saying: I fall asleep on the way there. Típico.

It´s already dark by the time we roll into town. Some quick maneuvers, some questions asked, a phone call is made, the noise of a car making toward us, a man that comes out of it, a greeting, a response, some gestures to get back in the car, he departs, we follow, he stops, so do we, he goes into a reception hall, I hesitate. I need a minute, the moment is here and I want to savour it. I should take it slow and sip on the moment, but it's late and the rush is big: the fear the music will soon finish is overwhelming....

Hard to explain the rest of events as they seem to get all mixed in now. I do remember running for chai and a lady saying something to me and tying a white cloth to my arm "so they know you are single" I refrained from asking who "they" were but a smile shows me that "they" also have something tied to their arms ;)

There is no one Turkish marriage tradition since there are so many different ethnic groups in this beautiful country. This time around it is Turkish-Crimeans we meet, and they have their special ways: the live band comes into the shape of an accordeon and a piece of wood to be beaten to the rhythm and the live show comes as a dance without shoes. Not comfortable enough to take my shoes off and too tone-deaf to join the percussion, I remain in my comfortable spot of side-observer/ sometimes-dancer/ photo-taker/ plenty-of-chai-drinker.

As I see it, there will be plenty of chances to be more daring ;)

The night dwindles and the place starts closing. Time to head back to the house, make some more raucous, drink some more tea, play some more music, sing a few verses, dance a bit, drink one beer, and then go wake up the groom who had a few hours before decided he needed to sleep before his wedding night and left the party ;) "It's an Eskisehir thing" they tell me.


Pero me recordaré la copla esa de: ya se casa mi hermana, ya se casa mi hermana, ¿cuándo diablos me tocará a mi?! ......

Paucar III

with the Virgen Camuchita safe and sound now at home, the goodbye party begins: collas, negros, wacas, panaderos, maqtas (aaa the maqtas) all running and joking around, showing their love and devotion on a 4 hr display

but in the midst of the celebration, a drunken colla makes a pass at a Chuncho lady and the fight begins: chuncho against colla, colla against chuncho, demons picking up the dead, doctorcitos trying to alliviate the problem and maqtas making things worse...

a guerrilla war that will end up with the death of the Colla Caporal, the return of the Chuncho Lady and Collas and Demons now in the avern together enjoying some chicha :)

a very special way to end a special celebration....


till next one Paucartambo...

Paucar II

y la programación lee:
romería al cementerio general y visita a los que se nos adelantaron en el camino...
bello..
y a las 9 asi es, una ceremoniosa muestra de respeto de cada una de las danzas a los ya idos de la cuadrilla

mas al mediodía esto es una fiesta general: bombos, platillos y trompetas son incapaces todos unidos de opacar las risas y el conversar de los invitados, de aquella multitud ahí presente: el cementerio se vuelve el punto de reunión para generaciones de Paucartambinos, danzantes, amigos y visitantes todos, todos ahi alrededor de un par de chelitas, un chichita, una bandita, o dos, una llamita borracha...

respeto no sé, pero amor, definitivamente.....

Paucar I

 3 years later and little has changed.
 El fervor y la piedad siempre presentes, aun con los ciento y pico de turistas merodeando la ciudad con sus US1500 cámaras....


Collas still coming down from the Altiplano (Puno) to pay homage to the virgen...
Maqtas still raising havoc everywhere they go...

Chunchos walking kms after kms and traversing  the jungle just to see the "woman" they fell in love with...

 The wacas and their bull, happy as always...

the Danzaqs trying to enchant more young ladies, older ladies, widowers, teenagers etc etc ;)

and the always present demonios, here to revere Camuchita, to give her their love, just to see her even if from the distance....