Buyuk Cakil Days

Buyuk Cakil Days

During the month of December, I am awakened each morning in this Turkish village at 05:00 by the muezzin’s call to prayer, a long wailing cry that penetrates my dreams, sometimes musical sometimes not, depending on who’s doing the calling on a particular day. I turn over, withdrawing under layers of blankets, returning to sleep, hoping that when I again awaken the sun will be shining and the air warmer.

We live in a house that is colder inside than it is outside, no doubt an asset in summer. In December it’s like living in a meat locker with windows. Our windows look out on olive, fig and lemon trees, naked grapevines, sage and oak covered hills, and a sheltering bay where the town of Kas lies nestled into a declivity of the hills above it.

On sunlit mornings I emerge from the frigid house onto the balcony, my breath a white cloud, clutching a hot glass of tea in frozen, barely functioning hands. Below are flat roofed stone and concrete houses with grape trellises on their roofs. A covey of doves flutters from a fig tree in the yard. The streets are fabricated of small, ornate, interlocking concrete blocks and inhabited by a free ranging community of cats, dogs and chickens.

A knee high rooster with a brilliant copper ruff herds his harem of hens to sanctuary behind a stone wall, crowing and blustering a warning to Black Cat who’s stalking them, ‘Beware my spurs and beak. I am rooster and fierce.’

Black Cat turns away, looks over its muscled shoulder with distain, ‘And I am cat with sharp claws and fangs. I am faster then your tiny feather brain can imagine. If I want you I will take you. Today I only play. Go in peace stupid bird.’

The muezzin starts up again and the entire clan of neighborhood dogs add their howls to his song. Some say they are inspired by the muezzin’s message. Others say his voice hurts their ears. The muezzin’s voice fades, his call complete. Yellow Dog, an enormous mastiff whose primary job is guarding sheep, keeps his post on the roof of the corner house, and warns off a young Alsatian with deep voiced threats, ‘My house, my yard, my people. Go away.’ The Alsatian wanders off muttering, ‘Just wanted to be friends.’

Matrons in baggy print pants, vests and headscarves go about morning chores, sweeping their patios with short brooms, picking lemons, peppers, tomatoes the size of golf balls and bright green arugula. Three men in shirtsleeves and flat caps strip naked grape vines from a rooftop trellis and cut them into short sections for wood burning stoves. Wish we had one of those wood burning stoves.

On stormy days I venture onto the balcony and breath in the wild sea air and let the rain wash my face. Then, wind whipped and wet I go inside to huddle over the tiny heater, wrapped in a blanket and wearing all the clothing I packed, my bag sitting empty in a corner.

The town center of Kas is a mile or so away over two hills. Sometimes we walk to town, but mostly we walk down to the dolmus stop and ride in the van to town. When we pass by the house of Yellow Dog, ML talks to him, ‘Such a good dog. Guarding your home so well. And you’re so handsome.’ Yellow Dog stops barking and smiles at ML from his rooftop.

We go each Friday to the market, which sprawls down the side of a hill from behind the otogar – bus station- to the water. The Kas market could be any market within a thousand miles and, except for the cars and trucks, a thousand years. White awnings stretch over stalls selling peppers, tomatoes, squash, six kinds of greens, honey and honey combs, pistachios and cashews in large hemp sacks, ax heads that look like war axes in the ancient carvings, clothing, jewelry, skillets and pans, teapots, spices and brass spice grinders, fresh flat bread and goat butter.

Temporary cafes are set up under awnings, a few rickety tables and chairs, a steel grill the size of a manhole cover set on short legs over a wood fire. The women roll dough into pizza sized flat disks and fill them with cheese, greens, and meat. Tea comes in tulip shaped glasses. We buy dark raw honey and all our vegetables at the market, the bargaining sharp and quick, thrust and cut.

We return up the hill with the cry of the muezzin punctuating the afternoon, as it has for a thousand years, echoing from these stone hills. But the call to prayer is itself a new song in this ancient land. Before the Ottomans were the Byzantines, Romans and Greeks. Before them the Lycians, who lived here and built stone monuments 2,400 years ago. Before the Lycians were others, a people as old as the hills sheltering the town.

Evenings we all gather in the kitchen to stay warm while ML cooks. I open the door to the balcony and hear our neighbor chopping wood and smell fragrant wood smoke mingling with the scent of the lemon trees surrounding the house. The hens are all in their houses for the night. Dogs are silent. The free cats of the village accept their evening meals then wander off into the darkness, perhaps seeking mice since they appear to have a truce with the chickens. The sun paints the sea with brilliant shades of crimson as it slides slowly from sight. The night turns chill and I come inside to oven warmth and the smell of dinner. We stay late in the kitchen after dinner, unwilling to leave the only warm room in the house.

In summer thousands of sun seekers overrun Kas and this tiny village. In winter only locals are here – and us. We came in winter, seeking not the sun but another thing entirely. We found what we sought. And with time the cold seemed a small price to pay.