Life in Kas Turkey, On the Turquoise Coast

In early July, Kas, Turkey -a village on the “Turquoise Coast” was overrun by a legion of no see umms, tiny, winged, biting creatures so small that, as per their name, they cannot be seen without magnification. Their bite is vicious, worse than any mosquito. While trying to not scratch I thought of this:

With apologies to Mr. T.S. Eliot.

We Are the Bitten Ones

We are the bitten ones
We are the tormented ones
Leaning together
We spray lavender and eucalyptus
Still they bite
Dare we DEET?
The horror
We whisper together
Our lesions and scars
Our itching and burning
We flee down narrow streets
Still they bite
Sleepless nights
Our hot room
Invisible through screens they come
On silent wings they bite
Suck our blood
Shape without form, shade without color
We are the bitten ones

The beasties have retreated now to whence they came and Kas has returned to being its usual pleasant place, except for the hordes of summer. Kas has been “discovered” as part of the “Turquoise Coast” and tourists from all the world arrive, troop through the narrow streets for a few days and depart. Then another mob arrives. And another. This will continue through August, maybe September. Meanwhile, we retreat to quiet cafés in hidden lanes and sip cool drinks under the shade of fig trees.

I’m writing this on our balcony with a fresh wind coming down from the hills above us where the “sleeping giant of Kas,” a rock formation, watches over the town. I hear roosters crowing and the wind in olive trees. On the hillside I see a cat stalking a chicken, until confronted by the rooster. Cat then decides he was just kidding.

Today is bazaar day. We’ll soon walk over there. ML needs vanilla beans and some spices we get from the spice man, who has his wares displayed in a long table each in a rattan basket lined with cloth, at least a hundred little baskets filled with spices from all the Middle East. He has raw frankincense, which I had never before seen. He made a dry rub for a roast ML made, scrumptious. Everything is close. Walking is pleasant, even up hill. We walk everywhere, not as exercise, just as part of daily life, shopping, seeing folks. One of our American friends brought a car here, hasn’t started it in months.

The meydan, town plaza, is a short walk down the hill and is ringed by cafes where sooner or later everyone meets for a glass of wine in the evening, to discuss dinner plans and complain about the crowds of tourists. We watch free dogs and cats playing, boats coming into the harbor, the sun setting. It’s about as pleasant a daily life as any I have experienced.