çöp (m)adam - the garbage ladies: life in Ayvalik: personal perspectives and insight...

çöp (m)adam - the garbage ladies: life in Ayvalik: personal perspectives and insight...: "Ayvalik itself is about as charming a town as they come. Cobblestone streets, horse carts, wonderful architecture in various states of disre..."

life in Ayvalik: personal perspectives and insights

Ayvalik itself is about as charming a town as they come. Cobblestone streets, horse carts, wonderful architecture in various states of disrepair or renovated; mosques that used to be churches, wonderful views of the Aegean Sea, sunsets to fall in love by, milk men who come around with deliveries on their tractors, young lads who sell squash blossoms to stuff in the summer, and, at least in the old part of the town, there is a sense of neighborhood, a sense of being part of the community. Yes, there are some of the less-than-charming aspects that go along with being provincial. But overall, it is a place where one wants to be. Or at least where I want to be. It is a bit rough around the edges which actually helps keep it from being overdeveloped and over-touristy.

Like many small towns anywhere, the pace of the town is not slow but rather mellow. Efficiency is not the name of the game, social interactions are. Time as a concept is rather an entity to itself in the Aegean region and that certainly holds true here in Ayvalik. I learned early on to ask for a clarification of ‘It’ll be ready/he’ll be back in five minutes.’

‘What does that mean, it’ll be ready in five minutes?’ is responded to with a look of puzzlement.

‘Five minutes later’ could mean just that, it could mean that evening, it could mean the next day, it could mean the following week What it really means is that it will not take too long to complete the task but that it’s most likely not going to happen right now.

Ayvalik was one of the towns that was heavily (read; completely) impacted by the Greek-Turkish exchange. (please see my friend Caroline Foster’s excellent blog, ‘The Camel Barn Library,’ for more on that). It is now a town mixed with descendents of the exchange, other Turks who have moved in from elsewhere, some as brides, some seeking serenity from the fast pace of urban life. There are also migrants from the former Yugoslavia; men and their families who moved here from the southeast in search of safety from the war and work opportunities in construction, and a handful of foreigners who live here full time. There is a fair degree of nationalism in town and no one I know can name another place in the country where the national anthem is played on loudspeakers Friday and Sunday evenings. If you are out and about, no matter your nationality or political affiliation, you stop to pay respect to the republic. There are people say this is where the first bullet was fired in the war of independence and there are streets named thus.

Many of the houses in ‘old Ayvalik’ were built by Greeks and are referred to either as “rum evleri,’ ‘Greek houses,’ or ‘Gavur evleri,’ ‘Houses of the Infidels.’ People who were settled in the exchange were moved into houses that were quickly vacated by those who were being moved to Greece. 80 years later, many are in disrepair as it is rather costly to keep up with the work needed to keep the houses from leaking, never mind looking nice and even charming. Those that have been fixed up tend to be owned by residents of Istanbul and Ankara and foreigners such as myself, people who are looking for a get-away from the hustle and bustle of the big city and the hassles of life that go with all the intellectual and/or professional stimulation that we thrive on there.

It is a mixed feeling to own one of these old houses, to have fixed it up, to enjoy being able to sleep in your own bed in such a quaint corner of the world. There is the positive aspect to it all but there is also the reality that we are contributing to gentrification. It is those with money who fix the places up, help to preserve the heritage of the historical town.

And at the end of the day, there is a certain degree of charm that many of us want to see preserved by others. I am not sure how many people feel the way I do, but I have to catch myself when I am bothered by the fellow who lives down the street from me who parks his car on the street. The street I live on is a narrow cobble-stone road, barely wide enough for a car to get half-way up, too steep and too narrow for a car to get up as far as my house. One of the reasons I bought my house was that no cars could pass by. And yet where else would one park their car but on the street? It’s not the only incident that I catch myself weighing the quaintness of living here against the reality of life, questioning my own selfishness. The same held true for when the first major grocery store opened in town. If I shop at a grocery store in a megalopolis, why can’t the residents of Ayvalik do the same? Just because there is a wonderful street market and wonderful small specialty shops doesn’t mean that they all have to shop there. It is a bit arrogant to want to convince people who live here that life is better if life is quaint. Who the hell am I to tell them this…

And yet I know that with the advent of the grocery store, there will be inevitable change to the town. But again, it’s not fair that I grew up with such access and others not just so that people such as myself can hold on to our – my – own sense of what is quaint and charming. The good ole days were not necessarily that good I have been told.

In Turkey, there is still a fine line, if that, between village or town life and rural living. Though this is a town of more than 35,000 people, there are chickens who live up the road from me and come running down to nibble on whatever they can find, right in front of my house, every morning. Neighbors up the road a bit have several sheep that come down periodically to graze on what the chickens have not already discovered. The two horses in the stable kitty-corner to my house became three last year. Diagonally up the hill, Ahmet Bey who lives on the upper road, keeps his horse Yildiz, ‘Star.’ The respective owners treat them better than many people treat each other. Until three years ago, there was a camel – Hasan Bey– who lived one street over and one street down. Another neighbor one street over and one street up has a dog who howls at all five calls to prayer each day.

Every nation, every people, have their stereotypes, those they acknowledge, those that others acknowledge for them. One that holds true for this nation is that people who live here are suspicious of and not trusting of others.  In first graders’ primers, they learn that a Turk has no friend like a Turk. Sometimes I wonder how I have been able to enter this community to the degree that I have: I am a foreign woman who runs a program that stands to wreck the status quo. Over the years I have lived in this country, I have been accused of being a missionary, a spy, a sympathizer of the Kurdish insurgency.

In many places in this country, to greet a stranger is to open up an existing barrier, to let yourself be vulnerable. You can interact with a man doing business, but for many males here, if they see you on the street, they will look the other way. Having said that, there are many more who will greet me on the street. As one might guess, there are many more women who do so, even those who have never seen nor heard of you.

 The other day I made eye contact with an elderly woman on a street I rarely go down. I asked her how she was.

‘Well, I am doing fine! We are all doing fine, aren’t we?’

The only appropriate response clearly was ‘Yes, I guess we are all doing fine. Enjoy the day!’

Even though I was walking on, she continued. I stopped. ‘If you were able to get out of bed this morning, you are doing fine. You have shoes on your feet! You are doing fine!’

And she is right. I got out of bed this morning; I have shoes on my feet.

Yes, I am doing fine.

Happy Holidays!

I openly admit that I am not a religious person yet all the while I also admit that I enjoy many of the celebrations around Christmas. It’s partly the warmth, that ‘holiday spirit,’ partly the excuse to have some extra fun, and partly the lovely decorations that invoke memories of the excitement of childhood.

If I really stop to think about it, one of the reasons I like the holiday season is that it is a time to share. I don’t necessarily go farther than baking cookies to distribute to friends and neighbors, and that is enough for me to share a bit of where I come from with those amongst whose company I now live. Years ago I gave up trying to explain just why I enjoy this time of year so much and glean what I like and share that with others.

When I first came to Turkey, I was quite bothered by the New Year’s celebrations which were clearly echoing ‘our’ own Christmas. Trees, decorations, people trying to have fun without really knowing why. And yet when I stopped to think about it, ‘our’ or ‘my’ Christmas really had little to do with anything religious and everything to with fun and feeling good.

Over the years, the celebrations changed from just a few lights here and there to lights and decorations everywhere, special dinners and gift exchanges, people trying to understand what the deal was but also enjoying the decorations and lights.

But they still sometimes missed the point. A few years back, browsing through my favorite shopping center, as it were, an open-air market in Istanbul, I walked by a life-size plastic Santa Clause singing ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas.

The garbage ladies understand that this is a special time of year for me. Last year they pitched in and bought me a gold necklace with a gold and sparkly rhinestone evil eye. ‘We are always with you and we need to make sure you are protected.’

While I may be appreciative of the general joy of the season (and the mildness of the weather here this time of year), my stress level can still be higher than I wish it were. One of my ladies was kneading my shoulders, helping to loosen me up. My eyes were shut and I was melting with the pleasure of loosening tensions when one of the ladies called out,

‘Here comes Father Christmas!’

There is no literal translation of ‘Santa Claus’ in Turkish; everyone knows the figure though, and call him Father Christmas. After all, St Nicholas was from southern Anatolia.

I figured my ladies were just trying to pull one over on me. I was trying to process how they would understand that seeing Santa would about make my day when another lady called out,

‘He’s almost at our door!’

At that, I lifted my head up, just in time to see Santa Claus walk in, red suit, beard, red Santa hat.

One of our ladies said, ‘If 6 of us go in on a ticket, it’ll only be a lira each.’

It was the Lottery Santa. I told him I would buy a ticket if he said ‘hohohohoho.’

He looked at me and said, ‘I’m just selling tickets, I don’t know about any words that I’m supposed to say.’

He turned away to leave then looked back at me. I swear there was a twinkle in his eye as he looked right at me and said ‘Hohohohoho – is that how it goes?’

I said that would do just fine and bought a ticket.

Very happy holidays to one and all!

Mithat Bey

A film crew wanted to use our workshop for a changing room. Having been told they would need the space for just an hour, I agreed. Five hours later, I was still there.

Mithat Bey had come by late that afternoon after we closed up and most everyone had left. He looked around, eyed our goods and asked if the bags were for sale. I sized him up and said that no, they were not as we were selling them to a large department store in Istanbul. So many people think we are teaching a hobby and therefore find our prices more than they are willing to pay. Mithat Bey thanked me just the same.  I wallowed in the pleasure and the surprise of an elderly local man coming into the Garbage Ladies workshop to look and linger, even if he did not purchase anything.

By 8 pm, I had had chats with most everyone from the crew who was involved in the costumes for the television series, either by wearing them or putting them; of course everyone had to have their hair styled and make-up seemed rather optional. Others just wanted to use our narrow loo as we had a real toilet and was not just a pissoir like in the café where the filming was taking place. There was one fellow who came and went, came and went, each time with a lit cigarette, never acknowledging that this was someone else’s space that he was entering. He ended up buying a small bag and spoke briefly enough to make me understand that he was either a very famous actor and I should know who he was – I did not - or thought that he was above the rest of humankind. But he bought a small bag for his wife and did not bat an eye when I told him the price.

I was sitting alone at my desk, taking care of mundane tasks, trying to use the unexpected time I had on my hands well. Mithat Bey came back in.

‘Good evening young lady, can you tell me why you don’t sell these bags here? I mean, if someone walks into this place and wants to buy a bag, you really won’t sell the person a bag if they want to purchase one?’

I sure was glad I had extra time and not a whole lot to do.

I asked him in, invited him to sit down, and told him that in fact we did sell the bags to people who wanted to buy them, but on a small scale, and that they cost more money than most local people realized and hence would be willing to spend. And then I asked him if he was from here, which was the same as opening an invitation to tell me about his life.

And he did.

His mother was born on Turkish soil the day after his parents left their village on Mytilini, often known as Lesvos, in a small fishing skiff, as part of the Greek-Turkish ‘exchange’ back in the early 1920’s. His father was, in Mithat Bey’s words, ‘an early agricultural engineer,’ grafting fruit trees, spraying against insects, and other tasks performed 80 years ago for the well-being or perceived well-being of gardening. Mithat Bey himself was born in a house up the street from the workshop and used to come to the teahouse we now rented for our workshop, daily, as a young lad. He himself worked with metal and became a tinsmith. There was such a demand for his work that he moved to Izmir and there he stayed for 50 years. He had just moved back to a small town about 8 kilometers from Ayvalik but came to the teahouse across from our workshop now and again. When you are 75 years old, you may have a lot of time on your hands.

Mustafa from the same teahouse, had come over to keep me company and make sure that I was not being unduly bothered. He had elf-appointed himself my body guard and kept an eye on not just me but all the ladies who came to the workshop. He joined Mithat Bey and me at my desk and I felt as though I were at an informal cocktail party without the drinks. Mithat Bey told me about his children, his grandchildren, showed me his watch with Ataturk’s signature, informed me that he was a member of each and every club and association here in Ayvalik including the one that supported readers of a Kemalist newspaper. And then he asked me again if he couldn’t purchase one of the bags.

I said indeed he could, and told him the prices. He chose one of the bags that were on my desk; Mustafa, with a warm smile and a bit of a chuckle, asked if it was for the sweet lady, his wife.

Mithat Bey responded, ‘I bought her a house, I bought her an apartment, I don’t care which one she lives in but I won’t share the living space with her anymore. I’ve done a lot for that woman over the years and I’ve had enough. Last week I met another lovely lady, and, pardon me, I’m being very direct here, we are pretty close to understanding that we want to be together.’

Mustafa looked at me, we both looked at Mithat Bey, and simultaneously said:

‘Mithat Bey may your lovely lady use her new bag in good health.’

And the elderly man stood up, thanked us, and left pleased and with a smile that said as much.

Mexican prison

The last time I was in a Mexican prison was 25 or so years ago. I returned as a day-tripper, having come to learn how to make wrapper bags, which I hoped would be one of the main items for a new development endeavor I was about to embark upon. I could learn how to make them and women in Turkey (where I have lived for 20 years) would make them even better.


Mexico, the place that influenced so much of who I am today, is where I turned to for training in the next steps of my life. It was in Mexico, many years ago, that I saw the impact multi-national corporations could have on the average person, the challenges of living in a developing country, how so much that I had learned to take for granted was so very far out of reach of so many, and all the while, how rich culture, history and fresh produce could be. It was in Mexico that I first fell in love yet realized, with a naïveté of youth, that certain principles would not be compromised.

Mis amigos in the prison sat me down and got me started. There was a workshop next door and the familiar voice of Jim Morison was singing out ‘G-L-O-R-I-A.’ Mis amigos asked me everything that came to mind: were the young girls in Turkey beautiful, would I bring some of them with me next time, asked me how to say various expletives, and shook their heads in wonder when I said that I really lived in a country where there was no Dia de los Muertos. They praised me when I folded correctly, helped me out when I got stuck. I was a diversion to them, and they were filling me with humility, gratitude and getting my thoughts going on overdrive about decisions we make and stupid things we do.

After a few hours, I smelled the divine aroma of fresh corn tortillas. Sometimes we don’t realize how much we have missed something until it is, once again, right in front of us. But I knew I could not take food out of the mouths of prisoners. They left for lunch, I went to talk with some of the people who oversaw the local production.

Mis amigos returned and we all got back to work. Another unmistakable aroma came through the walls.

I called out to some of the men who were showing me the ropes and asked them to come over.

I sniffed the air and said, ‘that smells like pot.’

They sniffed the air and said, ‘si, si, es marijuana.’

The road to becoming a garbage lady was definitely one of those less taken. I did not know then that I would be exposed to at least as many new experiences as would the ladies who would join our endeavor.

trashy people

A former university instructor and one of her students, both dedicated personally and professionally to civil society, realized that a different model was needed for development projects. As all things are anything but equal, they decided to focus on creating opportunities and raising awareness with mostly the right amount of attitude and a whole lot of fun. The garbage ladies – çöp (m)adam – is a project that focusses on giving opportunities to women while at the same time, trying to raise awareness to each individual’s responsibility to the environment.