Slowly-by-Slowly

Cue the dancing girls: They finally emerge from my purse for a moon dance

Posted on August 9, 2011 by lizcameron

There is a rustling and a jingling somewhere on the floor. Sleep holds in gravity against my eyelids, which are leaden and deeply in stasis. I think “scorpion on the floor.”

Karagöz giggles mercilessly in my ear, causing my adrenalin to rush, “think again, missy!” he hoots as I jump to attention. Irreversibly annoyed, as I am a heavy sleeper and grumpy awakener, I was less than amused to see my jestery friend, miss him though I had. He seemed to be permanently stuck under his aluminum foil-constructed self-tanning mechanism, working hard on tanning his bald head for the last week or so. Paying no mind to my mood, Karagöz engaged in his usual rhyming madness at the top of his lungs “Scorpion, my ass, what to think of the ring around the glass? Be a smart lass, there moving out, en masse!”

Realizing that this was not just the rumblings of my personal puppet madman, I rubbed my eyes a bit more. Sneezing from intense air conditioner exposure, my eyes inch towards adjusting to the blue light of the room. The strong-willed crescent moon was peeking in the side of the window with a vengeance. “No scorpions here,” I realize, “it’s a visitation.” I begin to see the little ladies – my personal troupe of Karagöz puppet dancing girls who have assigned themselves to be my traveling Turkish girlfriends. The ladies are dancing out of my purse in a slow motion infinity twirl -as if they can’t quite stomach leaving the purse for good. Hands and arms akimbo with a collective grace that matches the swirling of their opaque but shimmery fabric pantaloons, veils and tops, they swirl and gesticulate with the most graceful gestures, clearly hearing their own music, from an oud, perhaps, something like this quiet and contemplative music from an Iraqi oud player with a Turkish name, perhaps…

I wake with more intention now, trying not to disturb M., who is snoring away, oblivious to it all. I am surprised that the cacophony of snores do not unsettle the little ladies. While they have ventured onto my shoulder or earrings in an emergency, they usually hustle for the purse as soon as I am back within range. This is quite a treat. So far, I have mostly heard their views on my need to dye my hair, be a good wife, not help with the dishes – that’s for the maid, be sure to think of England” for the waxing torture and generally not be so academic and more ladylike. They were happy to hear that my Granny taught me that “a lady is not a lady without her lipstick.” Hands waving up and down in their slow-motion circular moon dance, I become transfixed by their collective grace, light steps, and translucent beauty.

As my transfixed-ness ensues, I reflect on how uncomfortable I have felt. Trying to fit in, to meet the expectations of some impossible-to-attain Turkish femaleness, much of this is some crazy expectation I have for myself, not M.’s expectation, certainly. He has been rolling his eyes and sighing at me for buying in to his sister-in-law’s views and for feeling so insecure about my looks. No matter how many times he has reassured me that he likes me as I am, I am constantly not feeling good enough, thin enough, pretty enough. I start to realize that these are my own internal negative messages that are triggered by being exposed to what I can glean of the expectations for a Turkish woman. While the dancing girls play into it some, they are stuck in Ottoman times, circa 1350, so they won’t be too much good on the empowerment front. What of this moon dance, then? Why now?

As if divining the meaning of my furrowed brow, the closest dancing girl to me comments mid-twist, mid-turn, saying softly “we re-connect with the moon several times in a month, to remember who we are – as individuals and as a group. You must do the same, we think, so we decided to come out of the purse for the first time tonight. You don’t have to join us, you would probably crush us, but consider us here as your reminder to check in with yourself – and to be that sort of girlfriend or sister cohort for you, while you are so far from home.”

Before I can answer, I see that they are waning, the dance is slower, the infinity ring of dancing progression is slowly making it’s way into the purse again. “So,” I think, “the task is to check in. Maybe I need to cut myself a break, maybe I need to set my own limits. Maybe I don’t need to spend the day at the beach with the ladies, talking about cellulite creams, microdermabrasion, the latest in bikini styles and diets – and the like.” Without further ado, I make plans for a pre-breakfast conversation with M. and craft the right words “I know you are so enjoying your brother – can we ask him to take a day trip tomorrow or the next day, to his business down in Dalyan? Do you mind?”

The next day as the brothers are planning a day trip over breakfast, I will learn from a google search that the dancing girls have an important role in Karagöz shadow puppetry traditions – they always finish the show with a grounding dance – but not much more. I also learn that karagoz.net that their garments are referred to as a ferace made of “two pieces of fine muslin or tarlatan called yasmak, folded and pinned in such a way that one edge covers the mouth and lower part of nose and the other passes across the brow above the eyes, while the rest hangs behind. As the veil is very thin, the features can be quite-clearly seen. They wear a blue bonnet called hotoz, patent leather or velvet slippers on their feet and each carries an umbrella.” I saw no umbrellas last night, though, they must have left them behind in the small nooks and crannies of my purse – no need for protection in the moonlight, I suppose?

Looking up from my laptop, I wonder when the dancing ladies will emerge again, and whether this is more of a function of the moon or a function of their hard-wiring to my confused self bereft of close girlfriends and/or sisters on this trip.

Quality time with bikinis, books and the dancing ladies in Bodrum

Posted on August 8, 2011 by lizcameron

One of the dancing girls in the shadow puppet troupe inhabiting my purse

The year is 2004. The day is indiscernible between sunshine, jet-lag, enjoying a visit with my boyfriend’s family and on-again, off-again culture shock. It is mid-afternoon, and I am tanning and reading just steps from the Aegean in a gated community near Bodrum, Turkey. We arrived here near Bodrum after a twelve-hour car journey through Anatolia, my brother-in-law at the wheel the whole time. It was a fascinating drive, and I got to know my boyfriend’s brother much better on the way. As the comfortable BMW wound its way through the hills and down towards Bodrum, great swaths of white chalk-looking cottages dotted the hills all over. The sun was setting, which added a honeyed glow to the landscape, already quite dry and arid looking from afar. The Aegean soared out in a horizontal gesture, clear and blue with an aqua tinge…I hadn’t heard from Karagöz, Hacivad or any of the others in the shadow puppet troupe since my Bursa lunch, so I just focused my attention on seeing what would come next.

Gated beach community near Bodrum

It took me a few days to get used to the machine-gun wielding guards that traverse the perimeter of the place on a half-hourly basis. I have met a few of the judges and military officials that live here, which I think explains the presence of the hard core security. All were very pleasant and have greeted me in English despite my attempts to use my new Turkish greetings and general niceties. Most of our days were spent by the water in a cement-dock-beach with reclining chairs and tea service. My main challenge in meeting the people around the community was how to engage in shaking hands while simultaneously trying to keep my cotton cloth wrap around me, unlike my svelte sister-in-law who parades about in her bikini. I feel like the modest one, the unfashionable Yankee who is a little pudgy. It is not what I expected, that’s for sure, and I feel a bit dumb about expecting that people would dress, now reality is sinking in, and I am shocked at how wrong my guidebooks are, at least about this type of Turkish community.

Hot wax for beauty torture

I have already realized that having only ONE bathing suit is not going to cut it. I must have *at least* two, I am told by my sister-in-law, one for the morning, one for the afternoon. I always just washed mine at lunch at home, and dried it in the sun before returning to the beach in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. This explanation does not cut it with my sister in law, who let me know where I could buy other suits in Bodrum town when we went to the beauty salon one day. I emerged with a new haircut, and otherwise pretty much hairless, in pain and somewhat in the throes of post-traumatic stress disorder over an intensive waxing experience nothing like anything I had ever endured before. I think it was better that the aestheticians spoke no English, as I really did not know when the pain was about to radiate after their lightening-quick wax strip removal gestures were but a motion memory. The chorus of dancing ladies I first met in Bursa did make one appearance during that time – they called out to me from the purse in which they have enjoyed residing, saying “we all have to do it, this waxing, ‘close your eyes and think of England,’ isn’t that what they say in your part of the world?”

Although happy to hear the compliments from my boyfriend’s family upon returning from the salon, it was clear that major improvements had been made despite the fact that my hair was still salt-and-pepper, much to their dismay. I didn’t know quite how to think about that nor did I know how to handle my boyfriend, who rolled his eyes at all this, encouraging me to “just be yourself, i don’t care about all of this.” I desperately wanted to fit in with the family and feel comfortable, but this was a losing battle. There was a massive disconnect between the “real sized and shaped” women outside of the gates – and inside of the gates of that community – if you don’t count the hired help. It was gruelling for someone as body-conscious as I am.

Body type of most of the ladies in the gated community

Clearly, my insecurities are running wild, despite my boyfriend’s almost constant efforts to remind me that he likes me as-is, etc. The chorus of lady dancers have been calling out to me from my purse – telling me “be proud of your curves – look at all of us belly dancers” and “this new generation of Turkish women, no idea what the skinny movement is all about.” It has helped some, but not much. Karagöz has, as usual, been whipping things up into a frenzy in my mind, saying things like “she thinks you are fat, just sit on her hat, send her a rat if you don’t like that!” and “work it girl, waddle around here just as you are, pudgy and proud! You’re here, you’re queer (to them) and they can get used to it!” Hacivad, on the other hand, just keeps quoting Rumi to me, specifically this phrase “Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.” I have succumbed to insecurity for the moment, and have tuned Hacivad out of my mind some in my efforts to fit in. My brother in law tells me that I will tan soon in an effort to be kind.

So, here I am, in richy-rich land, surrounded by gorgeous, petite, skinny and tanned Turkish women, doing what I can to feel confident in my almost six-feet tall, pale, somewhat-overweight-but-not-too-much-I-think body. I am reading a fascinating political history of modern Turkey and try to lose myself in the details and the pronunciation of words to the best of my ability. Ever the earnest academic, I try to make conversation with my boyfriend’s family about Turkish politics, but this appears to fall flat each time, so I save my questions and observations for late night check-ins with my boyfriend and opt for learning about the latest Istanbul gossip, fashion trends and family intrigue from my sister-in-law, with whom I spend time strolling around the nature trails around the compound in the early evening.

Trying to suss me out for sure, my sister-in-law peppers me with questions that I try to answer to the best of my ability. “Yes, I was married before, but divorced, yes, the divorce is final.” “No, not all Americans eat two hamburgers for dinner.” “No, I don’t condone the amounts of obesity in the U.S., and no, I am not considered obese there – I could stand to lose a few pounds, though.” “Yes, I was raised in a Christian church, but I have no problem with Islam.” “Yes, I know that (my boyfriend) does not want to have children because of his zero population growth beliefs” and “well, actually, I like my salt and pepper hair just as it is, but thanks for the suggestion!” I am assisted in response-crafting pretty much constantly by the silent troupe of dancing ladies who jump into my pocket or hang off of my earrings if I don’t bring my purse along for a walk. “We are your stand-in girlfriends,” they chorus, “until you get more comfortable around here. We’ll help you strategize your answers and remind you not to eat too much food around the family.” Although I find some of their comments antiquated and unhelpful, I am grateful for their perspectives – and just for their presence during a confusing time where I feel as though I am “trying on” this new family’s lifestyle, so different from what I know of my boyfriend back home. My boyfriend is understandably wanting to catch up with his brother…so I am trying to give him space. Between bikini shopping, salon visits, books and the dancing ladies narrating my every ethnographic observation, two weeks fly by without too much incident. Karagöz and Hacivad sleep most of the time, letting the chorus take the lead as I try to figure out the navigation of bikinis, body hair, books and body image.

Posted in Cross-cultural learning moments, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged beach, beauty, Bodrum, culture shock, hair, insecurity, obesity, Shadow puppet dancing troupe, Turkish | 4 Comments

An interlude in Bursa for Iskander kebap: When the Karagöz puppet troupe stated their intentions

Posted on August 6, 2011 by lizcameron

So, just how did I come to be inhabited by these Karagöz puppet characters, anyway? I am not sure, but I do know that they chose me. They first began to appear in my dreams, then on the airplane as tiny people and then, one day in Bursa, I learned their intentions.

At the start of their fairy tales, the Turks usually say bir varmış bir yokmuş (“it supposedly happened, but we are not sure if it is a myth,”) and this is akin to “once upon a time.” So, bir varmış bir yokmuş, I first learned of the intent of Karagöz, Hacivad and their troupe while digesting an İskender Döner Kebap by the side of a busy street in Bursa. I was feeling particularly culture-shocked that day after listening to Ladino speakers on the ferry to Yalova and missing my family and seeing how many women were veiled in Bursa – known to be a fairly conservative city in this regard. I was being driven to Bodrum by my boyfriend and his brother in June of 2004 when both insisted on breaking the low-cholesterol diets of middle aged men for a massive influx of meat.

I knew we were stopping for lunch, but could not distinguish between the car stopping on a tiny side street, a plain-clothed valet opening my door and being deposited at an outdoor table lickety-split as the car was zoomed off to be held around the corner. It really felt like a tire-changing moment at the Indy 500. Before the dust could settle, I was sitting on a wooden stool across from the brothers, with a platter of roasted meat, garlicky yogurt and buttered flatbread before me. The roasted peppers and tomatoes smiled at me from the side of the plate.

Iskander Kebap

After demolishing their plates and ordering seconds, which I declined, I was still working on what my Granny always advised me in new food situations “work on looking like a lady – don’t eat fast, don’t shovel it down, don’t eat too much.” Her voice had been ringing through my head for days as I tried to be a bit more refined than I usually was – the days of ribald talk and cursing with the prosecutors in the Bronx criminal courts were gone. Cursing, you see, was a way of life in which ribald talk was the lexicon there. Having met my gracious, slender and welcoming sister-in-law, I had been doing my best to play a part I wasn’t sure I wanted to play, but felt I needed to play. So, I demolished my plate too, just in a bit more time.

Maybe it was the cholesterol-induced coma that I was in, but this is when Karagöz and Hacivad visited me that day – or more like jumped onto my tea glass saucer while I stared, somewhat dizzy-eyed at all the goings on around me. Eager to catch up after a year apart, the brothers were bantering on and on in Turkish – after much generous time spent with me in English. I busied myself with my surroundings of the cobble-stoned street that seemed devoted to the provision of tables for this famous kebap palace. Sipping on my ayran, a salty yogurt drink akin to a lassi in Indian cuisine, I noticed a billboard across the street that depicted a dyad of shadow puppets. “hmmm,” I thought quizzically, trying not to burp, “what in the heck are Indonesian shadow puppets doing here in Bursa? They look an awful lot like these dreams and daydreams of mine”

Before I could file the thought away in my brain, I heard a cacophonous screech and a massive, plasticky-papery rip – and with horror realized that the characters on the billboard had turned to face me while releasing a torrent of what I can only imagine to be Turkish curses. Slowly they extricated themselves from the billboard like self-possessed paper dolls in a perforated page in a child’s book. Once free, they stretched their waxy arms and legs, worked out the cricks in their necks and jumped down on to the table – morphing into their mini-selves as they landed in my tea saucer.

Looking left, looking right, I realized that nobody else was seeing this. I feared for my sanity and wracked my brain for memory of the DSM-IV and whether there was a culture shock-induced psychosis, whether this could explain what was happening. Maybe I was asleep, I thought. “We are NOT Indonesian!” the one with the big black googly eye proclaimed with certainty. Crossing his arms and moving his neck into an angular repose, the other, more studious looking fellow had his say with “welcome to Bursa, madame, we are born and bred here, to be sure, not in the wild climes of the South seas.”

“Why are you talking to me here,” I asked, a bit panicked. The learned one responded, “we think you need us right now, you need some explaining to get through this experience.” The googly-eyed one piped in “let ME do the explaining, or he will mess it up,” to which the scholarly gentleman responded “actually, it is vice versa. We are part of a large troupe of puppets that only inhabit the people who will listen, as you listened to Mary Poppins as a child, and believed with all your heart that the twins in that story really could communicate with the sun when they were young, in their own language. It’s time to drive, we’ll be nearby! Look, the bottom line is, as Karagöz is telling you, you are having a great time – but as I am telling you – you need to keep on minding your ps and qs as a true lady. Just let the brothers talk, just watch, learn and listen.” The puppets went on and on with their interpretation of the day’s events.

Snapping to attention after a time, I realized the brothers had plowed through their second plate and were calling for the car. “You don’t want to use the bathroom here,” my boyfriend said, apologetically, “it’s really only suitable for men, meaning, it’s nasty. But the waiters have arranged for you to use their mother’s bathroom, upstairs, if you like.” Jumping at the chance to see a “real” Turkish household beyond my potential brother-in-law’s home, something I cringe about today as this felt like all-too eager and naive attempt at cultural learning, I ambled along behind a young man who delivered me to an empty apartment, neat as a pin, spic and span despite the oodles of exhaust fumes and dust all around us.

As I washed my hands, I heard two tiny voices from my purse. “Is that you, again, billboard men?” I asked, meekly, hoping that nobody would think I was crazy. “No, we are women too, a troupe of dancers, we just want to say, you are doing fine, but you might need some henna in that hair, look at all that grey.” Turning my head to the left and right in the buttery light of the bathroom, I considered my salt and pepper. “I like my hair as it is, and so does my boyfriend, I am not sure I am really interested in henna, but thank you very much for the suggestion.” With a collective sigh, and a “she’ll learn,” I heard them fold up into themselves and retire just as I heard the scholarly man bid me well on my journey, saying “it’s time to go, we’ll see you soon. Get back to the car, now, and as the Mevlana Rumi says, ‘rise up nimbly and go on your strange journey.”

Mustafakemalpaşa tatlı

Buoyed a bit by my new friends, with or without their advice, I skipped down the stips as nimbly as I could, newly open to the strange journey to follow. As we wound our way across western Anatolia towards Bodrum that day, stopping for mustafakemalpaşa tatlı (a syrupy sweet treat akin to the Indian gulab jamun named after Mustafa Kemal Ataturk) and kilos of sour cherries, I made sure to watch, learn and listen, but I had no more visits for a few days….