The Remarkable Surprise and Shock of Arrival!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:  The Remarkable surprise and shock of arrival!

Sometime in 1961, it was, a crowd of young military chaps boarded an aircraft in Brindisi, Italy bound for Yesilkoy (now Ataturk International) Airport outside Istanbul, Turkey. 

The airplane flew noisily, as if it had been  recently refurbished by a plumber. It seemed "rickety" and as un-"air"worthy as something pictured in medieval, pre-aviation drawings. Many of the GI's aboard clung to seat rests, knuckles white with terror.

I'm not particularly brave, but I was fascinated, fear having been supplanted by

excitement, as I scanned each rapidly appearing and then disappearing plot of earth below from a window side perch.

The flight seemed to endure for hours, if not days...  It lasted perhaps six or seven hours, as I recall, the bounce and turbulence and the dips and drops making it seem like a week and a half in an air balloon or a dirigible during a cyclone!    

We landed safely, as many sighs of relief like yellow, deflating balloons wafted through the cabin replacing panic.  We quickly disembarked and were almost immediately greeted by a wormy little Turkish chap who wasted no time in asking our ultimate posting destination.

I stumbled up to him and answered, "We'll be based at Karamursel Air Station, west of Yalova, I think." The base is perched on the shores of the Sea of Marmara, not far from Golchuk!  

"You will love the 'fa-cil-ee-tees,'" the wormy little man announced, a smile revealing all of the yellow teeth he had in his rather large, sort of cavernous mouth. It seemed he had as many teeth as there are keys on a piano!

Several of the lads, stating mainly soto voce, they wanted to slap him silly! Those several

clearly didn't want to be anywhere near the Country of Turkey. 

"Can I go home now?" one of them whined.    

The Turkish man meant "facilities," of course.  I found his pronunciation intriguing and amusing, wondering if every Turk we'd meet would elongate words and syllables comically. Couldn't wait to find out. 

I thanked him for his rosy prediction and his "wild" enthusiasm about our destination.  Many of my military companions complained, wishing they could get back on the aircraft and go home, frightening as the flight had been, as well as the scary prospect of some two years in wildly exotic Turkey.

As a means of easing us into the next two years or so, the length of our upcoming assignment at Karamursel Air Base, we were billeted for an overnight stay at the fabulous Cinar Hotel outside Istanbul, (pronounced si-nar, an accent cedilla placed like a goatee under the "C," creating a soft sound like an "S.")

The U.S. Military probably financed our stay and the delicious feast we were served.  But the servers, all male, kept emptying our ashtrays the moment an ash was dumped from each of the preponderance of cigarettes every GI was smoking as if it were the last awaiting a firing squad. Coming from modest or underprivileged backgrounds, the hovering waiters made all of us a bit uncomfortable.

Cinar's rooms were lavish, a kind of ridiculous (planned... or unplanned?) ploy as if presaging with a kind of evil sneer our accommodations at the air base.

Karamursel's accommodations were anything but lavish.  We discovered that fact the following day. At least the rooms were clean, and we were ordered of course to keep them clean throughout our tour of duty.  A military, disciplinary mandate!  

"A quarter should bounce off of the top blanket of your properly-made beds," a nasty sergeant had announced during basic training.  That bounce never happened in my experience...

Finally arriving at Karamursel, after a bumpy and lumpy bus ride, uh we stared in some dismay at the stark and sterile look of flat-topped

barracks and quonset huts and dull grey buildings that dotted and populated the base.  It also sported huge antennas and a so-called "flight line," but no possibility an aircraft could land there. 

One guessed that every air base in captivity must have a flight line for visible or invisible aircraft. Strange!

Soon we were installed in barracks rooms, each with three added occupants.  Then off to our assignments via a dark blue school-like bus, along the so-called flight line, past rows of towering antennas, to our work places.  

A few of use, including myself, were asked if we'd prefer to be assigned to "Research and Development (R&D)" vs. the utterly tedious and boring duty of monitoring printers and their endless output of correspondence from "the enemy."

It was an excellent choice, R&D, that is. Our duty was to learn known electronic systems by sound, about 90 of them, and then search for new electronic systems, using huge and

expensive radio / monitors.  Finding something, we'd explore, via "space-age" equipment and brain power, decipher the coded, musically-warbling information they were transmitting.  Great fun!

We had success!  Even hear of the Poet, Pushkin?  

I write this sort of ancient memoir given the timing...  I began my military service on June 12th, was discharged honorably on June 11th, four years later.  

Readers are welcome to share their own memories and adventures in military service. Don't hesitate; space is limited!  Thank You!

Humbly Submitted, June 12th...  Joel K.  

  

  

  

 

 

    

     

Strange but True Wild Encounters!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:           Strange but True Wild Encounters!   

What a Nasty Looking Beast...  Those Huge Tusks!  

What is it about memory?  Do we strange humans seek to embellish our own stories, our real or imagined lives, our mythology?  Are memory and recollection simply fabricated scenarios, created by writers and film crews for viewing on a big screen, the hero a masked paladin battling miscreants, villains, outlaws and murderers?  

Is all of that the heritage, mere artifice, the inheritance of a long life, of GeezerHood?  We tell ourselves tales of triumph, of what we'd actually like to have become, how we'd prefer others, our peers to perceive us, our self-created and self-aggrandized legends?

Maybe it's all a load of crap.  I don't know...  As a professorial friend suggests, we really don't know who the hell we truly are; we're in a constant state of flux, different personas emerging in different states of existence and personal evolution!  Perpetual mysteries?!  

What the hell's the difference?  Truth?  Pretence?  I'll tell stories in any case, of what may or may not be believable.  In any event, it's true.  Memory demands it must be!  

During my time in military service, in the nation of Turkiye, adventure called, like a beckoning nymph, like a great challenge proffered to a knight errant!  A quest, a need to be brave, heroic.  Or merely curious...

There were beautiful hills, almost small mountains behind the base on which we were stationed.  A friend and I -- we'll call him Webster -- chose a glorious sunny day, and began our trek up those daunting inclines, hoping to find a wild boar, perhaps some wild native inhabitants, living free but undiscovered.  In time, we found both.

The boar did indeed have great and fearsome-looking tusks, fang-like weapon-tools, conjuring alarming images of being eaten alive.  He -- we somehow knew it was a male --
looked at us greedily, menacingly but after a long while, during which we stared fixedly at one another, it hungry, we scared witless, the boar turned and trotted slowly away.  Then another giant shock!...   We hadn't become aware of the dark-skinned man who so quietly, stealthily appeared like a specter behind us, frightening the stuffing out of us in the process.

The man was dressed in a kind of robe, suggesting the guise of an Arab tribes-person.  I knew a smattering of Turkish.  My companion knew not a word.  The man smiled, crooked a finger and insisted we follow.  We did -- sort of hypnotically, cautiously -- eventually arriving at his home, a well-concealed cave-like dwelling.  Wide-eyed, we looked about, both of us in a state of fear and wonder, and then entered...

  Inside it was illuminated by a fire.  Beside the fire was a handsome woman and two dark and beautiful children.  Introductions followed, haltingly, each using signs and language to the best ability of each of the six of us.  Some Turkish, but mostly signs and smiles, facial expressions

and gestures.  It was a magical encounter, delightful, warm and remarkably kind, filled with wonder and curiosity, ultimately quite human, a kind of bonding the likes of which neither my American friend nor I had ever before encountered.  How could we have?  This was entirely new, entirely alien in a way!

       We greatly enjoyed the food and drink we were offered.  (Wild boar, maybe?).  Raki to sip, or maybe not something alcoholic (Muslims!), causing Webster and me to weave a bit as we left the family...  I think it was Raki...  maybe not!  Perhaps a heady reaction, an illusory effect, owing to the strange and wonderful encounter!  

We did not meet another wild boar, but swore we heard snorting and shrieking and eerie cries in wooded environs we passed as we began our descent back to the air base, that place a cluster of nondescript buildings that lay at the bottom of the large green hills we had just traversed and explored, both up and back.

**********************************************

Webster and I did not encounter one another for at least a couple of months after the boar and native cave-dwelling Turks adventure.

When we again did, it happened in Istanbul, along the Galata Bridge.  He was wandering aimlessly; I was climbing out of a taxi cab after visiting Turkish friends.  Though traveling in opposite directions, I asked if he was heading somewhere in particular.

"Just seeing the sights..." Webster answered cryptically.  He seemed confused, uncertain, lost...  He sort of mumbled, possibly in a kind of daze or daydream.  

"I'm going to go down to the Galata Port area on the Bosphorus, where big ships dock.  If you have no specific plans, join me if you like," I said.  Webster did so.

At the port, a gigantic and very modern looking cruise ship was docked.  Its stairway or "gangplank" was invitingly down, daring us to board. 

Litva

"What the hell," I said.  "What d'ya say we take a tour?"  Webster smiled and willingly agreed.  We boarded, seeing no one as we arrived at the ship's level reached via the walkway.  We entered a doorway and descended a stairway, reaching a a kind of common room or perhaps a lounge.  On the wall was a huge poster depicting a pastoral scene, another showing a fine-looking town or street scene.  At the bottom of each poster were the words, "Visit the USSR."

Webster, a quizzical look clouding his long face, asked, "Why would a Greek ship wish to promote tourism in the USSR."  I laughed and searched his face, still a grimaced and contorted mask of curiosity.  He had to be joking!    

We walked along the ship's passageways, up sets of stairs and eventually reaching the captain's or pilot's bridge or wheelhouse.  The bridge, the ship's control center, the most

Leander's Tower...
(I think)...  approaching
the Istanbul harbor!

fascinating part of our quest, our "tour."  Still we encountered no one.  Both of us, foolishly and carelessly, began to fiddle with buttons and controls.  As we depressed a few of them, we felt the ship begin an almost imperceptible movement, a listing.   Wait!  Yes, we did experience a movement, a tilting.  Water-tight doors?  Oh no...  

So, too, did a number of crew members.  As if in a chorus of angry barking, we heard men shouting, and they were not friendly. 

"We'd better get the hell out of here," I cautioned.  

Webster said, "Ach...  a Greek ship.  What can they do but order us to leave."

With great haste we ran onto and off of that
gangplank...  Running for fear of our lives!
... A blur!!  We couldn't even see ourselves!!

I shot him a stern look.  "This is a Russian ship, a Soviet ship.  I thought you were joking!  I know some Russian.  I recognize and can read the Cyrillic alphabet.  We gotta get the hell out of here," I repeated.  "We're American GIs.  We have sensitive information in our heads," I shouted as we ran like Olympic sprinters toward and then down the gangplank.

Webster looked stricken.  We ran like hell, panting, gasping...  "Where?," he asked in a muffled, if panicked voice.  "Should we jump off the ship...  into the Bosphorus?"

I had the same thought, but figured we needn't do anything so dramatic, so foolhardy,  so potentially cold and wet and demanding of an arduous swim to shore.  No guarantee of escape.  I could see us getting yanked out of the soup by our hair, burly commie deckhands ready to put us in chains!  Torture and interrogation our certain fate!!    

"Keep running.  Those commies are after us...  damn commies!"  We raced off the ship, down the gangway, then up an incline, round a turn, ducking low, into a throng of Turks, some carrying huge loads on their backs, some with heavy-looking sacks on their heads.  Finally, finally we felt somewhat safe, having been absorbed, having sort of disappeared into the mass of humanity.  

We kept going at a brisk pace, onto the Galata Bridge.  Only then did we dare look back toward the moored ship, toward the Litva!  I spotted a group of agitated-looking men, searching the wharf area.  They spied left and right, but happily not toward the bridge.  They continued to look angry.  I could almost hear them in my pulsing brain, muttering and cursing!    

"Phew," I ventured.  "I think we're safe...  Hope we're safe," I said, reassuring Webster and myself.  Sort of...  He continued to look a bit ghostly pale and stunned.  I thought he would punch me at any moment for getting him into a potentially dangerous pickle!

In time, we made our way back to the quay and the ferry landing.  A pleasant return voyage on the Sea of Marmara, past beautiful islands, eventually docking at the Port of Yalova.  From there by bus back to the base.

On the ferry, I drank a couple of vodka-lemons (pronounced Le-Moans, accent on the

"Moans"!).  Munched on pistachios too, usually served along with the booze.  I exchanged my concerns with Webster.  Our sensitive knowledge.  Soviets.  Commies.  Possible danger to ourselves.  Stupid actions aboard the Litva.  My stupidity, his too, perhaps.  I apologized to him for my own foolish behavior, putting both of us at risk, or seemingly so!  Webster's bravado probably came from the "Greek"...  his confusion!   

"Who uses that ship?" Webster asks, perhaps rhetorically.

"Hmmm...  Possibly wealthy Soviets.  Maybe Politburo members.  Rich commies cruising on the Black Sea.  I don't know..."   

I never saw him again, or perhaps I did, fleetingly, in a common neighborhood.  A brief glance, possible recognition, maybe a mirage?!  I made no attempt to hail him or to meet, nor to effect a rendezvous.  It was enough, what we had experienced together.  It was enough!   

 Humbly Submitted 10-09-2025 -- by Joel K.

 

 

  

 

     

 

         

   

In Turkey -- the "En-Chant-ed" Sounds of Street Sellers and their Wares!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:                     In Turkey -- the "En-Chant-ed"                                       Sounds of Street Sellers and their Wares!  

When the sounds of memory crawl back into our consciousness, do we, in our GeezerHood, hear them faithfully?  Or do we embellish them in an effort to enchant and enlarge our fragile psyches, our imagined statures?   Do we hope to impress others, those with whom we share the ancient times and tales of our youth?  One does one's best (most of the time?!) to render with integrity the stories and legends we want to believe are true!

When stationed in Turkey in military service, specifically on an air base near Yalova, a

port city on the Sea of Marmara, leisure time was a precious commodity for the curious, the tourist and the traveler in many of us.  Like Marco or Vasco we imagine ourselves as wandering camels, ships, vessels of discovery, boldly curious and bravely adventurous.    

Some of us, those who chose to embrace the opportunity of living 18 months in a beautiful foreign land with an extraordinary major city, spent a great deal of time in Istanbul, a 90-minute ferry crossing over the blue waters of Marmara.  We'd pass two beautiful islands along the way, drink a bit or a lot of vodka with "lemone," munch fresh pistachios.   Finally we'd cruise into the port, past Maiden's (Leander's) Tower in sight of the port of Uskudar on the Asian side of that remarkable city.   

Our usual route into the heart of the old town required a crossing of the Golden Horn

over the Galata Bridge.  In the early to later evening hours we'd visit a series of Pavyons (bars / nightclubs), drinking too much and "talking treason" to mates and native patrons alike, including young Turkish women who had little interest in us or our inane ramblings and boastings.

In the "yellow time," the early morning hours, as dawn assaulted our blood-shot eyes, we'd trip along the narrow city streets to a basement apartment lended by a friend to my friend.  The friend of the friend's name, I recall was Thom (the "h" is silent!).   She had a delightful, sort of musical family name that I can't recall.  

The apartment was at basement level.  We had a perfect view of feet and lower leg portions from our street-level windows.  In the still early hours of the morning, usually beginning about 6:00 AM, the street vendors would begin their daily chants, or shouts.  Among the words that pierced our injured and hung-over ears was "Sicak, Sicak," (sounds like "Cee-Jak") always repeated at least twice.   It means Hot!  The words would travel up and down the brick-paved streets until patrons spilled out of their doors to breakfast on the sweet and savory offerings of the loud and energetic street-food merchants. 

The word for cold was also heard echoing along the pavements -- Soguk (sounds like So-ook).  And then we'd often hear "Eskigee" (I paraphrase or "para-spell"?).  It means "old" or old clothing for sale or other ancient articles for sale or barter or bargaining.      

If we could actually rouse ourselves from peaceful slumber -- profound, like things long dead -- we'd crawl or stumble our ways into the streets and purchase a hot breakfast.  We'd "Yemek" (eat) our ways through the pain of aching heads, or drink the soothing cold brews on offer.  Strong, hot and thick enough to chew Turkish coffee, or "Chai," a wonderful Turkish tea.   And Oh yes...  Can't forget to mention, "Chitir" -- Fresh Rolls.  Those we'd also "Yemek" voraciously, like wolves devouring a fresh kill! 

A favorite meal was "Ekmek" (Turkish bread) stuffed with lamb (Kuzu) balls sprinkled with powdered salt.  Delicious!  The Ekmek was huge and crusty and flavorful, and the meat inside was equally tasty.  This was often our lunch or dinner of choice.  One had to hold it with both hands, as it was as heavy as a long-eared rabbit or a large river stone!

If a day was to be filled with exploration, we'd take the local bus to Yalova and await a different bus, this one to Bursa.  The call was powerful and resonant -- Boo-sah, Boo-Sah, Boo-Sah -- always shouted three times, accent on the second syllable.  Yes, actually, "Bursa," but it sounded like "Boo-Sah"!  Bursa was another beautiful Turkish city, located in the northwestern corner of the country, a hilly nearly mountainous region.  

   

Not long ago, I was telling the "Chants" tale to certain family members, those who'd listen!  One has to wonder why certain thoughts and recollections suddenly appear in the mind, like a film clip accompanied by the distinctive sound of a 16-mm projector, re-running frequently, a recording stuck on "Memories."  

 

Enough!  All that remains is to post an image of a Pavyon and then to end this posting, but hoping that Travelers and Turks and other devotees will enjoy this retrospective, the thoughts, ideas and flashbacks it may (or may not!) evoke.  Thank You!  

Humbly Submitted September 5, 2023 -- Joel K.

 

    

      

Our Passage to Istanbul... Adventures and Minor Revolutions!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:       Our Passage to Istanbul...  Adventures and Minor Revolutions!

It was a Tuesday, or maybe not...  Might have been a Thursday, even a Friday!  Trouble is, when you work shifts -- Days, Swings, Midnights -- the days not working became blurs of memory, blending or crashing into one another as if becoming single, enormous knots.  The year was 1962 or maybe 1963?  We were in the military, the US Air Force to be accurate, assigned to the USAF Security Service, stationed near the town of Karamursel, Turkey at an Air Force Station on the shores of the beautiful Sea of Marmara.  

This is a tale told not during the era of GeezerHood.  But recollected stories and memories recently shared have a way of insisting, inserting themselves into our consciousness, demanding that we put ink to paper and recall adventures frozen in a still-functioning psyche!  

The station was some 20 KM from the city or town of Yalova, a ferry port on the aforementioned sea.  We'd ride a bus, about a 45 minute to one hour trip.  We'd drink Raki, a licorice-flavored and highly potent spirit the Turks would pass around to those of us brave or stupid enough to take large swallows from the omni-present jugs that always traveled with us on the bumping blue busses.  

The Port of Yalova

Never entirely inebriated, but close, we'd step off the bus and walk the short distance to the ferry terminal, purchase our low-cost tickets, and cruise the 90-or-so minutes from Yalova to Istanbul.  We'd drink "Vodka-Lemones" or more Raki, crack their shells and consume large quantities of pistachios.  Sometimes the Marmara would be angrywould bounce the ferry vigorously aided by large swells delivering to passengers near the rails stormy showers of salty and cold sea water.

We'd sail past Buyuk Ada and Heybeli Ada, the former the island home of some Armenian - Turkish friends, the latter the site of a Turkish naval base and a branch of its naval academy.  

Turkish men would approach our table or chairs or, if we were standing, directly to our ears, in any circumstance, about an inch or two away, and state loudly, emphatically, "Deniz, Chok Fenah."  (Two of the words are printed phonetically for ease of pronunciation!). The phrase is translated, "The sea is very bad."  

We would respond, "Evet, effendum, chok fenah "  Meaning, "Yes sir."  Optionally, "Evet, akadaash."  Meaning "Yes, friend," always repeating or affirming the "very bad" addendum to emphasize and acknowledge our understanding.  And then we'd continue to drink the refreshing Vodka Lemones, or the more powerful and quicker-acting Raki.  

The ferry would enter the gorgeous port of Istanbul, past the Tower of Leander, finally into the quayside, depositing its complement of passengers who always rushed off, as if on missions of great import.  We, too, were eager to begin our days of leisure and entertainment.  We'd drink in the beauty of the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia and Topkapi Palace.  We'd board taxis or busses and head for the Pavion district  (possibly "Paveon," meaning tavern or bar or inn that sells spirits!) or other neighborhoods with which we had become enamored and intimate.  Some would aim their sights on the "Red Light" district, where "women of the evening" would pose seductively in what seemed like large-windowed "Store Fronts" to attract their clientele.

Leander's Tower

On one of our Istanbul forays, in a popular pavion district, a small revolution was gathering strength, the perpetrators "Young Turks" of student or military issue, displeased with the current ruling body at the time, and hoping to encourage more of the like-minded citizenry to join them in attempting to overthrow the government, or at least to demonstrate extreme antipathy.  We were trapped in the middle of the crushing throng.  A Turkish man, recognizing and regarding us as unlikeable or evil Americans -- or so we thought in retrospect -- thrust a knife, but was happily restrained and managed only to penetrate a shirt front slightly and cause a small wound in the soft flesh of the belly of one of us.

In the end, everyone survived.  As day surrendered to night, and traffic -- particularly taxi traffic -- increased dramatically, we walked the narrow streets to a favorite haunt.  Trying to cross a street, the feet of one of us were run over by a taxi cab.  They travel so fast, as if in a race, as if competing for a lucrative fare, as they all in fact were doing, all of the

time and everywhere in that great city. 

Miraculously -- most likely a memory drenched in a bit of hyperbole -- the feet were uninjured, owing perhaps to soft tires or the non-feeling result of strong drink.  In the pavion (or paveon), we spent the better part of the evening consuming more Turkish beer, raki and other boozy potables.  Eventually, we wandered the late-night and early-morning streets of Istanbul, scoring pills and cannabis along the way.  

One of us was "treated" to a bit of LSD, mostly ignorant of its often gruesome affects on both the human body and brain.  The rather bold if stupid half of a drunken duo took the LSD, experiencing the terror of being devoured by a giant cartoon rodent.  The other half of the duo wisely demurred, and would not sample his portion of the nasty potion that resembled, we remembered, a frozen dot of raki, at least in color.  

The Galata Bridge, spanning
the Bosphorus!

We woke in the morning in our respective beds at a clean but inexpensive hotel, ravenous and exceptionally hung-over.  Over a delicious breakfast of cheese, tomatoes, eggs, cucumbers, jam, honey, kaymak, sucuk (a spicy Turkish sausage), pishi (a kind of fried dough) and soup, having met up with our fellow travelers, we discussed the revolution, the stabbing, the taxi's attempt to assassinate one of us, and our collective adventures.  No one talked about the LSD incident.  

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Why the obscure use of "we" and "us," rather than identifying specific victims, fools and buffoons, we can only point to the cerebrum and memory draining effects of alcohol, and its extreme and often completely foolhardy misuse.  However, on balance, young men in military service, trying valiantly to experience every manner of frenzied and half-crazed behavior before death overtakes them, are often known to engage in activities that they'd never care to share with a mother or a father or a confessor, or any other sentient being with a working brain.  

What fun we had, though.  What adventures we can now share!  Long after the facts of them, of course -- with equally demented friends of similar, shared experience, grown children, perhaps even with grandchildren and grandnieces and nephews of appropriate ages, intelligence and temperaments.  But only if they'll listen, only if they're even moderately interested in the odd if true ravings of a Wizened Geezer!  

(Special Note of Dedication:    for Tad KM who listened so politely to my latest "historical blather," and encouraged the writer to fashion a posting or two on various topics, this one included...  I think?!...  The extraordinary young man, a superb writer himself, urged me to "write it all down..." for future generations and, of course, posterity.  As such, I was naturally compelled!  Thank You, Tad!).  

Humbly Submitted, 10-08-2021 -- By Joel K.