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 The Service!"... Are People Actually Melting in That Pot?

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "...In The Service!"...  Are People Actually Melting in That Pot?  

Many a time and oft, I've pontificated -- when engaged in a dialogue with acquaintances of dissimilar attitudes, beliefs and values -- suggesting that each of us becomes his or her "composite self " (for lack of a better descriptor), say at age 30 or 35, some younger, others older -- as a result of a the many and varied elements that inform our lives.  They include, perhaps needless to state, environment, upbringing, role models -- both positive and negative -- education, experience...  These among the factors that mold us, make us who we are.  Experience, I think, is a powerful force in the development of attitudes and values as we traverse our separate pathways.

Above is a graphic depicting a
Melting Pot, or, a "metaphoric
crucible" in which "...all manner of
people can blend together and
co-exhist in peace and harmony..."!
(paraphrased from a statement
by Pollyanna...  maybe?!)  

The absolute jewels of experience are the people we meet along the way, who touch and affect our lives in a positive manner;those who make a negative impact have a certain value too, particularly if we learn something useful as a result of the collision!  Obvious, perhaps, but I'm coming to the point!  

In my own experience, for example, viewed from the exalted elevation of Geezerhood...  a prime example is Military Service (and those who populated its ranks...  a life episode that included extensive travel)!  It was a harvest of diverse thoughts, ideas,  opinions, philosophies, personalities...    

Among "fellow travelers" and intersecting lives was that of Jonas B. whom I met at Goodfellow Air Force Base in Texas, perhaps we were in basic training together as well.  It's difficult and can be misdirecting to sift through memory from a distance of more than 50 years.  


Jonas may have had a small issue with alcohol.  On occasion his breath manufactured a fog of fetid mist.  Odd, I sometimes thought, because he frequently drank Aqua Velva and mouthwash when no other alcoholic "potable" was at hand.   His personality was strikingly potent and memorable.  Jonas was a Native American with a superb mind.  A dark-skinned Oklahoman, fiercely proud of his heritage, his gift to peers was tolerance and acceptance.  I enjoyed him, his stories about warrior ancestors, his humor.  I wonder if he's still among the living, or if alcohol claimed his brain and the oil wealth he was promised.  I hasten to add, Jonas was by no means the only individual whose consumption of alcoholic substances was prodigious and eclectic!  Black, white, red, brown and yellow, we all consumed our share in whatever form was cheap and available.  After-shave lotion was a novel variant, however...  perhaps an acquired taste?      

Air Force Security Service Tech School yielded the next posting...  A day before boarding a plane bound for Karamursel Air Base in Turkey, I had to visit a Philadelphia barber for a much-needed shave, singe, a haircut, a uniform brush up...  Foolishly, I lacked the funds to cover the entire expense of all those tonsorial services.  Jerry S., a former machinist from Chicago, and a fellow airman bound for Turkey, helped bail me out of the shop, rescuing me from the angry barber who held me by my uniform collar.  Tilted at a 45-degree angle from the door of the shop, I beckoning madly at passing GI's until required donations set me free.  

Like all "composite" human beings, Jerry was a paradox, an amalgam of biases and tolerance.  He had few kind words for the "hillbillies" who invaded his beloved Chicago from "The South," but acquired an acceptance of the many Black-, Asian- and Latino-Americans who peopled our shared military orbit.  Conversely, there were many in our ranks and stationed with us, over the course of a four-year enlistment, who clung to their racist attitudes and ideas like thieves clinging to sacks of pure gold coins.      

In Turkey -- a year-and-a-half tour that began in late 1961 -- four of us, typically, occupied each space in a large, concrete barracks.  In my case, an African-American, a young man from Guam, A Texan and myself.  In a room near ours was a Latino named Armando G.  A handsome lad, he collected women as some do baseball cards or stamps.  He challenged us to acts of absurd "bravado" such as placing lighted cigarettes in the hollow of our abutted arms to see who could stand the pain longer.  He  swallowed jars full of jalapeño peppers and dared the rest of us to match his ability to consume those fiery, stomach-destroying missiles.  Armando told us stories of deprivation among his family members, struggles to assimilate into North American "Gringo" culture while preserving their Mexican heritage.  He was impatient to return to family and the women of Corpus Christi, TX.  Armando kept his focus, was eager for the tour to end and considered Turkey an irritating if unavoidable aberration in the cycle of his life.

This, I think, is a photo of Aghia
Sophia, fabled former Byzantine
Church, now a great mosque in
Istanbul, Turkey!  

Following the delights of Turkey, including Turkish friends left behind -- Vahan, Achmet, Hamdi, Nadia, Ishkin and many others -- I reported to McChord Air Force Base in Washington State, a neighbor to the enormous army base, Fort Lewis.  Our circle of friends included enlisted men from four branches of military service -- Army, Air Force, Navy, the Canadian Army, too, thrown in for international flavor.  Upon arrival at McChord, the First Sergeant from the Division to which I was assigned told me the only available barracks space near my new headquarters building was already occupied by a...  he used the "N" word.  He suggested I choose a barracks room in a different part of the base.  Partly, I suppose, due to a a streak of rebellion, partly because I had experienced co-habitation with diverse ethnicities, I told him I'd be happy to room with Shane R., the Black airman about whom he made the offensive reference.

What a dashing figure
he cuts in his (almost)
Full Military (Fatigued)
Regalia (a small, non-
regulation enhance-
ment added!)?!

Shane and I became friends.  I felt myself privileged to meet his family members who lived in the Tacoma, WA area, a number of his friends as well.  It was a revelation.  I came to know bright and talented individuals among Shane's circle who were ignored, overlooked and treated harshly or indifferently because of their color.  Shane's sense of humor, his confidence, optimism and his friendship never wavered.  I often wonder where he is, if he is, and what he's doing now, more than 50 years and many remarkable and life-changing events later.

So many friendships made and forgotten!  Can't possibly do justice...  I'm not sure why this particular subject matter popped up out of the deep recesses of my skull, this flood of "military memory," except perhaps to admit to benefitting from the luck of the draw, to express thanks.  

For me, Military Service was a great teacher, and to my good fortune, I enjoyed experiences from which I could actually learn and benefit.  For me, an irreplaceable moment in time!  Because the driving force of attitudes, beliefs and convictions could easily have turned at the wrong corner, I'm lucky to have gained from it, vs. merely having endured while incubating resentment, building discontent, bigotry and hatred, a fate that befalls too many.  I hasten to emphasize, I know I'm neither special nor superior, merely a fortunate by-product of experience, lucky to have melted in rather than boiled out of the pot, like some gaseous, toxic bubble belched forth to pollute or poison.      

That could be Airman Hackley (second row, second from
right)...  Looks like he's warming up to launch
a crowd murmuring  rebellion (please see para. last)!!   

Interestingly, and not necessarily the sole catalyst, our first "TI" or Training Instructor in the military was a Jew from Brooklyn, NY -- Sergeant Goldman.  He may well have set the tone for many.  Among the first of his pronouncements to new charges, a squadron-full of terrified young enlistees, was this:  "Some will tell you that in military service there's little room for prejudice.  I'm telling you this...  in my 'flight,' in this barracks, among my squads of airmen there is NO room for prejudice or racism.  None!"  That was in 1961.  Extraordinary!  

He may not have realized a legion of converts on the spot, but I know he made a lasting impression on many of us.  I often think of my time in the military, a crucible that helped forge ideas and values that still nourish and sustain.  So many different personalities, from so many different backgrounds and life experiences.  

                   --------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue:   It wasn't all enlightenment and wisdom, of course.  Anyone who ever served in the military no doubt has a similar story!  Lieutenant Peach was our linen supply officer at Goodfellow AFB.  On a rainy Friday he assembled the entire squadon to announce in a voice that could damage the ear drums of humans and dogs alike, "Men, someone's been 'dicking with the system' (his favorite phrase when piqued)!  Alright then," he squeaked on, face glowing crimson, "someone purloined a pillowcase??!!...  My count does not tally!!  We'll stand here all day if necessary until the miscreant confesses!"  

Had it not been for the Captain, we might still be standing at attention listening to the obtuse rantings of Lt. Peach.  Oh, and the brilliance of Airman Hackley who could mimic the murmuring of an angry crowd; it was his talent that probably summoned the Captain to our aid.  And the Peach complaint?  The Case of the Purloined Pillow Cover remains a mystery!  In the end, Lt. Peach was re-assigned to the motor pool in charge of drain-oil disposal and brake pedals.  He was never promoted and died in disgrace, an ancient, oil-stained and squeaky "Second Louie"!  (That last bit might be mere conjecture, part of the legend!)  

Humbly Submitted, May 7, 2015 -- Joel K.