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.

 

 

  

 

     

 

         

   

Turkish Delights! A Brief, Personal Travelog... Adventures, Too!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        Turkish Delights:   Ne zaman geliyorsun?  Arkaya bak, Genç adam!


Among the proclivities of those of us gazing dreamily through the autumnal mist of GeezerHood, is the beckoning wraith of semi-conscious retrospection.  That is to say, we tend often to stare backward into the fading light of memory, to recall unashamedly the adventures of another time, perhaps a distant incarnation!

Turkey!  Wonderful!!...  No, not the fat bird of a holiday in November, but the country, the adventures and joys of being there!  I spent some 18 months in that marvelous land during my time in military service.  And there are many treasures still buried deep in my psyche, like images on a Viewmaster.  Click...  click...  Oh, I remember that one, and that one, and that place, too..!

Upon our arrival, back in 1961, a lifetime ago, a wormy little man, the gnome who welcomed us as we crawled off the commuter plane (or was it a bus?), arriving in the airport town of Yeşilköy, some 11 kilometers west of Istanbul, announced excitedly, "You will love the 'fah-cil-eee-tees!'"  That's how he pronounced the word, facilities.  He referred to the US Air Force station to which we were assigned, namely,  Karamürsel.  

Both the town in which we first landed, and the site of the AF base were beautifully situated on the Sea of Marmara!  The facilities were spare, but some of us, myself included, loved the place.  We were billeted that first night in the gorgeous and elegant Hotel Cinar.     

Behind the base were colorful hills that wanted to be mountains, almost were in height and width.  Base officials, including officers and civilian workers, warned us not to venture into the hills.  "Too dangerous...  don't you know what's living up there?...  Big wild boars with tusks..."  A companion and I didn't need any further encouragement.  On a day off, we headed for the hills.  We spied one wild boar, but it didn't charge, and appeared to be occupied with foraging and showed no particular interest in us.  The best encounter:  We met a family of quasi-nomads who lived in a combination cave and lean-to.  They welcomed us into their home, offered us food and çay (pronounced Chi)  (traditional Turkish tea) and extraordinary hospitality and friendship.  We stayed with them for some three hours, conversing, learning about their lives.  We conducted our conversation in a combination of Turkish and English, with the help of a Turkish language and phrase book.  


With the same companion, in Istanbul, at the Bosporus, we boarded the Litva -- uninvited, of course -- a Black Sea pleasure liner.  We wandered throughout the ship, eventually entering the bridge where we fiddled with controls including the water-tight doors.  It seemed the ship listed a bit.  Ship's crew members, wide-eyed and seemingly angry, caused us to scamper from the bridge, running to find our way out and off of the vessel.  I was more anxious than my companion.  

"Why should we be concerned?  I mean," he continued, "What danger is there from a bunch of Greek crew members?"  

"Uh," I began, "This is a Russian ship, a Soviet Russian ship.  You must have mis-interpreted the script on both cabin posters and signage on the bridge.  We're American GIs," I continued, "with sensitive information in our heads.  Wouldn't have been a good idea to have them detain us..."  My friend's face lost its color, as he nodded, finally, in tacit agreement.

Being young and perpetually "thirsty," another great friend and frequent companion and I often frequented Istanbul's many "pavions," nightclubs, often combination inns and taverns.  The aforementioned friend and I had access to and stayed in a basement apartment in the heart of Istanbul, waking to the shouts of "Sicak, sicak," meaning hot and pronounced "see-jak."  We'd head outside to purchase delicious street food, including ground lamb seasoned with powdered salt and pepper served on huge portions of Ekmek, traditional Turkish bread. 

Street drugs were plentiful, and seemingly far too available, but that's another story entirely.  The "Black Market" in Istanbul was a lucrative allure.  A carton of American cigarettes could fetch up to $50.00, often much more.  A box of American laundry detergent, the giant size, could net the seller up to $100.00.  And U.S.-made denim jeans?...  a small fortune!  There were Turkish friends whom we came to know well, and who would or could become valued contacts in the Black Market trade.  That too is another story...   um, perhaps for another time!

The Island of Buyulada is truly a "Beautiful Island,"
complete with lavish homes, many occupied by
wealthy Turks.  Friends had a summer "cottage" on
the island with a view of the sea!

Through a contact that my father knew who had relatives living in Turkey, I had the good fortune to meet and spend a good deal of time with a family of Armenian Turks.  The family had an apartment in Istanbul, but more attractively, a holiday home on Büyükada, an island in the Sea of Marmara, the name meaning "Beautiful Island."  We gathered there on several occasions.  The mother was a superb cook and often served us spectacular seafood dishes, including swordfish steaks, Midye (mussels) and Levrek (sea bass). 

Ferry boats ran regularly from the port of Yalova, about 20 kilometers from Karamursel, to Istanbul, stopping at Buyukada and also Heybeli Ada where the Turkish naval academy was

based.  On one occasion, a Turkish submarine raised it periscope accidentally under a ferry, punching a hole in its hull and nearly causing a disaster.  No one died, we were reliably told, but

The Turkish Island of
Heybeli features many
beautiful, traditional homes!

some got a bit wet, probably crew members in the Engine rooms!!

The ferry trips to Istanbul were always enjoyable, even when the sea was less than hospitable... Deniz, c(h)ok fena!  However, frequent consumption of Vodka-Lemones  and pistachio nuts made it all completely bearable!   

Turkey is rich with history...  an understatement.  Izmir, Ephesus and Troy.  Remarkable sites such as the mosque Hagia Sophia, the fabulous Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and Kapali Carsi (pronounced "Sharshi," owing to the cedilla symbol under the "C"), meaning Istanbul's Grand Bazaar, a labyrinth of 61 covered streets and more than 4000 shops!  There's also the beautiful district of Uskudar on Istanbul's Asian side.   Too much, too many fabulous places and landmarks to enumerate...  

The Galata Bridge in the heart of Istanbul!

One additional aspect of knowing my Armenian-Turkish friends.  An uncle of theirs owned a fleet of taxi cabs that prowled the streets of Istanbul.  People could jump in if the cab were heading in a favorable direction.  On one occasion when I had asked to drive, a man jumped in and ordered me to take him somewhere in that vast city.  My knowledge of Turkish was rudimentary at best.  The angry man exited the cab at his first opportunity, shouting at me and using language best misunderstood!  I received retribution on a few occasions when taxi cabs ran over my feet!  But, inebriation helped measurably to numb the pain!!  Generally, taxi drivers did not stop to apologize, but instead would shout at victims to "get the hell out of the road!..."

We eventually spent a pleasant day picnicking, swimming and generally enjoying the waters of the Bosporus!  What a time it all was for a young man seeking adventure and the kind of education only travel can provide.

Oh, did I mention "Belly Dancing," originally termed Danse du Ventre, or dance of the stomach?  Turkey is famous for its version of the tradition.  Many outstanding practitioners perform the dance in various venues, in pavions and at special events and social gatherings.  Oh yeah, my wife, SweetHeart, and I -- she at the time a new bride -- spent our honeymoon in Athens and other parts of Greece.  An "Athens By Night" event included a "famous Turkish Belly Dancer," but not one I knew from my youth!  (A close call, maybe...!)

(Special Note of Gratitude and Dedication:  The people of Turkey and Armenia whose friendship and hospitality are legendary, particularly to those of us who served in Turkey during our US military terms of duty.  Thank you, and...  Sonra gorusuruz ve volun acik olsum! 

Humbly Submitted, 07-14-19 -- Joel K.