After three hours and endless shuttles between the OK game café and the bookshop, I caught a young man in the vicinity of the bookshop who could speak some English, and asked him what had happened to the keepers of the bookshop. He thought they were closed for the day, so I asked him where else I would be able to find a bookshop to buy my map of Turkey.
Just then, round the corner emerged a little old man (in his 60s? 70s?) from a side alley. He was slightly bow-legged and walked with a bit of a limp. “Ah! Mehmet! Come here!” the young man pounced on him, speaking in Turkish. “Can you take this lady to a bookshop to buy a map?” And so the young man handed me over to Mehmet, who gamely took on this unexpected assignment with total equanimity.
Leading the way, Mehmet asked over his shoulder, “Japon?” which was what I got asked a lot during my short stay in Kusadasi. I said, “No. Chin.” Walking on, Mehmet continued, in part speech and part gesture, placing his palm on his chest with each word to refer to himself, “Japon. Korea.” Then, with both hands miming clutching a rifle and strafing, “Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!” Ah, he’d been a soldier and been out in the Far East. Then he stopped in the middle of the street, bent down to roll up one trouser leg, and pointing at a scar in the shin, said, “Japon, Osaka, Korea, bang, bang, bang.” A sleeve was pushed up to reveal another scar, followed by the same explanation.
We arrived at a bookshop, but they only had a road map of Turkey, not a topographical one. I turned away to find Mehmet had not left me but was hanging around outside the shop to await the outcome. Bless him. Noticing my empty hands, he raised his bushy eyebrows and asked, “No?” I said, “No.” He crooked his index finger, asking me to follow him, and led me to another bookshop a few lanes away. Nope. They only sold road maps. And there was Mehmet again, waiting faithfully outside. He took me to five bookshops in all before I found my topographical map.
All this while, after the first bookshop, I was trying to work out how to thank him. A monetary gesture of gratitude would be a bit vulgar, I felt. I’d noticed, plodding along behind him, that unlike most Turkish men I’d observed thus far on this holiday, he didn’t smoke, so I couldn’t give him a packet of cigarettes. Then, a flash on my brain screen: “Tea!” So I put it to him, “Mehmet, chai?” An instant and firm nod of the head from him: “Yes!” Right, I could repay my debt now and sleep well.
He led me to an open air place by the seafront, where there were lots of tables and chairs, with people eating and drinking. We sat down, and Mehmet said to the waiter who approached, “Iki chai!” They were served in the typical Turkish fashion: with sugar, no milk, in a glass with no handle, scalding hot. I could hardly pick it up, never mind drink it. Mehmet must have been born with a cast iron tongue, for he’d finished his before I’d even had a sip of mine. Well, he'd had decades of practice, as the Turks drink tea like other people drink water.
In the meantime, I could feel the eyes of the other diners and drinkers drawn to our table, wondering what on earth a gammy-legged old Turkish man who couldn’t speak English was doing with a young(ish) Oriental woman who couldn’t speak Turkish, just sitting there together in total silence drinking tea.
Mehmet sat there waiting for me to finish my tea, and I felt that he was going to pay as soon as I finished my tea, so I had to forestall him. I offered another cup of tea, “Mehmet, chai?” “Yes!” he said immediately with great pleasure, and duly ordered two more. Good idea, this, I thought. Can’t go wrong with the Turks offering them tea, as they can drink endless cups of the stuff. I was beginning to pat myself on the head for coming up with this brilliant way of repaying Mehmet for all his trouble and patience.
This time, scalded tongue or not, I bolted my tea to get ahead of him, so that I would be the one waiting for him to down his, which, somehow to my thinking, meant I’d be the one to pay for the tea, having finished drinking first. As soon as he finished the last drop, I leapt up and marched off to the till some 10 or 20 tables away to pay, waving a big note at the cashier, who shook his head and said, “No.” Huh? Wrong amount? I offered another, bigger note. Still he shook his head and said, “No.” What?? I tried a third time and got the same response. Puzzled, I then heard the young man, a German tourist, waiting next to me to pay say, “Male chauvinist society.”
Sure enough, in confirmation, I saw Mehmet stroll leisurely over and hand over a note, which was instantly accepted. OH NO, that was meant to be my treat to thank him, and now I’d caused him to spend money on me!!
Mortified, I stood there trying to come up with how else I could repay this sweet old man, when I felt a tap on my arm and Mehmet, index finger crooked, gestured to me to follow him. We crossed the road to a big office-block building opposite, through the main entrance of which Mehmet led me to the other end of the hall, where there was another door. Through that door we emerged into a courtyard, at the bottom of which was a little shack, no bigger than a standard garden shed.
As I followed Mehmet towards this shack, I registered out of the corner of my eye that there were lots of tables and chairs in the courtyard, but with the chairs tilted forwards on their front legs against the tables, just like how they do it when the restaurant/pub is closed for business for the day.
Mehmet unlocked the shed, and there on the wall opposite the door, staring out at me, was a faded photo of a young man in military regalia, complete with sword and epaulettes (and moustache — the standard upper lip ornament for Turkish men, I’ve found). Mehmet pointed at the photo, then put his palm on his chest. It was him as a young soldier!! I passed my open palm over my face and put up a thumb, to tell him he looked handsome. He was right chuffed about it, and beamed from ear to ear.
As I was basking in his happiness, I spied, to my horror, out of the corner of my left eye, sitting in the shed, professional tea-making equipment. Mehmet was a tea-seller! So, not only had I taken him to someone else’s tea house and made him pay for the tea, I also made him pay for FOUR glasses of tea!
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