The matador was suddenly knocked to the floor. He rolled desperately between the bull’s horns and hooves and the banderilleros returned, urgently trying to distract the bull. It reluctantly moved away from the helpless target and stood frustrated, dazzled by the return of three forgotten capes.
The matador stood. He had lost one of his shoes. It was small and dainty, for dancing.
Ankara
A man pressed my thumb down onto the greasy black ink pad, and into the space labelled ‘thumb’ on the page beside it. Forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, baby finger, one at a time, were all smeared in the black ink and pressed firmly onto the page. The man had an American twang, but looked like a Turk, dark hair and sallow skin. I shifted in my chair, it squeaked.
I sat opposite five smiling black politicians, framed on the wall. A beaded tribal doll was behind glass on a shelf, beside a Springbok jersey and a bottle of Cape wine, tilted to one side. Piles of brochures about investing in South Africa were fanned out on the glass table top. A broad-shouldered blonde strode into the room.
“Afrikaans of Engels?” she said quickly. Iain stumbled for his answer, taken aback by the address, comprehensible though it was.
“Uh…English, we speak English,” he replied.
“Welcome to Ankara,” she said warmly, extending a hand. “My name is Marieke, I’m the Consular Attaché.”
Sitting in our embassy in Turkey’s capital, we were back in a little South Africa, part of somewhere again. I had assumed Irish citizenship for the past four months, utilising my second passport’s advantages to travel freely within the EU. But now, I was South African again. We had come to receive ‘letters of recommendation’, required by the Syrian embassy for our visa applications. Continue reading Ankara>>
Istanbul
“Allaaahuu Akbaarr.” The muezzin paused, drew breath. I held out a public phone’s plastic receiver, stretching the wire, and hoped my father on the other end could hear Istanbul being called to prayer. “Allaaahuu Akbaarr. Allaaahuu Akbaarr, Ash-hadu alla ilaha illallah.” The muezzin stopped, inhaled. Traffic snarled and casual banter dominated the city again. I bent my knees, bowed my head, and squeezed back into the small phone booth.
“And the beds? Do you fit into the beds?” asked Dad, also six foot eight, laughing at the image I had just conjured: me hunched awkwardly over a telephone, head touching the roof.
“I curl up, or stretch diagonally, like anywhere. The beds aren’t any different.” But so much was different. I felt amidst the truly exotic for the first time and, because his reactions were so animated, enjoyed describing this unfamiliar land to my father. Continue reading Istanbul>>
Athens
Monastiraki square bubbled with the bustle of Athenians and tourists alike. Fruit sellers, bananas hanging from the awnings of their wooden stands, bellowed the price of their wares in rich resonant voices. The sweetest seedless grapes were piled up in bunches. Heart shaped chocolate donuts wafted their merciless scent through the crowds. Koulouri, sesame bread rings, were sold hot. But in this land of treats, baklava was king.
On every corner, hunks of meat rotated on vertical spits, dripping oily juice. Olive skinned men brandished large steel knives, watching the meat brown before carving a few more slices. Each portion was adeptly stuffed into a pita with a handful of salad. A blend of garlic, yoghurt and cucumber – tzatziki – was then smothered inside the warm bread pocket, it was sprinkled with chilli powder, and another hot gyros was doled out to the next hungry Greek.
Gyros is sold everywhere, in tavernas, tourist restaurants and fast food stands, and is Athens’ tastiest, cheapest, and most convenient meal. Few streets are without a local outlet of some sort, complete with a gyros master carving away, his belly bulging from years in the trade. Continue reading Athens>>
