DESPERATE PRIMITIVE

Mastic harvesting season in Chios Island, time to dry and clean the ‘tears of trees’. Olympi, Chios

On a night, blew by plateau breeze, by Mont Blanc, My path crossed with a bard; He sang me a tune of clear waters Far lands and his bare foot on the wet soil... Daintily, carried me to familiar village paths and to meadows on which he sang before to ladybugs and spotted cows. The mountainous soft wind coloured the hills to purple. On the night, we found a quiet hill under the brightest consolations Gazing at a little piece of sky; He gave me a little journey of moving stars On the way back to the meadows for a late sleep, The ravishing shadow of sycamore in the night sky, whispered an ancient lullaby of this unique haphazard.

                                                                              Homeros, Odysseia 5.58

Tale of Mastic Trees As leaving from Cesme shore and sailing on the Aegean Sea, I looked on for some traditional and local things in Chios Island and just found out that however the mastic trees (which is the local product of Chios) can grow anywhere where the climate provides average humid and warmth but they don’t give mastic gums in any other place but Chios. Mastic is called the tears of tree; so, I had my first question for the first night to ask a local random friend. I found the answer in the most delicious restaurant ‘Agyra’ in the neighbourhood I stayed where I was welcomed so warm and heartedly. “So; why do the trees cry?”

Megas Limnionas, Chios

Tale of the Golden Apple I’ve grown up listening to this tale from my grandma’s voice. I mostly remember the memories of evenings. The twilight passage that street lamps one by one light and little colourful bulbs shine on fruit vendor stands, the dancing hazy light on chestnut smoke... Evening shoppers moving from bakeries to florists, from dessert shops to pickle sellers, fast steps on cobblestone of main square, warm lights of each window in which behind the families gather around the table... And mixed smell of walking crowd, of cold evening, of fresh-baked breads, roasting chestnuts... And the profound smell of wood and coal smoke, covering all vividness and smells and lights with a misty curtain of soot. We were one of those families with uncles and cousins and sugared tea scented living room games and long casual dinners with sofa chats and blankets. After all those games and jokes, my grandma was telling me this -probably Balkan rooted- tale to sleep. ‘’The tale moves forth as we go aback...’’

On my first night in the island, a little travel-sore, salty and sea touched, after being warmly welcomed by Stroubis landlady Georgia, settled in the room and took it as ‘my home for 3 days’, I had an evening walk after listening to ‘the tale of crying Mastic trees’, a few glasses of ouzo treats by Agyra and neighbour tables’ cheery talks reaching my ears. On the way back, I slowly paced to hear the crickets’ late summer tunes and enjoy the night view of sea, the small market, little warm family taverns under street lamps, hanged clothes on balconies, curved mastic trees by the Aegean Sea and evening-volumed neighbour talks... All simplicity was so generously beautiful and sincere that I delivered the only word to ‘my neighbours for 3 days’ that I knew in Greek, ‘’good night’’. Then thought of some traditions of neighbourhood, of leaving flowers on the doors, of asking a cup of sugar, making a bowl of soup, of sharing and supporting. This, ‘being neighbours’ may be a unique kind of relationship... Megas Limnionas, Chios

The stars around the fair moon fade Against the night, When gazing full she fills the glade And spreads the seas with silvery light.                                                 Sappho An evening walk by the sparkling sea, Chios Island

‘The Hero’s Journey’ and A Carpet It should have been magic when the ‘hero’ began the journey. And when the far tunes of a stranger daintily carried me to the familiar village paths and to the meadows on which he sang to ladybugs and cows, To a homeland from randomly crossing roads… And gave me his voice of clear waters, And there was magic in a gaze at a little piece of sky on the hill I’ve heard the magic in the sound of that unique tree, whistling an early dawn lullaby for mountains, harmoniously moving his hundreds of branches in the notes that were carried on the plateau breeze… Long after the dancing tree, and green starry hill, On a night, her ancient words, heard by ears, spoken to soul, hurled us to north and south with a balmy wind. She cloaked us with a velvet magical blanket and warmed by breathing on us a fairytale… And thinking back, as the spell might have begun when the ‘hero of night’ have decided to ride for a late and missed road. Simply, It was the boy in the fairytale, who lit a candle every night. And the carpet… The one, building castles in the air, Who turns the fabric, the smell, and spices, into a carnival. Embellished by the luminous wings of gliding little fairy-mosquitos. If you see Judith the storyteller somewhere, let her remind you…

Babam Fransa’lıydı, annem Aragonlu’ydu Ben onun ev sevdiği, Küçücük yaşta evlendirildim. İstanbul'dan gelen biriyle evlendim O rahat yatakta yatıyordu, ben hasırda yattım. O en iyi şarabı içti, ben suyu. O etin en iyisini yedi, ben kemiklerini. Bir gün çeşmeye gittim, Yolda uyumuşum. Rüyamda, bir genç, yanağıma iki tane öpücük kondurdu “Ama kocam görürse öldürür seni!” dedim. O da, “o öldürmeden ben kendimi öldüreyim” dedi. Ama delikanlı, “sen benim aşkımsın” dedi.

Defeating the Cuckoo “In springtime, when we wake up, our elders force feed us with bread crumble. Even though we resist, they try to put crumbles in our mouth. Why they continue this tradition is the belief that when the cuckoo begins to sing in the early morning, if we are caught up by its song before eating, then we would feel weak during the whole summer. If we eat before the song, we would feel much stronger.” Local myths say a lot about the culture. ‘Defeating the Cuckoo’ myth is told by Caner, in their village, Ğayna.

Tale of A Dune Wanderer (part 2) Once upon a time, there was a humble dune wanderer named Ashashi. He was known for his invincibility through the hardest adventures. Most of the nights, he has been narrating his epic stories to the villager kids of the desert. Then one day, he is given a quest by the king to be gifted with king’s daughter or to be punished… This tale of Ashashi and the lion is told by Rıdvan, the modern time troubadour from Belgium.

Tale of A Dune Wanderer (part 1) Once upon a time, there was a humble dune wanderer named Ashashi. He was known for his invincibility through the hardest adventures. Most of the nights, he has been narrating his epic stories to the villager kids of the desert. Then one day, he is given a quest by the king to be gifted with king’s daughter or to be punished... This tale of Ashashi and the lion is told by Rıdvan, the modern time troubadour from Belgium.

Black Sea discovery, Çinçiva, Çamlıhemşin

Each time I think back of them, I feel a dolorous lump in my throat and my stomach aches peacefully for happiness.

Bougainvillaea lullaby, nighttime flow, stone path towards a southern village...