20. Yalova - 1970

Fruit Market in Yalova

These are a few photos of Yalova taken around 1970 by a friend of mine named Richard Frazier.  He was the photographer among my group of American friends in Turkey.

 As in most places, The military personnel stationed there tended to fall into different social groups.

Yalova Ferry Dock with Truck loading on Ferry

.

In Turkey, there were four major groups of people stationed at the base.  The first type were the people that were stationed at the base and never left it.  For some reason they were afraid to mix with the people from the town and limited themselves to the small three square miles of the base, afraid to try anything new.  They basically did their jobs and nothing else but keeping track of how much time they had left in "this horrible country" and complained about any little thing they could think of.

 The second type, for lack of a better description would have to be called "safe ones".  They did get off the base and see parts of the country they were stationed in, but were always "safe", taking command sponsored trips on buses with English speaking tour guides to see the sites.

Same Ferry Dock With Incoming Passenger Ferry

The third group consisted of people that were much more open to learning some of the local culture.  They would go to town, shop at the local market, possibly catch the ferry to Istanbul, go horseback riding across from the base, or take a trip to the beaches, but always with fellow Americans so they would not have to mix with the locals.


I was a member of the fourth group.  They were the people that lived in or mixed with the local community and embraced most aspects of the culture.  We were welcomed by our neighbors and became part of the community.  We shared life with the neighbors.`

One woman I knew went to the local beauty parlor with her infant only to find out that he was speaking to the local women at the shop with Turkish baby talk before English.

Corner Store Across from Our Apartment

When it was noticed that all the young girls were playing together in one neighborhood, the American wives would be invited to a neighbors home for tea.  That included the girls who got to act like the grownups having a tea party with their mothers.  They were needed to translate between their parents.  Children learned languages faster and more readily playing together than their parents did.  To play together you had to communicate and the children could communicate!

 

I was friends with an American family who lived in a second story (third floor) apartment.  Their son was an energetic four year old who was liked by the neighborhood.  One day he fell off the balcony into the street.  He somehow was unharmed but his mother tripped running down the interior stairs to get him and was quite visibly bruised.  None of the local men would speak or acknowledge her husband until his wife and son were invited for tea.  The women and children questioned her and her son.  The son did a lot of translating for his mom.  After a while, the women got up and called their husbands and elder sons in and talked with them.  According to the wife, they all came in with grim faces and left with smiles of relief.  They asked their wives to find out if my friend actually did trip and for assurance that her husband was not beating her.  Imagine your life being in the hands of a four year old learning a new language.  The boy's father was very happy to be, once again a welcome part of the neighborhood.  

Owner's Son Tending the Store

I was friends with a Turkish family in Yalova.  They owned a house near the main boulevard next to the beach.  The family was a household of two grown single women living with their widowed mother named Fahriye Yakali.  They also had two sisters that were married and had children.  Dinner was always fun.  Usually about six or eight adults.  No mater what he meal, we always had fresh fruit, and a community salad of whatever vegetables were fresh, including fresh herbs and lemon.  Most meals were community style with special plates and bowls for the children.  We were always talking about many different topics, usually in English for my benefit with one exception, Fahriye annem (my dearest mother), Fahriye Yakali.  As I grew up in my home town I learned to talk with my hands.  She talked with her hands.  Most times we seemed to understand each other better without the help of the others.  She was a wonderful woman that I loved.  She introduced me to her friends, had a great sense of humor, and had a family that was fun to be around.  Her family invited me to dinner many times because, according to her family, if Fahriye knew I was coming for dinner, she would fix a special dish for me to try.  Did I say that even then, the way to my heart was through my stomach!



After dinner it was the local custom for the families to walk along the street and exchange greetings with each other.  The children would walk in the front or alongside the women and the men would follow to protect the family.  We Americans were taught that the Turks were a patriarchal society, not in that household!  Before we went out for our evening stroll, we men had to get the okay from Fahriye about what we would do that evening .i.e. stop for coffee or possibly a quick game of Parcheesi or dominoes at the mens coffeehouse.  She would never embarrass the men in public.  If she had said yes at home, and the men invited us, we could enter the coffeehouse anytime during the walk.  If she had said no earlier, we would find an excuse to say not tonight or maybe later, one of the kids were ill, or it was going to be an early morning.  I do not know where this little woman's power came from but she had it.  She was, to my knowledge, a community leader among the elder women in the neighborhood and by proxy, maybe the town.

I am retired and have no deadlines other than those self imposed and some of my grand children are visiting for a few days. As a result there will be no more posts until after Christmas, Yılbaşı and Kwanza.  Whichever you celebrate, have a joyous holiday and see you in January!

19. Istanbul to Yalova - 1970

Well I made it to Istanbul and it seems like the end of the journey. The train stopped at the Serkaci terminal in Istanbul, which is just around the corner from the famous floating Galata Bridge.

Galata Bridge

At that time there was a Ferry that left twice a day from Istanbul to Yalova with two stops at the Princes Islands.  One was the island of Heybeliada and the other was the island Buyukada.  The first one was not developed in the 70's.  It was just a Navel Cadet school and a Greek Orthodox Seminary with a few homes The second one was Buyukada, a resort island with no automobiles, just donkeys and horse drawn carriages.  The only motorized vehicles allowed are service vehicles (ambulance, fire, police and I think a garbage truck). 

Buyukada

From there, it is on to Yalova and the end of the first half of my journey.  Yalova is one of the two towns near Karamursel Air Station, a base that I was stationed at from 1967 - 1970.  I spent most of my time either visiting or living in Yalova.  Yalova was virtually destroyed in August 1999 by an earthquake that killed about

Relief After the Quake

10,000 people in the Yalova area itself.   It has since rebuilt but I an afraid it will never be as we remembered it during the 70's, a vibrant seashore international community with a strong work ethic.

After the Quake in Yalova

 Now it seems that everything was built over as a resort and it seems only catering to tourists.  I know I am probably biased in my view, but I have never been able to reconnect with my Turkish friends.  Here are a couple of photos of how it is now.  Hopefully, my next post will be about how it was in 1970.

The New Yalova

The New Yalova

Thought 1

Lilliputian man,
Seas of time,
Swirling

The New Yalova

18. Thessaloniki to Istanbul - 1970

After our walk back down the mountain path, we got in the car and drove directly to Thessaloniki.  I was let off in the center of the city near the youth hostel.  I had just enough for money for one more night in a hostel.

The next morning it was off to the city hospital to get my blood typed.  Once you were typed, they would give you a color coded card identifying your blood type.  Then you would go outside with the card and set around the hospital steps with this card over your neck.  Families whose members were having surgery that day would walk through and pick you out and take you back into the hospital to have your blood drawn if a transfusion was needed for the surgery.  For this they would pay you something like the equivalent of fifteen dollars cash.  This was a lot for some of them, especially if they needed more than one.  Many people not used to this system would break down and end up donating their blood.  When you did this you had to accept the money and then give the family the money back yourself.  Other people would take the money, but out of guilt would come back a month later and donate.

This gave me enough money for a train ticket to Istanbul and ferry ticket to my final destination, on the Sea of Marmara, Yalova Turkey.I bought a loaf of bread and got on the train.  The train was powered by an old steam engine straight out of the old west.  1860's style.  The passenger cars were European style.  a series of glassed in seats that would seat six going down one side and the aisle going down the other side as pictured, where many people spent there time walking, stretching, sightseeing, and getting fresh air.  Sometimes it was a battle between cigarette smoke and the black smoke and cinders from the trains smokestack.  The picture shown is actually the orient express in 1971 that ran between Paris and Istanbul  until 1977.  The train I was on was older and the accommodations, like berths and dining cars, were  nonexistent.  The train was sort of a local and took about 24 hours. We were on our own for meals and drinks.  We left late morning or midday, I am not really sure.  Some of our stops were three or four minutes.  During that time we would rush out and get a quick drink from a fountain and jump back on the train as it was leaving.  I met someone that was in the same financial straits as me.  I had the bread, and he had a can of sardines.  I do not like fish but that day, I was happy to share my bread for some of his fish!  So much for maintaining standards!

The scenery was spectacular and the border crossing was uneventful.  We arrived at the Istanbul train station about noon the next day.

17. On the Road to Thessaloniki part 2 1970

 

My ride that morning was much better than the day before.  I got a ride with a gentleman from Germany who had lived in Greece in the past and spoke the language.  He was on holiday hoping to visit some monasteries.  A few that we tried were not open for visitors or had a long waiting line.  The entry method was being hoisted up the side of a mountain in a basket.  He had given up on finding one and was thinking of heading on to Thessaloniki when we drove around a bend and we looked up and saw a small way station monastery on the face of the cliff.

As we got closer we could see a small footpath going up the side of the mountain.  We wanted to get closer but at the same time did not want to intrude.  We also did not know if anyone was there.  As we stood there outside the car, we could barely hear someone calling.  We thought it was a woman calling her goats but as we looked up, she was waving at us and urging us up the path.  We accepted her invitation and climbed up the path.  The man I was with appeared to be healthy and I was in pretty good shape at the time, but it still took us at least 20 minutes to hike up the path to the crest of their home/monastery/farm.

There were two people there.  It was an old lady about 60 or 70 and her mother.    Her mother stayed up there all the time because it took her too long to hike up the trail.  It took her (you guessed it) about 20 to 25 minutes to climb the path.  The younger one went down the path to catch transportation to town for supplies and then carried them back up the mountain.  She and her mother lived there and kept goats and chickens with a nice looking dog that herded the other animals for them.  They had a small vegetable garden off to the side where some flat space was available and a small barn like structure underneath part of their building for the animals.  She told us they lived there to take care of traveling and hermit monks that were passing through on pilgrimages to and from other monasteries and hermit caves.  I think by today's standards it would be called a Skete or way station.  They kept them fed, washed their clothes and basically took care of their worldly needs so the monks could spend their time praying and mediating.  They insisted they were not nuns but this had been their lay ministry for her entire life and most of her mother's.  I think they would today be considered female monks.

They invited us inside to see their home.  They lived in one room sharing a small bed, stove and a simple wooden table with two chairs.  They had a trap door down to the barn and, I think, a root cellar.  There was one window overlooking the valley that got both morning and afternoon sun and another window by the door that looked towards the path and their garden.  The walls were covered with religious paintings,  icons and one newspaper print of JFK that was printed.  Many of the paintings were painted on the walls and some were framed.  Which were icons and which were just painting I could not tell you.

The rest of the home was carved out of the sandstone rock and had two levels.  The top level actually consisted of an alter with painted icons, some painted directly on the sandstone walls, some painted on wood, and wooden hand carved icons surrounding the alter.  The cross was carved from stone into the window and glowed from the sunlight flowing through the window and surrounding the crucifix.  The lower level was the monk's cell with a small library in a wooden bookshelf and a small wooden cot.  A small workplace with woodcarving tools and paints also took up space in the cell.  There was another window through the stone wall but you could not look down from it, only up.  I was impressed much more with this place than the Vatican.  The faith of the two women, combined with the simple beauty and serenity left you with a feeling of peace and contentment.

After showing us their place, they insisted on feeding us, telling us this is what they did.  We sat down and they fed us a large bowl of a warm bean stew that I had learned to call pilaki in turkey, and a large hunk of bread slathered with goats butter.  It may have been the atmosphere but that was some of the best pilaki that I have ever had.  As a result of my travels and limited finances my stomach had shrunk and as I was getting near the bottom of my bowl, I asked the man I was traveling with (he translated for me) if it would be considered an insult if I did not finish my soup.  The local Greek custom was the same as the Turkish one and as he was telling me yes, the daughter was laughing and reaching over my shoulder and placing another ladle of pilaki in my bowl.  I think she understood English!  It was a long walk back down the mountain.

16. On the Road to Thessaloniki part 1 - 1970

 The ferry left on time that night and I was ensconced in my deck chair for a good nights sleep.


Shortly after sunrise we were slipping between the Island of Corfu and the mainland of Greece.  I do not know how the water is now, but in 1970 it was a clear azure blue.  You could see bottom and all the fish between.  It seemed so clear you could not tell how deep the water was.  It was this way right up to the pier.

When we landed, after customs, everyone went on their way to whatever they had going on in their lives.  Most of the people were heading south to Athens, or all the beautiful beaches, caves and Greek islands.  My goal was to head east and get across Greece as quickly as possible.  I was out of money again and had to get to Turkey to pick up the fifty dollars I had mailed  to my friends in Yalova.

I walked out of town to start hitchhiking.  I found a good spot where I could look down over the town and observe the traffic to ensure I was on a good road.  I was on the only road heading east.  This was good.  What was not good was the fact that there was no traffic.  The first hour I was passed by a garden tractor.  Sometime during the second hour an old woman came by riding her donkey.  As a joke, I stuck out my thumb to see if I could hitch a ride.  She must have been coming from her garden, because as she was laughing at me, she reached into a bag she had tied to the donkey and pulled out a large cucumber and gave it to me.  This was about a foot long and quite thick.  It was actually my food for the next two days.

I eventually did get a ride in the back of a lorry.  The truck was on its way to Ioannina (pop. 32,000).  The back of the lorry was full of people, some looking for work and some with animals on their way to market in the big city.  There was even a family there on there way to the hospital seeking medical attention.  It was an interesting ride and it was fun trying to talk with them.  They spoke no English and I spoke no Greek.  I did speak a little Turkish but was afraid to use it,  most Greeks hated the Turks in those days and I was afraid I would get kicked out of the lorry.  They left me off on the other side of the town to help me possibly get another ride.  If I was lucky I could still make it to Thessaloniki that day. 

So far I had gone from sea level to about 1500 feet.  Now I had to hitch over the mountain at an elevation of 5500 feet, over a mile high!  I sort of lucked out.  I got that ride.  A trucker picked me up with his lorry going all the way to Thessaloniki.  He could speak a little English so we did have some conversation.  The problem was that he was crazy!  I have never been so scared in my life!  I enjoy riding over mountain roads with their curves and views.  I absolutely love it, but this driver was passing cars and trucks any time he felt like it, whether it was on a blind curve or not.  There was no slow lane either.  It was nothing more than a small two lane country road.  Thank you for the small village on top of one of the peaks.  He wanted to stop for coffee at a friends house.  While he was in visiting his friend, I got out of the truck and hid like a small boy inside of a culvert going underneath the highway.  He must have called me for about 20 minutes before he finally left without me.  I had half of my cucumber for supper that night and the other half for breakfast the next day.

15. Brindisi to Greece 1970

I arrived sometime in the morning and searched for the youth hostel.  I found it about mid morning and checked in with what little money I had left.  It had been close to a week since I was able to shower and I wanted to look halfway decent when I met my friend James Timko at the San Vito base.  I was luxuriating in the hot shower, all lathered up with soap, when the water shut off!  The whole village was on water hours due to low water levels.  I later found out the water was shut off at midnight, turned on at 6:30 so people could get water for the day, then shut off at 9:30 and turned back on for a few hours for evening dinner and ablutions around 6:30 to midnight.  I was not a happy camper, thankfully the hostel was only about 300 meters from the bay.  I quickly toweled off and hiked to the water and took a dive off the pier to rinse some of the soap off. 

San Vito Air Force Base

Shortly after my saltwater rinse I met my friend James Timko near the San Vito Base.  I wasn't let on the base by security so James met me at the main gate and gave me a tour of the countryside, beaches and his rented villa.  As an E-4 and E-5 in Brindisi, he was able to afford to rent a villa with a couple of friends and still afford a maid.  We then went down to the piazza in the center of town and sat at a cafe eating a sandwich and drinking a cup of espresso.  While there, he showed me the two columns and steps that marked the end of the Appian Way from Rome To Italy.  He also told me that all military personnel that were stationed at the base had to avoid mixing with some of the men at the neighboring cafe because they were communists and socialist and if he was seen socializing with them, or if he got placed on report or arrested for having an argument or fight with them, it would be considered an international incident and he would lose his security clearance!

End of Appian Way from Rome to Brindisi

I had run out of money.  Fifty dollars had lasted me from London to Brindisi.  That evening James loaned me enough money to get to Greece on the ferry with a little bit left over.  The little bit left over allowed me to eat at an authentic outdoor Italian restaurant on the waterfront.  I sat there and ordered some pasta and it was really neat soaking in the atmosphere right there on the pier, looking at the lights from the harbor.  They even had music on an old blue and white portable record player (remember them).  I can even remember the record.  It was a 33 of Dean Martin singing Italian love songs in Italian.  After dinner it was just a short walk to the overnight ferry to Greece.

14. Rome to Brindisi 1970

The next morning I got an early start after a breakfast of fresh fruit and bread.  I headed east figuring it would be better going directly over the mountains and then south down the coast instead of going down to Naples and skirt the mountains over to Brindisi.  As far as saving time, this route was a washout, for scenery it was fantastic!  The drive from Rome to the east coast on Italy's super highways in 2013 can be driven in about two and a half hours.  1n 1970 it was probably a six or seven hour drive depending on which roads you took.  It took me two days to hitchhike it.  I must have walked half of it.  I rode on a horse drawn cart, in the bed of a truck with about a dozen other people going home from market, and in a hay wagon being pulled by a tractor.  I walked for hours.  The roads were hot and even though they were paved, they seemed dusty.  What was nice though was walking down the mountainside highway, looking over the side through miles of grape vineyards and fruit orchards.  Watching the farmers and workers tending to the plants on such a steep grade was thrilling, one misstep or overbalance would create a calamity.

After the mountains, hitchhiking through the plains to the coast did not get much better.  When I was within about ten kilometers of Mancini, I had enough was tired and settled in for the night under a tree in the corner of a field.

The next day was not any better.  The coast did not have all the coastal resorts and rich properties then and the rides were few but I still made It to Termoli, a coastal town with a railroad.  That was about 120 kilometers that day, not very good.  I still had about 325 more kilometers to go to Brindisi.  I broke down and decided to take a train.  The price of a ticket would leave me with enough money for a couple of nights at the youth hostel.  I would borrow some money from my friends that were stationed at San Vito Air Force Base, an Intel gathering site near Brindisi.

Brindisi, Then & Now

I bought my ticket and was sitting down in front of the station when this old man walks up to me.  He is wearing glasses that have lens as thick as the glass on the bottoms of the old glass coke bottles.  He says something to me and I say "No Cabeesh Italiano,  please I speak English."
He says in English, "I can't read the schedule here on the post.  Will you read it to me so I will know what time my train leaves?"
I oblige him and  read about three quarters of it until we finally discover we are on the same train and have about forty five minutes until the train arrives.  To pass the time he asks me. "Where are you from, in America?"
If you are from New York State you hate this question because, invariably, when you say New York State they came back and ask you if you know their friend Joe that lives in Brooklyn.  So to deflect this I say "I am from a small village in New York State north of Albany NY."
He comes back with "I know Albany.  Where you from?"
"I live in a small  village north of Schenactady NY."
"I know Schenectady.  Where you from?"
"I live north of Troy and Cohoes NY."
Now he is really excited. "I know Troy.  Where you live?  Where you live?"
"I live in a town between Waterford, NY and Saratoga, NY."
"Do you mean Mechanicville? He says. "I live there fifty years!"

It turned out that he lived near Albert's tavern in Mechanicville when I was living on Sheehan street.  He was uncle or great uncle to Connie Zeppieri, an old classmate of mine.  He told me he came from Italy and worked on the railroad in Mechanicville for fifty years and had gone back to Italy and worked as an interpreter for the government.  The train we were on was a local, stopping at every little hamlet, and he soon got off.  It is strange, going halfway around the world seeking new experiences and cultures, and the person I met that day was from my own back yard and lived less than a block from my family!