The Old Gods

Imagine a time when there was a whole panoply of gods and goddesses, each with their own godly specialty: some were capable of bringing victory in war, some favourable winds at sea, others could induce love. These were more relatable gods. They roamed the earth, meddled in human affairs, and even had their own volatile emotions and petty squabbles. 

Nemesis lived in this world. I’d never heard of her before a visit to the Antalya Archeological Museum, but I like her style. She was the goddess of retribution, punishing wrong-doers and taking the hubristic down a peg or two. Haven’t we all wanted to invoke her from time to time? Some little punk, driving his dad’s BMW way too fast, cuts you off like he owns the road…wouldn’t Nemesis come in handy then? Wouldn’t it be rather satisfying to see the little punk pulled over by the cops a few moments later, or piled into a lamp post (not seriously injured, but having to explain the car wreck to daddy)?

But gods are like rumours; it is human thought and voice that gives them life. If no one believes in them any longer, the lose their power and fade into oblivion. And so Nemesis is lost to the ages.

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“Hey! How are you?” exclaims Zafer, ebullient in his show of friendliness. “Show” being the operative word here. Zafer is middle-aged with a stylishly shaggy head of salt-and-pepper hair and a face that might be handsome but for old acne scars. He’s wearing the same threadbare sweatshirt, once red, now pink, that he was when we met him. We politely exchange pleasantries with him, and then he asks in mock hurt, “Why don’t you come back to eat at my restaurant? Have some raki? It’s free next time!”

Zafer was the first person we interacted with after arriving at our rental apartment. We were utterly exhausted after our two-day journey and wanting only to crawl into bed, but we’d decided that we should eat something first. We’d walked all of twenty steps when we smelled grilling meat and followed our noses into Zafer’s little restaurant, right next door to our apartment. He was very welcoming and served us a mixed platter of things from the grill, a tomato and onion salad, and raki as a digestif. We lingered pleasantly at the outdoor table as night settled in, chatting with Zafer while we ate. The food was okay—nothing particularly good—but it hit the spot. When we could keep our eyes open no longer, we asked to settle the bill. 

My sleepy eyes popped open when I saw the amount. I was pretty sure we were being charged a “gullible tourist tax” but having no idea what such a meal cost here and being far too tired to argue, I just raised my eyebrows, paid, and left. It turned out that he charged us three times what he should have. I marvel at how short-sighted this was, considering we’d told him we were staying nearby for a couple of months. Had he been fair with us, we’d have probably eaten there many times out of convenience. 

Nemesis wasn’t around to intervene in this matter, so we just don’t go back. We walk past Zafer’s place quite a lot and I do wonder (yes, with some spite) if he has seen us over the weeks and had some regrets about his duplicity. For my own part, I have developed a little sympathy for his opportunism after learning more about Turkey’s financial plight. 

When Zafer made his latest attempt to woo us back with free raki, we were at the Farmers’ Market that pops up every Saturday in front of his restaurant. We had just purchased a large bag of stunningly fresh produce: cauliflower, broccoli, a bunch of radishes, two heads of crisp red lettuce, two aromatic bunches of arugula, the darkest green spinach I’ve ever seen, and large bundles of cilantro, parsley, and mint…ah, I love the mint here! The wiry old man behind the table hands it all over with a smile and tells me the price in Turkish. Sadly, I haven’t made my usual efforts to work on the language, so he digs into his pocket and holds up the bills that we owe him: 155 Turkish Lira. This is less than seven dollars, a fraction of what it would have cost in Canada. 

It wasn’t always like this. When we were in Istanbul nine years ago, one Canadian dollar was worth a little less than two lira. Now it is worth almost 23! What on earth happened in such a short time?

We first heard a local perspective on Turkey’s financial crisis when we stopped at what has become a favourite restaurant in a little town near the climbing area. The food is fresh, tasty, and Turkish-priced. The young guy who owns the restaurant doesn’t speak English but has a beatific smile and looks a little like the Buddha, no doubt a tribute to his own cooking. Ulysse was particularly hungry and ordered such a quantity of kebabs that the Buddha thought he must have misunderstood. After some hand-waving and holding up of fingers to confirm quantities, the Buddha dubiously accepted the order. An older lady standing nearby, likely his mother, chuckled, said something in Turkish, and patted my belly a few times. Whether she was saying that I must be pregnant or that I needed fattening up, I’ll never know.

While we waited for our food, a fellow named Onur brought us cups of sweet Turkish tea and struck up a conversation. Onur is a lawyer, but was pinch-hitting as a waiter at his friend’s restaurant. While comparing life in Turkey to that in Canada, he flatly declared that his country is a mess. Ulysse light-heartedly countered that Turkey is wonderful, that the climate is so much better than in Canada. Onur shook his head sadly. He then told us about the increasing number of people whose income is falling below the poverty line. 

As an example, the current government, which has been in power for twenty years, announced a 46% increase in pensions as a recent re-election incentive. But when the jaw-dropping inflation is considered, officially 65% for 2023, pensioners salaries are still falling below the hunger threshold.

“Imagine!” Onur said, “They just announced a raise to pensions but it is still barely enough to eat.” He paused, and then added with earnest dismay, “What about drinking and smoking?!?”

Turkey has dug itself a deep financial hole. Undoubtedly, it will be the average citizen that pays the price, even though they are not the ones responsible for poor fiscal policy. Again, where is Nemesis to punish the guilty when you need her? It makes me sad for the old couples selling vegetables at the farmers market, for Onur and the Buddha, and even a little bit for Zafer. Life is not easy and is quite likely going to get harder. 

Rasul, who owns the coffee shop we frequent, told us that he used to be an engineer who worked away from home a lot.  He recently decided to follow his passion and open a coffee shop to be closer to his two small children, whose artwork forms part of the shop’s quirky décor, along with slightly creepy stuffed animals, arty magazines, and a small jungle of plants. Occasionally, Rasul seems grumpy—terse bordering on rude. We have wondered if it’s personal, if he dislikes us, if we should find a different coffee shop. But I’ve often seen him rubbing his eyes in exhaustion as he works behind the counter and songs of heartbreak and loss often pop up in his playlist: little reminders to not be too quick to pass judgement.

Once, when we asked him how he was doing, he told us that he was always learning something new. He said this with weariness rather than excitement. 

“About running a coffee shop?” I asked. 

“No. About life,” he said. 

Rasul does not always manage to hide his troubles from his customers, but he’s always been fair to us, so we keep going back and try to leave a decent tip. 

When we told him we were leaving Turkey, he asked us to tell him our names again, and then apologized for finding it difficult to remember such foreign sounds. Gesturing to my eyes, I responded that even if we were to forget names, we would still recognize each other.

“No!” he said with intense sincerity, “Not with the eyes. We will recognize each other with our hearts!” 

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