Miting

Over the years, the Turkish language has borrowed many Western words, usually from French. One such English word, however, is miting. But just when the Turkish neophyte thinks that they can be comforted by the fact that at last they can recognize a word --- the Turkish language gods crush their feeble hopes: For while miting is taken from the English meeting, it has no connection to the English conception of the word. Instead, it means protest (there is also the verb 'protesto etmek' in Turkish, which, somewhat disappointingly, actually means 'to protest', rather than 'to meet' --- a meaning that would be so much more deliciously bizarro-world like).

And yes, there is a connection to reality outside of mere linguistic contemplation. For today, Istanbul has ground to a halt because of a 'Miting'. The official reason (in our pages here fairly crudely summarized) is popular protests over the ongoing parliamentary elections for a new president ---- the office of the President isn't actually so important --- more powerful than a figurehead, but not as important as the Turkish Prime Minister. However, no Turkish President's wife has ever worn a headscarf.

That a President's wife would choose to not reveal her hair would perhaps not seem particularly divisive in a country like Canada --- odd perhaps, drawing isolated protests from a nationalist fringe, but not necessarily divisive, but in Turkey, the issue of the next President has the country at a standstill, and men are even taking time out of harassing each other over football results (Turkish football, while low in overall quality, could never be accused of lacking overheated, testosterone-induced passion) to discuss the Presidential issue.

The parliament's current candidate, Abdüllah Gül, is from the Islamic AK Parti. His candidature has been supported by many on the Islamic side of Turkish politics, and vociferously opposed by secularists, including the all-powerful armed forces, who have not so subtly advised any prospective candidate for the Presidentship to have strong secularist credentials (a thinly-veiled threat aimed at anyone with a religious background bent on assuming Presidential office), and who intervened into Turkish politics (either bloodily or unbloodilly) to depose elected governments in 1960, 1971, 1980 and 1998.

In an atmosphere where everyone is trying to decide the future of the country --- in kepab shops, in doorways, around the proverbial water-cooler, on the bus, in smoke-filled men-only cafes, in upmarket tanning salons, at work, at home --- the only decisionmakers that matter are those in military HQ. Nonetheless, hundreds of thousands of Istanbullus poured onto the streets today in a show of popular force to 'claim the republic' and convince Gül that his next seven years would be better spent accomplishing something else, rather than parading in front of the cameras with a headscarfed wife, anathema to Turkey's secular establishment.

The crowd of hundreds of thousands of Turks represented a decent cross-section of society. Young were mixed with old, women seemed to make up about half the number (as I assume they would when there's a palpable fear (whether real or unfounded) that an Islamist President will advance the cause of mandatory headscarves), most seemed middle class, and all carried Turkish flags (which incidentally, always seem to be sold by Gypsies in this country --- a monopoly they control in addition to the florist industry) while shouting slogans supporting the primacy of secularism in the Turkish republic.

In the end, secularism was the watchword of the day; Those opposed to the rally complained about the antidemocratic nature of the populist wave: The government was legally elected, any street efforts to oust it by encouraging military intervention will do nothing to encourage democracy. Those taking part, however, believed in the almost 'sacred' (to use the term completely incorrectly) duty of protesting: By not protesting, millions of liberal minded Turks might wake up in the morning to a radically Islamic government no one really wants.... Whether that is ever to happen is probably moot, since the courts and a not so-subtle group of soldiers with guns are more likely to decide what happens in the coming days...

A Trip to the Furthest Reaches of Non-Existence, a.k.a., Paderborn, Germany

Travelling can always be much more rewarding if it can be endowed with some sort of purpose. This is not to say, of course, that there is necessarily always some sort of grand, altruistic, or even self-fulfilling aspect in travelling --- but turning a possibly mundane outing to another mundane place into a spiritual quest to an extraordinary place at least makes you feel like you are doing something in your life, rather than living off your parents' largesse and working occasionally as you flit about the world sampling the wide range of mouth-watering kepabs this planet has to offer.

But, having previously been denied by fate entry into Amsterdam -- a place that, for my purposes and conceptions at least, continues to not exist -- I set out upon another quest, this time to a place that does not exist for the purposes and conceptions of anyone else either. If you are confused by the incoherency of the previous sentence, then you are not alone -- I am as well, so I shall do my best to elucidate the destination of my quest.

My goal was the German city of Paderborn and specifically, one of its outlying villages: Wewer. Now, when questioning a German citizen as to the theoretical existence or non-existence of Paderborn, most Germans will inform the foreign sojourner that Paderborn, in fact, does not exist. Munich exists (even if most Germans don't like Munich unless they're from there), Berlin exists (and everyone likes it even if they're not from there), Hamburg exists, as do more entertainingly named places like Mönchengladbach and Garmischpartenkirchen.

But Paderborn, as Germans seem to claim steadfastedly, does not exist. There is nothing personal nor dehumanizing in their refusal to recognize the ontological or metaphysical existence of Paderborn. In fact, it's not really about Paderborn at all, it's about the neigbouring industrial city of Bielefeld. You see, Bielefeld is reputed to be so dull, boring, and uninteresting, that its place on the map is taken to be a massive void. And thus, by logical extension, we must also conclude that its nearest neighbour, Paderborn, must also be so frightfully dull, boring, and unexciting that it surely cannot exist outside of any sort of difficult philosophical precept. And so to this void of nebulous non-existence, I bought a train ticket.

HISTORICAL INTERLUDE: Just to add slightly more to the general incoherency of everything on this page, let me leave this interesting thread of speculation on existence/non-existence issues, and transport all of us to the Ukraine of the 1940's. (Who saw this coming?)

Our historical interlude picks up in the small farming town of Adelsheim, not far from the banks of the mighty Dniepr River. There, years of Stalinist policies have contrived to turn the Ukraine, the breadbasket of Europe, into a famine zone. Worse still, purges launched in the 1930's against a wide range of potential, fantasy, or purely non-existent (see, we haven't completely left the thread!) enemies by our great Comrade Stalin have depopulated a large amount of Russia, turned neighbour against neighbour, and left everyone cowering in fear from the '10pm knock on the door from the men in the black car'. Add to this mix the greatest land battle in history between the Nazis and the Soviets, and you end up with a pretty crappy place to live.

Our protagonists of the story are the Wiebes: Paterfamilias purged in 1937 (sentenced to contribute to socialism by building a canal in Russia's frozen north before being rewarded for his efforts with a bullet in the head -- an end enjoyed by millions of Soviet citizens in those days), the family is forced to flee the chaos of WW II and make their way to Germany. Staying just ahead of the advancing Red Army, the family finally reaches the village of Wewer, in our non-existent Paderborn, at the end of the war. There, at the baron's castle, the family works with several other DP (displaced persons) families on the land. By this time, of course, the war is already over, the division of post-war Germany is being solidified, and new homes for millions of Eastern European refugees are being sought.

For ex-Soviet citizens, however, the war is not yet over. In a profound concession to Stalin, Western leaders Churchill and Truman grant Red Army units permission to comb through Germany's western sector in a search for escapees from the Soviet Union. But for the 'white lies' told by the castle's baron, the Wiebes, like so many other unfortunate ex-Soviet citizens, would have ended up on a direct army truck back to Russia and a life of 'volunteer settlement' in the farthest, coldest reaches of Siberia or Kazakhstan.

....In case none of you have figured out the rather quite obvious already, you will have realized that the Wiebes are indeed my family, and that one of the daughters, Maria, is my grandmother. (And yes, Grandma, I realize that there are probably quite a few historical inaccuracies in this report --- I should have reviewed Aunt Anna's book beforehand...)

END OF HISTORICAL INTERLUDE....

So yes, out of a quest to see where my grandmother hid during the end of the war, and where she was protected from marauding Red Army troops after the war, I set out on Deutsche Bahn, with Turkish newspaper in hand, to a place that apparently does not exist.

My arrival at Paderborn Hauptbahnhof upon my sacred quest was not met with great fanfare, much to my shock and amazement. Stepping out, I was met by a rather dullish city, of medium size, somewhat industrial, somewhat unhistorical, somewhat rather bland, somewhat not ugly (not enought to be interesting anyway), and somewhat nebulous --- so nebulous in fact, that I was unable to pass judgment as to its reputed non-existence.

I have always been of the opinion that for any quest to take on quest-like status, one must walk several kilometres before reaching the final target, the better to feel a sense of accomplisment (getting lost along the way certainly adds to the sense of accomplishment also). Arriving at your hallowed destination in the form of motorized transport is about exciting as discovering the Colosseum with 10,000 other ice-cream eating foreign tourists after taking a two minute taxi ride from the nearby metro stop. While the site might be awe-inspiring, the mode of discovering certainly is not.

So, with Paderborn's finest ale in my bag, I set off in the direction of Wewer Castle. I would like to add something here about how spiritual the walk turned out, that it was conducted while negotiating treacherous mountain passes and whatnot, but it was most certainly not. Given a reputed non-existence due to its dullness, boringness, and general non-excitment inducingness (to coin a new word), I was not shocked to discover that the outskirts of Paderborn had been badly deformed by the blight of big boxstores: Big boxstores with huge yellow façades, with big, huge discounts on huge yellow things for your home, followed by other big boxstores selling equally unknown but equally large items with which to adequately decorate your home.

Resisting the urge to purchase some large patio chair sets, I continued on through the fields towards the village of Wewer, negotiating my way across the 'mighty and raging' Alme River (I have been amazed at what constitutes a river in Germany: The smallest, driest brook always warrents some sort of name-plaque to inform the tresspasser that, yes, indeed, this is a river --- as if a failure to announce the fact might lead everyone to realize that a trickling ditch of water is indeed not a river...) My eventual arrival revealed no castle, but only row upon row of immaculately, annoyingly and anally-kept front gardens. ....But to spare everyone some sort of Kafkaesque tale about how I never actually reached the castle, I shall cut to the point and inform you, tired readers, that I indeed did.... more or less...

Alas, the picture below is the closest I could approach, after being dutifully and bureaucratically informed by the groundskeeper in fairly plain terms that I was permitted to advance as far as the signpost, but no further...

So, in contrast to trying to reach Amsterdam, I succeeded in reaching the hallowed Schloss Wewer. I braved a day long jaunt through several dimensions of non-existence, drank local Paderborner beer, and lived to tell about it....

A successful day, in other words....

A Trip to Amsterdam, or an Incoherent Oddysey to the Underworld?

It has been a dearly long time since I have written anything.... I will explain away the intervening 3 or so months by saying that I wrote nothing because I did nothing whilst I whiled away my time at home.

So I jump all that intervening bit we call regular life and delve straight into my quest to reach Amsterdam.

It is without notifying a vast majority of the reading public that I have been toodling around Germany for the past week and a half or so. And while Germany certainly has its drawing cards and half-ways interesting stories to tell (perhaps more about them at a later date), it was the lure of tulips, canals, Rembrandt (umm... sort of... saying so makes me vastly more culturally sophisticated than I seem), green plant matter, but most importantly, the chance to say that I've drunk beer in another country that drew me to embark on my epic quest of reaching Amsterdam from Osanbrück in NW Germany ---- that, and the rather more Sysephian quest to secure cheap Dutch coffee.

The guide and I settled in for the long and grueling mountainous climb through the impenetrable peaks that jaggedly crisscross the Dutch landscape. The stress of not knowing whether the car, despite its Volkswagen quality, would surmount another tortuous 2 metre high rise was more than any mortal ought to take. With time, however, our People`s Car proved itself more formidable than the awesome inhospitableness and remote mountain peaks of the Dutch A1 autobahn. Despite a scenery to rival the Himalayas surrounding me, the rigours of the journey left me in need of a nap.

And thus it was that my contribution to the quest to reach Amsterdam mostly consisted of sleeping, waking up occasionally to see that another mountain pass was coming, sleeping some more, waking up to helpfully point out that we were following a Lithuanian truck, sleeping, waking up to inform the driver that we were now following a Latvian truck, and so on, until I had pointed out a rough quorum of the former Warsaw Pact.

As the resolution of our quest neared, it was entrusted to me to correctly negotiate our way through the last breathtakingly beautiful mountain valley and into the promised land of Amsterdam, where we would be sure to find some Grolsch and reasonably priced coffee. It was, alas, a Sysephian task.

The German road map we brought along, was, in the end, a German road map, meaning, to state the perfectly and painfully blindingly obvious, that Dutch roads were not included. (Of course, they did have a `Holland` section towards the back, but it happened to include a good cross section of Northern Europe, thus ensuring that it gave a pretty good idea of what autoroutes those Lithuanian truck drivers I had so helpfully pointed out had taken to reach Amsterdam, but singularly failed to provide various reasonably priced coffee dispensing emporia that may or may not have lain upon some sort of convenient entrance to Amsterdam.

In the end, we were never really that close to rolling our boulder to the top of one of those impregnable and forbidding Dutch mountains, a la Sysephus. Vague directions about `10 minutes that way` yielded about as many reasonably priced coffee dispensing emporia in 60 minutes of driving as a thorough enumeration of various reasonably priced pork dispensing emporia in Kandahar would.

Sixty minutes of coffeeless searching confirmed three things: Dutch people don`t eat (a lack of food emporia logically suggests that they are some sort of super race who have conquered the scourge of hunger and thirst for reasonably priced coffee), they like bicycles, and they really love plant stores. They abound. They multiply. They take up biblical amounts of land. And they have absolutely no reasonably priced coffee.

Taking with us a roll of string into one of these autonomous republics of gardening (lest we should meet some sort of minotaur between the hanging baskets and the rhododendrans in the labyrinthe that is a Dutch gardening store and need to walk the three or so hours out), we set off on the vain chance that there might be food or reasonably priced coffee inside. After more battles, adventures and encounters with sirens, cyclopses, and anything else Homer could write in a lifetime (no prizes for correctly deducing that there is a classical mythological theme running throughout our story today), we realized that there was no food, and no reasonably priced coffee. So we bought a plant instead.

Few mortals enter the lair of Hades (to mix the mythological metaphor just a bit more) and return alive. But we did. And we got a small plant, too --- an absolutely gorgeous specimen perfect for a bathroom windowsill.

And so, that was Holland, land of rocky mountains sometimes reaching an astonishing 3 metres, no food emporia, behemoth garden stores and any other stereotype about the country that I would be compltely unjustified in making, given that I spent no more than 8 hours of my life in the country.....

.......And we happened to find some reasonably priced coffee at a supermarket (though not quite the right kind, mind you) right on the German border at Enschede. But if we had just gone there, would we have ever gotten a plant from the deep bosom of a Dutch gardening store?




....Just on the top of the car there: Spoils from Hades