For a summer to be spent ostensibly engaged in research on Turkey’s minority Alevi population, SFU was kind enough to provide me with a summer scholarship (I suppose they had some money left in the bank after they bulldozed down half the forests on the mountainside to build condos) – enough to cover transport, accommodation, nourishment, drink, literary resources, and other related expenses.
After a trip to Africa whose final balance sheet was somewhat more than had been expected (somewhat exemplified by a knockoff Burkinabe football jersey wrenched from the hands of a street vendor for the somewhat princely sum of around 35 of your Amerikan dollars), and various other travel-related expenses, it became apparent that I would need to find additional employment to supplement my semester stipend from the good people at SFU. But what job to do? Halfway to a master’s degree in Turkish history in addition to a fairly fluent literary ability, spoken Turkish better than most foreigners (even if it is accompanied by an occasional and inexplicable Kurdish accent – although the frequent ungrammatical nature of my speech is less inexplicable and more just lazy), 1.5 years of teaching experience, ability to tutor English, and a strong interest in journalistic affairs (especially in the fields of current events, politics, history, and culture), it seemed that finding some sort of semi-official summer employment would be cake in a bag (the local idiomatic equivalent of a piece of cake). After mulling the various options available to my somewhat educated self, I chose the most appropriate: Working in a currently unlicensed (permit inevitably pending) kebap house run by friends from Hatay (Antioch).
Away from the dull routine of discussing potential coups, counter-coups, supreme court fights, issues over the very existential direction of the country, wars, massacres, and bombs is the far more scintillating world of dishwashing, çay-making, parsley/ice/beer/rakı/cigarettes-fetching, laying out tables, and learning how to balance food while walking up rickety stairs (out of a deference to the cost of potential hospitalization rates, I have fortunately not been permitted to actually make any kepabs). And, perhaps befitting my ability as the really pasty white guy that comes to change the ashtrays for various Turkish customers somewhat sporadically, I receive a financial remuneration calculated at exactly..... zero New Turkish Lira.
Yes, I revel in the fact I have succeeded in becoming one of the few relatively educated foreigners who, while watching friends back home and everywhere get real jobs and real houses, has taken a significant wage cut to enter into the barter economy: In return for my labour as a dishwasher extraordinaire at an unmarked and unlicensed kebap house (we close the front door after about 10pm to avoid unwelcome uniformed visitors) I am provided free food (the city’s best dürüm kebap (a bit like a hot pita), hummus, and baba ghanouj (spicy eggplant dip)) and a patch of rent-free floor at my friend’s house. Garlic-laced hummus, flatbread, second-hand smoke, and the occasional beer liberated stealthily from the kitchen fridge hath never tasted so delicious when they are won for free --- all it takes is a few hours of washing up.
In between scraping plates and scalding skin while carrying çay improperly, there is plenty of time to amuse new customers (while boring to tears other employees and long-time customers) with a routine performed at least two to three times a day between myself and Sedat, one of the co-runners who has succeeded in putting the ex in extravert:
-Sedat: Stefan!
-Stefan: Yes? (My voice almost drowned out by the washing foam enveloping the kitchen.)
-Sedat: Come here! (In heavily accented, though carefully pronounced English, he calls me over to meet another friend . I come, trying to extricate myself from the mountains of plates full of delicious, uneaten leftovers I’m hording in my kitchen-based lair.) Stefan, where are you from? (Said again in the same vein.)
-Stefan: Samandağ! (I reply emphatically – Samandağ is an Arabic-speaking town along the Syrian border near Antioch full mostly of Orthodox Christians and Arab Alevis (Nusayris). For a smallish town, I am endlessly amazed that every second customer at the kebap house seems to be from there. Somewhat unsurpringingly, given its geographical location, most of the people there are fairly swarthy.
-Assembled customer: No.....! (They reply incredulously in Turkish)
-Sedat: No, really! You don’t believe it? He’s really from Samandağ, he’s one of you!! (Sedat, now switching to Turkish, implores his friend with unshakeable determination to believe that I,in all my Viking ancestry, am too of Samandağlı stock.) Stefan, talk to them in Arabic! (Since Sedat’s English tends to leave him in a moment of excitement, he implores now me to switch also to Arabic.)
-Stefan: (I offer a badly mispronounced and somewhat lame “how are you?”) Kiyf Halek?
-Assembled Customer: Oohhhh!!! (Much rapturous applause – no doubt also the result of a desire to leave and avoid having to maintain the charade that I am Arab. My undercover identity appears assured, even if it is quite apparent that I have again been undeservedly rewarded for my childish Arabic.)
-Sedat: See, I told you he was from Samandağ! (Again in Turkish, while giving me a hug, as if in celebration that we have convinced at least one more person that I am from Samandağ).
And so and so forth – I am happy that Sedat accrues enjoyment from it, even if everyone else would love us to shut up about me pretending to be from Samandağ four times per day. Safe, however, in the thought that we have converted yet one more to the Stefan-the-Samandağlı cause, I return to my work of scraping dishes, making tea, and fetching cigarettes for the assembled patrons: While most Turkish kebapçı workers could only dream of somehow getting to Canada to continue (or, more likely, contemplate even starting) their education, I, one year from finishing a post-graduate degree, have come to Turkey to work as a kebapçı in exchange for food and board.... I figure every
one in their life has to do it at least once...
Assembled crowds, most likely waiting for çay from Stefan
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