Island Life

After six stressful months in Istanbul I am quite happy to spend a couple of days on the island Büyükada in the Marmara Sea, a 1.5 hrs boat trip from the city. Life is peaceful here, there are no cars, just bicycles and horse-drawn carriages.

I find food, shelter and work in an Ottoman mansion, which is being renovated at the moment and will be opened as "naya retreats" in about three weeks. Ludwig and a group of friends are creating a little paradise here as a rejection of the rough and noisy Turkish reality. The beautifully forged furniture which will decorate the imaginative arranged rooms is dispersed all around in the huge garden with its fountains, pools and benches.

There lives a funny, crazy bunch of people here, thrown together by coincidence or kismet. Ludwig has lived in Istanbul for the last 13 years, organizing cultural events and running a cafe near Tünel. He is quite a character, always seen with his bowler hat, always busy, getting nasty when he sees people just hanging out without working - he himself never stops messing about with his projects. Then there is Şebnem, a sad woman who arrived at this place two weeks ago without a penny in her pocket. Life's not been good to her and she is veering between depression and relief to have found a place to stay. She's a great cook, though, and talking with her never gets boring at all. Jean Claude comes from Burundi. How long he has been in Istanbul for is not clear to me. He's a nice and quiet guy, a marathon-runner, who speaks in a way so different from what I'm used to that having a conversation with him is pretty difficult for me. Most of the times I just end up grinning stupidly while he continues saying the same sentence again and again.

I am one of the ustalar, the craftsmen. My task is to polish the wooden floors of the mansion, a quite frustrating job in the beginning. It's hard work, sitting ducked in a cloud of dust and handling a vibrating, loud machine. Every evening I tell my co-workers with firm conviction: "I definitely won't touch this machine tomorrow." But there's something about this work which also attracts me: it's the satisfaction of seeing the structure of the wood appearing under the filth of hundreds of years once the machine runs over it. After a while I develop a love-hate relationship with my job.

Another usta is Metin, the paver, who comes to Istanbul every other month to find work, leaving his wife Zeynep and his little son behind in the 1,600 km afar town of Van.
"It's very hard not to be with my family for such a long time," he tells me. "Other men who do it like me have a mistress in Istanbul. But not me. I love my wife. But it's very hard."
I nod my head in recognition. "You're a hero," I say.
Metin grins. "Yes, but for how long?"
Haydar, the painter, has a university-degree but can't find a job in his field because of his Kurdish origin and his political commitment to the Democratic Society Party DTP. He lives off of temporary jobs, never knowing what the next month will bring. Conversations with him are always on politics. I enjoy talking with him, even though I don't like discussing about politics, as he's a thoughtful and reasonable person. And then there is handsome Engin, a quiet and friendly guy with a string of tattoos on his arms. I like watching him working concentrated and very precisely. Apart from that I don't know anything about him.

I spend a week with these people, working hard and getting close to them very quickly. Even though I have doubted to be able to live in such a close community for a longer time I'm sad to leave the retreat on a warm and sunny Monday morning to make my way down South. "I'm sad that you leave," says Metin. "But it's good that you're not afraid. You're a hero, too." Also Ludwig tells me that I could stay a little longer, but there's something dragging me. Ludwig nods and says: "You should follow your inner voice." So I take my backpack and say goodbye to the peaceful island. I'm not too sad, though. Island life can get a bit boring after a while.