The sun is high in the sky on a late autumn morning. The large bazaar is open down the street, and cars and trucks line the road in all directions. A man is calling out, 'Nuts! Walnuts!', and he stands patiently next to his handcart, loaded full of his walnuts.
The call of the muezzin echos through the neighborhoods, the tinny speakers carrying his sad song of joy into the homes of all around him. He sits in a mosque far away from where the speakers beckon the worshippers. He had sipped on some tea to moisten his throat before his song. His Koran was open and on the table in front of him, next to the telephone handset which served as a microphone and sent his voice into many mosques around the district. Though each mosque has their own muezzin to lead prayers, its less discordant to have a single voice heard for kilometers around, rather than the competing discordant sounds of calls. If one wishes to have discordant calls, one can go into the Old Town.
Before the song is even completed, old men begin to wander down to the little mosque, nestled between the apartment buildings here near the heart of the city. At this time of day, the old men are the only patrons of Allah, waiting between television programs and games of backgammon for their call to move and show their faith, the march of those who have no direction, no job, and stay close to home. Only the oldest men cover their head with skullcaps, but none of them are younger than 40 years of age.
Going the opposite direction are women. Some are old and bent nearly in half with age, some are young, many with daughters to help them, but all are walking to the bazaar and most all of them wear the scarf. Many have carts with them to carry back their treasures, which they hope will last through to the next bazaar. If a meal requires onions, and they have no onions, they will not cook that dish until the next bazaar allows them to restock their cupboards. This is the way it is.
There are modern grocers scattered about. Many of the small stores, what we would call mini-marts in the west, sell eggs, juice, fruit, and canned goods. For the modern Turk, one doesn't have to walk far to get the staples needed for a meal. Fresh loaves of bread, with hard crusts and soft crumb, is hanging in baskets and stacked neatly in display cases at every store. But the traditional women of the new city do not like to purchase their goods at a grocer - instead, they tighten their scarf and walk to the bazaar, where fresh goods are brought in from around the surrounding countryside to be sold, bargained for, and traded, as this is the preferred way to purchase food.
There are stacks of tomatos, onions, leafy greens in all shapes and sizes, and the long and mild peppers that the Turks love so much. There are large wodden boxes full of oranges of every shape and size, apples, pears, tangerines, cherries, grapes, and lemons, and even the occassional seller of strawberries. There are walnuts, almonds, pistachios, and peanuts. Roasted and fresh. Sweet, salty, or plain. In the shell, or not. 'Fresh tomatos! The freshest tomatos here! Good price!', you will here at every third stall.
There are people selling sheep, both alive and butchered, and the scent of rotting vegetables and the musk of animal is nearly overpowering. People are packed in, shoulder to shoulder, going here and there, haggling, arguing, laughing, and looking for the best price. No cost is fixed - everything is negotiable, but to get the best deal, you must ask around and listen for the sellers who are trying to offload quickly as you can drive their price even lower.
The bazaar is a three-floor open sided building, dark and oppressive from the outside, even in the midday sun. Once inside, the lighting is adequate to see that you are indeed purchasing an orange instead of a lemon.
There are sellers of leather goods, knock-off designer sunglasses, and the occassional candy and sweet sellers.
By the time one old woman finally reached the bazaar, her husband had already finished praying. After he stands from kneeling for prayers, he straightens his clothes and walks into the courtyard of the mosque. He puts his shoes on and calls out to a group of men. He walks up to kiss his friends and smoke a cigarette. They chat for a while about the latest soccer match, discuss politics, take turns lamenting their pain over the recent death of their friend. A few of them manage to break out some tears, and only one man is heartless enough to say 'He drank too much, he had turned his eyes from Allah.'
His funeral had been the previous day at this same mosque. His body had been prepared and wrapped in linens and put on display as verses from the Koran were read. His widow weeping loudly and crying out her pain and loss. He had no other family, or at least none of them showed up to mourne. This is also the 10th of November, the national day of mourning for the death of the Republic's hero, Ataturk.
After a respectful time of mourning and remembering their old friend, they then walk together to the local game house were the clinking sound of okey tiles and backgammon pieces can be heard drifting through the clouds of smoke and laughter, late into the night. He will rise again with many of his friend in a couple of hours time and walk again to the mosque, to kneel and worship as proscribed in the Koran. He may return home to eat the meal his wife has cooked for him, but he'll return to the game house afterwards to count away the hours until sleep will take him.
