we carefully prise ourselves free of the youth that have been feeding
their curiosity with our bizarre speech and appearance, and begin
another mountainous ascent.
walking amongst ancient oaks, including the Volcanic Oak endemic to
the region with some over 300 years old, we feel utterly humbled at
the majesty of the oak forest. this crashes to humility as we emerge
into yet another patch of earth raped by logging. but nothing is
permanent and the feeling of helplessness at such Progress subsides as
we ascend above the treeline and into more summer pastures.
the ragged clothing scraped over barbed wire that is straggled across
the narrow valley opening to the Yayla is not the warm welcome we
might have expected. conversely, it amplifies the isolation of herding
countless goats above the treeline in a green landscape dotted with
virgin-white snow patches. a slight sense of unease sets in as we
ponder the meaning of the barbed welcome and headless scarecrow, and a
thick mist descends to envelop our camp and swallow the Yayla whole.
however, it turns out to be false advertising, as yet again we are
treated to formidable hospitality by the shepherds. during breakfast,
we marvel at how peaceful these two married couples are with their
shepherd's life; their smiles and laughter are the warmest we have
encountered yet. in return we raid our first aid kit to help Musa, who
is running a fever. he perks to life as we pantomime the appropriate
dosage and strength of the pills we leave behind for them. we pass the
barbed scarecrow for the last time after graciously accepting a
smaller share from the barrel of apples and kilogram of cheese they
try to impart on us as departing gifts.
hugs and love from the Turkish shepherds. gobble gobble.
j
