Mert squirmed in front of me, focusing on the plastic nozzle. Huffing and puffing smoke as though it could save his life.
He had taken me to the legendary mermaid’s bay, where he asserted in his deep slow voice, “A fisherman found her, hundreds of years ago”.
We glided along the water’s edge between horizons melting into the sky above and sea below, my brown face grinning in his motorbike’s side mirror. Mediterranean stars shone in my eyes and my hair. We drove up rugged hills into the arid Turkish countryside, dodging swarming bats and Islamic superstitions. Where sitting at an abandeoned monument we sipped Effes, overlooking the city lights below.
There is something intoxicating about this part of the world. A place where winter doesn’t exist except for the resigned grumbling of locals, describing gang warfare, docked boats and bleak, colourless days.
Close to home Mert was finally overtaken by his 15 hour shifts at the Marina, and drove the motorbike into a street curb. But shrugging the pain into his Turkish Machoism Mert limped to a nearby shisha lounge, where- despite my concern- we played backgammon and smoked for thirty minutes. Before eventually dizzied by the pain, he allowed a friend to drive him to hospital.
He had broken his toe.
