Notes from the Evliya Çelebi Way: Days 15-20.

“I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out until sundown, for going out, I found, is going in.”

– John Muir

In March of 1970, a 7.2-magnitude earthquake shook the Gediz Valley region of western Turkey.

Over a thousand people lost their lives in the quake, and many of the villages it damaged were abandoned in favor of starting over elsewhere in the valley, often just a few kilometers away.

So it was with a village called Eceköy. After another marvelous afternoon of being lost in the countryside (please feel free to substitute maddening for marvelous), I arrived at the old site the long way round, where about a dozen run-down houses remain, as does the mosque, although it is missing its minaret. The place didn’t feel right without it.

There were old stone foundations everywhere, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think there was an archaeological dig happening. I thought I might sketch one of the homes, where great timber beams lay on top of each other like pick-up sticks, but as I wandered through the village, no particular scene struck me – until I got to the mosque.

Behind its tiled ablution fountains I found the entrance, which was locked, but beside the door there were teal prayer beads still hanging from a hook, and about five pairs of wooden sandals laying on the floor as if they’d been kicked off just yesterday, reminding me of the geta sandals worn by Japanese monks.

And it was here that I found the inspiration I’d been looking for. I realized that while they were a sobering reminder of the earthquake, the homes were what had been left behind.

In the wooden shoes, I found some small clue as to who had left this place behind.

It was late in the day, and as the sun goes quickly here this time of year – it’s usually dark by 5:15pm – I figured I would camp in old Eceköy, and for two reasons. Firstly, I was in need of some solitude. This past week on the Evliya Çelebi Way has found me welcomed into one home after another each night – I can’t thank you enough, Turkey! – but this serendipity lover also happens to be a big introvert, and I thought a night to myself might give me a chance to start processing these last few days.

Secondly, I simply wanted to use my tent one last time before this journey ends. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be in Simav by Tuesday evening – where the trail is due to finish – and I’m glad for any chance to justify hauling a tent, sleeping bag, and cooking equipment with me all this way.

With camp set up not far from the mosque, I sat down by the wooden sandals, boiling pasta for dinner while I sketched, and then hurried to my tent as the last light of the day gave way to night.

By 5:45pm, I was zipped up inside its thin orange walls.

I’d been in my tent for all of two minutes when a car pulled up to the mosque. I heard car doors open and shut, and then footsteps, and then a light came flickering from around the corner. From the window of my tent, I saw three men approaching, and when they saw me, they made a sound like, “Aha!” as if they had found what they were looking for.

Hello throat, meet heart.

As it turned out, the first man, Seyhan, was the muhtar of Eceköy – i.e. a kind of village headman or mayor – along with his father Arif and friend Sami. Apparently a man I had met while sketching the sandals had tipped Seyhan off that I was planning to camp in the old village. Tsk tsk, Candace.

There was talk of sleeping in a house in the new town, and I asked if it was a misafir oda – guest room – in the muhtar’s office, which I’ve been grateful to find two other times now. They all nodded affirmatively, and so I packed up camp – a little sad to leave, but not at all regretful to not be spending the night in the cold. They even had me dump out the pasta I’d yet to eat, right there on the grassy hillside.

We drove five minutes down the road to new Eceköy, where I was taken not to a misafir oda but to Seyhan’s home, and given dinner, clean socks, and a seat by the wood-burning stove – what else can a pilgrim ask for, really? As I slurped up two bowls of warm tarhana soup, the living room grew full with people and it took time to navigate the relationships between everyone. Eventually, I established there were three families and four generations present.

After dinner, Seyhan’s wife Hümeyra spread out a large navy blue tablecloth on the floor, and then a layer of newspaper. A plate of oranges and carrots was placed on the cloth, as was a large bowl of apples, a second bowl of ayva, or quince, several smaller bowls containing sunflower seeds, peanuts, and acorns, two flat stones for cracking the acorns, and four knives for peeling the carrots and fruit. It was quite the eclectic feast.

There was nothing that did not require some element of effort before eating it, and nothing that did not make a snap while doing so. The soundtrack of our night was all seeds and peanut shells splitting, apples and carrots crunching, and acorns cracking, which split open easily and neatly. The husks and peels were discarded right on the cloth, and would be gathered up later for the cows to have as a feast of their own.

We all sat on the floor, each with part of the cloth’s edge pulled over our crossed legs as a napkin, and took turns cracking the acorns. There was tea, of course, and laughter – tremendous amounts of it – and I had a feeling a lot of teasing going on as well between these old friends. And it was as I sat there in the circle of crunching, cracking snacks that I thought:

And you wanted to sleep in a tent tonight?

I’m not yet sure where the lesson of Eceköy lays, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I was planning to spend the night alone in a dilapidated, abandoned village, and instead found myself in a home that was anything but.

It was a beautiful thing to witness – the kinship of these three families, the husbands of which have known each other since they were the age of their own toddler sons. They were all born in the village, and their mothers were six or seven years old when the earthquake struck. Seyhan’s 90-year-old grandmother Adile lost both her parents to it.

At one point, Sami motioned around the circle and asked me, “Güzel?” Good?

In answer, I turned my hand over, palm up, and brought my fingers together into the Turkish gesture I’ve learned here, the one that signifies when something is good, and then I said, “Çok güzel.” Very good.

And it was.

This morning, Seyhan’s mother Habibe surprised me by walking with me for half an hour – in pink socks and leather sandals, no less – to the crossroads where I left Eceköy behind for the next village of Yelki.

Having walked alone these last three weeks, another shadow moving next to mine made for quite a change.

Yet again, the path had gone in a different direction from my expectations – the lesson then, I think, might lay in the space between.