An hour from Kuşadasi – two dolmuş rides away – up in the hills past the ancient Hellenic ruins of Ephesus is the village of Şirinçe (pronounced Shirinjay). The road from Selçuk wends its way through wadis, past neat rows of olive trees planted in straight lines on the rocky hillsides, rendering them dusty-green, a poor visual replacement for the much more varied, brighter green of the native plants in the region. In pre-Ottoman times, this valley was called Klasseas.
The dolmuş deposits you in a small square – probably the largest area of flat land around here – as soon as it enters the village. In order to get a panoramic view, I first wandered away from it. Ancient amphorae lie on the sides of the lane leading away from the village, designed to make them look like artifacts strewn about accidentally or discovered at an archeological site. Past the surrounding flats and up gently inclining unpaved roads that kick up clouds of dust every time a vehicle passes by, the view of the surrounding region is lovely. There are vineyards, orchards of figs and peaches, olive groves & pine-covered hills. An occasional tall, pencil-like tree that looks like cypress from a distance sticks out of the surrounding voluptuousness.
The view of the village across the shallow valley, set against the surrounding sea of green is photogenic. It clings to the hillside, whitewashed Aegean homes with tiled roofs, riven with uneven cobbled streets, some so narrow that you could touch the houses on both sides with outstretched arms.
Formerly a Greek village, it changed hands in the population exchange of the 1920s, hence the unmistakable Greek character to it. In the aftermath of World War I and the disintegration of the Ottoman Empire, the Greek army occupied Izmir and the surrounding region that included Şirinçe. But when the Turkish nationalist counterattack retook this region, most of the residents of the village migrated to Greece. After the population exchange agreement between the two countries, ethnic Turks from Greek provinces like Salonika and Kavala settled here.
Given the precipitous drop in tourism in Turkey, I was probably the only outsider that day. Empty souvenir shops line all the streets leading into the village. Despite there not being any customers, the shopkeepers maintained a dignified distance as I walked past, glancing at the wares on display: shawls, scarves, skirts, sweaters, drapes, scented soaps, local fruit wines, herbs, etc. The alleys wend their way between houses with creepers climbing up their walls or patios framed by abelia and bougainvillea. Upon closer inspection, many of the buildings have a distinctly Balkan appearance, and not much different from numerous villages, like Koprevshitisa, in Bulgaria.
The village was quiet. The villagers went about their lives, barely registering my presence as I wandered around, unsure what was private property and what was public, trying to be unobtrusive as I placed my feet gingerly on the uneven stones or climbed crumbling stairs. A couple on a terrace in their home talked in soft tones. A round woman in pantaloons hung clothes on a line across the alley, panting as she heaved her enormous frame. Another couple sorted and bundled herbs in their yard at the edge of the village; the woman smiled when I asked if I could photograph them. An older woman, sitting in a plastic chair outside her daughter’s souvenir shop with a kitten in her lap pointed out to a cat wandering around and said proudly, ‘Mama.’ A big, shaggy bear-like dog lying in the middle of an alley with its snout on the stones, barely moved as it growled at me when I approached; I decided against challenging its resolve to protect its territory.
On one of the streets, by a lovely building that was also a hotel, I ran into Sinan, a Kurd who owned a shop selling wines & scented soaps. He was outside chatting up a young woman. As I approached them they paused and smiled at me.
‘Where from?’ the woman asked.
It’s a lot easier for people to understand that I’m from India than trying to reconcile my appearance against their image of Americans being white or black. ‘Hindistan,’ I replied.
‘I like Shahrukh Khan.’ As I was to discover, for some reason, he’s the one a lot of Turks identify Indians with.
‘So you watch his movies?’
‘All the time.’
Sinan moved closer to her with very subtle movements. ‘Picture,’ he said, pointing to my camera. He moved next to her and I took a couple of photos and showed them on the LCD screen of the camera. An older man joined us then and stood between the two of them. If Sinan was unhappy with the presence of the bone in his kabab, he didn’t show it. ‘He’s dede,’ he said, pointing to the old man’s head. ‘Grandfather in Turkey.’
So with Dede between them, Sinan and the Shahrukh fan posed for more photos. As I accompanied Sinan back to his store where he wanted to give me his email address so that I could send him the photos, I asked, ‘Do you face any issues here as a Kurd?’
We took a couple of steps into his empty store. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No problems. There’s no difference between us.’
As I took the paper on which he scribbled his email address, I wasn’t sure if he was being genuine in his assessment or resorting to discretion to ensure that he can continue to live amicably with his fellow villagers.
*
Further down the hill, near the main square, an alert puppy sat next to a man. Although most dogs in Turkey are handsome and large — likely a mix of local breeds like Kangal, Akbash, Anatolian Shepherd, etc. — the one remarkable trait I’d noticed is that they are unapologetically and luxuriantly lethargic. Most of the time they’re asleep, stretched out on their sides. And when they’re not, they lie about and balefully watch the world go by. The ursine dog that had growled at me earlier was an unusually proactive dog. Now this alert puppy could not possibly be a local breed. The man confirmed my hunch. ‘Dogo Argentino,’ he said much to my surprise. How many people would have expected to encounter this unusual breed so far away from its place of origin? I bent down to take pictures of the puppy as it strained on its leash and wagged its tail.
‘Where are you from?’ the man asked as I got up.
‘Hindistan,’ I said.
He turned to a woman a few feet away from him and said something to her in Turkish. I only understood his multiple references to Hindistan. Her eyes lit up. ‘Shahrukh Khan!’ she exclaimed, evidently another fan of the actor. She continued in halting English. ‘I watch films from your country.’ And without my prompting her, she broke into song. ‘Zara-sa jhoom loon main,’ she sang, mock slurring the words and pretending to be drunk as she swayed around the man. ‘I want very much that Shahrukh Khan marry me.’ She burst into uncontrollable giggles and ran away, blushing.
‘My wife,’ the man said dryly. ‘Tell Shahrukh Khan to come and take this crazy woman away.’
