Climbing from the Heart

Paraguay is not known for anything. Land locked in the heart of South America; it is a country of six million, the size of California, swallowed up geographically by its neighbors, Bolivia, Brazil and Argentina. Outdoor enthusiasts would not be looked at cross wise for moving from the beaches of Rio de Janeiro to the high peaks of the Andes and on down to the wind sweep plains of Patagonia without giving Paraguay a second thought. Globe trotting climbers would give even less of their fanatically driven attention for big walls and vertical spires to lowly Paraguay.

No longer.

Over the past year, three individuals have been quietly cultivating their climbing passion in a country as far off the map and as virgin as any modern day explorer could dream.

In the established world of climbing where first ascents and new routes are discussed and determined by degree, Climbing in Paraguay by contrast is wide open. Climbing in the town of Tobati, seventy kilometers northeast of Paraguay’s capital Asuncion, former Peace Corps Volunteers Jonathan Bibee and Dale Helm, along with close Argentine friend Hugo Vidomlansky recently bolted the first handful of sport routes in the country. With kilometers of unexplored wall and the sun shining hot and bright, there is much to be done.

Although Paraguay is not fated to become a premier climbing destination, nevertheless there is a certain sense of pride and a sparkle of contentment knowing that first ascents are not reserved only for the most elite of climbers on location in some exotic locale.

Beyond the convoluted jargon and often times contrived international climbing culture Paraguay Climbing offers a newness, a freshness, a rawness that harkens back to the days of yore when people went barefoot up the rock face and possibilities were endless.

Taking full advantage of the collective experience and improvements gained over the past fifty years in terms of climbing gear (bought in Argentina or Brazil or hand carried down from the USA), climbing techniques and code of ethics, Bibee, Helm and Hugo Vidomlansky, have discovered a climbing area where it can be applied completely from the ground up.

Constructively and consciously developing unknown walls and a brand new sport that infuses courage, self confidence, communication, fun and awareness to the Paraguayan populace, Bibee and Helm relish the challenge of doing what they love, loving what they do and making it accessible to any and all Paraguayans willing to step into a harness and confidently call out the climbing commands “On Belay…. Climbing.”

EL ESTADIO DE SAN VICENTE

Over the last two years the wheels of life have certainly rolled on in every fathomable direction. But the beauty of a circle is that, no matter how large the circumference, as one travels its trajectory, one must eventually return to the place of embarkation.

In 2007 as I rode across the Indian subcontinent, Team America (you) graciously raised money to help complete the construction of a community soccer field in my former Peace Corps Site of San Vicente. 15 dollars for 1500 kilometers ridden. Team Paraguay (the family members of San Vicente), chipped in with 15 thousand guaranies (three dollars) for 1500 kilometers ridden.

The grand total of money raised was close to a thousand dollars.
The funds were used to level the pitch, add grass and build bleachers.

In 2009, last week, I had the opportunity to return to San Vicente after a two-year absence. Arriving on a Sunday afternoon, I was certain of two things: it would be a hot, sweaty, uphill seven kilometer walk from the bus stop on the paved highway to San Vicente but it would be worth it for without question every one would be at the San Vicente Soccer Field watching the Partido Hape.

Hape in Guarani means “event” or “the place where something happens.” Partido is Spanish for “game.”

Working in the sugar cane fields all week, come Sunday afternoon, the entire community congregates at the place where the game will be held: the Partido Hape at what is now called El Estadio de San Vicente.

As I walked up the cut dirt road across sprawling fields of electric sugar cane that carried the whispers of the southern wind upon their stalks and through vertiginous dark green woodlands reaching toward the hot subtropical sun hung high against an expansive blue sky the beauty of my visit was visible on my face: a smile of surprise. No one knew that I was returning to San Vicente.

Every Sunday, there are two games played. Eleven v. Eleven. Complete with uniforms and shared soccer cleats. My plan was to catch the second half of the second game.

Even before I crested the last hill and beheld the San Vicente Soccer Field for the first time in its crowded and completed state, the kids playing under the bleachers saw me at a distance, blew my cover and announced my arrival.

Heads turned, hands were shaken and hugs given, questions asked in an incredulous tone, the baby pig soon to be raffled off escaped its caretaker and ran out onto the field.
Play continued without a moment’s pause.

I grabbed a seat on the bleachers with my host family, la Familia Martinez, took in the soccer scene and began to catch up on all the local news. Within a heartbeat I was back sitting in the midst of the San Vicente Community and to them that is what mattered most. Not where I had been or what I was doing for the past two years but that I was back and that I had remembered.

Thanks to your support for a bike ride in a far off land more than two years ago, a soccer field was build and a community grown closer. Well Done.

The day’s game ended in a 2-2 tie, which meant penalties kicks would decide the winner.
As the players concentrated and the fans braced themselves in anticipation, there was one more trick to pull out of my sleeve.

Prior to leaving for Paraguay in August, a dear friend of mine gave me three high quality soccer balls to bring down to give to San Vicente. Perhaps I have watched too many international soccer tournaments, but the timing was just too perfect. I jumped off the bleachers, grabbed the deflated balls out of my bag, ran over to the referee and in a hasty presentation explained that “if we are going to play good soccer, on a good soccer field, we need to have good soccer balls.”

The balls were quickly inflated, flexed and kicked around in admiration and appreciation and put directly into play. Thank You Todd.

If you are keeping score, your scorecards should read as follows:
Zorrilla Kue 5 – Nacional 4 in a penalty shoot out.
One Giant Thank you from Team Paraguay to Team America.

Paraguayan Logic: Some Good, Some Bad, Some Funny, Some Tragic

FOR WANT OF AN EXTENSION CORD

Between 1975-1991 the Itaipu Dam was constructed on the Parana River between Paraguay and Brazil. Costing upwards to 20 billion dollars, upon completion it was the world’s largest dam, producing nearly 14 Gw of energy per year. (Currently, the Three Gorges Dam in China has taken over as the world’s largest). In percentage terms, the dam supplies 90% of all energy consumed in Paraguay and roughly a fifth of that used in Brazil.

However, almost twenty years on and there are still communities in rural Paraguay that do not have running water or electricity.

THE MISSING INGREDIENT IN THE TABLE SALT

A goiter is a swelling of the neck resulting from the enlargement of the thyroid gland. It is caused by a deficiency in iodine. This iodine deficiency in the diet of the world’s population, and thus the growth of goiters has been effectively curtailed through the addition of iodine into common table salt. This ingenious, effective and economic solution was devised almost a century ago.

Recently however, while I was out visiting a subsistence farming family the wife of the couple with whom I was staying had a goiter. She is 70 and unfortunately grew up in a place and time where there was no iodine in the salt. The time and place in question is Paraguay in the 1950s.

Note mind you that this tragedy of health is not due to lack of iodine availability but rather the more pernicious fact that the Minister in charge of making sure that there was sufficient iodine in the table salt under the Paraguayan Dictator Alfredo Stroessner (1954-1989) was instead pocketing the money and falsifying his reports.

EXPORT –IMPORT

A woman out in the rural Paraguay has fourteen children. Three have died and the rest are all grown. Two are farmers and live in the same community in which they grew up.
The rest, nine, are all abroad in search of work. Seven have gone to Buenos Aries while two have ventured as far afield as Spain. One of Paraguay’s biggest exports is people. All gone, without education or a skill set to speak of but faced with a life to live. The woman speaks longingly of her faraway children and their hardships as she tends to the evening meal over an open ground fire in a soot covered wooden kitchen. Kids grow up and get gone; gainful employment is an elusive mirage both home and abroad and remittance is hard pressed to trickle home.

HAKU

Hot, at best, is only truly a rough approximation of the Guarani word “Haku.” Sitting directly on the Tropic of Capricorn, Paraguay pushes the heat index to new levels.
Haku can best be described as follows: sitting on the beach toasting your body, perhaps reading a book or sipping on a cool beverage, you suddenly become aware that the sun’s rays and heat has reached an almost unbearable, intolerable level. You quickly jump up, rip off your clothes and run into the refreshing ocean water… Ahhhhh.
Well, since Paraguay is a land locked country, there is no water. Everybody instead sits at that unbearable, intolerable level of hot sipping beverages where the ice melted away long ago. Haku….

For a little more insult to injury:
Back to our man, Dictator Stroessner. During his rule, 1954-1989, by official order he never allowed the temperature posted in the upper right corner of every one’s television screen during the nightly newscast to go above 29 degrees Celsius. No sweat, just a mere 84 degrees Fahrenheit down here in this tropical Paradise called Paraguay.

HELLO – GOODBYE

Paraguayans are certainly not known for being in a hurry. The “haku” heat has seen to a decidedly slower pass of life.

But Paraguayans must be given credit for their efficiency, succinctness and bluntness. When walking past any one on the street, whether be it in the city or the country, rather than give the hollow, noncommittal “Hello, how are you,” they will cut to the chase and say “Adios.” That is right, goodbye. As you walk past some one you have never seen before and have no intention of stopping to talk to, you say Goodbye. While not breaking your stride you both are politely on your way.

Adios…

To Rake and To Fertilize

To Rake and To Fertilize
To Slash and To Burn

A man goes into the forest and cuts a tree down, a few trees, many trees.That same man returns three months later and burns everything in sight.

By all accounts this should be appalling and that man thrown in jail for environmental destruction, arson, etc.

On the other side of the world, a man goes out into his backyard, rakes up all the fallen leaves, every last one of them, and puts them to the curb never to be seen again.
That same man, three months later returns to his backyard after a harsh winter and applies chemical fertilizer to his green grass lawn.

By all accounts this should seem normal and that man praised for being an upstanding suburban home owner taking pride in his property.

Man Number One has just practiced traditional Slash and Burn Agriculture. He represents one of the billions of subsistence farmers that literally make their living off the land of this great Earth. The wood he has cut down has built his house and cooked his food. The land he has burned has grown the crops that have provided for his family.

The ironic thing about Slash and Burn Agriculture is that it works. When a farmer burns a parcel of land, rather than destroying the soils productivity, it actually boosts it. The fire unlocks precious nutrients, nitrogen, potassium, phosphorus, that are present in the soil but structured in such a way that they are unavailable for plants to use. In addition, the newly created ash reduces the soil acidity (a common characteristic of tropic soils) by raising the pH and thus provides a more fertile environment for plant growth.

Man Number Two has just practiced traditional Suburban Middle Class Lawn Care. The leaves that are on the ground, although they are the primary source of organic material that if left will replenish the nutrient deficiencies of the backyard lawn, are seen as messy, unkempt and thus must be swept away. It’s a good feeling: to keep everything clean and tidy and the neighborhood pristine and orderly.

It has been proven that people fear death and public speaking. At times, most of us fear public speaking more than death. It could also be ventured that no one wants to be the only guy on the block with the brown and dying lawn. So out we go, motoring off to the local hardware store or garden center to buy the organic material we shipped off the autumn prior and color correct our lawn from a waning yellow to a verdant green through a healthy dose of chemical fertilizer.

The funny thing about traditional Suburban Middle Class Lawn Care is that it is purely cosmetic. Leaves get raked; grass gets cut, watered and fertilized because it makes the lawn, our lawn, look good. No one, neither cows nor humans, have to eat off this suburban landscape. Bare feet and blankets, barbeques and bocce ball are the beneficiaries of our lawn care diligence.

The catch with Slash and Burn Agriculture is that it does not work in the long run. With population growth and limited land availability, Land has been forced into continued cultivation and not given the necessary time to lie fallow and recuperate. Subsistence farmers the world over are faced with poorer soils, reduced yields and increased economic hardships.

The catch with traditional Suburban Middle Class Lawn Care is that it works all too well in the long run; just buy better genetically engineered grass seed, higher concentrations of fertilizer, more ergonomic rake handles to take the strain off the lower back and more powerful leaf blowers.

If a subsistence farmer must begin to change his agricultural attitudes and practices to sustain his very livelihood and contribute to the idea and reality of a greener planet, correspondingly Suburban Middle Class Lawn Owners must awaken to the notion that we in fact must do the same.

PAVE PARADISE AND PUT UP A …..HIGHWAY…PLEASE

If need be, everyone can walk 15 kilometers. It might take some of us all day, but the distance, roughly nine miles, is certainly traversable. For the developed world, a 15 km walk can be called an outing, a day hike, a backpacking trip. People plan weekends to do it; Boy Scouts can earn merit badges for it. In sum, walking 15 km is a luxury not a necessity. To cross that distance is what a private motorized vehicle is for.

In the developing world however, for subsistence rural farmers, a 15 km walk is a fact of life. Out in the countryside, pavement is a limited quantity and the sidewalk ends rather quickly or far from home depending on which way you are looking.

Walking is at once a part of the traditional, agrarian routine and yet a constant and obstinate geographic impediment to connection to the greater wide world.

Fifteen is only the average, used here metaphorically, it could be only 5 or 10 km, or as much as 20, 25 km and beyond. We are talking about fifteen kilometers of dirt, mud, earth roads between a community where someone lives and the nearest paved road, where the rest of the world lives.

As the crow flies the distances are short but the consequences are long and profound. The lack of all weather paved roads takes measurable distances and makes them really quite immeasurable in terms of time, economics, psychology, culture, receptiveness to new ideas and ultimately livelihoods.

Fifteen kilometers on asphalt takes a half and hour to drive. Fuel costs are negligible and produce will certainly not rot en route. The same distance on dirt roads can take an hour, an afternoon, a day. It really is any one’s guess, depending on the weather, road conditions and how big those erosion ditches have become since the last rain.

If there is a doubt whether a farmer can get out to sell or some one can get in to buy and transportation costs will consume most of his earnings, it’s a certainty that a farmers choices on which cash crop to plant will be severely restricted. Fifteen kilometers can be the distance and difference between subsistence and upward mobility.

We love to love nature. However, the catch is that we love to love it as long as it’s easily accessible through a reliable network of roads. Most of us enjoy the thought of spending the day out in the wilderness but with the benefit of being able to get away from it and return home at the end of the day.

We are quick to criticize large-scale public works projects that tend to pave the world over. However, we do prefer individual pavement projects that come right up to our garage door.

The next time you gaze upon that ubiquitous black expanse called asphalt, learn to step a little more lively and tread a bit more lightly, for it has taken us far. Let’s hope it starts taking the rest of the world, mired in mud and poverty in the same direction.

LIFE IN PERSPECTIVE

The animosity between Paraguayans and Argentines is good natured but visceral. From boasts and brags of cultural superiority to a devastating 19th century war, the Triple Alliance War 1861- 1865, that literally decimated the Paraguayan population (Argentina was helped out by Brazil and Uruguay but in their defense, Paraguay did start it, declaring war on all three), this rivalry finds its outlet in all forms of life.

Being South America, a soccer match played between the two national teams serves as unparalleled battle ground for this never ending war. Wednesday night in downtown Asuncion, the Paraguayan capital, in the form of a 2010 World Cup Qualifying Match, the latest Paraguay – Argentina skirmish was fought.

In an unprecedented turn of events, Argentina, a perennial soccer powerhouse and historically a shoe in for a World Cup berth, came to town needing a win to keep their flagging campaign alive. Paraguay, on the other hand, was in the position where a win would seal their invitation to the big dance in South Africa in June of next year. (After two years of home and away tournament play, only four out of the ten South American teams will earn berths to the World Cup). Although unknown on the world stage for anything else, in soccer circles, the small, six million strong land lock nation of Paraguay is a force to be reckoned with.

Qualifying for the World Cup at home and at the expense of their arch rivals, Argentina, were another loss would virtually eliminate them from World Cup contention was almost too much for Paraguayans to handle.

At kick off, the energy in the stadium was electrifying and the silence throughout the country was absolute. The nation had stopped, all motion suspended, everyone glued to their televisions and collectively holding their breath. Across the border in Argentina, there was no less concentration and devotion.

In this corner of the world, on that night, there was only one thing and one thing only that mattered: the best eleven men of each country playing ninety minutes of soccer to decisively determine the power, glory and right to go to the World Cup.

Despite the best of intentions and a commensurate amount of hard work, Paraguay,
in terms of soccer, history and politics, is benighted and hapless. The national team, for as talented as they are, always finds away to let victory slip through their fingers, like a late opponent’s goal sneaking past the goalie’s outstretched hands.

The Paraguayan populace knows this all to well and, during the run up to the game, they were on their knees praying for a different outcome to the same old story.

On a night that will be talked about and lionized for generations, the national side did not disappoint. Playing as a team, aggressive and hungry for a win, Paraguay beat the Argentines 1-0. Paraguay hit the post twice before they found the back of the net. Tensions and jockeying for the ball were unrelenting throughout, ending in a red card for an Argentine player. Despite being a man and a goal down, the ultimate opportunity for vindication if not outright victory was Argentina’s. But the striker missed tapping in the superbly placed cross in front of an open net by centimeters in the final minute of the match.

As the ball spun out of bounds and into oblivion, the nation of Paraguay leapt up in euphoria as the national team stepped into history.

In a single, 1-0 victory over Argentina, the plight of Paraguayans was forgotten. No one left the stadium or turned off their televisions. This was not just soccer. It was life, renewed, reborn and rejuvenated.

As the players danced, the fans cheered and flags waved, the President of Paraguay, Fernando Lugo, stepped onto the pitch. With six million people enthralled to a Paraguayan victory, he did the only logical thing: he declared Thursday, the following day, a National Holiday.

Schools were closed. Government offices shut down and stores remained unopened.

The mundane transactions of life could wait another day. An Argentine loss, a Paraguayan World Cup berth. This was big. Down right momentous and needed to be put into proper perspective.

CPI: CHIPA PRICE INDEX

Putting a finger on the peculiarities of the Paraguayan pulse is always a tricky affair. The pervasiveness of Paraguayan indirectness can stymie the simplest of questions. Are you going to the party tomorrow can be met with a myriad of responses.

One could make the case that cultural indirectness is indeed so profound that it is imbedded in the grammatical structure of the language. In Guarani all questions are asked in the negative form. Ndeho moa’i la fiestahape? You are not going to the party? How is one to answer this inquiry directly?

Against this cultural backdrop and the reality of widespread poverty in Paraguay, figuring out the financial and economic climate of rural Paraguayans is a daunting and delicate task indeed.

There is a way however to go about it without getting too personal, too professional and distracted by facts and figures. Beyond the traditional consumer price indexed basket of goods, such as flour, salt, oil and the like, to serve as a bench mark for measuring year on year inflation Paraguay offers a single consumer product that can get at the heart, or really the stomach, of the economic matter: chipa.

For the uninitiated, chipa, can be thought of as a corn meal Paraguayan bagel. The freshly ground corn is mixed with copious amounts of milk and lard, sprinkled with a healthy dash of anis seed, brick oven baked and served piping hot along the major paved thorough fares of Paraguay (now numbering twelve in a country the size of California) by industrious women touting massive baskets perched atop their perfectly erect heads.

For Paraguayans buying chipa is not really an option, but more a requirement born out of tradition, habit and hunger for a delicious snack. Without exception long distance buses traveling to and from the capital, stop and pick up a prearranged chipa woman, specifically at km 74 on Route Two, to sell their corn meal morsels to hungry passengers. Different bus lines work with different chipa companies, where the bus driver undoubtedly gets a free sample.

Back in 2002, a single chipa, the size of a good New York City bagel (Sara Lee supermarket bought, five to a sleeve “bagel” look a likes need not apply), sold for 1000 guaranies, the Paraguayan currency which floats freely against the dollar and is presently valued at 1 USD = 4900 guaranies. Thus, a chipa cost roughly twenty cents. To complete the comparison, a typical Paraguayan day laborer makes 25,000 guaranies or five dollars a day.

Over the last half dozen years however, while the price of chipa has remained stable at 1000 guaranies , the size has steadily decreased to that of a Thomas English Muffin. Unscientifically, this reflects two trends: the rise in the cost of raw materials (i.e. corn, lard) and the idea that 1000 guaranies is the Paraguayan psychological price akin to 99 cents.

Returning to Paraguay after a two year absence, I was eager (and hunger) to continue my chipa price index study on the rural economic situation of Paraguayans.

Traveling out to the eastern department of Caazapa, I made my requisite stop along Route Two to purchase my tasty, Paraguayan roadside snack. Driving in a private vehicle, I rolled down the window and opened my wallet, not knowing what to expect.

The woman, basket atop her head, leaned in and handed me a chipa. The size was back close to its original (2002 baseline) but the price was now double: 2000 guaranies. Being caught short, I had to reach deep into my pocket to make up the difference.

The sweetness of the snack was the same as I had remembered, but I got the feeling that over the intervening years this slice of rural Paraguayan life had become a bit more sour and hard to swallow.

Chipa in hand, Paraguayans can attest to the following as they scratch out a subsistence living in an acute economic environment: the problem with “normal” is that over time everything gets worse.

HOMELAND SECURITY

When you travel: You must suspend Real Time. You are on a Travel Time.

Airports are lonely, impatient and irritable affairs. They are one off destinations. Intermediate transit points between home and away. We all have to use them to get where we want to go but never want to stay longer than we absolutely need to.

There is a shared and futile desire to “do the airport” on our time rather than on their time. But to be honest, airport transit from car side to planeside as always been a fallacy.
Instead, increasingly long lines and indeterminable wait times at a series of intermediary check points are the norm.

The efficacy of the majority of these checkpoints can undoubtedly be improved but some, such as clearing customs and security are of utmost importance and need to be taking with a degree of patience.

Two weeks ago I returned home at midnight to Newark International Airport after spending a year abroad in Istanbul, Turkey as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar.

Traveling often I have come to enjoy the initial albeit brusque “Welcome Back” given by the Homeland Security Officer as he/she stamps me back into the country.

This time however, instead of my anticipated homecoming, I got a scrutinizing second look, a double check of my passport and a forceful, curt command to “follow me.”

Much to the chagrin of the weary travelers waiting in the long line behind me, the Homeland Security Officer escorted me into the backroom of the Homeland Security Office.

As he filed away my passport he told me to sit down and left without another word.

While waiting less than patiently the twenty minutes for my name to be called, there was a Polish woman being questioned via a translator about over staying her tourist visa and another man being asked about a prior arrest.

Note, in retelling this story I could have used terms interrogated and grilled to convey the actions of the Homeland Security Force.

They certainly could have been construed as such, but description is in the eye of the beholder. In this case, tired, travel worn passengers not privileged to the full story of their detainment being delayed at midnight. Not an ideal situation of which to paint a rosy and fond memory.

Upon being called, the on duty officer asked what I had been doing abroad for the entire year. I explained that as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar I had been learning Turkish and performing community service projects in Istanbul, Turkey.
Clearing up this misapprehension I was stamped back into the US without any further ado. Curiosity getting the best of me, I paused, turned and asked the office, why, even though I was an American citizen, returning home had been stopped.

We were just doing our job he responded. Being gone for an entire year came up as irregular and unique in our system and we wanted to make sure that everything was legitimate.

That, as I walked out, was a fair enough reason and I thanked him for it.

Twenty minutes is twenty minutes and we have all whiled away countless hours of our lives without a second thought. However, once at the airport, whether running to catch a flight or see loved one’s, taking away twenty minutes of our time to becomes a personal affront.

We ask, rather expect Homeland Security to keep us safe at all time and from every possible threat and yet, when our safety inconveniences our lives, we are the first to cry foul. Safety and Efficiency are not mutually exclusive but they can only be equated with a healthy degree of patience.

WHEELS ON THE GROUND

Istanbul to Odessa by BOAT
Odessa to Istanbul by BIKE

As I spin the globe and take stock of just how far Point A, Odessa, Ukraine, is from Point B, Istanbul, Turkey, it is hard to suppress a smile and a feeling that can be summed up as such: Hell Yeah.

Beyond the gratitude that I would like to convey to everyone who pumped the positivity in my name along my bicycle journey there is a question that I have been asked many times over and in many different languages that I would like to answer.

WHY? Why do you bike so much? What is the allure of biking so far?

The following is a bit of insight into the madness, or finely calibrated chaos, that makes jumping on a steel pony and pedaling fast and furious off towards the horizon so desirous.

A long distance hiking friend of mine has a superb phrase for the whole affair: a laughable distance.

1700 km across five different countries from Odessa to Istanbul is certainly a laughable distance. But then again, at times Friday night may seem like a laughable distance from Monday morning. Summer vacation a laughable distance away from the mid winter drear and retirement a laughable distance removed from the youthful days of college.

Prior to this trip I could only point out the countries of Ukraine, Moldova, Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey on a map. Knowing next to nothing about them besides their capital, shape and arbitrary color in which the mapmakers chose to shade them.

But a bicycle changes all that. Daily distances are limited by physical capability but the possibility of where to ride becomes infinite. Encounters and interactions with locals along the way become personal and extremely human. You are forced to relish the in betweens in terms of both time and place. There is a realness and rawness to every experience that truly tingles the emotions.

The travel is certainly felt in the legs, bones and muscles. You sleep like a baby. The heart and mind are constantly engaged. The journey becomes the focus and an intimacy with the land and life is created.

Rather than riding from Odessa to Istanbul, more poignantly put, I was riding through the daily life of Eastern Europe. Here is a bit of that story:

BRASOV, ROMANIA
I bought my bicycle off the rack in Istanbul for 200 bucks. A Turkish made, steel framed beast, it had no idea what kind of work out I was about to put it through. It was decidedly not meant to be ridden across Eastern Europe.

700km and 2 countries in from the start of the journey the wear and tear began to show.
Due to the weight of my backpack strapped to the back of the bicycle and the fact that I traversed the mountains of Transylvania all morning prior, where paved road turned to gravel which turned to dirt, the back tire tread wore thin and gave way to a spectacular blow out.

Late in the afternoon, with the sun setting over Transylvania, it was decision time.
What to do? I did what every one in their right mind does: Stall. I started to walk, well push the bike, in the forwardly direction as I contemplated hitching a ride to the nearest mechanic. Five kilometers on, walked more out of stubbornness in refusing to put the bike on a motorized vehicle than any lack of transportation offers, I arrived at a tire and auto body shop.

Although I consider myself a proficient bike mechanic, bicycle maintenance is definitely not my forte. Besides, finding a local bicycle repair shop and having them wrench on the bike for a while always leads to a memorable experience.

Arriving tired and sweaty, it was time for my nonexistent Romanian to all of a sudden become eloquent and insightful. Washing his hands with a greasy rag as he walked out of the garage I smiled at the mechanic and pointed to my bike.

Being a man of his trade and seeing the disastrous state of my back tire, the repair was easy to communicate. My presence on a bicycle in the middle of Romania however was a bit more complicated to convey. Using a few key words of country capitals and large towns and a combination of Spanish, English and Romania I made it clear that I had biked from Odessa and was heading to Istanbul. You would have thought I had hit him square in the stomach upon his realization of the length of my journey. Rolling his eyes in what I like to think of as admiration but was probably just disbelief, he began to shake his head, smile and laugh.

The bicycle repair now being secondary to the conversation at hand, he jumped up, dropped his tools and became quite animated. Grabbing a pen, he wrote the date 1944 on the back of an envelope and then proceeded to mimic a walking motion. Seeing that I was still with him, he painstakingly mimed that he was talking about his father.
My eyes dilated as I caught the gist of his story. It was my turn to feel a bit weak in the knees.

His father had walked over 700km from Odessa to Brasov, Romania in 1944.
My head started to spin, was he evading Nazi Germany, fleeing an advancing Russian Army or merely emigrating out of an occupied Ukraine.

Odessa to Brasov by bike in 2009. Now that is all good fun.
Odessa to Brasov by foot in 1944. Now that is some serious living history.

Leaving the mechanic behind with a healthy wave and riding on into the sun, I yearned to be able to speak Romanian, I yearned for the opportunity to meet that man’s father, I yearned to know the full story.

I rode on that day into the twilight, comforted by the good fortune of knowing that all of my laughable distances traveled throughout my life have been self created and journeyed by choice but equally saddened by the realization that the laughable distances traveled by most people the world over are borne out of necessity and forced upon them.

RAZGRAD, BULGARIA
First impressions live long in the memory. The town of Razgrad, 65 kilometers south of the Romania border on the northeastern plains of Bulgaria is mine in regards to the country of Bulgaria. Razgrad is what I like to call an “in between town.” Riding from Bucharest, the capital of Romania to Varna, a seaport and summer resort town on the Bulgarian Black Sea Coast some 300 km away, you have to stop somewhere to hang your hat and rest your bicycle. Razgrad it was.

A nondescript, agro-industrial town I could tell as soon as I entered the city proper that I was the only foreigner for miles. This is the draw of in between travel. Living squarely on Bulgarian terms, the rewards of unique cultural experiences are commensurate to the heightened challenges of communication, interaction and understanding.

Sitting down to dinner at an empty, outdoor restaurant, the Bulgarian owner came and joined me. Somehow the bike, helmet and weather worn map gave me away as being the exotic. Struggling to converse in broken English about the where’s, what’s and how’s of who I was the man kept saying “Ne Var” as he contemplated his next English word.

“Ne Var” roughly translates into What Else in Turkish. Finally, mustering the courage to shift conversational gears myself, I asked the man in Turkish if he spoke Turkish. With his eyes lighting up he immediately said yes (Evet) and our conversation took off, this time in Turkish. I told him that I was an American living in Istanbul, learning Turkish. He told me that the meal is on the house, leave everything where it is and come across the street to meet his friends.

Turns out his name is Ayhan and he is a Bulgarian Turk. Born here in Bulgaria but ethnically Turkish. A hold over or thrown back to the Ottoman time’s when the sultanate ruled over the land for nearly half a millennium. He learned Bulgarian as the national language; Russian in school under the yoke of the Communist regime and Turkish was kept close to the heart and true to its historical roots as the family language. To this day, ten percent of Bulgaria’s seven million strong population is still ethnically Turkish.

As we walked across the street sure enough there was another café, empty except for a lone occupied table. We headed straight for it. Switching from Turkish into a combination of Bulgarian and Russian, he introduced me to his three friends (the owners of the café and the ubiquitous barfly) and the questions abounded. With the arrival of another woman, things simultaneously got more complicated and yet simplified. This woman, a Bulgarian in her mid forties had lived in the States and spoke English. I asked where she had lived. She responded “St. Pete.” As it is, St. Petersburg, Florida meet Razgrad, Bulgaria.

There we were sitting around the table, confusing and understanding each other in a cacophony of three distinct language groups: English of Indo- European descent, Turkish of Turkic descent and Russian and Bulgarian of Slavic origin.

My map of Bulgarian stretched out across the table, covering the peanut dish and held down at the corners by half drunken bottles they all began to point out the most beautiful and must see parts of Bulgaria: the coast, the capital, the mountains. Everything they said except Razgrad.

Much to the contrary I try to explain that in fact that this very moment conversing with them here in Razgrad was worth all the tourist destinations in the country. They shook their heads collectively in disbelief.

This place is too boring, too normal they replied.
Genuine, true, everyday and ordinary. That’s what I say and that’s what makes it matter.

The rhythm of the conversation ebbed and flowed for a while longer. As I got up to leave, Ayhan came with me. He took my shoulder and as he guided me out of the restaurant he said in Turkish “Do make sure you see more of Bulgaria but you know what, every night we are here doing the same thing: talking about how there are no jobs, no money, nothing. But you came along, out of nowhere and made things exciting.”

Without question, as I share this normal, everyday Bulgarian experience with you, I am certain that they too are talking about me.

Ayhan had given me his cell phone number and I made a promise to call him when I reached Istanbul.

1700 kilometers ridden in three weeks. Odessa to Istanbul. A laughable distance between point A and point B. But in the end it was not the Mileage but the Mentality that counted and it was the people met along the way that gave life and meaning to the journey.

OUT OF THE CLASSROOM

Almost a year on here in Istanbul and with countless hours of Turkish study under my belt, it was high time I got out of the classroom and put my linguistic learning to good use. Over the last few months I seized the golden opportunity of being a student (read spring break and post examinations) to close the books, leave the city behind and venture out into Turkey proper.

It is not fair to say I saw the “real” Turkey because this mega metropolis of Istanbul is indeed as real as it gets. However, it is on the mark to say I saw the “other” Turkey.

Anatolia, Asia Minor, Anadolu (in Turkish), how ever you want to call it, is the 98% of the country that runs from the Asian shores of the Bosphorus eastward to Georgia, Armenia, Iran, Iraq and Syria. Hemmed in on the north by the Black Sea and the Mediterranean on the south, Anatolia has been cris-crossed by humanity since time immemorial.

With close to 60 million Turks living in the mountains, valleys, plains and forests in between and 5000 years of history, there certainty was enough worth the while to visit, explore and understand.

GLOBALIZATION WHIPLASH
It is quite hip these days to think small, green and local. I for one am in full agreement, however with the caveat that globalization is probably the best thing that has even happened to us a humans. (To the planet, that’s a whole different story but we can leave it at this for now: We humans write the chapter and verse of our lives, Mother Earth will write the final page of our existence).

Contrary to popular belief, globalization is nowhere near being a new phenomenon.
With our first steps out of Africa and our first ships set sail upon the ocean blue, globalization is in fact the first thing we as humans exported. Language, culture, tools and goods. We all have them, want more of them and are willing to do what it takes to get them.

We as Americans, without globalization, first would not be Americans and secondly, if we overlooked the first reality, would be forced to subsist on tomatoes, corn and strawberries. A few of the only edible plants native to North America. Not a bad lot, but one cannot live on them alone no matter how tasty ketchup may be.

Globalization, whether good or bad is rather quite natural, constant and a human endeavor. It’s what we do. We don’t gaze upon the stars and close our eyes. We just build bigger and better telescopes. The rub is that its not globalization itself but the speed at which globalization happens which catches us all off guard.

On a lonely, wind swept rocky outcrop located deep in the southeastern corner of Turkey lies HOŞAP CASTLE. Built a half a millennium ago by a Kurdish King and still retaining multiple stories and nearly a hundred intact rooms, it gazes silently out from its commanding position over the dusty golden plains that stretch out towards Northern Iraq.

Arriving at the massive iron gate after a day of travel, my friend and I were greeted by the castle’s caretaker. Willing to swing open the castle’s doors for a small fee and allow us to penetrate the ancient defenses, we strike up a conversation about how we are Americans studying Turkish in Istanbul.

Over coming their fear and indulging their curiosity, the caretaker’s children come out of hiding and circle around us. Wanting to be friendly, we offer the kids some local fruit that we had just bought. Two of the three kids grab it eagerly, but one little boy abruptly recoils.

All of six years old, he had heard that we were Americans and told his father that he didn’t want to take the fruit because he didn’t want to catch the Swine Flu.

On a lonely, wind swept rocky outcrop located deep in the southeastern corner of Turkey, a child who can neither read nor write, knows that America is the source of Swine Flu. Globalization par excellence.

With a smile of astonishment on our face, we grabbed up our food and stormed the castle.

ORIGINS
The city of URFA in South Eastern Turkey is known as the prophet’s city. Rightly so.
Smack in the downtown area is a cave reckoned to be the birthplace of the Prophet Abraham (Ibrihim to Muslims). We are talking 1900 BC, the original promoter of monotheistic faith and thus technically the primogenitor of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. This is heavy stuff. As I bend down to catch a glimpse of the cave (certainly a minimalist approach regarding its interior decoration), I am struck by the fact that here before me are the stories of the three holy books, Torah, Bible and Koran, come to life.

Abraham, no longer a long ago man from a far away land but a real live human being.
Faith is what we all make of it, but it certainly has gravity when given historical context.

Although officially a secular country, Turkey is 99% registered Muslim and has the legacy of a five hundred year Ottoman-Islamic history. Thus, a large Mosque complex encloses the immediate surroundings of Abraham’s cave. Beautifully built of cut sandstone, the doors are open to any and all who come. Be it a purposeful pilgrim or an itinerant traveler.

The area is one of faith and family. But to this devotion I for one would like to add dialogue. Not seeing either in sight, I was taken a bit aback by the conspicuous lack of both a synagogue and church. Different strokes for different folks. I am certainly not an expert regarding history or religion but I do consider myself a believer and critical thinker.

Standing before the birthplace of a man paramount to all three major monotheistic religions. What better place to celebrate our similarities and come to terms with our differences. We humans are a funny sort however, sometimes are differences are not different enough for us to get along.

NEIGHBORLY RELATIONS
Bridges are highly functional. They are equally symbolic. In Northeastern Turkey lie the ruins of ANI, an ancient Armenian capital from the turn of the first millennium left abandoned in the no man’s land of the frozen Armenian Turkish Border.

Due to a long and entangled history of mutual accusations of genocide, invasion and cultural superiority Turkey and Armenia currently do not maintain official diplomatic relations and their border, perhaps 350 km of unbroken land, is definitively closed to all traffic.

In a rolling meadow ringed by snow capped mountains, the ruins of ANI preserve thousand year old Armenian cathedrals and what is considered to be the first Seljuk Mosque build in Anatolia (1072). Yet it also has areas off limits to visitors due to control by the Turkish military in the face of an undefined Armenian threat.
Spending the day picnicking, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Neither of the Turkish or Armenian variety.

Walking out of the eastern entrance of the Cathedral, the land descends sharply to the Arpa River, the physical land feature that delineates the official border of the two countries. On closer scrutiny, the structural remains of a massive, ancient stone bridge are clearly visible down below.

A thousand years ago, the two sides of the river, Turkey and Armenia, were connected.
Thoughts, people and trade flowed freely. Today the same bridge lies destroyed and forgotten. Communication between the two nations is forced at best.

Long ago the stone arches collapsed and the rocks fell into the river. The sturdy, weathered footings that remain however offer a silent, striking lesson on the imprudence of humanity for any one of us willing to look, listen and understand.

MESOPOTAMIA
Besides the more problematic ethnic and national appellations (Kurdistan) of the region, to call Southeast Turkey by its original name, you must reach back to the grand daddy of them all: Mesopotamia. Few words conjure up humanity and perhaps third grade history like that of Mesopotamia and its pair of River Guardians, the Tigris and the Euphrates.

The Fertile Crescent, the birthplace of civilization, present-day Iraq and an unfortunate quagmire of conflict, strife and violence. To the Mesopotamia Landscape, one can imagine, there is nothing new under the sun. As long as we humans are here, the cycle of life and death, peace and hostility will continue.

Happily however for the adventurous but safety conscious traveler (ME), following the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers upstream puts their source in Turkey. Perhaps it’s a hold over, deep down in our bones from way back when, some sort of bond of kith and kin harkening back to unknown original ancestors, but I felt a certain ethereal energy as I crossed the fabled Tigris River into Turkish Mesopotamia.

Truly, this sparkling blue water cutting a meandering path through the parched, patchwork terrain, provides the lifeblood to all. A hot early summer day painted with the colors of an azure blue sky and white billowy clouds and tempered by the cool waters of the Tigris makes for the ideal setting to relax riverside.

We sat with our feet dangling in the river. The rush of new water in this ancient river speaks in hushed tones of life past and present. As the afternoon lazily slips into twilight and the westering sun gives everything a golden glow our idyllic vision of this eternal landscape snaps back to reality.

Silhouetted against the sun, a man from one of the local restaurants that line the river was throwing the day’s trash into to the Tigris. Bottles and cans, reflecting the last glint of sunlight tossed right into the River of Life. Swept down stream, to begin its own journey through Mesopotamia.

EAST SIDE – WEST SIDE
Back in Istanbul, the source of the city’s vibrancy is clearly apparent: Anatolia. Over the millennium, whether people have come here to start over, to improve their lot or to forget, they have brought the magic and mystique of Anatolia with them.

Istanbul is a one of the great cities of the world, but what makes it so is that it is truly a world within a city. Istanbul reflects empires past and civilizations come and gone, but at its heart it draws its strength of character from its Anatolian roots.

It’s a “Too Much City”. Too much beauty, too much history, too much traffic, too many people, too many building, It is a place where incongruities of all shapes coincide and where excess and extremes reside.

When I arrived in the city back in August, a Turk told me that if you spend a year here in Istanbul, you will certainly die here.” I laughed it off then, but closing in on the year mark, the man’s remark seems prescient.

Not wanting to get caught by this city and country’s beautiful assassin, I plan to make moves. I’ll be home at the end of July.

A DRIP A DROP A DAMLAMA

DAMLAMAK – (TURKISH) TO DRIP

While working in Guatemala in 2006 as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the area of Post Hurricane Stan Disaster Relief and Reconstruction an experienced civil engineer who was working along side of me didn’t mince words:

“God may have given us water but we have to pay for the pipes.”

It is surprising how many people the world over still do not have access to clean, safe drinking water because of this simple statement.

Over the past year as the District’s Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar I have helped the Denville Rotary Club create a Matching Grant Project with my host club here in Istanbul, the Suadiye Rotary Club, that addresses this reality of water misallocation and the lack of appropriate plumbing.

The Matching Grant Project’s objective is to provide purified, drinkable water to four public schools in lower income districts on the Asian side of Istanbul. The schools are:

1)Cemile Besler Ilkogretim Okulu
2)Kayişdagi Arif Pasa Ilkogretim Okulu
3)Celal Yardimci Ilkokulu
4)Foundation for the Training and Protection of Mentally Handicapped Children

In spite of the tenuous economic and financial situation faced by every one throughout year, Rotary International approved the Matching Grant Project.
A total of 20,000 dollars was awarded and is now being put to good use.

During the month of June water filtration and UV purifying (sterilization) systems with self-closing faucets will be installed in the four schools. A Suadiye Club Rotarian estimates that a total of 400 self-closing faucets will be installed.

These taps will provide clean drinking water for the school children and conserve water that is being lost either through leaky faucets or children not closing them properly.

Coupled with this installation, a series of workshops will be given by the Suadiye Rotary members to instruct the students in the use of the self closing faucets (which are not a common feature of school water systems in Turkey) and educate them in the importance of water conservation.

After studying Turkish for the last ten months, the Suadiye Rotary Club has given be the honor and challenge to lead the first water conservation workshop. The catch is that I would be doing it in Turkish.

On Thursday May 28 the Matching Grant Project was officially begun with my presentation to 60 students between the age of 10-14 at the Cemile Besler Ilkogretim Okulu (Camile Besler Primary School) with my presentation entitled “Suyumuzunu Nasıl Tüketiyoruz/ How Do We Use Our Water.”

The day was fantastic fun. My exotic status as an American trying to speak in Turkish held the students captivated as my partner, Suadiye Rotarian Mr. Okyay Kaynak, could deftly translate “My Turkish” into a more polished and understandable “Their Turkish” when needed.

The children, myself and Mr. Kaynak conversed for an hour and a half covering the intended project topics of water conservation and how to use self closing faucets properly but also getting to the more important matters of Do I like Turkey, Is learning Turkish hard, What is my favorite soccer team, What is my favorite place to visit in Turkey, Do lions live in America, etc.

At the end of the presentation the following two questions came in rapid succession (and said in Turkish mind you): What is the importance of water in the world’s ecosystem and When will Swine Flu end in the United States?

After having the students and the rest of their classmates repeat in unison the question a number of times, I told them that they were good questions in deed and that I will have to learn more Turkish to give them a proper answer. I flashed the biggest smile I could and told them that I would get back them.

There is nothing like the beauty and danger of an open forum question and answer period with Turkish school children.

But to be honest, I plan to do just that: Get Back To Them. For me, this presentation was a great motivator both in terms of how far I have come in learning Turkish and how much farther that I want to go in understanding Turkish.

The Suadiye Rotary Club is grateful for Denville’s support and involvement in this Matching Grant Project. They are excited about the project’s installation and education of so many school children on such an important topic as water consumption and conservation. They are adamant to continue working with the Rotary Clubs of District 7470 to perform more projects in both Turkey and New Jersey.

I feel honored, as an Ambassadorial Scholar, to be part of this special connection between Denville and Suadiye, New Jersey and Istanbul , Rotary District 7470 and Rotary District 2420. I feel equally challenged to continue to strengthen this bond throughout the coming years One Turkish Word At A Time, One Drop of Water Saved At A Time.

BOY SCOUTS

Although a Scout must take off his uniform at the age of eighteen, the Boy Scout values learned however during his youth last a lifetime.

My name is Leo Redmond. I am 28 years old. I am an Eagle Scout from Troop 113 Rockaway, NJ of the Patriot’s Path Council. I currently live in Istanbul, Turkey serving as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar. In this capacity I am learning Turkish and performing community service projects with local Rotary Clubs in order to fulfill their motto of Service Above Self.

In a recent trip to the Republic of Georgia, a small nation nestled in the Caucasus Mountains located northeast of Turkey between the Black Sea and the countries of Russia, Armenia and Azerbaijan. I had an experience that returned me to my scouting roots.

Georgia is a country of 4.6 million people where the official spoken and written language is Georgian. To clarify, the Georgian language does not use the Roman alphabet like English or Spanish but instead employs its own separate letters collectively known as Kartuli. Thus, in the Georgian language (Kartuli), the country of Georgia is known as Sak’art’velo.

As I was walking around the city of Batumi, located in the southwestern corner of Georgia in what is officially known as the Autonomous Republic of Adjara, I turned a corner along the cobble stone streets of this colonial city and was struck silent by what I saw.

The words SCOUT MOVEMENT in large English letters were cast in a burnished bronze above the Fleur de lis on a wrought iron window grate of a one-story office building.

As happenstance would have it, my arrival and awestruck countenance occurred at 5 o’clock and coincided with a woman locking the door to leave for the evening.

She saw me, smiled and in English asked if she could help. Composing myself, I said that I was a Boys Scout from the United States of America. I pointed at the sign and curiosity getting the best of me, said that I wanted to know all about it. Could this be the same Scouts that has played such an important part in my life I wondered.

Her smile got larger and without hesitation she reopened the door and accompanied us in. Scout badges, pictures and equipment colored the office and were reminiscent of so many other scouting centers that I had visited before. In terms of geographic distance between the United States and Georgia I was worlds away from home, yet our shared enthusiasm and understanding of the tenets of the Boy Scout Organization provided for an electrifying sense of familiarity and kinship.

I had just made the acquaintance of Ms. Shorena Lomadze, the Chairman of the Adjarian Organization of the Georgian Scout Movement.

This dedicated and dynamic women had single handedly brought the Scouting Movement to the Autonomous Republic of Adjara twelve years ago. According to the World Organization of the Scout Movement (www.scout.org) which represents 160 international recognized scout organizations, the Georgian Scout Movement (Scouts of Georgia) was officially founded in 1994 and currently has 1240 member Scouts.

As 5 pm quickly turned to 6 pm and onwards I realized that Ms. Lomadze was graciously giving me carte blanche of her time and an open invitation to the city of Batumi and the country of Georgia. She told of how she started with next to nothing and only a handful of interested youths and has since grown into an organization of 150 strong. She says that a particular Scoutmaster for the Sam Houston Council that she met at a World Jamboree she attended has helped her immeasurable. More than financial support, the two councils have forged a relationship that sees the regular exchange of Scouts and the collaboration on international projects.

The Scouts of the Adjarian Organization of the Georgian Scout Movement consists of both males and females. They perform community service projects in the city of Batumi (122,000 people), hold camping trips and run leadership programs in the surrounding snowed capped Caucasus Mountains and promote the ideals of the Boy Scouts through their actions and efforts.

To honor my visit to her home country, although unexpected and unannounced, Ms. Lomadze presented me with one of the first Georgian Scout Patches. A circular patch, stitched in blue upon a white background, it shows the words “Scouts of Georgia” written in both English and Georgian (Kartuli) along the top and bottom and the Fleur de lis in the center colored in blue, yellow, red and green. These colors represent the Autonomous Region of Adjara, the country of Georgia and the Boys Scout Movement.

This patch, worn and well traveled, is a valued gift and as I turn it over in my hand, it has come to tell its story of a genuine connection and commitment between all of us through the Scouting Movement and the hope of a lasting friendship to come.

Ms. Lomadze exemplifies what and who it is to be a Scout and lives the Boy Scout Motto Ikavi Mzad. To Be Prepared.

She has taken the noble endeavor of Boy Scouts and put those values learned into daily practice so that all youths the world over should have the opportunity to learn and live from them. This is a challenge for all of us to follow, whether in Batumi, Georgia, Istanbul, Turkey, Rockaway, New Jersey or a Hometown near you.

TURKISH: A LOGIC OF ITS OWN

Best put, Turkish is a delicious language. It is as complex, flavorful and enigmatic as the indigenous Turkish cuisine it more often than not accompanies. Like the country itself, located at a geographic and historic crossroads, the language is a mix of native Turkic and foreign Arabic, Farsi, French and English words. Served up hot and quick, Turkish certainly takes a discriminating palette and discerning set of ears to bring out and truly appreciate its real zest.

A quick look around my Turkish Language Class reveals an equally diversified demographic of Turkish Language Learners. There are students from Morocco, Syria, Palestine, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Russia, Slovenia, Germany, France, Italy, Greece, Hungary, Bolivia, Peru and the Ukraine all using and learning Turkish as the Lingua Franca (Just remember to grab the right dictionary on your way out).

Eight months on, my Turkish is simmering slow and steady. My notebooks are full of Turkish verse that is waiting patiently to be committed to memory and to be put into practice with enough repetition, to come fluidly out of my mouth. In the meantime, I’ll maintain a balanced diet of Turkish culinary masterpieces being recklessly jammed down my mouth.

“Yavash Yavash.” Slowly, slowly. Even the word itself, according to a local waiter allowing me to order in Turkish, makes you slow down and allows pause for thought.

And time you do need, for like all great chefs, left alone to their own devices, the Turkish Linguistic Kitchen can cook up some full course meals:

“Gelemeyebilirim” I might not be able to come.

Only to be outdone by the following:
Cekoslavakyalilastiromadiklarimizdan.
Are you one of those people who we unsuccessfully tried to make resemble the citizens of Czechoslovakia?

Thank goodness, the fall of communism has assigned that country and all its attendant epithets to the historical dustbin.

Q. How does this happen?
A. Through the process of Agglutination where grammatical functions are indicated by attaching various suffixes on to the stem word. (They key word there is various.)
Single words can be entire sentences and complete sentences can be expressed in a single word.

Turkish is as sophisticated and elegant as a mongrel language can be.
Expressive and delectable. Yavash, Yavash!

Now I’ll take a mouthful of that.