Curbing Kurban

Wherein the reader will condescend to allow the author a relatively brief (for her), politically incorrect and religiously intolerant rant ...

Back in January of 2006, I promised myself that it would be my last. In December 2006, I kept my word. Ditto for December of '07. December of last year comes and I stay true to my word. I am awesome and oh so very very principled.

Welcome to November 2009 and I am here. And they are out there: millions and millions of sheep and cows awaiting the slaughterer's knife and millions and millions of Muslims are standing by, kebab skewers in hand. It's not like this has come as any surprise: for weeks now, grocery stores have been sending out flyers to finance your sacrificial (soon to be killed) animal (in 12 easy instalments); for your viewing displeasure, promotional meet-your-meat-sacrifice videos can be seen in shopping malls. Mr This Cat and I joined the crowd this afternoon in front of one such monitor. We saw:

a) unhappy-looking cows,
b) the cramped conditions of (soon to be killed) unhappy-looking cows,
c) a (soon to be killed) unhappy-looking cow being led into a rotating box while a vigilant vet (man in a white lab coat & holding a clipboard) watches nearby,
d) Unhappy-looking This Cat's Abroad and Mr. Cat walking away to avoid splattering the floor with their granola bars.

A Brief Digression: Muslim - like Jewish - regulations for slaughtering animals typically run along religious lines. Many so-called religious slaughterhouses have been reproached by caring human beings for using shackles & hoists (to suspend a leg or legs), trip floor boxes (boxes with a slanted floor which cause the animal to fall down), as well as leg clamping rotating boxes in an effort to control the (scared shitless) animal. For more, read me in a previous rant incarnation.

Muslim slaughtering practices were recently defended - if not extoled - by an acquaintance of ours who said that (soon to be killed) animals are individually hugged by their butchers (killers) just before they are killed. Let me very plain about this:

a) no, there was no hugging during the promotional video
b) yes, this acquaintance of ours isn't 7-years old.

End of Brief Digression

To resume ... in 13 days, Muslims around the world will celebrate Eid al-Adha - what is known in Turkey as Kurban Bayramı - the Festival of the Sacrifice. Coming 70 days after Ramadan, it is a time of joy and celebration (unless you are a cow or a sheep) and for me, a time of mourning.

The ritual slaughter (it's not killing, my students continually correct me, it's sacrificing - small consolation to the sheep and the cows) is drawn from that pluckiest of feel-good books, the Old Testament, where Abraham's gobsmacking willingness (what OT fans call "faith") to sacrifice (see, I didn't say kill) his son Ismael to Yahweh was rewarded by a ram being sent in to pinch hit at the last moment.

Unfortunately, there was no last minute reprieve for the ram.

So now, in just less than 2 weeks, the country will be awash in the blood of sacrificial (i.e. freshly killed) quadrupeds. In January 2006, after watching my Moroccan neighbours kill their sheep below my bedroom window in the parking lot, and hang their carcasses on nearby palm trees, I did in fact swear that I would never be present for another Eid.

I will never be present for another Eid, I said.

In Morocco's capital city, it was common to hear the sheep destined for the hibachi bleating from the city's balconies, underground car parks and roof tops during the days (and nights) running up to the Eid. Then, of course, it would be deathly silent by 10:30 that morning. O the horror!

And so far I've managed to keep my word. But I can't get out of Death Valley Dodge fast enough. Our train to Bulgaria (that's for another blog ...) doesn't leave until nightfall.

And here? I ask. Will I hear bleating? Pitiful pitiful bleating? Followed by the Silence of the Lambs?

We do not kill lambs, my students admonish me. Sheep must be at least 1-year old.

Fuck you. It was a literary allusion.

And usually we sacrifice (kill) cows - not sheep, my students tell me. It takes 7 or so men to restrain and sacrifice (kill) a cow.

(translation = real men don't kill sheep. Sheep are for wussies.)

How manly you all are! I gush (inside my head).

And the actual killing? I ask out loud, abjuring the s-word.

It's illegal to sacrifice (kill) your animal at home, they assure me. It must be done at a certified abattoir (killing place), by a certified butcher (killer).

But ... they concede. It depends on the municipality. And if you have a garden ...

Swell.

There's a huge parking lot below our bedroom window. I swear to God that I'm going to have the biggest breakfast known to humankind (I have a tube of Pillsbury Crescent rolls bought in Athens, just waiting for the right occasion) and if any animal dies below that window, I'm going to hurl a whole lot of lovin' from the oven onto my neighbours' heads.

Either way you slice it, it's not going to be pretty.

Tattoos for Turks

In a desperate attempt to introduce a topic which might just possibly, sort of, perhaps appeal to my weekend class of under 22-year olds (having judged the 5-page biography of Helen Keller as a sure-fire egg bomber), I wrote "tattoo" on the board. Love them or hate them, at the very least everyone has an opinion about tats. I inwardly giggled in glee at the hours and hours I could milk out of this topic - for surely this is every teacher's dream - the passing of time without exerting any effort. In my case, it was 4 very long hours to kill on a very long Sunday morning.

Yes, we would talk about everything from Maori face tattoos to nautical themes to hula girls to tribal designs to prison tats. I am so freaking brilliant. And I am (under normal circumstances), but not, as it turns out, in my weekend class of under 22-year olds.

Does anyone have a tattoo? Silence
What do you think about tattoos? Silence
Is there a tattoo parlour here in Izmit? Silence
Have you ever seen a really interesting tattoo? Silence.

O sweet mother of god. Don't they watch Prison Break?!!

This did not bode well. It turns out that, for the most part, Turks are not big tattoo people. One student went so far as to say that it is anti-Islam to sport an "I heart Mom" tattoo because, since it is permanent, it cannot be washed away in pre-prayer ablutions and therefore its very presence would nullify one's prayers to Allah. Yeesh.

Yes, The Prophet (pbuh) is said to have said "May Allah curse the women who do tattoos and those for whom tattoos are done." In the same breath he vilified women who plucked their eyebrows, but that doesn't seem to have made much of an impact in Turkey - the land of the stencil-perfect eyebrows.

As I watched my particularly clever topic circle 'round the bowl, I mentioned the spiffy tattoos of North Africa's indigenous people: the dots and crosshatches and geometric designs which can be found on the faces of Berber women. And yes, I know that these are pre-Islamic in origin but I really don't care at this point. Yes, one girl conceded, there *are* tribes in the east of Turkey who tattoo scimitars on their faces, but .... Are they Muslim? I asked. Yes, she admitted, but they're barbarians. Barbarians. Great.

Do you know anyone who has a tattoo? One student raised her hand. Hallelujah! I cried (inside my head). My friend has a tattoo, she said. What of? His arm. No, not where, what? (yeesh). His name. His name? Yes, his name. Where? On his arm, she said, pointing to her forearm. Why did he tattoo his name? I asked. Is he prone to forgetting his name? He likes his name, she replied.

In one last charitable effort to save my class from having to plough through 5 pages of Helen bumping into furniture, I asked each student, would you like to get a tattoo some day? Of course, everyone said no. But then one added, our parents wouldn't allow it. Unless .... Unless? I asked perhaps a little too hopefully. Unless we get a tattoo of Atatürk. Seriously? She nodded, most parents won't get too upset if we come home with an Atatürk tattoo.

Of course, at the risk of sounding sacrilegious, Atatürk is about as close to being a god as you can in these parts. And what God-fearing Atatürk-loving Turkish parent would (or could) raise an eyebrow to the Father of Modern Turkey appearing on their child's body? Now that would be sacrilege. After all, so revered is he that you can buy fridge magnets and cigarette lighters which bear his hallowed image.

So it turns out that getting a tat of Atatürk's signature - normally on the forearm - is not totally uncommon in Turkey. The heavily slanted, very masculine I'm-going-to-found-the-Republic-of-Turkey signature is de rigueur; his face is optional. His bottle of raki is, presumably, optional as well. Really, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to me. When, in another class, I asked a young girl what one thing she would change about the world if she could (I'm anticipating obliterating world hunger & disease) she replied, I would like to give my life up for Atatürk, so he would be alive now. Fuck almighty. You know he'd be 128 years old if he were alive? I asked. Silence.

But back to Sunday morning. So an Atatürk tattoo, I resumed, would any of you consider getting one? Several heads nodded. That, ladies and gentlemen, is youthful rebellion at its finest. Now let's turn our books to page 163 where Helen campaigns for women's suffrage ...

A Turkish Haiku on a Rainy Sunday Afternoon

rain, drizzle, grey skies,

plummeting temperatures
flip-flops gone... gone... gone ...

Unravelling the Ravioli Mystery

You'll forgive the rather obvious photo I selected for today's post, but I just wanted to make sure that everyone was on the same culinary page before I begin tippy-tapping away. It's ravioli. Are we all in agreement? - excellent. Let's press on ...

Recently, a colleague & his wife suggested we have lunch together at a restaurant they had just discovered in Bustling Downtown Izmit. Although foreign food restaurants are woefully unknown in these parts of Turkey - apart from Burger King, McDonalds & Domino's, the representatives of American cuisine - we were assured that this place had an eclectic menu with lots of vegetarian options. Given that we live in Bustling Downtown Izmit and they live in The Middle of Nowhere, we were not a little incredulous that curious how such a place had escaped our notice.

It turns out it hadn't. It was a café well known to us, whose staff redefines surly, whose service refines lethargic and whose food redefines dreck. Another colleague of ours is smitten by the place - which she lovingly calls the Cami Café. Cami - pronounced as in peanut butter and jammy - is Turkish for mosque and it is, indeed, right smack dab next door to the city's largest and loudest mosque which doesn't always make for an ambient dining experience. Allah may be great but the café isn't. Our best and only theory is that her hard-on for the place is due to a previous rotation of marginally less mediocre waiters, long replaced by the indifferent & incompetent louts now on staff, and the fact that she is one of the dimmest people we have ever met.

In a word, we hate the Cami Café and have long since stopped going there; however, that day we had no option but to go, if only so that our other colleagues could - and would - see it for the craphole restaurant it really is. And it is. Unless it had changed. Which we doubted. Besides, it was their suggestion.

Allow me to fast forward. Our colleagues order some dead animal dish while I, playing it safe (had I not been there before?) order a cheese pizza. Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad foolishly bravely orders the Four Cheese Ravioli. We feel smugly confident in our meal selections as our menus are printed in Turkish and English, the words pizza and ravioli translate directly into Turkish as pizza and ravioli, and just for good measure - this is the Cami Café after all, we point at the Turkish words as we place our order. Twenty minutes or so later, my pizza arrives (garnished with pickles no less) as do our friends' lunches. A few moments go by and the waiter returns to our table and serves Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad his Four Cheese Ravioli except that it's not Four Cheese Ravioli but rather Four Cheese Pizza.

We are pretty confident in our identification of his lunch as a pizza rather than ravioli as it is a big round thing with a crust which has been conveniently cut into four slices and garnished with pickles no less.

We draw the waiter's attention to the mistake. Naturally he speaks no English but our colleague's wife speaks fair Turkish and she tries to explain the error. He shakes his head. We ask for the menu and show him that the Four Cheese Ravioli - sitting proudly under the heading Makarna (= macaroni, or pasta) - is on a separate page than that of the Four Cheese Pizza, sitting proudly under the heading Pizza (= pizza, or pizza). He shakes his head. We again try to explain what has happened - we're not even blaming him (perhaps the kitchen made a mistake - is this not the Cami Café?) - but he's not budging one inch. No, no there would be no ravioli smile for Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad.

He points to the big round thing with a crust which has been conveniently cut into four slices and garnished with pickles no less and says, "ravioli".

At this point, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad brings the proceedings to a close: at least it is a vegetarian pizza he concedes, and our time is running short. He tucks into the Pizza That Thinks It's Ravioli. We finish our lunch in two frames of mind:

1) Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad & I: Feel gleefully vindicated as the Cami Cafe is still a craphole restaurant

2) Our colleagues: Not a little distressed that their new find is a craphole restaurant.

When the bill comes, we notice that the Four Cheese Ravioli Mr. This Cat had ordered but not received is 50 kurus more than the Four Cheese Pizza which he didn't order but received. A negligible sum - just less than 75¢ but galling just the same.

... and the Unravelling of the Ravioli Mystery as I promised earlier? There is no mystery - there is just no customer service here. As an addendum, the same colleague & his wife were recently in Istanbul where he ordered a plate of rigatoni. When his wife's meal arrived alone, he asked the waiter about the status of his pasta. The waiter returned a few moments later with a basket of dinner rolls. He never got the rigatoni.

They moved to Russia last weekend. I can't help but think it had something to do with the rigatoni.

An Update on a Sunny October Afternoon

Lest you, my legion of well-wishers think me the a self-aggrandizing tooter of her own horn that I am, let me take this opportunity to thank you all for your wonderfully encouraging words. I may yet buy that little villa along the Costa del Sol (with a sea view) with the staggering proceeds from my book! Huzzah!

I am muy excited. (That had a little bit of Spanish slipped in it. Did you notice? I am preparing for that little villa along the Costa del Sol [with a sea view).]

My publisher has just advised me that he would like to push the publication date of my little missive up up up by several months so that Stealing Fatima's Hand may find its way under Christmas trees and menorahs the world over. As in the holiday season 2009. Fortunately, Islam's Eid el Kebir is in November, so the world's sheep will be spared having a copy of my book tucked under them before they are ritualistically hugged, prayed over, and then have their throats sliced open with a knife. (Although, admittedly, my book may bring them some comfort.)

No estoy very sure how I feel about that news. (That had a little bit of Spanish slipped in it too. Did you notice? I am really preparing for that little villa along the Costa del Sol [with a sea view).] I haven't received any proofs yet and it is almost November. I think I may be very busy soon what with weeping over his edits. It's not that I don't accept criticism well ...

Anyway ... now that I have tooted my own horn in a self-aggrandizing way, let me just say that the purpose of today's post was to apologize for not blogging much of late. I plead a mild raging indisposition: I have a cold, and when I have a cold, the world stops.

And speaking of tooting, I must now go blow my nez. (That had a little bit of Spanish slipped in it as well. Did you notice? I am diligently preparing for that little villa along the Costa del Sol [with a sea view).] Again.

Soon to be Gathering Dust Stealing Hearts Everywhere ...

I'm not terribly adept at self-promotion - I'd be better served by hiring someone who's paid to say gushingly splendid things about me (although being married to Mr. This Cat's Not Abroad helps) - but it has been suggested by the one man who didn't return my manuscript to me with a scathing note that I should say a few words about my forthcoming book.

Did she say book? you ask.

I did.

No, we must have been mistaken, you insist.

You were not.

Yes, the days of wallpapering the spare bedrooms of our homes and lining our kitchen shelves with my rejection letters are over. Vox Humana, an independent publisher - to my most profound astonishment - has accepted my anthology of über-snarky travel scribblings for publication. Stealing Fatima's Hand: a Moroccan Sojourn is set to steal hearts go unnoticed but nonetheless make my Mom proud in the spring of 2010 - or thereabouts.

Updates will follow.

Huzzah for me!

Potty Mouth

Now, I'm all for conserving water but this sign in a stall in the Ladies' Room at Atatürk International Airport in Istanbul (I always pee with my camera) had me scratching my head.

Am I missing something?