Barbers and bombs

CULTURE CUL DE SAC

By JACQUELINE PEREIRA

Travel stimulates the mind. And no place is more revivifying than one we have never been to.

THE barber shop was in a nondescript corner lot in Istanbul’s Kariye district, minutes from the fifth-century Theodosius walls and the Kariye Museum. With only enough room for two large, old-fashioned barber’s chairs, waiting customers had to make do with a sunken sofa and some skeletal chairs.

Small coffee tables hold traditional tulip-shaped glasses of strong tea, ashtrays and limited reading material. High up on one wall, the TV blared continuously. Narrow shelves held myriad plastic bottles of hair care products, and freshly laundered towels. Below them, a large pot of tea steamed imperiously.

My husband, believing that a trip to Turkey would not be complete without a trip to a traditional Turkish barber, readily slipped into one of the chairs after enjoying tea and the company of strangers.

The art of barbering, a long-standing Turkish tradition, dates back to the time of the Efes and the Ottoman Empire. The skill is handed down through the generations; it takes years before the razor is passed from master to apprentice. Which explained the presence of the barber’s cherubic teenage son, who assisted his father by serving tea, clearing ashtrays and sweeping up the trimmed hair.

The barber, an artist in his own right with practised flourish, started the Turkish tashir by applying warm foam to the face with a sumptuously soft brush. Once he had covered his canvas, so to speak, he flipped open the razor – a trusty, cut-throat, open blade – and deftly dipped it in warm water.

Perfectly poised, without taking his eyes off his slightly squirming customer, he began. His experience was proven by the fine line he effortlessly kept, the difference between a smooth, close shave and red-faced razor burn.

Hot wax was dabbed around the ears and stripped off when the client least expected it. The flame from a lighter was whisked around the same area to singe stray hairs. Unruly nostril hair was also mercilessly trimmed. Then it was the haircut, style collectively decided, based on the boy’s close crop. With lemon astringent, and then a head and shoulder massage, the assault was soothed.

This unique Turkish barber experience was accompanied by gestures, smiles and much laughter. We spoke English, the barbers Turkish. The young boy added much to the merriment with his irrepressible giggles, especially when the wax was at its max.

Unexpectedly, we were to experience quite a different close shave the following day.

The crisp autumn Sunday morning found us in search of Turkish coffee and pastries in Taksim Meydani in the heart of Istanbul. It hosts the Republic Monument, built in 1928 to commemorate the creation of the Turkish Republic. The nation’s independence was being celebrated, and red-and-white Turkish flags fluttered above.

Even very early in the morning, the surrounding streets and alleyways were teeming with life. Sidewalk tables stacked in front of tiny cafes were packed with people, alone, in pairs and family groups. Similarly ensconced, we finally resolved to cross over to the square – a major tourist attraction and a transport hub, surrounded by restaurants, shops and hotels.

Then we spotted the Metro station. We decided to get a metro map before inspecting the Republic Monument, so we walked down the stairs to the station foyer. The street sounds receded into a hushed interlude. After a few quiet seconds, we heard what sounded like a muted blast.

“You think it’s a bomb?” we joked, unknowingly.

The search for the map proved futile, so we made for the exit. That was when we realised something was wrong. Frantic station officials were not allowing anyone to leave the underground station.

After about 20 long minutes, we were directed to another street exit. As we emerged into the open air, there was mayhem.

Fire engines and police patrol cars screeched to a halt near the Republic Monument. Men in uniforms were tensely authoritative. Ambulance sirens cut through dense traffic. TV crews suddenly appeared. Within minutes, a helicopter was circling the azure sky inquisitively.

Meanwhile, public areas were cordoned off quickly and the milling masses cleared. Although we didn’t know the who or why, we’d watched enough news reels to know exactly what was going on, and stayed put in the open until ushered on.

Back in our hotel room minutes later, we found out that we had been only seconds away from a suicide-bomb blast. That morning, 32 people – police officers and civilians – were injured. It was also the third attack staged in Taksim in the past 11 years. The country’s 87th Republic Day celebrations were marred by the bombing.

The Kurdistan Freedom Falcons, an offshoot of the autonomy-seeking Kurdistan Workers Party, or PKK, claimed responsibility for the attack.

Another legacy? Another way of life steeped in history? Another cultural heritage?

We humans have visited this place – the thoughtless wounding of others – countless times before. We don’t need to go there again.

We can communicate without the comfort of a shared language or the clarity of a similar culture. But we can’t do that without understanding and mutual respect. In any close-shave situation.

People, places and perceptions inspire writer Jacqueline Pereira. In this column, she reflects on the curious contradictions, dubious dead ends and creative corners of modern culture.

via Barbers and bombs.