Zip-lining for Carl Jung

Brennan: "Ummmm, actually I can't really tell you the de..."
Jung: "No, really, I insist. Please. Have a seat."

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Last night...

Deep within my r.e.m. cycle I flew between buildings on a zip-line. Think 'Fifth Element' set combined with a Costa Rican jungle settling down to a fog-saturated day. Except the jungle was made out of concrete and steel, I wasn't necessarily attached to any safety device, and I was going the speed of a small motorcycle. Needless to say I only had one thing to say:

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!"

Childish insinuations aside, this was no trip for a weak-hearted mere mortal. Ah yes, I forgot to mention I was immortal in this dream, and I had an enormous bow and arrow set strapped to my back. (Certainly a dream-relic from my daylight conversations about Rambo 4) Zinging through the city, I appeared to be looking for something, which turned out to be a boat floating on a sea of gray rubble on the city's floor below. Now how you might ask, would an immortal such as myself solve such a tricky situation as falling hundreds of metres to boat which appeared to be literally rocking back and forth in a bed of mortar?

Let go of course. (I would have made Freud proud with this one)

Falling quite rapidly would normally elicit a scream from most people but I calmly notched an arrow in my bow mid-flight, and landed on the deck of the boat with a thump and sharp splintering sound.

"Follow me!!!" I screamed, lifting my bow to release an arrow into the sky.

Sadly, I awoke, because the three beers I had while watching Spain poorly beat Croatia earlier that night decided they had somewhere else to be.

Mechanic's Alley (A short encounter)

Recently I visited my mechanic in Şaşmaz here in Ankara, in order to fix a clunking issue with the steering. You would think a visit to the mechanic would be simple and event-less. Not so much. A written picture of this area is as follows...

Much like doltish Alice down her 'hole', when you turn off the main highway into the Şaşmaz area of Ankara, you are immersed in what could very well be a traffic conundrum with no escape. Quite possibly the worst intersection in Turkey, (with the Aşti exit off Eskişehir coming in a strong second) the road into Şaşmaz is a roundabout with 8, yes eight, two-lane roads converging into one blurry circle of honking, tailgating, impatience, yelling, hand-waving, more honking, and oh, more honking. Best not to look very hard, and turn in random zig-zags across the intersection, while construction trucks, scrap metal trucks and taxis zip in and out of the available 2 centimeters of space, expecting you not be offended when they yell at you for getting too close. And by close I do really mean 2 centimeters.

Quietly now, after swallowing your throat, appendix and portions of your adrenal gland down into their normal spots, cruise in second gear into the opening of the Şaşmaz labyrinth. Imagine looking at a piece of graphing paper of 11x11 squares from above, with every square being a small strip of road containing at the minimum 14 shops and mechanic joints in EACH square. This is the beginning of understanding the 'compact' nature of this area, stretched out over 10 square kilometers.

Now mind you, the license plate on the car has an 'M' on it, automatically denoting it a foreigner-owned car in Turkey. This has attracted the eyes of many, many people as I slowly crawl in, out and between alleyways of chop-shops looking for my boy Süleyman and his pit crew. Armed with only a business card from my other mechanic Can (pronounced John), I get out of the car a few times and ask for directions. After openly gaping at the tattoos and my lanky nature for a few moments, I am able to get a reasonable answer from what appears to be a 15 year old away from school for the sole purpose of bathing in motor oil. 'Over there,' is my answer, with a finger pointed at a dead-end road. 'Çok teşekkuler' is my response, as I get in, roll another 100 yards and repeat the procedure. It only took 6 more times to find Süleyman, unfold myself from the car, give a kiss on each cheek and ask the standard questions about family and health to automatically assure me relief and admittance to the 'club.'

I was told the car would be worked on in an hour.

But why not sit down and enjoy an enormous beaten aluminum vat of steaming vegetables and meat while I wait? Yes please! A few moments later found me seated between 12 guys in a variety of overalls, smocks, steel-toed boots and personalities wolfing down a veritable mountain of Turkish stew. No silverware? No problem, just tear off a hunk of this thick baguette and use it as a spoon. Deliiiicious. Hands down one of the best local samplings of cuisine I have had in two years. Grandfather, two sons, an uncle, a brother-in-law and a handful of Süleyman's friends comprised the table, all of whom wanted to know my life's story and which team I supported the most in Turkey. Twenty minutes later, wipe the grease off the hands on pants, compliment each other on polishing off the entire vat of stew, and chug down two glasses of startling hot çay (tea).  This while it is of course climbing towards 35 degrees C outside. Suddenly the entire brake and front wheel assembly is taken apart, pieces of tired old rubber removed, and a "ball and socket" joint of sorts removed under a 4 cm thick layer of tar-black grease. I was trapped, and figured sitting down would solve my building anxiety issues and allow me a chance to quiz Suleyman's 8 year old son on what he had learned in school. Nope, not destined to be. 

"Gel," (come) was my order, taken from a chain-smoking sixteen year old who immediately set off with my car's broken parts in his hands. We walked three blocks deeper into the maze and came upon a shop with boxed parts from floor to ceiling. Also chain-smoking, the owner of said parts shop first asked me where I was from and directly sailed into asking what my favorite team in Turkey was. Mine did not matter, but discussing his (Trabzon) mattered a great deal. A few minutes later and 100TL lighter, we set back down the block towards the car which hung suspended 5 metres in the air like a butterfly waiting for its wings to dry for flight. Stranded a few more moments (read: 3 hours) I ended up sitting down on a 3.5 legged chair, refusing cigarette after cigarette, and watching two large vans roll by with their sides cut out and shelves sticking in a few directions selling everything from exotic Maseratti hood ornaments to "genuine" Polo Ralph Lauren dress shirts. And yes, people bought items from their truck while it was still moving. I spaced out for a few moments and suddenly found myself handing over a handful of cash, kissing Suleyman on each cheek and driving off in the midst of a lovely clunk-less silence. As Borat would say, "muuuutch suck-sess!!!!"

Floatin' by (Sketches)

Woolies (Sketches)

Howlin' (Sketches)