Looking for Aphrodite. David Price Williams
questioning faces the messenger spoke. The message was delivered.
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“Man has landed on the moon,” we were told.
From the Çayhane inmates the response was an uncomprehending silence.
“The Americans have landed a man on the moon. It’s just been announced on ‘Voice of America.’ One small step for man, one giant step for mankind! That kind of thing?”
In that we must have all looked suitably blank, the messenger continued.
“Isn’t that kinda great? Man on the moon, I mean. We’ve done it. The US has done it.”
Still nothing. The disillusioned alien turned on their heel and went back to their own universe.
“Ne diyor, Deyvit?” “What are they saying?” was the puzzled question.
I did my best to explain.
“Ayda adam var!” “There’s a man on the moon.”
“Ne?” “What?” came the disbelieving response.
“Ayda bir Amerikan oturuyor …şimdilik.” “There’s an American sitting on the moon … right now.”
“Ne? Sen dangalaksin, Deyvit?” “What? Are you some kind of idiot David?”
I went outside the Çayhane onto the beach and, pointing up at the moon, I said in a loud, rather exasperated voice:
“Bak! Ayda adam duruyor.” “Look, there’s a man standing on the moon.”
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Only afterwards did I realise how foolish that sounded.
A number of men had come outside into the darkness to see what the fuss was about. They peered up at the luminous orb, and then looked at me, and with growing scepticism said:
“Ne yapιyor, Deyvit? Rakιmι içiyor?” “What’s he doing Deyvit? Is he drinking rakι?”
When I said nothing, they turned and went back into the Çayhane, calling over their shoulders.
“Çünkü şu anda biz rakι içiyoruz! Tamammι? Haydi Deyvit!”
“Because right now we’re drinking rakι. Is that OK? Come on Deyvit!”
So we all trooped back inside, opened another bottle and continued the party.
I have thought many times about that night, and about the reaction of the villagers in the Çayhane at Knidos and I think there is something deeply philosophic in their reaction to the astounding news that man had landed on the moon, namely, total indifference. Here was the bouncing balloon Neil Armstrong, self importantly announcing to the world about one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind, or words to that effect, when for the people I was with it had no appreciable impact on their lives whatsoever, in 1969 or at any time since. Thinking about it, that would probably be true of the wider population of the Earth as well. To hunters in the Amazon rain forest, or to cattle keepers on the Nqutu plateau of Central Zululand, or to sheep farmers in the Nant Ffrancon Valley of Snowdonia, or bullock-cart drivers in the Araveli Hills of Rajasthan, it has made no appreciable change to them at all, no giant step in any direction, for good or bad. In fact, so bored have people become with the
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non-eventfulness of man landing on the moon that even the Americans have stopped sending people there.
And for me, was I ever touched by it? Well, I was once given a frying pan of some ceramic substance which I was assured by the label was totally heat resistant and absolutely non-stick, because the material had been developed for the nose cone of the rocket that took man to the moon. It was totally resistant to anything adhering to it, it said. Well, let me tell you, the NASA space team which sent those astronauts to the moon that July night should be very grateful that the Earth’s outer atmosphere is not made up of hen’s eggs, because an egg fried in this extra-terrestrial wonder pan, with or without oil, instantly welds itself to the pan’s surface with such tenacious permanence that at one time I might even have considered marketing the product as a super-bond adhesive. But in the end I threw the pan away.
One giant step bollocks! Pass the rakι!
✳ ✳ ✳ ✳
Cengis was of course from the Village, from Yazιköy, of which more later. His hair was already turning grey, which with his marked Asiatic features gave him a distinguished appearance, not unlike a latter day but slimmed down Confucius. This singular oriental mien enabled him to stand slightly aloof from the cut and thrust of day to day Çayhane life, ever the servant but ever above the fray. It turned out that his father was the local hodja, the person who presided over the mosque at Yazιköy, the equivalent I suppose of the village priest, since it was Cengis’ dad who officiated, amongst other things, at most of the marriages and funerals.
By and large, we had all taken this information about Cengis’ dad fairly matter-of-factly, so that when, one morning, it was announced that the holy father was about to come to see his son in Knidos that afternoon, no-one
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