Red is the colour

“White is the colour” I whispered to myself as the Dolmus, which literally means stuffed bus in Turkish, bumped and rocked beneath me as the driver raced along the dusty road. I close my eyes against the bright morning light, grip the rail on top of the seat in front of me, and begin to repeat the phrase over and over, a meditational mantra to help me remember. The memory comes forward, and I find myself reliving my first journey on this same road all those decades ago.

I gasped in wonder seeing the festooned lights of the village spreading out under the star-filled sky as the holiday transfer crested the dark hilly road, lit only by the coach’s headlights. A web of streets nestling in a dark rumpled landscape was my first glimpse of the village. I could see the little streets winding their way out from the village center to the “pansiyons” and small hotels that were scattered among the surrounding starlit hills. The coach rocked and bumped its way down the rustic road towards Gilamesh village also known as Patara.

The memory dissolves, replaced by the red glow of bright sunlight shining through my eyelids.

That memory was from thirty years ago. It was now August 2020, and I had come back to Turkey with my girlfriend and son and had left them back at the hotel in Kalkan so I could visit my old friends in the village and walk its dusty streets once more. "Dur lütfen", I called out in Turkish, and the Dolmus stopped quickly. I had already paid my fare, so I just stepped out onto the dusty road giving the driver a friendly wave as he roared away. I hitched up my knapsack and started to walk down to the village. It was 9.30am and the temperature was already 85°C and very humid. The walk went really quickly, and I had already reached the top of the main street in Patara. I was shocked by how empty and desolate the village was, pandemic lockdowns had wiped out tourism here. Closing my eyes, I started to whisper “White is the colour” over and over until the memory came back to me.

The coach resumed winding its way through the village, unloading more sweaty, tired tourists. Patara was a bohemian cluster of bars, restaurants, and shops, clustering up to the edges of its dusty roads. The sounds of the village, a mixture of Turkish pop music, the haunting vocals of traditional village songs, and laughter filled the air around me. The smell of cooked vegetables and meat with aromatic Turkish spices drifted through the window. It was like an alien landscape with trees growing in the middle of restaurants and vines stringing down. A chaotic forest, an explosion of colour, light, smell, music, and streetside bars. It was beautiful exotic chaos.

The Memory evaporated and the red glow from my eyelids returned.

Blinking, I was back on the bright sunlit street. I resumed my walk towards the center of the village and came to a large open T junction with a giant Palm tree in the middle. Sadness swept over me, as I saw how far the village had fallen into disrepair. I looked around and the old memories were bleeding back into my vision. The ghosts of thirty years ago served tea and soup from empty derelict plots. I could see the spectres of tourists wandering the streets around me and I felt my sense of reality slipping. Reeling from this loss of control I brought my hands up to my face and felt the wetness of tears. I wiped them away and the spectres vanished with them. “Get a grip,” I thought. There was so much more to remember here. So many faces. Ibo and Omer, Black Mehmet, many Muhammeds, and Omar Sharif. Omar was the reason for coming back to the village; to look up my old friend. I wanted to remember my first ever visit to Patara and all the others I met here, before spending time with Omar. I walked down the street to the Gipsy bar, which had been run by a couple of friends, Ibo and Omer. The bar was in the old center of the village and had been opposite a local store that sold ice creams, cigarettes, booze, and snacks. The gipsy bar used to have a pool table under a lean-to and two other rectangular rooms both facing out with open frontages with seating up to the road's edge. Pictures, posters, photographs, and graffiti art, had jostled for position on its walls. A big red Turkish flag and a picture of the father of Turkey, Kamal Ataturk had once held pride of place amongst the arty chaos. I looked at the shuttered bar, closed my eyes, and started to whisper, “Brown is the color, brown is the color, brown is …”

The memory came vividly.

It’s mid-afternoon, I’m sitting inside, In the cool shade of the Gipsy bar chatting with Ibo, a cold Effes beer in front of me gently sweating onto the drinks mat. Ibo often sits with customers when the bar isn’t busy, and we have built quite a friendship already. Black Memet would be down at the beach doing his day job and would be in the bar helping later. Omer would probably turn up before it got too busy. My attention was suddenly taken by a flatback lorry pulling up outside. On the back of the flatbed truck was a new veranda roof for the shop opposite. Sounds of sawing and hammering went on for an hour or so, and the roof was then unloaded onto the street, and the flatbed truck drove away. Help was needed now to raise the new roof onto the posts and supports that had been fixed to the shop front. Offering my help, I went across the road with Ibo to the shop owner, as well as a couple of other villagers. My memory faltered for a minute and seemed to fade in and out, then I was standing on a rocking oil drum holding my corner of the roof overhead while the front posts are put in position and screwed together. Roof secured I went back to my warming Effes. “Bir Bira Lutfen Ibo”, I asked Ibo to get me a fresh beer. As there was only Effes stocked in the bar there was no confusion. “I can’t believe I just helped build a new veranda roof on the shop,” I thought. What an awesome holiday this was turning out to be. Omar Sharif came over and sat at the table with us, my Turkish and backgammon lessons began again.

The memory fades back to the veiny red of my eyelids.

Blinking against the bright midday light I continued looking into the shuttered Gipsy bar as the heat of the day baked the ground beneath me. I took the large bottle of water out of my knapsack and took a deep drink. The shop opposite the bar where I had held the roof up was gone, a different building sat where it had been. This jarred me, as I had only just been holding the roof up. Well, that was 30 years ago after all. I turned my attention back to the gipsy bar and remembered how this was a great place to learn backgammon or play cards, and there was always a teacher ready to spend an hour playing you at backgammon for beers. This is where I met Omar Sharif, one of the local tourism brokers who operated in the village. He had a very Turkish complexion, rich brown skin with black hair, and a wide beaming smile under his thick black moustache. Omar was very well-liked. He is great friends with Ibo and Omer and would often have a break in the Gipsy bar and chat to the customers, which is how we met. The memories woken from their long slumber were now jostling for my attention. I closed my eyes letting the memories flow from their hiding places, one after the other. The colours behind my closed eyes swirled and I was there again.

Now. Black Mehmet leads the dance with a white handkerchief fluttering in his free hand. We all hold hands and follow his lead. Dancing from the bar and into the dark street back and forth and swinging around and back into the bar, sweaty, joyous, and swept along by the Turkish music.

Now. Sitting with Omar, three or four of the local young waiters are with us as we hold our “little English lesson”. The waiters will be paid more the better their English is. If they want to work in a city for better money, their English will have to be good.

Now. Live music comes from the back of the crowded Gipsy bar. Ibo is singing and playing a Turkish hand drum, accompanied by another musician playing a baglama often called a Saz. It looks like an oversized lute to me. The music is mesmerising, traditional Turkish folk music, with mournful singing about lost love and tragic endings. The bar is full, with every seat full.

Now. it’s sunny and I am sitting at a table with Omar Sharif and at the front of the gypsy bar are two women. One catches my eye, she has red hair, curly and tumbling past her shoulders. Her piercing green eyes match her green summer dress. I imagine her an Irish “colleen”. She is sitting chatting with her friend, who has shortish brown hair and wears a plain t-shirt and khaki shorts.

The memories are coming thick and fast.

Now. It’s dark outside and I am watching the green-eyed “colleen”, and her friend enter and walk up to the bar. The “colleen” is with a Turkish waiter who puts his arm around her waist as they get to the bar. She looks over and catches my eye. She pulls away from the waiter and comes over to me. “Pretend you know me. I was just being friendly to the waiter and now he thinks there is more to it, and he won’t leave me alone”. As her friend comes over with their drinks, I give the “colleen” a hug and kiss her cheek like an old friend. They both sit down at the two free seats at my table. “Nigel,” I say keeping my voice low. “Claire and Tracy,” said the “colleen” or Claire as I now know her to be. I see the waiter staring at the three of us. I am pretty sure he understands what is going on, and he doesn’t look so happy about it. I glance out across the street and see Omar Sharif chatting with a couple of tourists. “My round” Claire declared. “Another Effes?”, “Lovely” we replied. I watched her walk toward the bar, she was tall and walked with a sway to her hips that was mesmerising. As she got to the bar the waiter approached her. She kept shaking her head, a definite no. Just as I stood up to walk over, she picked up her beers and brought them back to the table. “You, ok?” I asked. “He’s angry with me. He says I am his girl. He kept asking who you are. I told him you are just a friend “. Let’s just ignore him and he might go away” I said. We talked incessantly and the hours spun away into the starry night. “I plan to go to the beach tonight and stay up to watch the sunrise, I have a bag with a towel and speaker for music and was going to throw in a few cold beers and a frozen bottle of water. Do you and Tracy fancy joining me? It’s a bit of a walk, but it should be fun”, They looked at each other and Claire said, “We would love to go; you’re not an axe murderer are you,”. I laughed. “They confiscated my axe when I went through security at the airport”. Claire snorted a noseful of chilled Effes across the table. All three of us were reduced to hysterical laughter, and it was several minutes before any of us could speak. Claire asked for their bill, and I went up to the bar to order nine more beers and a frozen bottle of drinking water for the beach and settle my tab. Suddenly out of nowhere, the disgruntled waiter appeared in front of me. “Me mosquito, you find out, you see,” he said as he made stinging gestures with his finger at my neck. “What are you talking about,” I asked angrily. “Me Mosquito you see, you see”, he turned and strode out of the bar with purpose. I stuffed the beers and the water into the bag and hefted its wide strap and substantial weight onto my shoulder, and we made our way out of the bar and up the hill toward the beach. After walking for about fifteen minutes I looked up at the sky and saw the silver blazing ribbon of the Milky Way arching overhead. “Oh my God, look at that” I exclaimed, pointing upwards. I had never seen the Milky Way this clear before, and it was incredible, totally incredible. “That’s so beautiful” replied Claire. Tracy just stared at the night sky, struck dumb by its beauty. Breaking the spell, a blood-curdling scream rose up from the village, it just seemed to go on forever and was joined by more shouting, then it just went quiet. We all looked at each other. “I have no idea what that was all about. Come on, let's get going to the beach,” I said. We set off up the hill towards the forest path that would lead to the beach. In the distance, the roar of an over-revved engine started up then faded off screeching into the night. The fresh earthy aroma and herbaceous scent of olive leaves mixed with the faint, fruity fragrance of the olives themselves drifted in the still, hot humid air as we walked. When we finally got to the beach, we were all thirsty and quickly consumed a couple of beers each. The starlight lit the little crests of waves that gently lapped onto the beach and the stars burned fiercely overhead. We finished the last of the beers and sat chatting on the beach until the sun came up. As the sun started to show its fresh new light, I had “Suns Gonna’ Rise” by Sass Jordan playing from the portable speaker. It seemed like the perfect moment and as the song ended Clair said, “Time to go back, it’s been a great night”, and so I shook the sand from my towel, packed up my stuff, and off we went.

The memory disintegrates into fragments, and I was back outside the Gipsy bar again.

That had been a night to remember that’s for sure. But it was time now. Time to bring out the most important memory. “Red is the colour, red is the colour …”

Vision swirling and I was back again in the Patara of thirty years ago.

Mid-morning and I could see something was wrong as I walked towards the Gipsy bar. People were standing in the street crying and hugging each other. To my right outside the shop with the new veranda roof the owner was hosing down the road. The clear water turned red when it hit the ground. Omer, Ibo’s business partner was standing outside the bar and looked shocked. I asked Omer what had happened. That’s when I found out the waiter had come back looking for me. He had gone back to the hotel where he worked; packed his things; stolen a knife from the kitchen and returned to find me. He had run into the Gipsy bar and shouted at Ibo demanding to know where I was. Omar Sharif had walked into the bar after spending the evening at a friend’s restaurant and had come back for a last drink with Ibo and Omer, he had walked in as the waiter was shouting at Ibo. Omar, always the peacekeeper had put his arm around the shoulders of the waiter and coaxed him out onto the street to talk about it. The waiter’s blood was up and for whatever reason he lashed out and stabbed Omar in the neck. Omar had fallen to the floor, blood spurting as the waiter ran away up the street. It was Ibo’s scream we had heard in the night. Ibo had tried to hold Omar’s neck wound together with his hand and drive him the 40 minutes to the nearest Hospital at Kas. But it was too late; Omar was already dead before he even got there. The memory faded slowly, and I was back outside the shuttered Gypsy bar again.

My eyes were blurry with the tears that were cascading down my face onto the dusty road. “Thank you, Omar. Thank you for being my friend. I am so sorry you died because of me. So sorry. So sorry. So Sorry” I said again and again as the tears streamed from my eyes. I put my hands up to my face, but the tears just ran through my fingers and rained onto the ground.

The Dolmus pulled back into Kalkan and I climbed out and began walking back to our hotel. Wendy and Dan would be chilling around the pool, and they would be asking when I get back if I had a nice time, and if I had seen my old friends. I think I will say I did, and it was nice to see them again. They don’t need to know I had said my goodbyes to my old friend Omar and had rained my apologies onto Patara’s dusty streets with my tears.