Goa1

 Airplane passengers are funny people.  You see them queuing  for  check in. Respectable people with good quality suitcases,  prepared with their passports and tickets in their hands, charming to the ladies over the counter wishing for an upgrade, they are well-mannered, civilized people. Going through the security, taking their belts and shoes off might have something to do how they behave afterwards.   May be because they kind of get undressed in public, they forget their inhibitions.   After a long wait, they rush to the boarding gate ignoring the   families with children who need more than a life time to sit down and get settled before everybody else, old ladies on wheelchairs and young men who have  broken their legs during holidays who also need to be looked after before us mere mortals.  Those respectable men push in. They shuffle around with  their newspapers, magazines and their eternal duty free bags bulging full of  cigarettes and rakis and whiskies and maneuver through  families and broken legs and sit down before everybody else. Then they remember the duty free bags and push everything they have in the places above their heads invading everybody else’s space for bags.

 This pattern does not change in India either. Going to Goa , only 45 minute flight, there are the same generic type people pushing in, sitting at the wrong seat, and not putting their ‘seat into an upright position’. The flight is half an hour late, I am dosing off slowly.  The in flight magazine says it all. It is fully read, several times, the cross word puzzle is filled in. The wrong entries have been corrected by a second or third reader. Now, that is desperation of a long wait!.  Luckily, we are off and the food arrives. This is a lovely spicy country, the two broken biscuits; a sorry replacement of a microwave in flight dinner are also spicy. Who would think of adding cumin seeds to  sweet biscuits? They taste interesting accompanied by gourmet mango juice drink served at room temperature.  As soon as these are chomped down the journey is over we are landing. Those lovely respectable gentlemen, with their biscuit filled bellies are getting ready. I can see it in their eyes, in their twitching little feet the urge to get home as soon as possible. The minute the wheels touch the tarmac they undo their seat belts and they are up. As if there is a portal open only for a few seconds between the thug of the wheels and ‘cabin crew mumble mumble mumble’ of the pilot, and if they miss that opportunity of that portal they will stay stuck on this miserable earth for eternity, they need to get up and get their duty free bags. The lovely ladies in airline saris have given up hope and do not interfere; they do what the pilot has told them ‘mumble mumble mumble’. The plane is landed and everybody is standing cramped next to me in the aisle. They wait standing their shoulder bags rubbing into the man in the front, duty free bags clanking; an uncomfortable restlessness is hanging in the air. They have missed the portal, the next portal is downstairs before the bus arrives. They look at us, three people still sitting in our seats looking at them, looking at us.

 The road to the hotel reminds me of the road to Cesme.  In the ac climate of the  suitcase filled car  the flora and fauna looks similar, small bushes, black new roads, dogs, moppets, cows, small crosses and churches at the cross roads, little temples. But no, this is not Cesme at all. 

 The hotel is big and comfortable. Like every big hotel it has lost the sense of place. It could be anywhere in the East. There are big pots for decoration, abstract Hindu furniture and paintings of small local artists good enough to satisfy the hotel management that they are helping the local economy. The front office is efficient, but Alas! :No ‘namastes’, no little red dots to be put on out foreheads. This is a different India. Goa is an ex Portuguese colony. This means Mediterranean food, olives, cheese and steak! Our room is overlooking the pool; the cicadas are at work already.  A big banyan tree is trying to reach the pool with long  branches. If we stay under it long enough probably like Buddha it will grow around us. The night is warm, balmy ,there is a sweet taste to it. Not far away the waves on a sandy beach splash timidly. There is no moon tonight.  Yellow flowers below the balcony are closed up for the day. It is time to have a late dinner and slide into cool white bed sheets for a well-deserved sleep. It is going to be good holiday.

Goa'ya yolculuk

Goa’ya gidiyoruz. Eskiden olsa 1 Mayis ta Istanbula gidip gitmemek, Londra’da gosteriye katilip katilmamak arasinda bocalardim. Simdi proletaryaya destegi Goa da kus sesleri ve her sey dahil 5 yildizli otelde kalarak veriyorum.  Bir saat kirkbes dakika uzaklikta ucakla bir yer burasi. Mumbai’nin guneyinde. Eski bir Portekiz kolonisi oldugu icin hayat daha Akdeniz ikliminde. Yemekler daha bati Akdeniz havasinda. Zeytinyagi  guzel beyaz peynir, biftek, ve zeytin daha kolay bulunuyor.   Mumbai’ nin ic hatlar hava alani cok sevimli. Kac kontrolden, kac polis ve asker bakislarindan gectigimizi soylemeye gerek yok. El bagajimiza bile damga vurup, o damgayi da kontrol ediyorlar.  En sonunda ucaktayiz.  Hava yollari renkli sarili hostes kizlar ‘merhaba, merhaba’ ile karsiliyorlar.’ Namaste’ yok burda. Yerimizi bulup oturuyoruz, ucak yarim saat gecikmeli. Ucak dergisi kadar  cok okunmus,o kadar  cok bulmacalari cozulmus ki, bir onceki yolcunun hatalarini bile duzeltmisler.  Bu hava yollarinin dakikligi hakkinda hic iyi izlenimler birakmiyor.  Okudugum en sevimsiz dergilerden biri. Ne yemek tarifi, ne okunacak guzel bir yazi ne de gormedigim Hindustan fotograflari var.  Hafif uyuklarken kalkiyoruz, televizyonda alt yazili 1970 lerden kalma bir film var. Filiz Akin ve Tarik Akan ( nasil hairliyorum ben bu isimleri) filmlerine benziyor. Donerek dans ediyorlar, saclar kabarik, biyiklar kaytan, pantolon pacalari yelkenler  kadar genis…

 Inme zamani geldi. Daha ucak tekerleri deger degmez sevgili Hin’tli sabirsizlar ayakta. Sanki ucagin yere dokunusi ile durmasi arasindaki zamanda bir zaman tuneli acilacak ve onu kacirirlarsa bu olumlu dunyada hapis kalacaklar. O kadar aceleciler. Ucak durmadan kapilar acilmaz, onlarin ayakta dipdipe koridorda beklemeleri ucagin tamamamen durmasini cabuklastirmaz, n e zaman ogrenecekler acaba. Bir telas, bir itisme ucaktan indiler ve otobusu bekliyorlar. Otobus gelince yine ayni ‘aman, aman cabuk cabuk’ itismesi ile binildi ve bagajlar bekleniyor. Sonra o olumsuz sakinlik, yavaslik ve sicak duruma hakim, araba bekliyoruz.

 Otel yolu bana Izmir- Cesme yolunu hatirlatiyor. Ayni maki  bitki ortusu, ayni siyah asvalt, ayni yorgunluk,bavullarla  yuklu araba yapis yapis  annemin evine gidiyoruz. Yolda  kopekler, motorsikletler, inekler ve her kavsakta bir kilise, bir tapinak  goruyoruz. Yok burasi Cesme degil.

 Otel buyuk, her buyuk otel gibi yorenin havasi verilmeye calisilmis, duvarlarda kimbilir hangi yorel , kucuk sanatcinin hangi yorel,  kucuk sergisinden alinmis  tablolar var.  Hindistan gibi degil sanki. Aksanlari daha Avrupali Ingilizce aksanli, gulumsemeleri daha olculu, ‘namaste’ leri daha az. Hem alnimizada kirmizi nokta koymuyorlar.  Kizlarin saclarinda yasemin cicekleri de yok. Burasi baska Hindistan. Oda, yemek, serrvis, hersey iyi buraya kadar. Sabah yeni bir gun.

bir pazar sabahi, sehir, din, aile ve haslanmis yumurta

Nerde olursaniz olun sabah erken kalkip yasadiginiz yeri ortalik bosken gormek lazim en az bir kere. Yollar bosken, kopekler daha agir kurt uykularindan uyanmadan, kuslar daha kahvaltilarini etmeden yola cikmak iyidir. Hele surekli yaz ve sicak olan bir ulkede sabah baska bir keyifdir.  Saat 8.30. Bir ben disardayim, bir de koruma gorevlileri. Gunun ilk cayini iciyorlar kucuk kagit kaplarda. Agir sutlu, bol sekerli, tarcin, yeni bahar, kakule ve karanfilli yogun bir  cay. Iki yudumluk kucuk kagit bardaklari kibar kibar tutuyorlar kucuk parmaklari havada.

 Yollar bos, kargalar hopliyarak  gecenin coplerine yaklasiyorlar.  Sokak koselerinde amcalar oturmuslar sohbet ediyorlar. ‘Namaste*’ lesiyoruz, hem sabahin korunde yabanci biri, hemde  onlara laf atan birini gormekten sasirmis toparlaniyorlar. Nereye gider bu kadin Pazar sabahi? 

 Bu kadin Juhu pazarinin otesinde modern, zengin Hare Krishna tapinaginin karsisindaki kucuk Shiva tapinagina gidiyor.   Gune hazirlanan pazardan geciyorum, sebzeci daha denkleri acmamis, sokagin ortasinda durup kafasini kasiyarak ispanak kolilerine bakiyor, balikci teyzeler, ellerinde buhur cubuklari ile tezgahlarini tutsuluyor. Daha Bindi*ci teyze gelmemis, onun masasinin onunde hic uyanmaya niyeti olmayan kendini sele serpe yola atmis kopek, dili disarda kimbilir neyin ruyasini goruyor.   Otobus terminalinde kirmizi otobus ilk seferine hazir. Kosedeki kilise ayine basliyacak, yerlere cicekler koymuslar, Isa carmihtan yari kapali gozlerle kendine gelenlere bakiyor aci icinde.

 Benim gittigim tapinak sokagin solunda. Kapisinin ustunde iki tane siyah fil hortumlarini kaldirmis, suslu semerleri altin yaldiniza bulanmis, tek ayaklari havada, hafif sirk fili durusu ile inananlari bekliyor.  Arkadasim da beni. Ayakkabilarimizi cikarip iceri giriyoruz. Buyukce bir salon ve ona bagli uc odadan olusan sevimli bir tapinak bu. Kosedeki amcadan sunak sepeti aliyoruz. 25 Rupee. Kagida aile adimi yaziyor. Robert Son. 'R' nin 's'nin kuyruklari kivrilmis, suslu bir yazi bu.  Bu seferki sunu  tepsi. Icinde kucuk  kucuk tek kisilik metal recel koyma kaplari var. Kucuk kaplarda  yogurt, pirinc, sivi yag, seker, tereyag,  bir iki kucuk yaprakcik ve iki buhur cubugu var. Sanki hos bir kahvalti yapilacak acik havada.

 Ilk once Hannuman Efendiye dogru gidip ayak ucuna bu tepsimizi koyup dua ettik. Hanuman Maymun tanri. Shivanin ve Rama’nin can yoldasi. Alcidan yapilmis, kavuniciye boyanmis, kocaman yuvarlak gozleri  ve belinden asagiya sarilmis lungi( pestemal) sinden kuyrugu yukari kivrilmis duruyor oyle.    Sabah ayininin (puja) bundan sonrasini anlatmaya kac kere baslayip, kac kere vaz gectigimi bilemezsiniz. Yaptiklarimiz, namaz kilarken dizlerinin ustune oturup sonra kalkip sonra yeniden oturup sonra alnini yere koymak kadar, Haci Bayram da kesme seker dagitmak , Agustosta kar yagdiran Kar Yagdi Sultan Turbesine bas ortu asmak kadar anlamli yada o kadar anlamsiz. Nasil  bakmak isterseniz, size mantikli yada cok mantiksiz gelebilir.  Her seyin sembolik oldugu bu dinde, yapilan herseyinde bir anlami var. Su agac aile agaci, onun etrafinda donerken  ailenize sihhat, afiyet diliyorsunuz, su oturan inek birbuyuk tanrinin  yol arkadasi, tapinagin catisinda  basinda ayin hilal sekli  olan ve   alnindan Ganj nehri akan  mavi tanri  ya da  onun erkek kardesi de nasibini almali sayginizdan. Her kes baska turlu saygi gosterir birilerine. El opmek,  babanin yaninda sigara icmemek saygi oluyorsa, niye  coreklenmis kobraya sut dokmek olmasin?  Mum yakmak oluyorsa niye hindistan cevizi kirmak olmasin? Bir suru sari kasimpati var elimizde, onlari kucuk buyuk tanri heykellerine veriyoruz, onlarda bize baska cicekler veriyorlar,   tapinak rahibi su sicratti ustume, kutsal su oluyorsa  kilisede burda niye sutlu su olmasin?  Mevlut sekeri kabulsa niye kucuk irmik helva toplari  kabul olmasin?  sacini basini sikica ortmek dogalsa alina kirmiz sari nokta koymak niye olmasin? 

Benim de alnima noktami, cizgimi koydular. Elime de  naylon torbada  hindistan cevizi, muz, cicekler verdiler , sallana sallana eve yollandim. Kucuk ekmek toplari, guzel domates, acur gibi salatalik aldim.  Koskocaman  taze hindistan cevizi suyu ictim ortaliga bakinarak. Pazardaki kiliseden ayin sesleri geliyor, onlar daha bitirmemisler. Kosedeki amcalar  gitmis coktan. Evde sevgili ailem daha yeni uyanmanin mahmurlugu icinde ortada dolaniyorlar.  Televizyon acik,  kahve yapilmis, gazete gelmis.  Alismis olmalilar benim sabah sabah yok olup geri gelmelerime hic yadirgamiyorlar kirmizi sari noktalarimi. Kahvalti masasi  hazirlanirsa bizim evinde  Pazar ayini de baslamis olacak.  Kocaman salata yapmali simdi. Yumurta haslamali, ekmek kizartmali. Tolstoy o cok huzunlu Anna Karenina  oykusune soyle baslar. 'Bütün mutlu aileler birbirine benzer; her mutsuz aileninse kendine özgü bir mutsuzluğu vardır.'

 Sizin Pazar gununuz nasildi?

Matunga 1

What do you do in Mumbai on a Friday at 8.30 in the morning? A visit to Matunga.  Matunga sounds like a very exotic fruit with maroon flesh and a big stone. But no. Matunga is  home to one of the biggest slums in Asia, it is a part of Mumbai only 20 minutes from us. I am really not a big fan of slum visits. I feel a bit voyeuristic, a bit uncomfortable seeing where other people live, peeping into their homes and taking photographs as a group, smiling at people sleeping or holding their children on their laps. Throughout the guide’s explanation of  how poor they are, and how life expectancy  is only 40 years, snotty children smile with big smiles and white teeth and you say hello to them. Grannies smile with toothless smiles and you say hello to them.  No, this is not me at all.  But my friend promised good food on banana leaves and some temples so I followed her there.

 We drove through the slums. There is a big road in the middle and a very clogged filthy river crosses it, big water pipes lie parallel to the brick huts, concrete one room buildings  and dirty lanes. Television dishes stick out housing big black crows. There is lots of  hustle and bustle. Trucks going in the tiny lanes, bikes rushing out carrying everything, women balancing huge bundles on their heads, men drinking cloudy liquids from tiny paper cups.  A big smoke coming out of  a mountain of a heap of burning something on the side of the road, goats on the corners of the streets eating whatever they can find accompanied by crows and dogs. A very busy, crowded, lively place.  As soon as you open the car window the heat and the smell hits you. This is the sickeningly sweet smell of rotten everything in 40’C, the smell of rotten rubbish, sewage, fried onion and curried cabbage based food,  unwashed clothes, dampness of the huts, mass public loos, smell of poverty.  My friend tells me that people do not have regular jobs, and they chew paan regularly and drink and in the evenings the place is not safe even for the people who live there.  Morning is not a good time to go either. There are a number of public loos and not enough for all, so when the nature calls in the mornings, they respond to that call wherever they think is the best. Prince Charles came here and donated some money for big block of council house kind of buildings but the slum dwellers did not have the money to keep the flats they were given, so they had to sell those and ‘shifted’ (as they say  here) to their old huts.   I stayed in the car, learned all about these and took secret photographs  whenever we stopped at the traffic lights. Surprisingly there were no begging children around. Only young men selling car sunshades and pink fluffy dusters.

 We followed the road to the Matunga Station. There is  a big market behind it, first fruits and veg, then clothes. 12 oranges for Rs120, thin cucumbers, bean sprouts, broccoli, good lettuce, green peppers to make dolma, Mexican baby chillies; all the things a good home needs. The market people are calm, pleasant. There is no ‘Madam, Madam’ shouting, wolf whistling. (They wolf whistle to call you ,not for other reasons). Us ladies, with our cameras hanging from our necks, talked to everybody, smiled at every available child, took photographs of whoever wanted us to take their photograph. They offered us  camun camuns, showed us their best oranges, colourful bed spreads, bangles, we even found pomegranate molasses. When we walked out of the coolness of the market, the aubergines and beetroots shimmered in the sun. The religious shop has a canopy to stop their brass getting banning hot. Shiva on his lotus sits comfortably cool in the shade. All the way on the street to a temple there are flower stalls, the whole place smells like Radha’s hair. Tiny white jasmine buds are tied one by one to a string to be put around a ponytail or to be wrapped on a deity in a temple.  People sit on their stalls, happily folding flowers, giggling, chuckling  at life passing by. It is not even midday yet but it is getting bright and oven hot and the jasmine smell flutters in the air whenever the flower makers twirl the string of milky white jasmine bundles. The incense of the spinach seller's morning offering mingles with the sandalwood of the nearby temples. One stall sells the good smells. 'Gunnuk’ he says ‘this is the best one.’ I am dizzy with the heat, the whiteness of the flowers, and the combination of fragrances. It is time to go into the coolness of a temple. 

morning sounds

The sun rises at 6.30 in the morning. Our bedroom faces the West and the small windows are covered with aluminium foil to stop the tiniest sun beam getting in. We can sleep in deep hot dreams until we sweat ourselves out of the bed or until one of us turns the A.C.  on. Theoretically yes. But there is a group of little pigeons under our bedroom balcony who as a family perform ‘Surya Namaskara’* every morning at 6.30. They coo melodically one by one. One starts the other one stops. In Turkey we imagine they are praying ; chanting  ‘huu’ to call out to god in a deep morning trance. They do it (to the sun?) here too. Right after the faint Morning Prayer I hear in my deepest psyche, they start. I lay in bed half awake listening to them. I almost see them whirling with little pigeon feet around themselves chanting ‘coo’, ‘coo’. In one of the fairytales I have read in the distant past to Kitty, the pigeons were young love struck girls turned in to birds by an evil curse. They whirl praying to be free: ’coo’,’coo’.

 At 7.00 to accompany the pigeons the shriek of a peacock rips the morning. Every morning, that glamorous bird sees her own ugly feet and cries in despair. Every night she goes to bed hoping it is going to be better the next day. Alas, her curse continues- yet another day with ugly feet. No wonder she shrieks. One lonesome magpie joins her with amazement. He only makes out the same rising tone, going up a note every time. He stops before the climax; looks at the peacock  and starts again. ‘What ugly feet!’

 From the deep end of the street below a sad, heart-breaking flute tune follows the peacock sorrow.   A simple bamboo flute song comes slowly into the bedroom. He plays the same tune every morning. I can almost hear the lyrics of the song:

 Come, let’s go to Juhu Beach,

I missed your bangles tinkling,

 Your sari thrown over your shoulder,

 When the sun goes down

 Come. Let’s go to Juhu Beach.

 He walks along the street carrying   hundreds of flutes stuck to a bucket. He slowly walks, listens to people non-calling him to buy a flute, and sits on one of the garden walls and talks to the security guards.  When he walks away he plays the only tune he knows,: ‘Come, let’s go to Juhu beach.’

 The morning panic kicks in our household. Breakfast, lunch bag preparation, coffee, tea, one missing lonely sock, one hair bauble lost in a household black hole, I wonder how two people going out can make morning life so busy.

At 7.45 they leave.  I have another mug of tea and read the papers deciding which shows, which plays I will not be able to go.  This one is too far away; this one is too early in the evening, that one will not go well with a teenage girl. Then the mystery starts. I went out to see who it was but there was no clue to reveal it.

 ‘Claraneey!’. It sounds exactly like that: ’Claraneey’. I spotted a man with a bicycle. He is not wearing a uniform of any description, he walks with the bicycle, not carrying anything on, around, behind the bicycle, he stops randomly, looks around and lets it go ‘Claraneey’.  No one comes out to talk to him, no one calls him to buy, sell, show, whatever he does in life, no one is interested. ‘Claraney’ he and the mystery continues on.

  A few minutes later another sound begins.  A metal plank meeting another metal.  Flip-flops and a short man with bendy knees makes this sharp, dark sound. It is the Pre-Rubbish Truck man. He follows the bamboo fluteman clanking. He proclaims the arrival of the rubbish truck so the security guards take the rubbish out. Blackbirds, scary ravens hear the clanks before everybody else. They come to my balcony eyeing the arrival of the truck. Green parakeets are very busy counting and recounting their little flock . One by one they chirp four times, fly to the wires across the road and chirp again.

  While this flying, chirping, counting is keeping heavens busy a big healthy Brahman cow walks slowly swaying her horns. A sweet smell of incense, the bells and morning prayers reach the 7^th floor.  She stops with her man at the gates and sways her horns, the man receives some money.  In the building next  door  a little sausage dog every morning has the same barking conversation with the cow; the cow doesn’t mind his tone.  She takes her time and follows the street where mysteryman, rubbishman, fluteman turn left  and disappear.  The image of her tail, the sound of the bells stay with me for sometime. 

*sun salutation

Kucuk limon surubu

Vardir eminim baska Turk’lerde burda. Ama ben sadece bir iki tanesini taniyorum.  Guneyde oturuyorlar. Sabahlari iki saat ,oglen ustu sadece yarim saat uzakliktalar. Gecen haftalarda Naile ile tanistim, daha sonra  da Gokce ile.    Evde manti acmalardan konustuk, zeytinyagli kabak yemekleri ve Mumbai de hayatla devam ettik. Naile'nin evine gittik gecen hafta, Kitty kiymali makarna yedi bir cirpida.  Bize kucuk limon surubu ikram etti.  Bunalmis ve yorgunduk, soguk ikram edilen evde yapilmis surup cok iyi geldi. Hemen tarifini aldim. 23 kucuk limon, 6 tane yesil portakal-(turunc galiba adi) ve bir kilo seker.  ‘Kaynat, sogusun sonra siselere koy, soguk suya bir iki tatli kasigi ekle, taze nane ve bir iki nar tanesi  ile cok hos oluyor’ dedi Naile. Gokce de ona katildi.

 Benim limon, seker ve mutfak robotu uclusunu bir araya getirmem uc gun surdu.  Naile bana ‘yardimci kadin suyunu cikarsin’ demisti, bende kagida yazip biraktim: ‘Limon suyu cikar lutfen’. Eve geldigimde Neeta bana cevap yazmis limonlarin yanina koymus: ‘Ne yapayim?’ Is basa dustu. Mutfak robotunu buraya gelince almistim; beninkinin yarisi Ingiltere'de kalmis, kutulardan bir iki kesme bicagi ve rendesi cikti ama aletin govdesi  baska bir kutu ile depoya gitmis anlasilan. Mutfak robotu calistirmak legodan kalp sekli yapmaya benziyor. Ikisi  hakkinda da   Doktora tezi yazilabilir. Kucuk kitapcigin Hint, Tamil, Mandarin,  Gujarat ,Tagalog dillerinden sonra Ingilizce’sini bulup portakal sikacagini calistirmam yarim saatimi aldi. Meret sey eger cizgiler yan yana gelmezse calismiyor, eger, bir parcasi takilmazsa ne kadar itelersen itele dugme basmiyor. Ama becerdim, limonlar o kadar kucuk ki elimden firlayip oraya buraya sacildi, limon sulari ve cekirdekleri mutfagin duvarlarina serpildi, seker bu sicramada islandigi icin yapis yapis oldu, yeni aldigim kirmizi t shirtum limon damlalari ve seker yapiskanligi ile desenlendi. Sonunda 32 limonun suyu cikti. Tencereye koydum  kaynadi, sogudu, siseye koymak icin hunim olmadigi icin naylon torba kenari kesip ondan huni yapmak aklima gelinceye kadar yarisini kasik kasik siseye doldurmaya calisirken yerlere doktum, yururken terligimin alti sekerli yerlere bastigim icin  ‘yapis’ yapis’ sesleri cikarmaya basladi. Telefon caldi kac kere,  telefonda limonlandi.Kitty’nin gitar hocasi geldi gitti, onu ‘yapis’, yapis’ ayak sesleri ile yolcu ettim, kapi kollari da limonlu sekerden nasibini aldi.

 Sise ( gazoz sisesi) yarimdan biraz fazla doldu. Yemege oturdugumuzda evde nane olmadigini hatirladim, kucuk bardaklara bir parmak o suruptan, ustune de soguk su koydum, ve erimez kalp , yildiz seklinde buz kaliplari ekledim.  Gazabimdan korktuklari icin Nick ve Kitty ‘iyi olmus’ dediler. Kitty biraz daha cesur ; ‘Naile’de ictigimize benzemiyor ama bu da  guzel’ dedi.   Sisli Arap Denizi renginde, hafif kekremsi , serin ilginc bir tadi var. Kucuk limonun tadindan cok turuncun tadini almis gibi sanki. Daha az surup ve daha cok su koymak gerektigine karar verdik. ‘Yarinki yemekte oyle iceriz’ dedim, Bicare ailem umutsuzca birbirlerine baktilar. Galiba Naile’ye  32 limon, 6 turunc , bir kilo seker  ve bos bir gazoz sisesi ile gidip  mutlu olarak geri gelmek lazim bu yakinlarda.