I try and walk every day with my aim of accomplishing at least 10,000 paces.
Ten thousands paces is a number bandied about as a good, healthy goal, but this first came about as a marketing name for a Japanese pedometer (!). Since then most studies since have endorsed this as a reasonable goal for most – too much for some, too little for others, but conventionally it is good as a broad ‘rule of thumb’ guide.
In any event, my goal is 10,000+ per day, but not in a legalistic, ‘absolutely must accomplish’ manner.
I have a variety of routes around the city and I endeavour to accomplish various tasks in the course of my travels.
In my ramblings I have observed a variety of things including Urban Renewal projects whereby older, weary, unsafe apartment buildings are being systematically rendered into dust and debris to be replaced by new, modern, earthquake-resistant constructions. I have seen the river reduced to a stinking, green morass due to the lack of water at the height of summer and I’ve seen it swelling with the prodigious abundance caused by torrential rains in the winter months. I’ve observed the Water Authority digging and laying a large pipe in the base of the river. I do not know why it has been laid, or to what purpose it will be put – but after two years, it now lies, buried and hidden in the bottom of the riverbed. And, there are banners displayed about town ‘promising’ that the river will be returned to its blue, non-reeking past by next summer (2018).
And, in my meanderings, I came across some renovations of the ground floor corner, front and side garden of an apartment building – something was being prepared. Over the course of weeks, slowly stone cladding was laid on the floor in the front and side of the building, the corresponding walls of the building were decorated with a brick façade and the corner section, the bit that is actually in the fabric of the apartment building, a service counter and various pieces of equipment were installed.
All of that is normal enough, but what caught my eye was the lack of, er, well, a ceiling, a protective roof and exterior walls with doors, in the place where the front and side gardens had been – that is, 75% of the footprint of the shop was exposed to the elements.
I had discerned that it was destined to be a coffee shop, providing light snacks and a selection of hot and cold beverages. But, at the end of the day, there was no way to ‘close up shop’, it was fully exposed.
I thought, surely, they will put shutters up, or a screen, or bars or something around the essential food preparation area which is situated in the building… but, alas, there were no shutters, no fittings for bars nor any way to enclose this area at the end of the business day.
“Strange” I thought.
The day of their Grand Opening came and went, and the cafe / coffee shop was, wide open and unrestrained.
I must say that I found this rather intriguing.
Finally, I could contain myself no more and I broke my walk and stepped up – there really was no ‘in’ to step into, and I enquired as to what they do when the business of the day is over.
The answer was simplicity itself: “One of the employees stays on the premises overnight – he becomes a night watchman.”
I realised, then, that like many things in Turkey, they were ‘open’ but the project was not yet completed.
A good example of this is our local airport. For years there were visible works. The runway, the access road, some diverse buildings. But once they had all the absolutely essential elements in place – the electronics, radar, airport fire brigade, runway, lights, support systems, all the indispensable and vital elements, they constructed a small, basic building to act as a temporary terminal and ‘opened’ the airport.
It would be two years before the proper, large, modern terminal would be constructed and ready.
As time passed, they added to the simple two lane road connecting the airport to the main road with an additional second, parallel road and so, when fully finished, it formed a four lane divided carriageway.
In the initial phase, there were few flights, and so they could work all the kinks and teething problems out before it was fully completed and more passengers would be flowing through on a daily basis.
Very clever methinks.
Turks have truly mastered the phased construction methodology and so things are up and functioning before they are fully finished. And so, in a similar manner, those creating this coffee shop brought it up to an acceptable level, and together with a night watchman, they opened for business.
But the finishing of the shop would slowly continue over the course on the following year.
They opened in summer, when it literally, never rains in Antakya – yes, you may get a very rare, once in a blue moon, rain, but it really is a unique exception. However, before the onset of September, when at sometime in that month the first rain of autumn / winter will descend, they arranged for some retractable, high quality – luxury – roof awnings to be installed. They have built in lights and are extremely well made.
They are electrically powered retractable roof awnings – they open and close at the push of a button. It was clear this ‘retractable’ roof would provide the essential protection in the winter months from both the drizzly rains and the torrential flooding downpours. Of course, in the summer months, they will provide blessèd relief from the intense, scorching, Antiochean sun.
Additionally, these ‘retractable roof awnings’ also enabled the coffee shop / cafe to be considered ‘outdoors’ and hence exempt from the ‘indoor smoking ban’; the customers are free to imbibe in their smoking addiction. This is a massive business plus because smoking has been banned inside restaurants since July 2009. And, remarkably, this ban has been universally respected.
Since that time all enclosed restaurants, cafes, coffee shops and such are smoke-free in Turkey. Whilst this has been greatly appreciated by the growing numbers of non-smokers in society, it has left the smokers frustrated and fuming.
But, here, in this cafe, those ensnared by the entanglements of tobacco, are free to sit, relishing in the beverage (non-alcoholic) of their choice and engage in a relaxed, comfortable chat, and, in this outside-in cafe, if they so desire, they can light up at any point it takes their fancy or are forced to by the power of their tobacco craving.
This is a unique selling feature.
In time walls consisting of powered glass panels, which could automatically be raised or lowered, were fitted. These formed the exterior walls. These can be raised, to protect from the rains or the driving, bitter, cold winds of winter and lowered, to allow the delightfully cooling breezes of summer to pass through the shop.
They even fitted proper, lockable doors to the front of the shop.
At the end of the major works, the coffee shop / cafe is now weather tight, and the need for a night watchman is greatly diminished. The need is diminished, but they still have a night watchman, I asked, for although the shop is enclosed and the roof is made of a strong, sturdy , flexible awning material, it could still be pierced.
At the very least now, with the walls, firmly in the ‘up’ position at night and the roof tightly closed and weathertight, it is a more secure proposition – and a more amenable locale for the watchman to, er, well, watch in…
As the months passed, they have continued to polish and refine the interior décor. They have installed misting fans for the summer, fancy, mosaic like lights for decorative lighting and special, under-table heaters to provide directed heat for the patrons in winter.
The shop, now, after the passage of time, actually a fair amount of time, has been completed and the space is fully fitting out. Now, when I see tradesmen, it is not something new being fitted, but essential maintenance to ensure that all continues to function as desired.
I find it interesting to note that even when the walls are fully up and the roof is tightly closed, people freely smoke… To my eye, and nose, the space is now fully ‘enclosed’ and feels like ‘inside’. I ponder if it is still ‘legal’ to light up. I wonder if the space would now be more accurately described as ‘indoors’. I suppose it can be argued that the space is still to be identified as ‘outdoors’ for at the push of a button or two, it can easily be wholly outdoors.
Regardless as to the legal technicalities, at the end of the day, functionally, it is treated as a smoking friendly zone.
I tend to frequent this particular establishment, not because of the smoking or the freedom to light up – I find the revolting stench of cigarette smoke decidedly off-putting – but because I have developed a rapport with the owners and the staff. I come by – generally at off times – when there are few other patrons and precious little smoke fouling that air. Oh, and they make a rather nice de-caffeinated cappuccino.
It seems that I am the only customer who enjoys a nice de-caffeinated beverage. I asked.
There are times when it is cold, cloudy, a light rain mizzling and the retractable roof and glass walls are all tightly closed up, and the cigarette smoke, lazily drifts in the space and it is inescapable.
Well, I grew up in a time and in a home where my mum and dad smoked. My early working life was before the current enlightened era; in those days everyone, all smokers smoked everywhere, unrestricted, inside, outside, work places, offices, buses, cafes, restaurants, absolutely everywhere.
Seriously, it was not that it seemed or felt like it was ‘everywhere’, it really was everywhere.
I do not enjoy the obnoxious, gagging, stench, but I am not driven away by it either – in the old days, you had to accommodate it as it was inescapable and I guess I just fall into old habits.
In any event, as I said, I tend to go at times when there are few patrons – so, even if the roof and walls are fully buttoned up, often, although not always, I can be blissfully unaware of anyone smoking.
Over the time that I’ve been going there, I’ve noticed that there are some people who seem to be always ‘there’. I assumed they are either partners in the business or backers of the enterprise or relatives of the owners.
As we have recognised one another, we have chatted, and they have come to know this crazy foreigner who comes and sits and writes away over a hot cuppa and I have come to recognise the various players.
In the course of our time together, I have discerned that they are of the Sunni division of Islam – the more orthodox branch.
They, in turn, have learned that I am both a Christian and that I am associated with a local Christian fellowship here in Antakya.
Recently, I was sitting, enjoying my beverage, doing some writing, when an individual who once, for a period of time, had come to our fellowship, approached and sat down beside me.
She is a single mum and is struggling with her teenage son. What single mum, or, for that matter, what married mum doesn’t have struggles with their teenage son?
She shared some of her struggles and a recent event when she, in frustration and anger, stumbled and struck her son in exasperation and helplessness and his general, surly attitude. She was asking what she should do.
Well, in my world view, the problem is neither unusual nor is there an easy, ‘off the shelf solution’ that can be drawn upon to sort things out.
I was open and honest with her and told her where, I believe, real help, real hope, real solutions can be found. Be warned, if you ask me, you get my answers.
So, I found myself, in this coffee shop, telling her Where and in Whom the answers can be found. I spoke candidly, frankly, honestly and sometimes rather bluntly…
I was sincerely speaking with her irregardless of the staff and one of the owners/backers being nearby… in any event, in Turkey, very little is done secretly.
I was sitting in the coffee shop, writing, when she came to me. I was visible. I was available. She approached me, shared a wee bit of her burden and asked her questions. I responded and answered her.
This, I believe, is all part of being ‘Light’ and ‘Salt’ in our world. Not doing something ‘special’ but going about our normal lives, and being who we are in Christ. Remembering: “But in your hearts revere Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect,” 1 Peter 3:15 NIVUK
What will she do? I do not know, that is for her to decide.
Often our lives, like this coffee shop, which, although not complete and all tricked out, was open for business, and so, we, are alive and functioning and interacting with one another, although we are not complete nor finished, there is still an on-going work in our lives – always learning, ever changing.
The venue where the Antakya Christian Church gathers is a rented former courtyard house in the oldest part of the city of Antakya. It is not overly large – but we’ve been gathering in this location for over ten years now and, well, it feels like home.
It is known in the immediate community, and over the years, many have come and visited with us there, sharing in our special occasions, Easter and Christmas and many other events.
But it is rented. The rent, as rents do, continues to increase year on year. In the beginning, the fellowship was able to meet the rent. However, over the years, we’ve passed the point where the believers are able to do so; every month there is now a short fall.
In former times, the landlord, a Turkish, ‘Greek Orthodox’ gentlemen whose house is adjacent, would provide his large garden and its most important feature, in the midst of his garden, a large water feature for Fellowship baptisms. It was within this water feature that a number of believers have been baptised.
Sadly, our landlord has passed-on and with his passing, so has passed the opportunity to use his ‘water feature’ as our impromptu baptismal pool.
Recently, a brother declared his desire to obey the Lord in the waters of baptism and that raised the question of where were we to do this?
In the past, in addition to the landlord’s water feature we have conducted baptisms in the Mediterranean Sea. The sea sounds like a idyllic place to be baptised, but the reality is, it is over thirty kilometres away and large sections of the beach are subject to a vicious rip-tide. Added to this is the complication of transporting everyone who would like to be there to the baptismal location, thirty or more kilometres there and naturally, another thirty or so kilometres back. A local venue is our clear preference.
As it is our understanding and practice that baptism is by immersion; a bucket or font does not fill the bill.
One possible solution was to construct a ‘water feature’, that is a baptismal pool, at the building we rent for the church, but:
• we are renters – we may have to move at some time in the future
• the property is small, and to put an adequately sized ‘water feature’ in the stone clad courtyard would dominate the courtyard to such an extent that it would impede our fellowship times, fellowship meals, and the children’s work
• we can not built the baptismal pool indoors as, well, there really isn’t any space to do so within the church building.
And so was born the notion of building a ‘water feature’ in the courtyard of our home, which belonging to the elder and will always be available for our use, and use it for Fellowship baptisms. Our courtyard is larger, and whilst the Baptismal Pool will dominate it, it would not impede the activities that occur in the courtyard.
So, we embraced this solution with the desire to have it built and established quickly to enable our brother to be baptised.
Two young people from the United Kingdom came down to help with the refugee ministry and, they declared, in any way they could be of a help.
We took them at their word.
They helped with the refugee work. They helped with the children’s work. And they helped with this baptismal pool project.
We felt that if we built the baptismal pool on top of the courtyard floor and with it being deep enough for a baptism, it would stand rather tall – too tall. Consequently, it was decided that we would drop the bottom of the pool lower than the courtyard floor. In this way, with part of the pool below the level of the courtyard, less would be required to stand proud – the required depth would be created without being too high in the courtyard.
To go lower than the courtyard required breaking open the floor and digging down sixty odd centimetres. This was no mean task.
Digging the pit is a task in and of itself, but it is not just the digging, but also the bagging up of the spoil and then lugging it out of the way, that makes this such a laborious task. With over one and a half cubic meters of compressed soil, broken up and dumped into bags, this equated to a disproportionately large number of bags.
The need to dispose of all the bags was a constant pressure dogging me. It is not enough to create the hole, it was not enough to bag the spoil, at some point it would need to be dragged, lugged, cajoled or otherwise removed from the courtyard and loaded (let the reader understand ‘lifted’, hoisted, manhandled) up into a lorry for transportation and disposal… somewhere.
The courtyard tiles were carefully lifted and cleaned as they were needed elsewhere, and our two, hearty and hail young people threw themselves at the task of excavating the hole.
Slowly, layer by layer, the pit, about 1.70 meters by 1.86 meters rectangle, was excavated. Beneath the courtyard tiles there was a sand layer of about five to seven centimetres deep – we bagged this relatively clean sand up separately as we felt it may be required later in the build (it was). The sand had been laid over a compacted layer of stones. Together this formed the base of the current courtyard tiles. Below this, as we dug deeper, we passed through various levels until, at about 60 centimetres down, we encountered an old level surface. This appeared to be constructed of cement, so, it would not be really old. As this was at about out desired depth, we stopped excavating.
I confess, it was rather satisfying to look down and see a smooth, flat bottom to the pit.
However, it was less than satisfying to look all around at the bags and bags and bags of spoil. All the bags were hand filled. Some were on the light side, easy to shift, and others were beyond my ability to shift without extreme difficulty.
It was important that the sides of the hole be perpendicular and we did work at it to ensure they were so. And, to a degree, they were… to a degree… but, in reality, they really were not.
The young people, having expended their energies and sweat, returned to the country from whence they came and the labour baton was passed to a Turkish workman who does this sort of rough construction – forms, hand mixed cement, block walls and such.
He informed me that he had experience in this kind of thing, that he had made a large pool for his children and their friends to romp around in and it has never leaked.
I found that very encouraging.
He convinced me that he was the one to do the task and besides, I dreaded the notion of mixing a lot of cement by hand, and I have no real experience laying blocks.
Before he began his task of pouring a floor in the pit and building the sides, he jumped in the hole and measured the top and the bottom of the hole. He then declared that the top was larger than the bottom. True, my eye, which is not very accurate, did note a discrepancy. His measured discrepancy was significant – accumulative over two sides was about 15 centimetres, on the one axis and the same on the other axis.
Now that is a large discrepancy, about seven centimetres per side.
In my ignorance, I thought he would trim the sides of the pit, creating more spoil, and make them truly perpendicular; that this approach would be easier, better, and result in a stronger structure.
I assumed he would make the bottom measurements the same as the top, with straight, perpendicular sides, and that then he would pour the floor and then build the walls.
The measurements at the top of the pit are true, framed by the courtyard tiles. To make the sides right it would mean excavating the bottom reaches of the sides to extract the excess soil – I acknowledge that this would be an added task, but I did not perceive that this was an overly taxing or difficult task.
His first chosen task was to ignore the wonky sides and dig a hole in a corner to accommodate the sump pump. A sump pump was required as we could not put a drain in, partly because of the depth and mostly because we did not want to tear up any more of the courtyard tiles than necessary.
Leaving the sides as they were, his next task was to cut and put some steel rods in the bottom of the hole and then to hand-mix sand and gravel and cement in a pile on the floor of the courtyard. The idea is you roughly turn the pile over and in so doing, you mix the cement into the sand and gravel. Then you make a depression in the middle of the pile with walls formed out of the sand, gravel and cement, creating a lake-like basin. This space is then flooded with water.
Once sufficient water has pooled in the ‘lake’, you carefully chop slices off the interior side of the walls, that is the walls which are all there is holding the water in. These delicate slices of sand, cement and gravel are drawn into the centre and mixed with the water.
Thus, in this manner, slowly, slowly, the original dry pile, has been turned over and flooded and mixed until it is a large sloppy, soupy mixture on the floor of the courtyard.
To cement the sump pump depression, he first, carefully, put some of this cement mixture in the bottom of the newly excavated hole and then placed an old paint pail on top of the concrete. He then poured the cement around the sides. In this way, it would be encased in cement – the plastic paint pail would remain in-situ and provide the venue for the sump pump.
Then the remainder of the cement mixture was poured, pushed and coaxed so as to fill the bottom of the hole, carefully lifting the steel bars off the floor of the pit in the process.
This task being done, he departed.
On the following day with the cement now set, our rough builder set about building the walls of our Baptismal pool.
I did wonder if he would just make the pool smaller, using the bottom width of the pool his guide and build the walls straight up from there. This would result in a smaller pool and a gap between the tiles and the wall.
That was not his plan…
The constructing of these walls was one of the more intimidating aspect of the work for me… the walls need to be right, true and well built as they will, after all, be charged with holding in a tonne or more of water.
The chosen building material for the walls was ‘tuğla’, a special block made out of clay and formed with a hollow, lattice interior structure. These blocks are first sun dried and then baked hard in a special oven. This is the ubiquitous building material in Turkey for walls.
They are also some what brittle. Personally, I am not so keen on them, but, as I said, they are rather ubiquitous in Turkey. They are also comparatively cheap.
Now, our rough builder had been at pains to point out to me that the sides of the pit were not perpendicular. In assessing the problem he had determined that the solution to this problem was to knock off bits of the block, that is to reduce the size of the blocks laid at the bottom of the pit so that when the wall reaches the courtyard floor level we would be able to carry on using full sized blocks.
In other words, he decided to make up for the difference in the size of the hole (smaller bottom, larger top) by reducing the size of the blocks in the bottom of the walls of the hole.
I wrote this twice as it was not what I expected, nor desired.
In this way, at the courtyard level, the blocks will be their full 15 centimetres (full sized), but, as he was aggressively knocking half of the block away (sometimes more than half) at the bottom this meant that the bottom row of blocks were a mere seven centimetres wide.
I didn’t say anything partly because I reasoned that as the soil is the backdrop to the walls, the thinner wall will have nowhere to go, the soil behind it will hold it place… but, I wasn’t happy with his methodology.
Alas, it also transpired that the special hole for the sump pump was poorly located and actually came under the path of the wall – even the curtailed, reduced wall blocks. I feared that if this was not properly addressed at some point, then it would provide a weak point – an easy path for the water to escape from our enclosure.
Now, throughout the two days of rough construction, including the essential building of the block walls, our rough builder had brought along a ‘helper’, someone less skilled than he to do the simple tasks and the basic grunt work.
After the walls were, er, ah… custom trimmed and built up to the level of the courtyard, the rough builder departed as he declared that he had some other business that he had to attend to. He was adamant that he would be gone ‘no more than half an hour.’
Now, culturally, when a Turkish speaker gives a time reference it is not intended to be a precise, digital reference. That is to say, “half an hour” is not intended to mean thirty minutes duration. It is more the emotional intent – what he was saying was he would be gone a relatively short while, do not worry…
He left his semi-skilled ‘helper’ behind to carry on the task of building the walls up to the finished height.
In the event, we didn’t see the rough builder again until the task was completed and he had to return to pick up his helper, his tools, oh, and to be paid…
Now, to be honest, the helper worked to the best of his limited ability. It is true that the size and shape of the finished product will be a lasting monument to his skill set. Suffice it to say, a master block layer he, most definitely, was not.
At this point I also learned that it seems our rough builder has a tendency to over purchase material – to avoid running short when doing a build. The problem for me is that he charges for all the material that he has brought, used or otherwise!
Now, I acknowledge that I should pay for what was used, this is as you would expect. But it was a… er… surprise for me that I was expected to pay for all the extra that he didn’t use. He had no intention of carting the surplus away, and some of it was brought in preparation for the plasterer, nevertheless this was not what we needed, wanted or expected.
Indeed, it was a rather unpleasant turn of events.
However, on the positive side, he did load all the spoil; lugging, dragging, lifting, hefting, hoisting it all on to his lorry and then he deposited it somewhere. As I said, some of the bags were a doddle to lift, and others were beyond what Health and Safety would ever condone being hoisted by anyone.
Removing all the spoil almost made his exorbitant charge worth it – almost, but not quite. I still smart when I think of what he was paid. It was the agreed price… no one to blame but me – I agreed after all… There are times when I make bad deals… and this was one.
Now with the walls so built, it does not look like anything that could hold the waters of the baptismal pool in place. I was informed and assured, by the rough builder, that the plasterer, would line the inside of the pool with a mesh and use a special plaster that is more or less water proof. He was adamant that this combination would be able to withstand the pressures of the water.
From our projects in renovating our flat, we knew a Master Plasterer. He had been sent out to work as a child and hence, learned his trade the old fashioned way. On the plus side, he really is a master of his art, but, on the other side, he didn’t choose this profession and he doesn’t really enjoy it.
Currently he has found other employment, which still involves his plastering skills, but the work is more varied, and most importantly, the pay is more consistent. We called him to come and examine our project. In his examination, complete with a tape measure and a level he found that there were quite a few challenges before him.
It seems on careful inspection that the new block walls were not straight, were not level, and the structure was not square. It could have been; actually, it should have been, but, alas, it was not. The shape of the pool had its own, unique, kinks and quirks.
The task for the Master Plasterer was to try and straighten out and correct some of the fundamental flaws and make the top of the walls level.
On the day he came, our first task was to go and source the essential mesh which would reinforce the walls… but as we traipsed from shop to shop, he couldn’t get the mesh he wanted. In the end he settled on some plastic coated wire mesh – good stuff, but harder to work with.
Initially he said he would put the mesh on the inside and on the outside of the walls of the pool – he had measured and had me purchase sufficient material for this.
Affixing this metal mesh proved to be an unexpectedly difficult and labour intensive task. At times it seemed as if the wire mesh had a mind of its own. Even once it was fitted and secured in place, it would sometimes find it within itself strength to pop away from the wall, or to refuse to stay in the selected position that had been determined. The plasterer used nails to try and keep it fixed in place until the plaster has been applied… sometimes to no avail.
He had arranged that we would have ‘black sand’ (brought by the rough builder) for this stage of the project. He said it is the best for this task. Also, he sourced a special package of something or other which was to be mixed with the cement and sand and will make the finished plaster, water… er… resistant…
After wrangling the mesh into place and standing in the pool, he expertly applied the ‘mud’ to the walls, embedding the mesh. The notion is, the wall provides form and shape and basic strength, but it is the wall, plus the mesh, plus the plaster in combination that will, ultimately, be sufficient to contain the water. As the water pushes outwards, the mesh, embedded in the plaster, will counter this powerful force. Hence, it is the wall augmented and strengthened by the mesh and plaster which are reinforcing one another, which will resist the outward pressure of the water; kind of like a Chinese finger puzzle – the more pressure, the stronger it seems to be.
As he worked, it became clear that at one place the plaster is just thick enough to bury the mesh, at another it is three or four centimetres thicker to make up for a wobble in the wall. It is a challenge to make right something that is, well, rather wrong.
When the interior was done, he carefully extradited himself and was about to commence the exterior walls. Now, initially, he said he would apply the mesh to the inner andouter sides… now, because of the difficulty in working with this plastic coated metal mesh, he suggested this was not really necessary.
I could be in error; indeed, the wire mesh may not be required on the outside; truly, at the end of the day, it may offer little structural support. But as we had the mesh, and as our initial plan was to lay it on both sides and as we had the workman to fit it, and as he was being paid for the task, I insisted.
He fitted the mesh.
In this way, all the mesh purchased was used – nothing left over.
He then applied the plaster, smoothing it, levelling it, aiming to make the best base for the finish which will be ceramic tile on the interior and stone cladding on the exterior.
He had to add more plaster to the top of the wall than he desired and felt was acceptable. But, as the walls were not level and they really needed to be.
At the end of the day, he was both done and done in. The pool looked much better – this is just the foundation for the finish, but it looks like something now.
As he was worn out, and as we had the ‘excess building material’ that the rough builder had delivered and I paid for, it was agreed that I would take the Master Plasterer home (he lives in a nearby village) in the church van. We would also take along the building materials that were extraneous to our needs. We know that he could make good use of the building material and we appreciate him and he did put the mesh on the outside as I desired, and he is a jolly nice bloke.
With the pool now prepared, we needed a Master Tiler cum Stone Cladder.
Again, due to the renovations we had been involved in, we just happen to know a Master Tiler.
Before he came, I was sent out to source the tile. In so doing, I found I had the choice of one ‘pool’ tile, and, thankfully, everyone approved of it.
For the exterior, I had in mind a specific type of stone – travertine. I love stone, and travertine is, to my eye, a very pleasant stone. I was able to source and purchase the travertine – it comes from the west of Turkey. It was about the same price as ceramic tile so did not impact the cost of the project, but will look so much better in the courtyard when it is finished.
Now this tiler is a Master – he really knows his trade. He is the one who tiled the upstairs flat, over 90 square metres. He prepped the floor, found the ‘centre line’ and drew out the tiles from there and it took him but one day to do the entire flat.
A wonderful job which was very done as well.
I thought, “For a master tiler, this wee little baptismal pool should be a trifle.”
And I suppose it could have been except everything was off. Nothing was square and nothing was true. The plasterer had brought it much closer to true… but much closer is not the same as true.
Our Master Tiler set to work and completed the inside walls of the pool in a couple of hours.
But the exterior stone cladding, well that took a lot of time. And the floor of the pool, that was a real challenge for as as you work, you run out of a place to stand and the high walls prevent you from leaning over to complete the task… and the sump pump hole presented its own, unique challenges partly because two sides were under the edge of the wall… and it was a round hole. He is a Master Tiler, he wants the sump pump to look good as well.
In any event, by the end of the day, the task was not yet completed. He completed a 90 square metres flat in one day, but our wee pool, proved to be such a difficult challenge that one day was insufficient time.
He returned in the morning, to grout the interior and to cut and place the stone cladding for the top of the walls. These walls that are 20 centimetres thick on one side and are 17 centimetres thick on another – even the most basic elements are not true.
Throughout the project, he was cutting the travertine stone using an angle grinder with a large stone cutting wheel fitted. At one point we noted that the cutting wheel was damaged (chunks missing at the cutting edge), nevertheless, with no alternative and no spare cutting wheel, he carried on. This is definitely not what is recommended by those involved in Health and Safety. You could argue, nor is it recommended by simple common sense.
We were near the end of the stone work. In fact, we are at that stage that his helper was cleaning tools – an essential task and one left to the end of the job. The Master tiler was himself cutting one of the last stones with the angle grinder. I’m standing off at the other end of the courtyard trying to stay out of the way of the dust.
Suddenly there was this almighty BANG … I mean it was sudden, it was very loud, and it was absolute… sharp, abrupt and unrestrained. It emphatically declared something had gone very, very wrong.
The Master Tiler’s helper, who had been standing in front of the angle grinder abruptly dropped what he is doing, his hands instinctively flying to his head and he twisted and turned away, walking towards the end of the courtyard. My first thoughts was injury to the face/head.
Thankfully, he was not injured, just shaken up with a serious smack to the face and a few minor cuts. Everything missed his eyes!
It transpired that the cutting wheel, spinning as it does at an extremely high speed had burst apart; all parts of the disintegrated cutting wheel being propelled at that extreme speed away from the angle grinder. The tile master himself, was aware of the danger, and had angled the machine away from himself. He was unscathed.
The bulk of the cutting wheel, with the largest pieces which had been, thankfully, expelled backwards, away from the helper in front of the angle grinder, had flown towards our flat and towards our closed front door.
The largest piece struck the window in the door where it pierced the glass and after creating a massive hole in the window, continued travelling all the way down the corridor to the far side of our flat. The corridor was liberally littered with debris, glass and bits of the cutting disk.
Thankfully, T was not in the corridor at the time but in a side room.
That was… er… exciting.
We were all extremely glad no one was injured.
And, as is in the nature of things, the work continued.
Finally, the master tiler finished his task and now the baptismal pool looks proper. His workmanship was 100% but he was paid less than the rough builder – life is not fair.
I paid him an honest amount – he would not take more. It was the rough builder who had the inordinate recompense. The rough builder, too, has a family to support and being a small builder, work can be inconsistent – paying him more, whilst it irked me, is providing essentials for his family.
To finish off, we had a wooden cover made for the baptismal pool. This enables the baptismal pool to function as a table when we prepare the assistance for the Syrian refugee field workers. It also is effective in keeping the children from falling in when it is not in use.
The pool is complete, and has been commissioned – we recently had our first baptism.
The construction process has been a bit of an adventure.
What really struck me was how the walls alone could not do the task, and how the walls and plaster could not do the task, nor just the walls and the mesh… all three elements are required to make the whole complete and strong and up to the task.
Reminds me that God saves, the Holy Spirit in-dwells and the Church – the Body of Christ – provides the living context for the living out of our Faith. Or to put it another way, we have faith and trust in the finished work of God in Christ, we have the Holy Spirit abiding within us to encourage us to walk in the Way and to give us power to do so, and God has established the Church, our brothers and sisters in Christ – we are not alone, but need one another.
All three elements are necessary.
They are necessary for the baptismal pool to function.
And in the same way, all three elements are necessary for me to grow in Grace and in the Knowledge of God.
Antakya is rather unique among the cities of Turkey. The population that makes up this neglected backwater is strangely cosmopolitan.
The city consists of a mixture of Sunni Turks, Alevi Arabs, Kurds, Greek Orthodox Christians, a minute Jewish population, oh, and now a disproportionate number of Syrian refugee Sunni Arabs. Additionally, the imprint and influence of the time when this area was part of the French Mandate are still discernible.
Now in this region there is a preponderance of small – about 36 – 96 square feet – white-washed, often domed, structures. You will see them decorating hill tops, positioned by streams, found in lonely fields, situated by roads, and they are even liberally scattered throughout the old section of Antakya city.
I noted one such white-washed structure that is situated on an isolated patch on the banks of the Asi River – known in ancient times as the Orontes River.
In time, the ‘powers that be’ decided to cast a bridge over the river right at that point.
However, this small structure, white-washed with green highlights, capped with a small dome, was positioned right at the planned bridgehead.
“What was to be done?” I wondered to myself.
“Would they knock the structure down or shift it somewhere else?” I pondered and watched as the project advanced.
In time, the bridge was thrown across the river and the wee structure continued to defiantly stand where it has historically stood. The four lane approach road was built on the opposite shore.
Then, when the time came to build the approach road on the side with the structure, they built one half of the road on the right side of the structure, and the other on the left side – the structure, untouched, unmoved, unfazed and somewhat marooned, now in the middle of the four lane road – remained exactly where it always has been.
It seems it was too important, or too sacred, to be demolished or even removed to a nearby location. Those who wish to visit this structure will need to negotiate at least two lanes of flowing traffic to gain access.
It was long after this incident that I noticed that this structure has a strange and unique feature. It seems that there was a tree growing in that place and when the structure was constructed the tree, the living tree, was simply incorporated into the building; it continues to this day to grow in, through and out of the building.
These wee white-washed structures, scattered all over this region, are small Alevi shrines.
These buildings have been built over time and have been constructed over the graves of various ‘saints’. These saints can be a ‘holy man’ a ‘sheikh’, ‘a teacher’ or even a ‘Christian saint’ of old.
These structures are almost invariably painted white and most frequently boast a small dome.
Inside the shrines there is a large raised coffin-like structure. This internal feature is plastered over and painted white. It is believed that it has been constructed over the physical grave of the honoured individual. This sarcophagus-like structure is often draped with cloth, green blankets, normal Turkish flags, Green flags or other fabric. The floors are often covered in carpets. The whitewashed walls can be decorated with posters, pictures of Ali, Koranic verses and other writings both in Turkish (Latin) script and Arabic script. These structures are considered ‘holy spaces’. Shoes are strictly left outside.
Within the shrines copies of the Koran and other religious books, teachings, commentaries, and even, occasionally, a New Testament can be found. Local tradition declares that anything left in a Shrine should not be removed.
More often than not, it is the local people who maintain the Shrine – those living nearby or have a special connection with the shrine. Indeed, the structures have initially been built by local people at their own expense – these buildings are outside of the remit of the Religion Department of the government. It is the local people who ensure it is painted, maintained, cleaned and cared for. The door, usually a stout, strong steel door, is closed and locked but opened up on Fridays and other special days and times as according to the Alevi calendar and local tradition. Some can be open on multiple days, but always under the watchful eye of the key holder and self-appointed caretaker of the shrine.
To my limited knowledge no services or other events are planned or executed there – these locales are for individual acts of worship as people reach out to find help in their time of need.
Sometimes you will stumble on a Shrine which is just the grave of the ‘saint’ which has been surrounded by a high wall – but even these, over time, become enclosed and covered.
What do people do at a Shrine?
To the best of my knowledge, you will find no reference whatsoever to shrines within the Koran – these are extra-Koranic structures, functions and activities. They are an expression of Alevi belief and a desire to engage with God.
At these shrines, people will come to pray. Some will come and make a vow to God. Others will make a sacrifice of a chicken, sheep or something else. Others will burn incense. Still others will read the books held within. (For one account of such an individual who read a New Testament in a Shrine – can be read here.)
It is a place to try and make a connection with God, to find solace, to lay out your petition, to seek for assistance, to seek redress for a wrong that has been done to you, to pour out your heart, to find help when you need it most.
Interestingly, burning incense plays a prominent part in the lives and devotion of the local Alevi community.
Confession time: I am not aware of the significance that the Alevi community put on the burning of incense, nor which type of incense is burned, nor when it is burned, nor for how long, nor why and with what meaning.
In an evening in the summer, it is not unheard of to have the heady scent of burning incense to be carried on the breeze and onto our terrace.
In the course of my daily constitutional, I have noted a local florist who perpetually burns incense outside his shop whenever he is open. I do not know how much it is costing him, but there is always a censer piled high with burning incense in the front of his shop, pouring forth its pungent scent and wafted along by the breeze.
It is my observation that people in Turkey are very industrious, innovative and hard working. If they can not find a job, they will seek employment wherever and however they can – creating a job where needed, or meeting a need in society. To explore this aspect of Turkish society, you can read this blog here.
For instance, if there is a road where traffic is routinely queued up, during the hot summer months, individuals will walk amongst the waiting traffic selling cold bottled water.
When there is a sudden downpour in the city, catching all unawares, diligent individuals will be out on the streets selling brollies.
Have you ever been caught without a tissue? There will be someone offering small packages of tissues for sale.
As you go about your business, maybe, just maybe, you may wonder how much you weigh… well there is a chap, with his scale on the side of the road ready to answer that question.
If you live in a city and you have a carpet with a frayed edge – never fear, for before long a lorry will slowly come down your street offering to collect your carpet, stich it up with the machine mounted on the back of the lorry and return it to you immediately.
This is the same for the knife sharpener. He has his sharping wheel mounted in a wooden stand which he rolls down the street offering to sharpen all your knives.
Do you need a photocopy? Or do you require some document to be laminated? A man pushing a small cart or converted pram, with a small electricity generator will come by, offering on-the-spot photocopy and lamination services.
Fresh milk and I mean really fresh, unpasteurised milk, plastic kitchenware, fruit and vegetables, these all will make their appearance in your street, as will a man pushing a wheel barrow full of fresh mint and parsley. If you desire to buy bulk onions, the onion seller will sell you a great bag of onions, weighing them with the scales on the back of his vehicle. Clothes, carpets, blankets, shoes, cloth, fruit, vegetables, water melon, well, just about everything will sooner or later go past your door. And for your cast offs, the rag-and-bones man will also pass by your door announcing his services.
And here in Antakya, in this community with a large Alevi population, an enterprising individual takes a hand-held censer with the fragrant, burning incense producing copious amounts of potent smoke flowing along behind him as he walks the street. If you are feeling the need to be blessed, he will stop and wave it before you, the sweet smell flowing over you, and you will give him a wee bit of money for his service. He goes down the street and various business will call him to come and bless their shop, the incense wafting in, and he will also receive a small remuneration for his efforts. You can see him at a distance, the great cloud of incense billowing out behind him declaring his presence as he searches those who desire his services.
It appears that someone will endeavour to try and meet even your spiritual needs on the streets of Antakya.
Nevertheless that void, that longing, that desire to ‘know’ God continues unabated, unrequited and untouched by the fragment smell of incense.
sheep awaiting sacrifice
the sacrifice waiting
sheep awaiting sacrifice
sheep awaiting sacrifice
prayers attached to a tree
Prayers attached to a wall
The answer to the longing in the heart of man is not found in shrines, full of dead men’s bones, nor in sacrifice – the blood of chickens or sheep, nor in the making and keeping of vows, nor in tying of votive offerings on special trees or special places, nor in inhaling or bathing in the heady scent of incense. It is not within these activities, as well-meaning as they may be performed, that intimacy with God can be found.
This natural, human, inner longing for intimacy with God is attainable, but like so much in life, it is not on our terms or according to what we desire or what we, in our wisdom, have decided is the Way to attain intimacy with God.
True intimacy is a two way street, it does not occur in a vacuum, nor in a void, nor it is imposed from one side on another. Both parties come together in a mutually acceptable manner.
God, Himself, has intervened in human history; the Almighty has physically entered human history and laid out His Way for mankind to know Him and experience intimacy with the Divine.
This is the Way that He Himself has initiated, and He deals with our weaknesses, our errors and mistakes and, let’s be blunt, our ‘sins’ …and takes care of this otherwise insurmountable impediment to intimacy with Pure, Holy, Righteous God. It is in walking in His way that we can actually ‘taste and see that God is good’, that we can personally know Him and know His power and experience His Love in our lives. That we can know and receive and revel in the Love of God.
Our home is not old in comparison with the abundance of truly, really old buildings that you will find throughout Turkey and that is without considering the few ancient buildings that are still standing. Our home is probably just under a hundred years in existence.
We believe it was constructed during the French Mandate (1923 – 1946). That was the time after the suzerainty of the Ottoman Empire and before this area was joined to the Turkish Republic.
The administration by the French was a mixed bag as most colonial powers are inclined to be.
French rule was oppressive and they tended to accentuate the natural racial and religious divisions within their mandated territory – they adhered to the British maxim of ‘divide and rule’. They imposed the French Franc as the currency of the territory, but the Franc was administered according to the needs of France and without regard to the needs of the Mandate Territories.
On the positive side, the French championed modern town planning, civil engineering projects, schools, hospitals and so on.
But overall, the French were more interested in administering their Mandated territories, today what is the Lebanon, Syria and the Turkish province of Hatay, according to their own socio-economic priorities and, as always, with a view to their rivalry with the British.
Within society there was a lot of unrest and discontent with the dominating control exercised by the foreign power.
But, it was also in this time that the much appreciated, large, green, treed, central park was constructed in Antakya. The French also constructed some fine, stone buildings including a small parliament building for the newly minted Republic of Hatay (established on 7 September 1938 and dissolved when merged with to Turkey in 23 July 1939). The independent Republic of Hatay had existed for about ten months.
It was in this time that we believe that our house was constructed.
It was built with a mixture of old and new building methodologies and materials. The outer walls, are old school, built of rough, field stone with mortared outer faces with rock-rubble in-fill and built to 60 to 70 centimetres thick. For the roof, they used heavy steel ‘I’ beams to support a reinforced flat concrete roof.
The homes built at this time were built in the traditional configuration with high ceilings and laid out around a central courtyard with all the rooms opening into the courtyard. If you desired to go from one room to another, this would entail a trip to the courtyard to make the connection.
In summer time that would be no problem – but in winter, in the drizzling rain, it was less than desirable to have to go outside to go to the kitchen, or toilet or bedroom via the dark, damp, cold, breezy courtyard.
It appears that our large house was built in conjunction with the neighbouring house, and together it was a corporate home to a large, extended family.
At some time in the life of the building, it seems that family relationships hit the buffers, which resulted in a wall being erected between the houses. It was not a planned wall nor a bearing wall.
When we first moved in we were doing some renovations in the kitchen and discovered that the dividing wall was no more than a single brick wide. When we vigorously attacked the wall to remove the plaster on our side… we also unknowingly and unintentionally, knocked the plaster off the opposite side of the wall.
The neighbour complained – wouldn’t you?
In the end we accidentally poked a hole in the wall and then discovered its depths – or lack thereof. We replastered their side as well as our own.
Anyway, back to the history and development of the building. After the construction of this rather flimsy dividing wall, and at a later date, someone decided to extend the back wing of the building by utilising and extending the building out and into the courtyard. Doing this consumed approximately one third of the courtyard. When we compare our courtyard with our neighbours, it is clear that when our home was initially constructed, the courtyard was of rather generous proportions. As a result, there was sufficient space to give some area to a room and still leave a reasonably sized courtyard.
The extension was constructed with more modern columns and beams and they poured a concrete extension to the flat roof. In this manner they joined all the rooms on the wing on the back side of the courtyard under one roof.
Thus this newly created single, long, rectangular room, running the length of the old wing, meant that no longer were people required to go into the courtyard to communicate from room to room. No more traipsing through the rain carrying the evening meal to the dining room, no more dreading the midnight stroll, no more cooling the house in winter as someone must exit to go to another room.
Of course, the two rooms on the opposite side of the courtyard still required a courtyard stroll to access. The main access to the property is via the front street and by means of a corridor which bisected the two rooms. So one would enter the property and then cross the courtyard to enter the extended wing at the back of the courtyard.
Interestingly, this meant that the newly created room had both doors to the pre-existing rooms, but also windows, for formerly they looked into the courtyard; now they looked either into the new room, or from opposite perspective, into the former rooms.
It was rather strange.
Hence, it was in this unplanned manner, that our home has historically grown and been extended. These changes occurred organically, without planning – simply answering the needs of the occupants at that time.
Which brings me to our corridor. Our corridor is a johnny-come-lately, joining the oldest part of the house with the first addition which consisted of the kitchen, bathroom, toilet and finally with the last addition, the added-on extension that consumed part of the courtyard.
As is in keeping with its origins, it is a bit odd.
Firstly, it isn’t straight. Well, full disclosure, the whole house is a collection of odd angles – nothing, anywhere, is straight: the plot that the property is built on may, possibly, have a 90º angle – somewhere, but truly, everything is skew-whiff. The corridor is just one more example of this household trait.
Secondly, the corridor is of different levels: the lowest level is at the door to/from the courtyard – this was the level of the added-on room. The higher level, a mini-step of about two centimetres, goes from where the former courtyard door was but is now situated one third the way down the corridor. This early section of the corridor goes towards the back of the house and joined the old, original wing with the later addition of the kitchen, bathroom and toilet.
The multi-level dimension does not end there.
The kitchen, bathroom and side room are all higher than the corridor.
So, someone coming into our home, would begin at one level, and then, one third the way down the corridor would have to negotiate the mid-corridor lift of about two centimetres. Proceeding down the corridor, wherever they would desire to go, it would involve another mini-step of something like three centimetres to gain entry to one of those rooms.
We have noticed that many of our visitors have been stumbled, literally, by the mid-corridor change in height.
For us, it became so much a part of our life, that we negotiated it, often without even being cognisant of it. As we ceased being aware of it, it quietly morphed into becoming part of the wallpaper, so to speak.
However, when the workmen put in the pipes for the central heating system, they had to trench across the floor at the lowest level of the corridor.
Thus, right at the entrance from the courtyard into the house, the tiles were broken up to enable the placement of the central heating piping, this provided an opportunity to retile that first third of the corridor, from the door to the mini-step. We could correct the stumbling block, we could remove the needless and unhelpful little step.
Because there was no way we could get the same style of floor tiles, this meant that we would be utilising a different floor tile pattern. Therefore, we needed a logical point to change from the newer tiles to the former – we did not want to retile the whole corridor. Logically, breaking where the corridor already changes direction and width and height would also provide a reasonable visual break for the tile work.
So, this we arranged to have this done.
The tiler came late in the day, after completing a full days work in a town some 40 odd kilometres out of Antakya. He arrived and immediately flew at the task. He put extra gunk at the end where the mini-step was and then gradually brought the tiles down to the old level by the front door. I had failed to purchase the required ‘extra’ gunk, and so he had to be creative with what building materials we had lying about to beef up the amount of gunk to be able to complete the job.
The finished product looks good. The tile are a wood-effect design that actually doesn’t look bad. The tiles are also non-slip; and they really, honestly do deliver on being non-slip. That is an added, unplanned bonus.
The new tile work looks good.
Well, of course, if the grout lines had been lined up it would have looked a lot better. But, at the end of the day, it was short notice, he was already committed to other work and, hence, it was done quickly. Understandably the chap was tired. The tile work covers the offending scar where the central heating pipes entered the floor, and is well laid, there is no discord between the tiles creating mini-stumbling points.
And most importantly, there is no mini-step now.
That is great!
But, as I walk the corridor two things strike me.
First off, I am consciously aware that I am ‘going up’ when I walk from the front of the house towards the back, and when I return towards the front of the house, I am ever cognisant that I am walking ‘down’ the corridor. It is very slight, maybe two centimetres difference over the course of a metre, but my legs or feet or whatever, faithfully report the change to me.
The other thing I notice is it seems the step had been programmed into my walking. I sub-consciously anticipate the step, ready to automatically make adjustments for it – now I am aware of the absence of the mini-step. On coming to the former height change, I hesitate, not stumble, but my attention is drawn to the ‘missing’ mini-step.
I am sure any visitors we have will not miss it. Hopefully they will not even be aware that there was a mini tripping-step there.
But for a week, coming and going, I was aware of the missing step. My mind could be elsewhere, but when coming to the location of the former tripping-step, I was suddenly aware of that it wasn’t there. Over a week later, I’m still cognisant of its absence.
Oh, one other thing I noticed: on walking the transition from the mini-ramp to the rest of the corridor, I feel the change from ramp to flat. No, I do not think that will be a tripping hazard… at least I hope not.
This is an example of muscle memory, a ‘learned’ and then ingrained pattern of walking the corridor. This enabled me to negotiate the mini-step day or night or on a midnight stroll – in pitch darkness – and all subconsciously, flawlessly and effortlessly.
I had become both unaware of the step and unaware of my body coping, silently, with it.
It causes me to wonder, “What else in my life have I made accommodations for, and silently deal with subconsciously?”
There may be areas of compromise, of, er, ‘adjustment’ that maybe should not be. Yes, it may make life easier, but I’m called to doing that which is ‘right’ and not that which is ‘easiest’.
I know we do not ‘control’ any of our days – we are dependant on so many varied variables, but today has been distinctly different.
My normal routine had already been knocked for six because a man was coming to fit a sump pump in the house (another story why we need this), and I needed to be in attendance and consequently, as my normal morning routine was superseded. This being the case, we arranged for a man who can install central heating systems to come and appraise our flats and produce a quote.
Consequently, I went for my morning constitutional at 08:00 – the time I normally give to practicing the guitar.
Just to complicate things, we had anticipated some visitors arriving on the previous day in the afternoon – but in the event, they actually arrived at 11:30 – er that is 23:30… a time that I call night.
A brother from Diyarbakir, in the east of the country, was shepherding them on their desired tour – they themselves visiting from South Africa.
In spite of arriving late the night before, they were leaving by late morning today – an exceptionally brief visit.
Over breakfast there had been a discussion of the work that the small Christian Fellowship here is involved in with the Syrian refugee field workers. They were interested to learn more, and see a bit of the work. Hence, in my absence, it was decided that I was drive the church vehicle and lead them up the valley to some of the Syrian refugee encampments that we labour amongst.
As I was scheduled to be at the house to ‘attend’ as the man was to fit the sump pump, he was rung and we cancelled the appointment – to be rescheduled for another day.
It was also suggested that rather than having the ‘man’ dig the pit for the sump pump, that I dig a hole 1 meter deep by about 80 cm square before we call the man to come back… Okay…
With these changes in play, we also rang the central heating man and arranged for him to come in the afternoon…
My plans for the afternoon have now been dealt a blow as well; my normal routine had been suspended and now the alternative plan (attending the sump pump man) was superseded.
I climbed into the church’s ten passenger Volkswagen Transporter and began my hour long drive up the valley to where we do our aid distribution…
There were about ten or twelve people in the other van.
On the way up the valley, I was leading, when, unexpectedly the following van overtook me. Now in front, he promptly pulled over to the side of the dual carriageway, stopping in front of a small shop. It seems they wanted to get some refreshments of some sort.
When they were ready, I headed out again – faithfully holding to the 80 kph speed limit. I utterly detest speeding tickets and paying money for, well, nothing really, just a certificate of speed attained.
We passed through the first police check point with no problem. But, further up the road, I was selected to be checked by the Gendarme at their security checkpoint.
I dutifully pulled in and stopped – the other van, not being so selected, carried on. I rolled down my window, greeting the soldier and then turned away to turn off my phone which was playing music to accompany me whilst I drove. The soldier looked in the empty van, looked at this late middle aged, white-bearded foreigner and when I finally turned from my phone, he told me to carry on.
Off I went, rejoining the traffic on the dual carriageway and powered up the valley – holding to the 80 kph speed limit.
Then ahead I spied the other van, moving slowly along on the side of the carriageway. Now the vehicle I’m driving is a rather distinctive black Volkswagen Transporter, so when I over-took them, I ‘assumed’ they would see and recognise me. The driver knows our vehicle.
After overtaking, as I pulled away, I checked my mirror and they seemed to be continuing to drive slowly along the side of the road. I assumed they would speed up.
I carried on… at 80 kph.
When I arrived at the turn-off point – there was still no sign of them – I stopped.
Now, I rant and rave against people using their mobile phones whilst driving; so I had purposed to neither initiate a call whilst driving, nor to answer any incoming calls. Stopped as I was now, I was still loath to ring the other van as they are most likely driving.
So, swallowing this, for me, rather bitter pill, I rang and the first question was “Are you still at the Security Control point?”
“Er, no, I was there very briefly, I am awaiting for you at the turnoff point”.
A few minutes later they roared up, and our convoy, now duly reconstituted, departed, me again leading the way to where the Syrian refugee encampments are situated.
We travelled up to Kırıkhan, and turn off the main road and headed towards the border. The encampment I had selected was not the first, but at a bit of a distance, but it was a good, all-round example of the encampments we deal with. Additionally, there is a real gaggle of children there and the visitors had purchased some sweets to give the children.
We call this encampment ‘The Grove’, not because there are trees in the encampment – there aren’t any – but because there is a grove of trees across the road from the make-shift encampment. This encampment is on a bit of a rise, and now, well into summer, baking hot. As I said, no trees within the encampment, everything is exposed to the unrelenting, scorching sun. Water at this particular encampment is provided by a water bowser which is topped up from time to time.
Sweets were happily received by the children.
After this encampment we swung by another encampment – but this was wholly redundant, and, as one of the visitors commented to me, “They all look alike”, to which he added, “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” – let the hearer understand, he was politely declaring ‘No need to show us anymore.’
We powered back to the main road – the other van turning right to carry on up the valley and then back to Diyarbakır. I turned left to return to Antakya.
It had been stressed to me that I needed to be back by 13:00 as the van was required. Today was a deferred time for the team to go to one of the encampments where we do a children’s work – their departure time was slated to be 13:00.
So, in one sense, I was racing the clock. When we departed we had three hours for me to complete the journey, there and back. I thought this was easily adequate amount of time for the task. However, in fact, it was taking more than three hours to complete.
I did not exceed the speed limit, if I arrive late, I arrive late.
I was patient at all the red traffic lights.
I think I made a record for the number of red traffic lights I encountered on the return journey.
Being impatient at a red traffic light profits me not at all; being patient, however, and remaining calm, blood pressure abiding where it ought to be is both profitable, pleasant and absent of stress.
I had been told that if I was late, then they would take Ö’s vehicle – it would not be the best solution, but it was a viable and a ready solution.
My better-half, T, can monitor where in the world I am as I have ‘shared‘ my location via my phone with her. Hence, I hoped that they would have an idea where I was and, roughly, how long I would be.
Again, I had determined that I would not ring T whilst driving, and I would not answer the phone if it rang.
Driving the speed limit, waiting patiently at all the red lights, I arrived at our home about ten minutes later than their planned departure time.
Happily, my ever-changing location had been monitored; consequently they knew where I was and about when I would arrive.
They had opted to wait.
I didn’t park up; I just stopped in the street in front of our house – which given how narrow our street is, I effectively blocked the road. But I knew they would be departing posthaste.
Personally, I was done in… being diabetic, I can not play loose and free with my meal times. I had grabbed some bites of my sandwich whilst up the valley – only whilst stopped, not whilst driving.
Now at home, I finished my meagre meal.
Immediately after the meal was my first opportunity to practice the guitar this day, but after just ten minutes, the man for the central heating system arrived.
Now, I thought he would come, do his investigation, make his measurements, and calculate the cost all before I would depart for my guitar lesson, which was fully two hours after his arrival.
Indeed, I even entertained notions that I would have time to practice some before the lesson.
The man and his helper came and examined the space we had identified as a potential ‘furnace room’.
It is not ideal, but, well, it is the only space that could be remotely converted into a furnace room.
It took quite a while to determine where the chimney could go and then to decide where it would go. The chimney will begin on the ground floor, pass through a disused stairway which is covered and made into a wee balcony area on the first floor and then pass up through the roof and then, it will pass through our neighbours roof which overhangs ours. All in all, it is proposed to be eleven metres of plastered, cement block chimney, reinforced with angle iron.
Just to make things more interesting, this is on the side of the house that is subject to our neighbours rather disturbing subsidence….
After sorting the furnace room/chimney out, they came into our flat to measure for radiators, decide where they would go and how the various challenges identified could be and ultimately, would be addressed.
Then we went upstairs to the elder’s flat and did the same.
For me, the clear priority is the upstairs flat as my motivation in going to a furnace system was to alleviate the labour and work load of the elder’s wife, E.
In Turkey, if you have a wood/coal fired, pot-bellied stove, it is the lady of the house’s task to operate it (fuel, light, maintain, empty ash) – it is a cultural imperative and, really there are no practical alternatives.
But when it comes to furnaces, however, they are primarily a man’s responsibility – it is a big piece of equipment that needs a man’s touch.
Interestingly, emptying the ash is still the ladies task – but I have been sold on the idea of a wood-pellet furnace which produces very little and very light ash – or so we have been assured. So the labour requirements for the elder’s wife will be greatly diminished – which is the goal.
Then, over a demitasse of strong Turkish coffee, he did his sums.
I, as seems to be my nature, complicated things.
I wanted a sum with the second-hand furnace, a sum with a new furnace, and a sum with the top of the line, fully automatic furnace.
I also wanted a sum calculated without doing the radiators in our lower flat, in an effort to save money.
However, this last request is extremely strange and a rather odd kind of request for Turks, and in the end, it seems, he just ignored it.
We got our prices.
We drank our Turkish coffee.
I buzzed with the effects of the potent caffeine hit.
I had been surreptitiously monitoring E.’s location (she has shared her location on her phone) and I knew they were well on their way back from the children’s work.
Before we were done, she arrived, and so, we began explaining everything we had determined, what could be done and what we suggest should be done – if we decide to have a system installed.
Then the elder, H, arrived from his secular job.
So, we began explaining everything to him.
It was in the midst of rehearsing all the salient facts, problems, compromises and solutions that my guitar teacher rang, wondering where on earth I was… because I clearly was not at my lesson…
Time had totally escaped me.
Profuse apologies, following profuse apologies… things really are not going according to any plan that I am part of today.
In the end we finished all our explainations.
We need to inform the central heating man by the morrow if we want to install any system and especially if we desire the second-hand furnace.
Today, nothing went to plan and I was bounced from pillar to post by various events…
But, life is like that… we constantly need to respond to events, assess, appraise, decide what we can and should do in the circumstance and all the while, to be true to who we are and our principles.
On my morning constitutional, I noticed that in spite of it being a significant holiday in Turkey, the water company was out with a JCB and parts and things.
It seems there was a water leak.
As I continue my walk, I came past the bottom of the hill below where the JCB was parked and noted that there was a large quantity of water freely flowing down from the leak – a good thing they are working to make things right, even on a holiday.
The next day, there was just a gravelly spot on the road to declare where the leak had been. The hill was liberally decorated with dirt and dried mud from the overflow.
On the following day, I am sitting in a wee coffee shop at the bottom of the hill when I see horizontal water spray flying down the hill.
Now this caught my attention.
Slowly a Fire appliance came into view; a tanker truck – it carts the water to accompany the other fire fighting appliances and ensures a constant source of water.
Today, in service to the local council, they were slowly driving down the hill spraying the road with a set of high pressure water nozzles at the front of the lorry.
Slowly coming down the hill, they drove all the dirt, dust, stones before them. The roadway is left free of debris; clean and spotless.
The appliance then stopped in front of the coffee shop and released a fire hose. With this the two firefighters began spraying the street, driving the accumulated dirt, mud and stones along the road and towards the storm drain.
They cleaned in front of the coffee shop, they cleaned the pavement in front of the shop. They sprayed, with diminished force, the ten or so planters full of colourful flowers in front of the coffee shop.
They were diligent, hard working, pressing on to make all clean and ship-shape.
I found the process reminiscent of the circle of life. They were called out because of a water leak which had besmirched the roadway. They cleaned the road by driving the muddy, soil laden water into the water drains; where, in the fullness of time, they will become clogged requiring a crew to come out and clear the drain, soiling the street which will require the Fire Brigade to once again come and clean the street.
And after all this diligent, hard work… the two firefighters (er, street cleaners?) came into the coffee shop for their full Turkish breakfast
The street is clean… until the drain needs to be cleared… and then the cycle will repeat itself.
No action, no activity seems to occur in isolation.
Actions need to be seen, to be assessed, in their context. The activity that I am about to engage in: what are the natural repercussions; what will naturally result; what are the responsibilities; what are the consequences.
I enjoy history, old photos, old travelogues, old stones, basically, things that are old and the older the better.
We have come across some old photos of Antakya which clearly depict the extent of the old town, pinned up tight to the skirt of the mountain rising to the south and hemmed in by the Asi (ancient Orontes) River to the north.
In days past – throughout the history of the city – buildings were constructed to the best of local knowledge of construction, and as is always the case, according to available resources. Many of the older buildings made liberal use of, shall we say, pre-existing building materials.
It has been a constant throughout history that old, decrepit, abandoned or damaged buildings have formed a source for building materials – suitable stones, arches, door lintels and supports being readily retrieved and re-purposed.
This ancient tradition goes contrary to our new, modern sensitivities to maintain and preserve these examples of the former. But, throughout history, old buildings were viewed as valuable resources to be exploited.
A stroll through the old quarter of the city of Antakya will amply demonstrate this practice over centuries. Many building will have lower courses of finely finished large stone blocks, superbly fitted together. Then, as you look further up the walls, you see a change to less well finished stones which are not well set together, and, often, the upper sections will be formed from uncut, unfinished field stones mortared together.
If I try to ‘read’ such a building, I may be forgiven for hypothesising that the lowest parts are the remains of the oldest building (maybe 100 years, 500 years, a thousand years….), and people reused the extant old walls in-situ, then, building on top with whatever other stones could be scavenged and reused and finally, the upper courses in the wall consisting of field stone, unfinished and simply mortared into place in the wall.
That is common among the old buildings of Antakya. However, for the past sixty odd years or more, the modern inclinations of the inhabitants has been to abandon these old stone built houses constructed around private courtyards and to build with concrete and to go up in three, four, five, or even six stories, forming modern high rise apartment buildings.
A generation has turned their backs on the old, stone build courtyard houses preferring these ‘modern’ concrete boxes.
Of course, it is possible to accommodate many more people in the same building plot when you build up.
I understand this.
However, when it is considered that this is an active earthquake area and for the past sixty years these buildings, these modern high-rise buildings, have been constructed, er, well, using the knowledge and building methodology adapted from single story buildings, we come to a point of concern.
These high-rises were built to meet an ‘aspiration’ to be modern.
They were built to meet a housing need.
Many were built, simply to turn a profit.
They were built to look nice.
They were built with a form of reinforcing steel, but of a smooth, outdated style which is not now used; the concrete was generally created by a pile of aggregate being dumped in front of the building under construction, water was added and cement dumped on top of the pile of aggregate and then the pile would be hand shovelled and turned over until it was considered ‘mixed’. Then the cement would be shovelled in to old tin cheese containers, and then hand carried on the workmen’s shoulders to wherever the ‘pour’ was happening. If on the top floor, they would lug all the concrete so mixed, trudging up the stairs to where the pour was happening.
There was no quality control on the cement mixture nor the effectiveness of the ‘pour’. It is a sad fact that often insufficient steel was employed and the steel that was used was of the wrong style. When you combine that with the poor quality cement mixes, the result is buildings which looked good (plaster is a master of disguise) but are structurally suspect.
In those days there was less awareness of the building requirements which would enable a building to withstand the powerful forces of earthquakes which, from time to time, rock this particular part of our terrestrial ball.
These apartment buildings were built. People moved in. A generation has been raised within their walls.
But now the modern question is: “What do you do with these extant, existing, occupied structures which are inherently defective and vulnerable to earthquake damage and even catastrophic failure?”
There was an earthquake in 1997 which violently shook Antakya and reminded all citizens abiding here that Antakya has been utterly destroyed by earthquakes numerous times throughout its long history.
This was followed by the 1999 earthquake near Istanbul, which was centred near the town of Izmit, and devastated tens of thousands of houses, high rises and buildings – with over 17,000 fatalities. The images of this earthquake exhibited scenes of rows upon rows of high rise apartment buildings collapsed, leaning over, pancaked and others left standing but being inherently uninhabitable.
What was truly shocking was in the midst of this general, extensive destruction there would be the odd building, built to the building code and standing proud and true in the midst of the great devastation and death.
This highlighted that in many ways this was a man-made disaster.
Especially since that devastating earthquake of 1999, building methodology and practices have been brought into sharp focus.
Consequently, there has been a greater emphasis on the building code (which was good) – and the enforcement thereof (which was lacking).
Additionally, considering the vast amounts of old, substandard housing stock, there has been a real concerted effort to replace the worst, the most vulnerable buildings, with new proper, sturdy, strong buildings.
This national programme is called ‘Urban Renewal’ and it is a government scheme to assist in the tearing down of older, vulnerable buildings and replacing them with new high-rise buildings, built to modern building codes and able to withstand – as much as anything built by man can – the effects of earthquakes.
Of course this is a costly business. All the occupants must leave and be housed elsewhere. The old concrete monolith must be totally torn down and then a new building erected in its place.
Often, from what I’ve observed, a four story building is rebuilt as five stories (five stories rebuilt as six and so on), the contractor having possession of the extra flats created and sells them as part of their fee in doing the work.
Sometimes the existing flats are rebuilt, but smaller, allowing the creation of additional flats that the builder can sell as part of their remuneration for the building work.
And I notice that the age-old process of stripping a building of the valuable bits continues. Near where I am sitting a five storey building has been emptied and is about to come down. There are men removing windows, any and all metal – basically anything of value – before the process of reducing the building commences.
Once the ‘recyclables’ have been reclaimed, then the work of reducing the building in earnest begins.
As this is occurring in many places in the city as I write, I have a general picture of the process.
Firstly the building is isolated by a high fence; a basic metal frame and sheets of corrugated metal.
After the scavenging, men enter the building and, using jack hammers, open up large holes in the floors of the larger rooms – creating voids to allow building debris to fall through the building. They sometimes jack-hammer some of the balconies away.
When the building has been thusly prepared, a tracked JCB with a hydraulic jackhammer fitted on the boom is hoisted to the top of the building. I’ve never been present at this stage, but I assume a very large crane is brought in to lift the JCB to the pinnacle of the building.
Once there the operator sits in the cab and systematically jackhammers the floor out from underneath the machine he is operating.
How they move down to the next floor, I do not know. I see the machines on the top floors. I hear them hammering away. I see the upper floor shrinking as they destroy it from above. And I see the building getting shorter and shorter. I’ve never been there when the JCB made the transition to a lower floor.
However it is accomplished, in this way the debris falls down, around, in and through the openings in the building. When the building is reduced to a mound of debris two or so stories tall, the smaller machine is replaced by a very large, tracked JCB with a huge hydraulic jackhammer which continues the demolition process.
Finally, they replace the jackhammer with a big bucket and load the shattered debris into dumper lorries and cart it off. The reinforcing steel is separated, collected, and compacted as much as they can with the JCB and then loaded into lorries for recycling.
At the end of the process, a new building plot has been created. The old is gone. What can be recycled, as in the ancient tradition, has been redeemed and removed.
After a suitable passage of time – is it for permissions, or checks or, well, I do not know, planning permission… the rebuilding process commences.
Modern, proper reinforcing steel, modern curtain walls and other structural principles are all diligently applied. The cement is all proper, ready-mix, made to order and quality controlled. The cement is pumped up from ground level with massive concrete pumping lorries to wherever the pour is happening, ensuring a good, continuous pour. Workmen with vibrator devices ensure the cement flows and fills all voids and is a good pour.
The new buildings will be substantially stronger and more resistant to the violent forces released by earthquakes.
When the process is all said and done, the former owners take possession of their new flats. The builder takes possession of the new flats created and sells them. And a neighbourhood which was slowly becoming dowdy, being amply littered with older, sadder, shakier buildings is slowly rebuilt with new, taller, smarter, stronger, stylish buildings.
True Urban Renewal transpires.
This causes me to think that as a follower of the ‘Way’, I have embarked on a process which doesn’t attempt to clean up and strengthen what was in my life, but like ‘Urban Renewal’, actually calls for the removal of the old, the substandard, the weak, and like the rusted and inadequate steel and poor quality concrete – it all must go, it can not be redeemed, can not be strengthened, can not be made right. The only recourse is to demolish right down to and including the foundation and then to rebuild, correctly, from below ground level upwards.
My life is not subject to renovation or improvements – but the absolute removal of the weak and defective and a rebuilding, a making new, from below the foundations all the way up is underway.
With ‘Urban Renewal’ things do always go as planned. If you would like to read a bit more of this blog, there is more below… or you could stop now. The choice is yours… Click Here for a wee bit more…
My wife and haven’t done anything special for a while, so I floated the idea of walking down to the new Antakya Archaeological Museum to have a gander. We’ve been there before, but as we purchased ‘Museum Passes’ last autumn, we can go for ‘free’. Of course it is not actually ‘free’, but more accurately ‘pre-paid’, but it feels free. Sometimes it is nice to go to a museum, and streak past many exhibits to spend time exploring, experiencing and enjoying just one particular aspect. The Museum Pass enables this. Summer has not yet come, and consequently, strolling in the afternoon is acceptable, so we decided to head out in the afternoon.
After lunch, we struck out, planning a fairly direct course as the museum is a fair walk away (3.3 kilometres there – oh, and then there is back).
This took us, naturally, to the dominate road in the old quarter of Antakya. This road is ‘Salvation Avenue’. Salvation can have a special meaning for Christians, but locally, it is probably a reference to the war of independence or some other victorious battle.
This ‘Salvation Avenue’ runs, straight as a die, through the heart of the old quarter. By examining street plans of the ancient city – and due to the mountain being a a fixed point, and the river (until recently crossed by the ancient Roman bridge) as another fixed point, you can discern where the ancient layout and the modern ‘old quarter’ coincide.
In ancient times there was a major street dissecting the metropolis. This was a unique, colonnaded street which hosted the first street in the Roman Empire to boast ‘street lighting’… a significant thoroughfare and as Romans tended to make, a very straight street.
It would appear that ‘Salvation Avenue’ follows directly on top of the course of this ancient thoroughfare. If archaeologists were to conduct a dig, it is extremely likely they will come upon the ruins of that ancient way just two or three metres below the road surface.
We headed off, our goal in mind.
As we walked along on the pavement, I noticed ahead, two men dressed in civil attire, but one had a distinctive radio hanging from his waist.
As we drew nigh, the one with the radio turns towards me, and pointing a single finger directly at me, directs me to stop. He looks like a policeman. His manner of stopping me was as one who has authority, very unlike salesmen and beggars.
Once stopped, he begins patting and examining his pockets until he finds his ID and produces it to officially declare that he is a policeman. His travelling companion did not do this – I suppose one is sufficient, would be the thinking.
He knew he had stopped foreigners, we are somewhat obvious, he therefore spoke in English, and asked for my passport.
Under the current conditions, I ‘never leave home without it’. I reached into my pocket and produced my passport. He looked at it and we then had a discussion on what made up the ‘United Kingdom’.
My wife, following our rules, ‘only do or answer what you are asked, volunteer nothing’, is standing there, passport safely stored in her bag.
He asked for her passport as well.
They took photos of both passports – the modern ‘smart phone’ at work in all its glory. Then they sent a text message or email with the salient information from the passport somewhere.
He asked what I do. I explained I ‘help a local church’. My belief is the truth will be spoken convincingly and comfortably – and is verifiable and hence is the best course to follow. Besides, Holy Writ instructs me that my ‘yes’ needs to be ‘yes’ and my ‘no’ must mean ‘no’ – in other words be honest in my communications.
Which church?, and such questions naturally followed.
This done, they hold us there on the side of the footpath – it is not a wide footpath.
A man came up to assist, he identified himself as the local ‘muhtar’ (the elected head of a neighbour in a town). The two identify themselves as police (without showing ID) and the man beats a prompt retreat.
We are informed that we are awaiting a message – our details having been sent somewhere, are being scrutinised and a response will be forthcoming.
As we wait, the other policeman engages me in a discussion of religion – specifically, ‘Protestantism’ and ‘Evangelicals’. As we are chatting, the other policeman’s phone rings and I hear him talking with the person on the other end. He refers to me as a person with responsibilities at a church.
When the call was concluded, he, making no additional comment, gave us back our passports and sent us on our way.
So it was a ‘random stop and check’… he seemed to be at pains to point out that we were not the only ones so stopped. That, in itself is somewhat odd for me – why would you do that, unless…. it was not random, but targeted…. it is a path I use frequently….
Enough pointless and profitless paranoia…
There is a very important referendum on Easter Sunday – we will be celebrating the Resurrection of our Lord and Saviour, and the Turks will be going about their democratic duty voting in the referendum. This has probably resulted in some additional security checks.
Oh the heady days of 2007, we were fresh in the city of Antakya, which was then boasting a population of 144,000 souls.It definitely had a small town, back-water, forgotten feel to it.
Things, services, foods that you would take for granted in the larger cities, or even the small towns in the west of the country were unheard of, unimagined here.It was like stepping back in time.
Those were the halcyon days before the strife, upheaval and devastation that was introduced with the so-called ‘Arab Spring’.Many western commentators rushed to view the up-risings from their own western, democratic, liberal perspective and world view.
In the ‘good old days’ before the ‘Arab Spring’, Turkey was on very good terms with its neighbour Syria.Visa-free travel was introduced and Turks freely went to Syria and Syrians freely came to Turkey.
It was not uncommon to see cars with Arabic number plates from Syria.Nor was it uncommon to see taxis declaring a service from Aleppo to Antakya.
Unfortunately the ‘visa-free’ travel did not extend to my nationality.And whilst my Turkish friends could travel to or through Syria on a whim, if I was to contemplate such a journey I would need to plan, go to a Syrian consulate or Embassy and obtain a visa before travel.
And the cost of a tourist visa wasn’t cheap.
I had friends who travelled to Aleppo, saw the ancient citadel, wandered the exotic souks and enjoyed the delights of the city.
That experience is gone now.The war has reduced Aleppo and the ancient citadel to ruins.The Byzantine maze of the souks are damaged, deserted; what remains are the battered and tattered shells of what they once were.
I never made it to Syria.
I have no plans to go anytime soon.
But, it seems over the course of the last five or so years, slowly, slowly, Syria has been migrating here.
They came, not using ‘visa-free’ travel, those days are long gone, nay, they simply jumped over the border – once just a simple, low barbed wire fence.
The majority came fleeing the violence, the indiscriminate chaos, death and destruction raining down and being meted out by all sides on all sides.
Others fled for a respite, fighters and wounded fighters alike.They come, and in the fullness of time, return.
Now when I walk the streets of Antakya, where once I occasionally heard Arabic, now, I occasionally hear Turkish.
The people in the streets, frequenting the shops or in the most modern of shopping malls that graces our town centre are liberally laced with the dress and complexion of our guests from neighbouring Syria.
Many of these new-comers are opening up shops, bakeries, restaurants and so on.Where once all the signs in the city were in Turkish, now there is a growing accumulation of Arabic Script signs.
It seems I did not go to Syria, but Syria has come to me.
Strange, we’ve only been gone for three months, and whilst most things are unchanged, yet, there are subtle, and sometimes niggly wee changes.
I strode out today to check on some things. I left our home in the old quarter of the city, following, for me, familiar narrow ways – I can not call them lanes, as they are very narrow, the width of a car and most of these ‘ways’ will never see an automobile as it would be impossible to turn into them.
The houses are all old, courtyard style housing. The homes are surrounded by either the high walls of the dwelling or simply by high walls. There is no notion as to what my be lurking behind the soaring walls. The walls themselves are built of either rough fieldstone or plastered rough fieldstone.
But the entrances are almost universally constructed of dressed stones, often with a lovely stone arch topping the doorway.The residence may be humble and crumbling, but the doorways, even when decrepit with age, look impressive.
I made my way through the maze of narrow lanes and came out just above the location for the ‘cable car base station’.
Many years ago a project was initiated to create a cable car to take tourists from the market streets in the old town to the top of the mountain where they would be treated to an expansive view, cooling breezes and a nice tea house to relax in.
Such was the plan and all was going well, very well indeed – that is until they began excavating for the station in the old town.
After digging down less than a metre the first archeological remains came to light.The deeper they went, the more layers of the ancient city were unveiled.Back, further and further in time as they went deeper.There, at about the 2 ½ or 3 metre level they found several in-situ mosaics.
What to do?
Lift, leave, remove, demolish – all the options were no doubt discussed somewhere – and as the months, and now years lumbered by, these discussions must have been happening very slowly.
Maybe, they raised it because of me… I do not know, but the gate has bars on the top half, so, one can comfortably gaze into the excavation from the gate.
Last autumn, just before we left, I went by, as I do, to observe the progress, if any. Last year the archaeologists had been back; more digging, conservation and stabilisation. Then, as winter approached they did two things. They covered everything in the great excavation pit with tarpaulins – I suppose to protect from the onslaught of winter (for the first time over the years that the excavation has been open). The other thing they did was raise the tin fence around the site so one can no longer peer over the top to see what has been or is being done.