The Smallest of Prices

Everywhere we lived, my father had a home office. And the best thing about that office was that it was filled with books. Floor to ceiling, stacked in front of his desk, piled under his chair and atop tables, were books ranging in topic from religion to geography, world cultures, dead languages, history, science, and so on. Among them was one large book, with a blue spine, and in it were descriptions and photographs of Istanbul. Markets, mosques, street scenes. It was exotic, even to my travel-jaded eyes, and I wanted to experience the sights and smells for myself.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe obvious apple of my eye, in regard to Istanbul, was the Aya Sofya, or Hagia Sofia. I cannot think of another place so steeped in religious history.  There, my studies of Byzantine, Ottoman, Islamic, and Christian history collide in one breathtaking structure. I simply had to go there.

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And so I did, many years later. I saw the Blue Mosque, and viewed the sacred relics in Topkapi Palace, and dined on a terrace overlooking the water. And, indeed, I spent hours in the Aya Sofya, touched the Marble Door, viewed the ancient Christian mosaics, and the mosque was even larger and more beautiful than I had imagined for all those years.

14 million people in a city seems like a terrible crush, and the streets and markets were at times cacophonous, but over the racket of vendors, traffic, and street prophets, the haunting müezzins’ calls to prayer resound. The city is made of magic. The sounds, the scents wafting on the breeze off the Bosphorus, the gentle ways of its inhabitants, all create a sense of calm amidst the chaos. Orhan Pamuk wrote of Istanbul, “If I see my city as beautiful and bewitching, then my life must be so too.”

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A friendly guard at Topkapi Palace

 

I walked through the squares, and parks, and markets, through neighborhoods, and down city streets. I talked to guards and shopkeepers and ladies out walking with their friends and children. The people of Istanbul are friendly and funny, and curious and kind.

 

Later in the day, full of Turkish delight and nose twitching from sampling the wares in the Egyptian market, where spices are sold, I made my way to the Grand Bazaar.

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The gate of the Grand Bazaar

The name is apt; everything about this bazaar is grand. The vendors are endless in every direction, so many I could not see the far end, and in fact never did make my way all the way through to the opposite side. I made a few small purchases: a scarf, a necklace, and by then it was growing late and the sun was setting quickly.

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Not prayer rugs, but a sales demonstration inside a rug shop.

As I approached the way out, a man about my age called to me, and asked if I wanted to buy a prayer rug. They were beautiful, and I admired them, but declined. I went on, and there was a bit of a bottleneck as people were leaving through the gate. I stood waiting my turn, and the man came to me again. His English was only slightly better than my Turkish, but we managed nonetheless. He said that he noticed I admired his rugs, and he would cut the price for me, as the hour was late, and he wouldn’t have to carry it back home again.

The price was more than fair, and yet I hesitated, as the idea of carrying a prayer rug across the city, then jamming it into my bag, was a complication I was not sure I was prepared to take on. He held my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, “I will give you this rug, for the smallest of prices: a kiss. A kiss,” he said, “to bring me good fortune.”

Who can say no to that kind of charm? Righty-o, I agreed, he rolled up my rug and handed it to me, and I offered my cheek. Quick as a snake, he landed the most resounding smooch square on my lips, winked, and disappeared into the market.

And that is how I bought my prayer rug for the price of a kiss in the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, a magical city where anything can happen.

 

 

The Bog Blog

 

IMG_6924I stood in the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin a few months ago, gazing through a thin sheet of plexi at a man. He had laugh lines by his eyes. I could imagine quite easily what his face looked like when he smiled. I saw his eyebrows, his facial stubble, the delicate folds of his ear. He was taller than I expected. His hands were strong, like he had worked hard all of his life. I could also see the places his body had been pinned down. Was he dead before he went into the bog? Probably. I hope so. There is no way to know why he was left there. Did he commit some atrocity that his community could not abide? Was he killed in a tragic accident and left as a post-mortem sacrifice? Did he volunteer to go to his death in the bog, as atonement, or out of sorrow or fervent spiritual belief? Was he a challenger to a position of prestige, killed to make way for another leader? In a body that is so perfectly preserved, there is a great deal of tantalizing information, which leads to even more impossible questions. Who was this man, how did he live and die, and why was he placed in the bog?

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Clonycavan Man

Peat bogs of northwestern Europe have been the place of last repose for hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies, for over 10,000 years.  The first reported discoveries of these bodies were in the 1700s.

The bodies themselves are widely dated, from 8000 B.C. (Koelbjerg Woman of Denmark), to the medieval period. Most, however, date to the Iron Age (ca. 500 B.C.–A.D. 100). During this period, bogs were sacred to the people living there, who used them for religious rituals, such as dedications, offerings, and sacrifices.

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Most are fragmented, some consisting of just a few bones or body parts. Few are nearly intact, perhaps 20 in the world. Historically the found bodies were not well cared for, damaged during extraction, left to rot in improperly controlled museum storage, or worse.

Those bodies which did survive, though, are remarkable and fascinating.  These bodies have skin and hair and are so well preserved they could have died recently. Perhaps it is because they appear to be so close to life that we give them names, such as Lindow Man, Tollund Man, and Yde Girl.

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Tollund Man, of Denmark

People cutting peat have generally been the discoverers of the bodies in the bogs. However, now that machinery has taken over this work, new discoveries are rare. The machines destroy the remains as the peat is quickly removed. Research on bog bodies now focuses on learning all that can be learned from the bog bodies already found. New technologies have been helpful in that.  For example, damage to the bodies previously considered to be results of torture or violent execution were often, it is now understood, results of more natural causes such as the weight of the peat on the remains over millennia.

 

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Gallagh Man

Back to Dublin, and my visit with the fellows under glass there.  The Irish bog bodies have some interesting features, and the story they tell is one of a possible struggle for dominance. Within an exhibit entitled Kingship and Sacrifice, these found fellows are given context, history, and a new theory as to who they were, and why they were there. (In the bog, that is, not in the museum.)

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Old Croghan Man

The theory proposed, and there seems sufficient evidence to believe the argument here, is that Clonycavan Man and Old Croghan Man were contenders for, or defenders of, a throne, but were either defeated or removed from standing in another’s way. Their bodies were mutilated in such manners as to make them incapable of reigning according to the tradition of their time, and their bodies placed in the bog.

This all shines a very different light on just who the bog bodies we have collected over the centuries may have been. Perhaps not all innocent victims of religious right, but rather pawns in political intrigue.