Day 3 of Sourcing in Izmir, Turkey.
Apartment buildings cling to the hillside in small clusters, their pastel-coloured minarets reaching for the bruised winter sky like slender fingers. Farms and olive groves blanket the slopes, occasionally giving way to cobbled streets that meander upwards, revealing a hidden village square – a mosaic of mosque, coffee shop, rusting tractor, prowling street cats, weathered faces of old women, and tucked away, the sanctuary of a local antique collector.
Over 200 collectors roam this hill country, north of Izmir, venturing from door to door, bartering tales of old pots, shimmering jewellery, and forgotten ornaments for the modern necessities craved by those who have called these valleys home for generations.
Hassan and Zeki, our guides for the day, arrive at our hotel. Hassan, a young man weathered beyond his 30 years, has been at this trade with his father for over two decades. Zeki, his companion, perches in the passenger seat like a contented toad, a worn felt cap perched atop his head, revealing twinkling eyes that greet us with warmth. A booming "Welcome!" erupts from his toothless grin, his voice a symphony of croaks and chuckles.
Zeki, a seasoned wanderer across Turkey's vast landscapes, spent his childhood nestled in a tent amongst these very mountains that now cradle us in their embrace. "Not one of those flimsy modern tents," he assures us, his voice thick with nostalgia. "Bitterly cold it was, with no running water or electricity." He descends from the mountains for schooling, but the true lessons, he confides, are found elsewhere. "Spend but a single night in the mountains, and life's mysteries unfurl before you," he declares, his eyes alight with the memory of ancient wisdom.
Our day unfolds across three cavernous warehouses, each visit punctuated by steaming cups of chai, potent Turkish coffee, and Zeki's captivating tales. "An old man I am, 72 years young!" he proclaims, his laughter mingling with the chai swirling in his mouth. "The internet? Bah! My mind, it struggles to grasp such sorcery." Zeki's soul, it seems, is as ancient as the artefacts he cherishes. A new mosque catches his eye, and he scoffs, "Ugly!" They simply don't build them like they used to, a sentiment he extends to pottery as well. "Fragments, broken pieces, they speak to me far more than pristine ones. Within their cracks lie the stories of the past."
Why does he collect these treasures? "It calls to me, deep within my soul," he responds, his answer arriving before the question can fully form on our lips. He recounts a time when he made his home in a cave in Cappadocia, a testament to his lifelong affinity for ancient dwellings.
"The earth, she nourishes me. But people today, they've forgotten how to listen to her whispers. Children, they grow up in concrete boxes, learn in concrete boxes... never to witness the raw power of the wild." A kinship exists between Zeki, the ancient mountains, and the antique treasures he uncovers. As we wind our way back through olive groves, a wistful note enters his voice. "They don't make pots like these anymore. It was an art form, a language spoken in clay. Each curve, each line, a story waiting to be heard... if only you know how to listen.
