Day 2.
We’ve travelled north of Izmir today, to a small town, to meet a new collector - Ahmet, and his business partner, Ayman. We play the age guessing game - one of our stock get-to-know-you tactics for meeting new people on our travels. They’re offended. We’re offended that they’re offended. We guessed 35. They’re 24. We blame their beards.
We’re headed to the ‘brain of Turkey for antiques’ as Ahmet puts it. We ask what he means, and he begins to fumble his pretty decent broken English. ‘There are many religions in Turkey, Christians, Jews, Muslims, but we are special people who live here.’ He refers to a character in a Netflix series that neither of us have heard of. We draw a blank. ‘I can’t find the word… I don’t want to say it because it’s like a rude word.’
‘A rude word?’
‘We are gypsy.’
‘That’s not rude! That’s great!’, we simultaneously blurt with emphatic British politeness. Ahmet gives a relieved smile through blushed cheeks as we race towards his warehouse.
We roll up to a corrugated outbuilding atop a rugged mound. The fresh morning winter air blows around our ears as puppies scamper about our feet. We meet the team. ‘We are all young’ says Ahmet, ‘…apart from him. He’s the uncle.’ as he points at a 33-year-old colleague with weather-worn skin and a particularly dense, dark beard dappled with sawdust. He’s called Uncle Tony. Everything to Uncle Tony is hilarious and deserving of a high five that nearly takes my arm off at the shoulder. His laughter bellows through the warehouse, bouncing off the breezeblock partitions with manly squeals.
Uncle Tony asks us where we’re from. When we say ‘Britain’ the laughter stops and he seems to go a little cold. Ten minutes later he comes back and signals a missile with his hands, and whistling… ‘Putin. Bad.’ He says. We’re quick to correct him - ‘No! Britain. Not Putin’. We all laugh and sit down for another customary chai.
Ahmet teaches us more about the pots, which part of Turkey they’re from - Konya, East Anatolia, Antakya, Kinik, Southern Anatolia near the Syria border… each with its own history and purpose, conjured up through generations of iteration, refinement and cultural exchange. As we photograph each pot, jar and jug, with each of their scars, patches and mottled designs, we’re charmed by each one’s unique character, and we smile as we think about the other unique characters we’ve met today.
