September 7, 1996

Day three brought us to the markets of Kahraman Maras, 'Cooper Town' as we have nicknamed it. From the narrow streets hidden behind the main street we were surrounded by racks, rows and stands of copper. Turkish vases, plates, lamps and perfume bottles embossed and hammered into intricate designs were alongside enormous cooper pots that were at least a meter and a half across. Nickel-plated, hand chiseled plates and every kind and shape of cooking pot were hanging from shop doors.

At the end of one street we heard hammering. Following such sounds usually leads to the best streets; this one did. It led to the craftsmen. They were lined up outside shops and inside doorless cubbyholes pounding on cauldrons and hammering plates. The noise was deafening. Everyone looked at us as we walked past. One worker who John was photographed asked if we'd like some tea. We didn't want to interrupt him, so we politely refused. Besides, our ears had already started to ring.

Further up and around the corner were more craftsmen. These men were sewing up burrow packs, squeezing the dye out of leather for camel packs and nailing curved wooden slates together for spice bins. Other streets were exclusively for gold jewelry, for clothing, for roll upon roll of upholstery fabric. We haggled with a few sellers and bought ourselves a few meters of colorful fabric for throw pillows. We would have loved to have bought enough to upholster a chair. Shipping it home, however, would have doubled the price, and we don't have a chair anyway.

Watching the craftsmen in the market was the highlight for us. Outside the market we were the ones to be watched. "Do you speak English?" A man ran up and asked. Then he broke into a hundred words - not one of which we could understand. John handled the situation perfectly. Pretending perfect comprehension, he stated that we were from America, our friends were from New Zealand and we thought Kahraman Maras fantastic. (The old thumbs up sign). A smile split the man's face. He extended his hand, dirty and bandaged, and John shook it and waved good-bye.

Asking anyone for information is an invitation for a personal escort. We got two, one to a market that sold vegetables, one to a market that sold yogurt. The man who walked us to the vegetable market introduced us to his two nephews, commenting that they were shy because "they do not understand English."

We left Copper Town at one o'clock. We waved to the parking lot attendants who had gathered to collect our 50,000 TL; we waved to the children on the sidewalk who were waving to us; I made a note in my notebook - be sure to write a journal entry on this place.