My buddy Ali and I investigated the rotten trash of Istanbul one night. Ali is a writer and a trash sorter. I am a writer too. We were curious about what the trash would reveal.

Ahbabim Ali ve ben bir gece Fatih'in çöpüne düstük. Ali yazar ve geri dönüsüm isçisi. Ben de yazarim. Ikimiz meczupuz. Merak ettik. Çöpte ne var diye arastiriyorduk.

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Ali told me he couldn't wear plastic gloves when he sorted trash.In explaining why he could never wear plastic gloves when he sorted trash Ali told me a story:

Years ago Ali had worked as a painter of skyscrapers in Ankara, Turkey. He liked the climb up the ladder, the walk on the narrow wooden board to his place on the side of a huge building. Ali would paint for hours, loving the sunlight and breeze and fresh air.

Then one spring day when the wind was soft in Ankara, Turkey and the sun beat down, Ali looked up and saw a helicopter coming out of the distance over the flat Anatolian plateau. Ali watched the helicopter change from a tiny dot in the sky to the nearing swopswopswop swing sound of the helicopter blades over the countryside, then over the city and coming closer, closer... Ali felt like he was meant to - at this moment - see this moving floating object coming toward him.

Finally it was right up close, flying around the skyscraper he was painting. The helicopter flew in a few circles around then stopped dead in the middle of the air, floating, watching him, staring at him. In that moment of the staring helicopter the ground of Ankara flew up, made Ali dizzy and he suddenly realized where he was, so high from the ground on a tiny twig of a wood board... Ali clung to the side of the building he was working on. He dropped his paint roller and it fell, fell, fell down and Ali thought he should call down to warn any passerbys below that the paint roller was coming their way but it was too late. His voice would never reach the people before his paint roller did.

The paint roller crashed down below making a small explosive sound as it hit the ground and missed two workers. All Ali could do was move centimeter by centimeter along the narrow board, gripping the side of the building. Finally he was by the ladder. Very slowly Ali climbed down.

Ali "fell into the trash" after that job. He couldn't do his old work. All that was left for him for years was trash sorting and learning how to write. Ali says that for him to wear plastic protective gloves when he sorts through trash would be the same as seeing that helicopter again come out of the flat horizon. If Ali wore gloves when he sorted trash he would be forced to see how society judged him as a trash sorter. And he could never sort trash again.

(Here is an excerpt chapter from my memoir Sex and Homeland... Note: This writing deals with some heavy issues and is not for everyone. If you are so inclined please send me feedback!)

Sertaç and Engines Running Over White Palace

  Sertaç had got the Portuguese translator job with Turkey’s biggest soccer team and his stomach had started to grow. Flying high we drove fast around the city in a team car, followed by a rich Brazilian girl he was fucking. All things were possible! In Istanbul the roads were gold paved! We drove along the Bosphorus, the girl passing us, Sertaç passing the girl. He was speaking to me in Turkish and then she was calling him on his cell in Portuguese. He had a full can of cold beer.

When we first met, Sertaç had a sales job with ties and shoe shines and 6 o’clock rising and 14 hour days; long bus rides and ferry rides with the rest of the commuting clump of middle class Istanbul. Now he was riding high – respected – at 23 he had found his place!

In the quiet times when the car wasn’t roaring over the hills of Istanbul, carrying international Brazilian football players from one restaurant to another press conference, Sertaç waxed about his past. I felt I had a glimpse into his life; private, something forbidden, shown to me alone. At those moments he would often remember the bad times out loud; suffering it again was a holy ritual for him. I felt lucky to be in his presence then.

We drove past Dolmabahçe Palace along the Bosphorus in the Besiktas district. Towering poplar trees lined the sides of the coastal road between the Palace and the rest of the city. Trunks of the trees were brown and red colored marble in the neon night light. The trees changed colors and this city which can be so agonizingly ugly and so painfully beautiful was painful that night. The leaves fell like pieces of silver in the car lights.