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today mehmet stuck his head into my room and said, "let's go wrestle some camels."

we drove about fifteen minutes to get into Burhaniye, driving along straight little streets past uniform pink and teal walk-up apartments. the smell of coal was much stronger here than where i'm staying, down near the water with the ceaseless wind.
a camel ambled down the road. it was huge, much bigger than the human who walked beside. it was draped with pink and lime blankets embroidered with gold, a rolled-up carpet slung over its neck like a sleeping pad, big iron ribs for armour, its hindquarters shorn. big, and thick, a powerful beast, wearing a bridle and drawn along on a rope. we pulled around it, continued on, parked the car when it seemed hopeless to get a parking spot further up.

"don't leave any valuables," said mehmet, and we started to walk up.

the best time of the year to wrestle camels is this time, before the spring mating season. they wrestle the males, one against the other. none of the judges at the Olive Festival would have anything to do with it. "barbarisme," said nicholas cartier of paris. A professor's wife said it was appaling to import camels to turkey just so they could fight one another; but no, said the professor, the camels are indiginous. they had a place not long ago in agriculture and construction, though there are not many left now. they are bigger and slower than desert camels.

mehmet told me the defeated camels are killed, but neither of us really believed it.

we walked towards the sound of a voice through a loudspeaker. men came past us in jeans, closely fitted leather jackets and gloves. from the apartments to either side of us i heard the sound of barking dogs. boys played soccer in a patchy overgrown lot. a covered-up woman peered through a hole in the cement wall we were walking along. further up the wall got thicker and taller. from the other side you could hear the beating of drums and the fervent announcer. the cement wall broke, revealing the camels waiting to go in, chained to iron spikes pounded into the ground, some of them kneeling, waiting. another moment and we had reached the entrance to the arena, a high entrance under an arch of brick and mortar. there was a crowd of people outide. security guards in blue stood at the entrance. white smoke hung in the air from a sizzling grill draped with sausages on either side. "last year's losers," said mehmet. the crowd drew apart. mehmet pulled me in front of him, in behind ruçhan, and pushed me forward. we ducked through the arch, past the guards, and we were in.

inside the wall the sights and smells jumped into relief. salt and spices hung in the air from countless sausage carts. near the walls, where there was no wind, the smoke hung heavy like grease. most of the crowd was back along the walls, sitting in the backs of trucks, or up on trailers. some people sat on crates. in front of us a man sold honey cakes on paper plates. a man played a bass drum slung from his neck passed in front of us, striking it with a wooden drumstick, making a clipped, staccato sound that stood out over the noise of the spectators and the vendors. i could hear about six drums like this one, moving clockwise, walking along the dirt track that circled within the square arena. inside that circle were people who'd moved in close for a better view of the action, sometimes running up to be closer to it, sometimes standing back to see more.

in the centre, a dozen men tugged at ropes to lead four camels into and out of the fray. a half dozen more men wore bright orange vests and kept further away. the camels breathed out big clouds of vapour through gobs of white froth that dripped thick from their lips, like marshmallows. two camels were on the near side of the arena, two on the far side. each wore different colours of blankets. the animals strained and scuffed their feet. their handlers tugged them towards each other, and they'd swat their wooly necks: then they'd be drawn back apart.

"oh man," said mo, "don't get separated."

i followed him past a man selling cd's and dvd's with pictures of camels on the front. many of the men wore orange kerchiefs wrapped around their heads and shoulders. people sold pink and white wafers, cotton candy, cans of beer. men walked with violins under their arms. some tapped on smaller drums. one man carried a clarinet made of brass. a man peeled an onion, letting the skin fall.

shortly mehmet saw friends from istanbul who were sitting up in a plywood trailer. they cleared a space for me next to a woman from paris who spoke english and french.

"it's not really about the camels," she said. "it's a chance for people to come out and be together."

a man handed me a plastic cup of milky white rakis and we drank.

"i imagined biting," i said, "and hooves: and mehmet told me that they kill the losing camels."

"oh NON," said the women. "these camels are much too valuable to let any harm come to them. to keep a camel you have to pay to house it all year long, you have to pay someone to look after it, you have to pay its food, then transportation... having a camel is for status. they'd never let any harm come to one."

in the centre one camel chased after another and the crowd cheered. someone in our trailer stood up and clapped.

"burek?" asked the woman. she motioned to a non-stick pan. on the card table in front of her was a sliced tomato resting on newspaper. she passed me a flakey pastry with soft cheese inside.

mehmet and ruçhan left to get a closer look at the camels, leaving me to talk with the woman.

"it's very non-violent," she said. "that's the thing. everybody all goes out, they drink rakis comme un trou but there's never any violence."

two camels walked up to each other, pressed up chin to chin, and drew back. they stared at each other from a distance, each one shifting its weight back onto widely spread legs with knees that bent backwards. then their handlers tugged them towards each other.

one camel got its head up and over the other one, pushed it down, vanquished. the camels left the ring and two more stepped up.

next week i will step out of mehmet's town to go see the big city. it is time.


on the way home we bought some camel sausages -- round like baseballs -- and stopped for some coca-cola, to take the edge off the grease. we cooked the sausages on a grill -- very fatty, almost squishy, and heavily spiced. it would make no sense to eat the losers, anyways. you'd want the courage of the winners.