a sketch of an olive grove

mo took me with him this morning to one of his olive groves. we took the truck up the highway, then turned onto a little dirt road, switched it into four by four mode, and pressed up the hillside.

olive trees have long fingerey leaves that are dark green on one side and mintey green on the other. when the wind catches the branches the trees shimmer white. where we were going, there were trees right from the edge of the highway, up and over the hill, out to the sea. olive trees must be very tough because there were rocks everywhere in the soil. in fact when you looked at the ground most of what you saw was loose rock and short, tough looking grasses. we followed deep ruts left behind by heavy farm machinery, looking for point 168 on the GPS. there were trees evenly spaced about every eight feet. they have gnarled trucks that the wind twists into all kinds of shapes. some of them were numbered with white paint on the grey bark. some of them were coated with lye to keep away pests. mo tells me his trees are about sixty years old. they continue to fruit well into old age. between every tree there was a deep slice into the ground, thin, to help channel the water down the slope.

we stopped near a crew of six men who were warming themselves by a small fire of olive wood. there were piles of branches nearby. the fire was small but sat on a big pile of white ash. the sky was clear: it was sunny and the wind combed cool through the leaves and carried the smell of the fire. purple flowers grew beneath one of the trees.

mo talked to the men while i poked around. the dirt is squishy under your feet where it is not rocky. when we went to leave the men set to work.

much easier to find our way down the hill than up it. soon we were back on the highway. mo took me for lunch. i already know burek. mo introduced me to kufte. we stopped at a little restaurant with calendars on the walls and a tv playing loud turkish news that the proprieters muted for some stories, unmuted for others. we sat at a little table with red spice in a shaker and peppers that surprised me for being much hotter than the ones at mo's. at each table was a tall plastic container full of hunks of bread. they brought yoghourt on a wood plate, and a tin plate of tomatoes, then our main course. kufte is like kebab meat, sizzling, served with shredded lettuce and cabbage and lots of onions. more people arrived and sat at the table next to us. a man in a jacket washed at a sink at the back of the restaurant, using a pink bar of soap and shaking the water from his hands. there were ashtrays at each table. when we were done eating, tea, which came from next door -- they shouted to have it brought. a boy ran it over on a little tray with a handle. mo spilled his and they used sawdust on the floor to absorb it. we got a sandwich to go for ugur and they wrapped it in newspaper. it was friday noon which meant a particular call to prayer that happens only once per week. we drove out down a little brick road with parts of it torn up and stacks of bricks on either side.