to be a whirling dervish - a night in Sultanahmet

whirling dervishes: after two songs performed in a tiny hall by a four piece ensemble -- drum, xither, ney flute, and oud -- four dervishes entered silently in camel hair hats and draped in black. they bowed forwards, silently, turned inwards and bowed silently. they put their robes on the floor off to the side, now all in white, white skirts and white tunics. the flute player took the melody. a skilled player of the ney can merely think and change the pitch of the note, just like an orator can speak and press the inciting energy of speech up or draw it down. the notes started to drip from the melody and the rhythm slowed. the dervishes crossed their arms, clasping their hands on each shoulder, the right arm overtop. then the drummer started pushing the rhythm forward and up from under the ney. the stringed instruments joined one at a time. the dervishes started to spin. there is a particular way of stepping one foot around the other to get the spinning movement smooth. their skirts were weighted at the bottoms and floated up as the dervishes whirled, showing white pants and soft white shoes beneath with black buckles. then as each of them found the rhythm they drew their hands up the side lines of their bodies and up beyond their tall brown hats til they were reaching up, both hands overhead and out to the sides. they spun clockwise, the leading hand palm up to receive energy, the trailing hand palm down to radiate it. they spun at an exact steady measured speed even though the rhythms and lines moved through the music like animals hunting. very slowly they began to step around each other moving clockwise round a circle. their eyes closed. their heads swayed. always the same step of right around left around left around left.

the rhythms got more complex, moving around the number eight, then odd numbers, then rhythmic cycles of three beats then four, then three beats then four, then three beats then four. the dervishes spun and they spun, steady. and steady. and steady, trailing palm down. then suddenly the music changed and the tempo quickened and the melody went from leaking down to swelling up and the drum pushed too and then the final beat was struck and the dervishes stamped the outer foot down all of them ending facing inwards and their weighted skirts spun for one twist more, then fell, then went still. crossing their arms over each other again, right arm overtop, the dervishes bowed inward and forward, gathered their black cloaks, and silently left the stage.

at the nargileh bar in sultanahmet the boys outnumbered the girls ten to one, twenty to one if you do not count ugur who did not have any nargileh. mo had a tobacco water pipe that came wrapped with a huge tobacco leaf. mine was apple shisha. stronger than at home, or at least different, i felt it behind my forehead almost immediately, and we lost count of the cups of tea. waiters brought glowing coals to keep the pipes going. a white and orange cat claimed a whole bench for herself though every other seat was taken. it was an outdoor patio and cold. mo gave ugur his own coat.

then walking home we had salep which is the resin of orchids brewed and made into a hot drink like a custard, with nutmeg, and served in a paper cup very hot. the weather wet, windy, rainy, big snowflakes, all the cut stones of the street slick and shiny and treacherous. writing from my little hotel room with yellowochre walls and light shining from sconces, white crown moulding and red and gold bedspreads woven and embroidered with leaves and flowers, and ornate cushions with tassels and dark wood furniture, a tiny desk and chair. in this room it is very cold. the tile floor is cold. the windows are cold. the bathroom is cold. there is a rose on the end table, white with a red flush, love and desire.