A Few Words About ‘Yes’ and ‘No’

Bulgaria and Greece lie right next to each other. For some reason, this led me to believe they would have more in common besides a shared claim on Macedonia. What I found instead were two very different countries, cultures, cuisines, ethnicities, and languages.

 

Bulgarian montage.

In Bulgarian, as in many other Slavic languages, da means yes and ne means no. This much is straightforward. Where the confusion begins is the accompanying head movement. Bulgarians shake their heads from side to side to indicate da and nod their heads to indicate ne. Even after a few weeks in the country, I found myself befuddled by this.

Dancing the hora at a Bulgarian wedding

But the confusion began in earnest when I arrived in Greece and found that ohi means no and ne means yes. So in Greece, when someone nods her head and says “Ne”, she’s indicating an affirmative, whereas in Bulgaria, the same word and the same head movement mean exactly the opposite.

Languages, Perverts, Priests. Why I Hitchhike.

I didn't meet a single pervert while hitchhiking through Greece. I hitched about fifteen different cars in my time there and every single ride was a good one. Maybe this is a normal experience in other parts of the world, but in my time hitching in eastern Europe and Turkey, I have never experienced a good streak like this. At one point, the average percentage of perverts was as high as 25%. But what qualifies a driver as a pervert? Good question. There's quite a range, but any time the driver touches me suggestively, talks excessively of sex, asks me excessive questions about sex, or tries to solicit sex from me, I consider him a bad ride. Some of these drivers are pretty harmless though. They tend to throw the suggestion out there, when I (politely) refuse, they drop it or drop me off by the side of the road. It's the ones who are persistent and often the ones who deny any wrongdoing who are the real trouble. Ironically, it's often the drivers who tell me how dangerous hitchhiking is, who tell me I should take the bus or train instead who then end up proving their own points by making a move on me.

So with that background established, you can begin to imagine how truly delightful it was to autostop in Greece. I found that I had to wait a bit longer by the side of the roads; cars seemed less enthusiastic to pick me up, but those that did were always kind and respectful. And keep in mind that when I say I had to wait a bit longer to get picked up, I'm talking about 20 minutes instead of 10. Yes, being a solo female hitchhiker has certain advantages, but I'd trade them in an instant if it meant I didn't have to deal with perverts.

I had two favorite rides in Greece. The first taught me some Greek and the second was with a Greek Orthodox priest.

One thing I love about hitchiking is that it often really forces me to learn more of the local language, and learn it quickly. This is because I often don't get picked up by English speakers, especially in eastern Europe. So the morning I left for Greece, I did a bit of research and learned the six most useful words in any language, the words I need to get by and be polite: hello (yassas), thank you (efhari sto), yes (ne), no (ohi), goodbye (andio), and I'm sorry (signomi). But these would just be words on a piece of paper if I never got a chance to use them. Fortunately, my first driver spoke both Greek and Bulgarian, so I could still use my few words of Bulgarian while I was getting accustomed to using Greek. After a few rides, the Greek words started to come more naturally and I flatter myself that my accent improved as well.

While catching a ride from Kavala to Drama, my driver spoke a few words of English, but not enough to string together a long sentence. I was feeling comfortable with my new Greek words, so wanted to expand my vocabulary. He was more than happy to help and we soon established a pattern. I would say a word or phrase in English (nice to meet you) and he would provide the Greek (harika poli) which I practiced with his guidance and scribbled down in my little traveling notebook. I can't tell you how valuable it is to hear the accent as the words are spoken, but most valuable of all is the smile (positive reinforcement) I get from speaking even a little bit of the language.

While hitching to Komotini, I stood and waited by a major highway. It was cold and windy, this being February, and I had been waiting for about fifteen minutes when an older, slightly beat up car pulled over and when I caught a glimpse of the driver, a bearded Greek Orthodox priest, I honestly didn't know what to expect. Getting hit on by a priest would be a little too much to handle, and frankly, just a little too cliché. I needn't have worried. He was the nicest man, if shocked by everything I said. I'm traveling alone. “Really? Strange...” I've been traveling for two years. “Really!? Bravo.” I'm unmarried. “Strange.” I believe in people, in kindness and hospitality. “Bravo!” But he, as with many of the people I meet, was concerned for my safety. He kept asking what would I do if a bad person tried to pick me up? What if no one pulled over to pick me up and it became dark? The only answers I could give him, that I trusted my instinct and that I didn't know and would deal with it if it happened, didn't seem to satisfy him much. So when he pulled off the highway at Xanthi and I still had a little ways to go until Komotini, he wanted to take me to the bus station and offered to pay for my ticket. I politely refused the offer, not the first of its kind and likely not the last. “I prefer autostop,” I told him. “I love to meet and talk with people. Imagine, if I didn't autostop I never would have met you.”

And that, in a nutshell, is why I continue to hitchhike, despite the perverts, despite the inconvenience, despite the cold, rain, wind. I live for the experience, for the stories, for the laughs and the exchange of language, culture, smiles.

Greek Words.

(Let me start by saying that I very strongly resisted the urge to title this “It’s All Greek to Me”.)

“Logic. It’s a Greek word.” Christos interrupted himself to continue a running joke, a joke that had been running ever since I entered Greece through the tunnel of love (the actual name of the border crossing with Bulgaria. It’s a long story that involves families of bears and millions of additional dollars to construct a tunnel). The joke started on my first night in Greece with the obvious words: democracy, chaos, analogy. Soon friends of my couchsurfing hosts were interjecting our conversations with cries of “Anarchy is a Greek word, of course!”

Christos, my host in the town of Drama (the name had nothing to do with theatre, by the way, but is instead named after hydrama, the Greek for water) extended the joke and with him it really blossomed and came into its own. When asked if I wanted to learn Greek, he would reply for me, “She already does. Thirty percent of English words come from the Greek.” This of course is hyperbole (Greek word!) and we both knew it. We began a kind of verbal tug-of-war in which he would point out many of the Greek words I used (logical, practical, critical) and I would in turn try to find non-Greek synonyms instead (reasonable).

Besides a tenuous attempts to trace the name of Spain back to Greek word origin, the most interesting Greek words I learned were elephant (comes from the Greek elephas, meaning ivory), Egypt (from Aigaiou huptiōs, meaning below the Aegean) and Istanbul (which comes from the Greek is tin polin, meaning to the city). Add to the list just about every word with a ph, words that end in –is, in –logy, the prefixes auto–, bio–, pan–, and anti–, and suddenly the expression it’s all Greek to me takes on a whole new meaning.

(Forgive the corniness, as it turns out, I couldn’t escape the compulsion to use that cliché.)

In One Word: How to Spot a Pervert

It is amazing how much can be communicated through the subtleties of a language. To explain this, I'm going to need to delve a little bit into the structure of Turkish. Turkish has separate words for singular you (sen) and plural you (siz), but the plural you can also be used as a sign of respect and formality when speaking to one person. So when meeting someone for the first time, and especially when speaking to an elder, it is customary and natural to use the formal, plural you.

Now I have a tendency to waver back and forth between the yous, but when I'm hitchhiking I really try to address my driver with the formal “siz”. It's simply the polite thing to do. And what a difference that one little word can make.

I walked with my little pack from the center of Kas to the main highway, the coastal road that runs from Antalya to Fethiye, crossed the road to head west toward Fethiye, placed my pack a few paces in front of me, and stuck out my thumb. Though it was a hot, sunny day, I was wearing my thick jeans. This was the advice of the Turkish father I stayed with in Kas, who vetoed my only other pair of pants as being too thin and therefore attracting too much negative attention.

Not much traffic today, I thought after one car passed me by. Despite the beautiful weather, winter is the low season in this part of Turkey. But the next car to turn onto the highway pulled over to the shoulder to pick me up. In a split second, I took in the details. Solitary young male. License plate started with 34, indicating the driver was from Istanbul. The car was sleek and black. Nice, but not flashy. I had a decent feeling about this, but it all depended on the driver. Even if he was harmless (no groping), there was still a chance he might make me uncomfortable (ask too personal questions, want me to be his girlfriend).

“Nereye gidiyorsunuz? Where are you going?” I asked him, using the formal ending to the verb.

“Mugla,” he replied. He could take me all the way to my destination: a few kilometers west of Fethiye. It remained to be seen whether this was lucky or not.

He spoke no English, so we conversed in Turkish. I began to get a bit weary when he asked me about traveling alone and spoke of his loneliness while traveling alone on business. Experience had taught me that the next topic of conversation would often be my marital status, followed closely by a request to exchange phone numbers and get to know each other better. But though we talked freely about work and travel and hobbies, he never veered into inappropriate territory; in fact, I suddenly noticed that even after 50 kilometers together, he was still using the formal you when he addressed me, asking “Isminiz ne? What is your name?” and Kac yasindayiz? How old are you?”

Once I realized this, I relaxed completely and it struck me that though I had sometimes had problems with drivers who dropped the formal “siz” in favor if the informal “sen”, I had never had problems with drivers who maintained polite formality of the plural you.

And true to form, he drove me kilometers out of his way to drop me at the very doorstep of my destination, the Pastoral Vadi Eco Farm in Yaniklar, Turkey, where a television crew awaited and filmed my arrival. But my appearance and interview (conducted and answered entirely in Turkish!) on national television is a subject for another post.

My Imminent Engagement and Turkish Connection

A common language is magic. It opens up worlds that were previously inaccessible, landscapes that were previously unseen.

My Turkish has served me well. Though I've forgotten a lot of vocabulary and grammar since I lived in Istanbul in mid-2009, I've had the opportunity to use and practice my Turkish all over the world.

At the Halal Indian restaurant in Phnom Penh, I heard Turkish being spoken and invited myself to join the speakers, two men who worked at the Zaman language school. They offered me a chance to practice speaking Turkish as well as a job at Zaman. I appreciated both offers, but only took them up on the latter.

While hitchhiking in Hungary, I began to notice that several of the kamyons had Turkish license plates and while I didn't target them specifically, I sent out a silent request, and sure enough, a Turkish driver pulled over for me. Our common language was Turkish, and through it I was able to communicate basics about myself--where I was going, where I had been--and learn about him and his family in return. He bought me çay and offered me lunch, explaining that while I was in his truck, I was his guest. As we were parting, he pressed a 20 Euro note into my hand, and though I repeatedly refused, telling him thank you but I couldn't accept it, he insisted. I walked away with tears in my eyes.

How excited I was, after ten months in southeast Asia, to hear Turkish in the markets in Skopje, Macedonia. When I asked, "Türkçe biliyor musunuz?" and the market seller replied, "Tabii!" a giant grin spread across my face and I felt a sense of home.

Most recently, while staying in the small village of Krushevo in the southern mountains of Bulgaria, I have found and/or been found by the two Turkish speakers in a village of 250 inhabitants. The first, an elderly cross-eyed man, broke into a wide, gapped grin when I began speaking to him. And what a delight it was for me to finally be able to communicate first-hand with someone from the village! The man asked me if I was a maiden or if I was married, and upon hearing my answer, invited me to marry one of Krushevo's many bachelors and settle in the village. "We'll see," I responded. "Only Allah knows."

As if on cue, the next Turkish speaker I met was one of the afore-mentioned bachelors--a blond-haired, blue-eyed, high-cheekboned young man--who was training to become the village's next imam. We flirted very modestly while my friend Tracy looked at us and raised her eyebrows suggestively. He invited me to drink çay with him, "beraber" (together). We'll see. Only Allah knows.