Kyrgyz women… They know what they’re doing…

    On one of my travels…

While I was heading along the Yukarıyurtçu village road, I hitchhiked. A truck driver stopped. I opened the door and got in.

“Take off your shoes, do you wander around like this at home too?” he said.

“Sorry, I’ve never been in a truck before,” I said. I took off my shoes on the truck’s steps. I placed them between my feet and the watermelon on the seat.

Veysel Uncle constantly talked about women and sex.

“Poyraz… Kyrgyz women… They know what they’re doing…”

Years ago, at Ankara Gazino, he had slept with a Kyrgyz woman. He always talked about that woman. Her lips, her hair, her legs…

“Oh Poyraz…” he said.

He had bumped his back into something two days ago, and the pain was just starting to surface.

“Illness is tough,” he said.

Illness was Veysel Uncle’s sensitive subject. His father had had a stroke sixteen years ago. He had been bedridden for sixteen years. Veysel Uncle had to take care of his father. He couldn’t get married or have a girlfriend.

“Poyraz… Kyrgyz women… They know what they’re doing…” he would say.