About the only consistencies I could count upon in this jumbled region were the rising of the land, the lowering of the lifestyles, and--much to my weariness at times--the incessant large crowds of curious menfolk in each distant village. And so it was to be in tightly-cloistered Guney Koyu, too, when I climbed its dirt footpaths to photograph some housewives I'd spied baking bread in an outdoor stone oven.

At first I was tempted to politely refuse Aydi's offer of tea. Already that long day I'd consumed 22 teas and two colas in the previous village of Hacihamza (Ha-gee-hom-sa), where I'd allowed myself to be enticed into several waiting crowds of men and boys dressed in crudely patched cloth. But when the smiling giant quickly added a bed and dinner to the tea, I motioned him to lead on.

The hospitality ritual which followed was typical of treatment a guest receives in Turkish rural homes. In many ways it is still largely unchanged from those described in Marco Polo's own journals. Like then, the guest is made to feel that he, not the host, is the most important person present under that particular roof.

At the bottom of the stairs leading up to Aydi's home above a grain storage barn, my shoes joined at least ten pairs of thin rubber sandals. Atop the wooden steps was a veranda of bamboo shades, intricately patterned wool rugs, rough wood benches, and one low hard sofa piled with long and heavy flowery pillows, upon which I was made to recline. Very quickly, the usual huge round tray of tea and food was placed before me by his sons, and the benches and rugs were filled with males of the village, come to satisfy their curiosity and show their respect to another of their kind.

As is normal in a Muslim household, the females stayed out of sight, their presence made known only through the comforts obediently served by the sons and, rarely, from a fleeting glimpse of a scarved head stealing a peek through an open door.

This particular day happened to be the first, and most important, day of the four-day-long Muslim "Bayram Kurban," or feast of the sacrifice. All through the Islamic world on this day, all who could had killed and butchered a ram for Allah, with one-third of the meat going to the owner, one-third to his neighbors, and the remaining to the poor. Thus, besides the normal bowls of yogurt, spicy vegetable soup and whole freshly-picked tomatoes and peppers on my dinner tray, there was a generous heap of the sacrificial animal, diced and covered in its simmering greases.

Five times (once every hour) one of the young boys sitting silently off to the side rose and poured perfumed water into each man's cupped hands. Then for several seconds the air was filled with the fragrance of lemon and the sounds of palms rubbing together against forearms and stubble, instead of coarse voices grumbling or boasting.

The Turkish language has been one of the easiest I've tried learning. So I was able, even if only in Tarzan fashion, to add my fair share of manly chatter during the evening. We joked about how I would become a "Bayram Kurban" if I dared to cross into Iran, and how it seemed everyone but me in the room was related to Aydi. Trying to figure just exactly how many grandchildren he did have provided plenty of argumentation.

Late that night, after the village men had returned to what must surely be some of the world's most patient wives, I was buried beneath a ton of blankets on that same sofa. A beaming
Aydi sat beside me dressed in striped pajamas and stocking cap, looking as if he wanted to do one more bit of goodness for me before retiring.

I hinted that a glass of water might be nice. He rose from his chair and dashed into the house as if every second meant the difference between life and death. He strode back to my side several minutes later with the water and a plate of more kurban. Not until I'd finished every morsel and he'd had the pleasure of fetching me one more glass of water did he go off to the wife I was never to meet.

For a while longer sleep remained as elusive as the stars shining between the mountain peaks now forming my bedroom walls. On my arms were goosebumps that I knew came not from the chilly air or the muffled thunder of the Kizi-lirmak River far below. Rather, they were caused by the realization that my walking was doing exactly as I'd hoped it would: it was placing a question mark in the minds of those I passed and impelling them to invite me into their homes, their hearts and their minds.

Now, only a handful of days from being halfway around the world, I've already seen so much it almost frightens me to stop and dwell upon all the new scenes added to my life the past 18 months. During the past week alone, I've camped with three gypsy families, bathed in a lavish 700-year-old village bathhouse, and marveled at the beauty I'd found inside a mosque a caretaker had silently waved me into.

I shudder. Supposedly the most exotic still lies hidden over the horizon.

Steven