Amazon warrior
Myths aren’t fairy tales or legends—they’re an honest attempt to explain mysteries—at least, that’s how I’ve always seen them.
So, when Garth Winter from National Geographic asked if I’d mount an expedition to recover Noah’s Ark from Ararat, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
I had to remind myself—I believe in myths.
True, I succumbed to many wild goose chases in the past with Astrid Simpson, but then I had many successes—not the least of which was marrying her, and she becoming Mrs. Paul Rutledge.
Just seeing that title now written on envelopes in the morning mail, brings tears to my eyes.
Astrid, despite all her faults, is certainly no Suffragette or Lucy Stoner—her feminism is an equality-based justice where I willingly accept her as my equal in every way.
And I have no problem with that, because she is.
Now, as for my vision for our future—it’s for us to settle down and raise babies—and she promises it’s her dream too.
But, when Jerrod Mason of the Smithsonian calls, Astrid answers.
This time she’s off pursuing lost Inca gold in Peru—leaving me to stay at home and nurse our dream.
But why shouldn’t I be a gypsy too, and jet off to Turkey to pursue the Ark?
Maybe I’ll show Astrid I can have an adventure of my own.
And maybe this time when I get back home, she’ll be waiting, ready to start making babies.
But then again, maybe that’s just my own myth—
The life-lie I use to sustain my dream.
“Your ticket’s waiting at the airport,” Garth yelps, “ and I managed to secure the best Ararat guide.”
“There’s only one I’d trust,” I tell him.
“I hope you’re referring to Berk Kaplan and his two cousins—Nazli Asker and Simay Celik.”
I can’t believe my good fortune. I’m over the moon with joy.
Berk speaks fluent Turkish, Kurdish, Arabic and ancient Greek—and his cousins are the loveliest flowers that ever graced a mountainside.
Okay, perhaps I’m trying to get a little revenge on Astrid—dreaming about tantalizing her with morsels about the expedition, until jealousy drives her crazy.
I know, it sounds childish—but so too is taking off for Peru when your husband wants to decorate a nursery.
Still, all fantasizing about cousins aside, the truth is, tit for tat never works and I’m missing her already.
Berk and the girls meet me at Arrivals. The cousins are dressed in dark robes with colorful headscarves accentuating their beauty.
I don’t know why western women forsake the allure of mystery when it comes to dress.
Whether it’s an attempt at modesty, or simply an eastern tradition, Nazli and Simay wrapped in robes, succeed in holding my attention from the moment I see them.
We sit sipping dark, bitter Turkish coffee and watching planes like fireflies taking off and landing.
I’m lost in Simay’s eyes.
“Does your name have a meaning?” I ask.
“It means bright, silver shining moon,” she says softly.
How appropriate, I muse. Lying at nights on the slopes of Ararat looking into those eyes will be so exciting.
Berk brings me back to reality.
“Which route do you want to take to make the ascent?”
“Do we have a choice?” I ask stupidly.
The two girls smile.
“What’s so amusing”?” I ask, colouring, and feeling awkward.
The girls are teasing you, my friend,” Berk explains. “We have to take the easy route. The climb is long but we can make it using axes and crampons.”
I begin to feel like a wimp—as if they’re babying me. “Why can’t we take the alternate route?”
The girls giggle and whisper in Arabic.
I look at Berk. “What are they saying?”
“They’re saying, you’d make a good husband for an ha-mazan.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an Arabic word for warrior—although in English, you would say, an Amazon.”
“You mean the mythical female warriors of ancient Greece?”
“Berk’s countenance alters. He gets very quiet.
“I would rather not use the word mythical to refer to the ha-mazan. The nomads believe they still exist in small groups in the mountains—and they capture men to use as husbands to procreate their race.”
“Do they also believe the left breasts are removed?”
He colours, “that is one meaning of their name—a mazos, without breast.”
The girls giggle again, recognizing the word.
Contending with Amazons would be easy—being the source of amusement for our beautiful guides is hard.
I feel cuckolded. It might be a long trip after all.