Carpetblogger

We Watch More Sports: Kırkpınar Olive Oil Wrestling

It's completely understandable if you confuse Carpetblog with ESPN, what with all this coverage of manly sports lately. Last week it was football. This week, Olive Oil wrestling!

For 647 years, the Kırkpınar Oil Wrestling Festival and tournament (Yağlı Güreş) has been held in a field next to a river in Kırkpınar, just outside of Edirne. Apparently, it is the oldest continuously running, sanctioned sporting competition in the world. It has a long and interesting history. Read about it elsewhere.

Edirne is a hot provincial town near the Bulgarian border that once served as an Ottoman capital. It's about a two hour drive from Istanbul (but more like three and a half at 11 pm on a Sunday night). Astute readers will remember that the Chiplomat and Carpetblogger visited Edirne already, but the trip was overshadowed by the journey to Bulgaristan and didn't get much coverage.

Like most sporting events in Turkey, this one had plenty of nationalist chest beating, official bluster and flag waving (not that we had to even leave Istanbul for that sort of nonsense). Also like most Turkish group events, it was 100% devoid of intentional irony.

The main show consisted multiple wrestling tournaments between guys wearing pants made of water buffalo leather (called kispet) and drenched in olive oil. A tournament can be won in a smackdown if one wrestler sticks his entire arm in and out of his opponent's kispet. The overall winner of the four-day tournament is named the "baş pehlıvan" or big hero and gets a lot of cash and valuable prizes. (Dying to know more? Read this)

Before going any farther, we have to address the whispers that frequently accompany discussions of the Kırkpınar Oil Wrestling festival. Turks will deny -- strenuously -- that, after watching large men drenched in olive oil, rolling around on the ground in a concerted effort to shove their hands down each others' leather pants, anyone could possibly perceive a wee bit of homoeroticism. In fact, I had heard there was local outcry a few years ago that the tradition-bound festival had taken a place on the international gay travel circuit.

The Carpetblog assessment: not bloody likely.

The Kırkpınar Oil Wrestling Festival doesn't appear on the international gay travel circuit for the same reason the Enumclaw Fair, with its logger rodeo, doesn't: the optics aren't right. Like all events for which you drive up and park in a dusty field, this one had carnies, dirty gypsies and booths selling water purifiers and carpet stain removers. There was a rusty Soviet-style ferris wheel, guys in the local equivalent of John Deere caps and sweaty prepubescent kids amped up on sugar and hormones. Overall, it was a very, uh, provincial crowd. As far as we could tell, we were the only foreigners around and not one of us had ever been on the gay travel circuit. We were also among the .001% of the wrestling spectators who were female.

By virtue of having read one more website about olive oil wrestling than the rest of us, the Producer became the resident wrestling Usta (master). He explained the finer points of the sport, such as a pin is achieved when one dude's belly button is turned to the sky or he gets carried for five steps. The guys who carry the olive oil around are called "yağcılar" (lit: guys who carry olive oil). No one knew, however, if they use the regular kind of olive oil you can get at the Carrefour or if it's special extra virgin press that mixes particularly well with sweat and grass. The green cans carried around by the yağcılar suggest it's the former.

In one of the worst disinformation campaigns in recent memory, we had been told that SESAME SEEDS were thrown at the losing wrestler. It turns out that this is absolutely not the case. It's a good thing we realized this before we unloaded our bags on a burly, greasy and highly aggrieved wrestler.

Speaking of losers, the tournament included matches between little kids and between teenagers. The slimy little eels moved faster than the big dudes, so the matches were a lot more interesting to watch. However, we were quite surprised when the losing kids flopped on the grass and bawled their heads off. Sack up little Turks, or else the yabancıs will pelt you with sesame seeds!

We Watch Sports

As many of you know, Carpetblog is an American-run operation. A female American-run operation. That means that our interest in almost all kinds of sport is surpassed only by our interest in, say, derivatives. Our interest in football is even more intense.

We've heard the arguments in favor of football and none are very compelling. Some have compared football to religion, which, while accurate, does nothing to enhance our appreciation for it. Lots of things are wildly popular while at the same time being screamingly boring.

Under intense pressure, and having not one better option on a Wednesday night, we succumbed and went to a bar, and not just to do what we normally do at bars. We went with the specific intent of watching Turkey play Germany in the 2008 Euro cup. If you want to understand how Turkey got there and what the achievement represents, there are plenty of other blogs that can explain it for you.

Because Americans view soccer/football as a game played by no one older than age 11, this is something of a watershed. Not that we've never watched a soccer game before -- alert readers will remember our monumental photographic achievements following in some aspect of the 2006 World Cup which involved Ukraine. We watched at least seven minutes of that game and joined the crowd celebrating on Maidan afterwards. We kept our shirt on, however.

 
It's true that there weren't as many boobies on display afterwards this time, and not just because the Turks lost. Unlike Ukies, Turkish women rarely take their clothes off in public.

We're not sure we can accurately characterize nature of the Turkey/Germany rivalry for Americans. It's sort of as if America played Mexico in some sport that we can't think of, with all the racism and divided loyalties it would inspire. As happens in a lot of countries, football exacerbates a particularly virulent strain of testosterone-driven nationalism here that needs little encouragement, even on ordinary days. People --particularly those with penises -- were pretty much out of their heads. Walking down Istiklal was like entering Magandalarstan!

The bar scene was grim. There were a lot of people actually watching the game, which we did not anticipate. No one wanted to chat. And they all devoted a lot of energy getting very excited about things that almost happened during the game, which is apparently very common when people watch football matches.

Don't misinterpret. We totally were rooting for the Turks. Anytime Turks want to wreak havoc in Vienna, Carpetblog is behind them. But really, our primary motivation for watching was seeing Turkey win, and hoping Russia would win, so they would play each other and we could root against Russia.

The Olympic Torch In Istanbul

My views on the Chinese Olympics aside, the Olympic torch relay is the type of clusterfuck that I would avoid like the plague. Unfortunately I found myself on the last bus across the Galata Bridge, just before they shut all the major streets down between Sultanahmet and Taksim for the passing of the torch. Istanbul traffic is static in the best of circumstances; shutting down streets in the middle of the day is a disaster.

I should have noticed the heavily armed riot police on every corner and police helicopters overhead before even leaving my couch, but if I stayed home every time the Turks put heavily armed riot police on every street corner, I would become a bigger hermit than I already am.

Faced with the prospect of neither arriving at my destination nor being able to get back home, I decided to watch. As it happened, a torch transfer happened two feet from where I was standing. I don't know who the guy was who was taking the torch, but the TV cameras were pretty excited about him. Maybe a Turkish reader knows.

The manufactured display of excitement was just as corporate as you'd expect, with the flags of Coca-Cola and Samsung more prevalent than the national flag of the country we stood in. Yay globalization!

The relay failed to attract much attention on the streets of Sultanahmet. Most Turks and tourists seemed happy enough to be able to walk up blocked Alemdar Cad. and not get squished between the tram and a taxi

Prediction

I think this football/soccer phenomenon is really here to stay! Apparently, it's not just for suburban 8 year-olds. They totally dig this game here!

Much to everyone's surprise and elation, first-time World Cuppers Ukraine topped Switzerland in a duel to make it into the Top 8. This, I've been told, is very, very good. In response, thousands streamed onto Maidan last night at 1 am to writhe about, wave flags, throw beer bottles and remove their shirts.

BOOBIES WENT BYE BYE
 

It wouldn't be Ukraine if some girl wasn't taking off her clothes in public

Since I live about 50 steps from the Maidan and was out "watching" the game anyway, I joined the crowd, but I kept my shirt on.

Interestingly, it seemed a majority of the cars on the road were Oligarch-mobiles -- high end Bimmers, Hummers, Mercedes etc. Perhaps its because the working class had other things to do at 2am on a Monday.

Ah well. Crazy kids. More photos to follow.

Europeans Behaving Badly

At the top of my "list of things other people care about but I do not" is the World Cup. I'm not sure if I can deal with several weeks of this madness.  American indifference to this game has been analyzed at length, particularly incisively here and here. I've been told that Ukraine is playing in it, as is America and a whole lot of other countries, but can we talk about something else already?

I was in a bar last night and some game was on. I guess sports are better than Fashion TV or Russian music videos that play incessantly on the obligatory flat screen in every bar, restaurant and airport in Ukraine, but only marginally.

As I was watching and trying to stay awake, it occurred to me that Americans should LOVE this game. So what if nothing ever happens? Players flail violently on the field for no apparent reason, screaming, ripping out the grass, howling with pain, cradling "injured" appendages until the camera pans away and they can jump up and continue chasing the ball up and down, back and forth, with pointless repetition. The game is full of manufactured drama, imagined slights and exaggerated patriotism, the nutrient staples of the American food pyramid. What's not to like about that?

Caribbean Of the Caucasus

Since it's 4th of July weekend and extremely hot and humid, what choice did we have but to pack up the Neva and head to the beach with the Frisbee team?

The Neva is a fantastic vehicle in many regards. It's possible to overlook the leaky gas cap and its speed limit of 50 MPH, but either the heat is permanently on or the seats are directly over the engine block, because it's freakin' hot. While this was a distinct benefit in the winter, it pretty much guarantees that no one wants to ride to the beach with you in the summer.

Upon arrival at the sandy Buzovdna beach, about a hour's drive from Baku, our friend Samandat climbed out, wiped the sweat from his brow and took a look around at the modest facilities. The national bird of Azerbaijan (plasticus bagus) fluttered from the bushes and flapped around on piles of garbage. Potbellied Azeri men in their underwear tottered around behind a soccer ball. Tattered umbrellas stuck out of the sand at oblique angles.

"It's the Caribbean of the Caucasus," he declared.

This is actually one of the best beaches on the Absheron Peninsula, mostly because it is sandy (rather than golden shelled) and pretty clean, meaning that there are no globs of oil on the shore and someone picks up some of the garbage. For a shirvan ($2), you can stake out a palapa made of straw for shade and some molded plastic chairs from which to watch the scene. Someone will also deliver the traditional beach beverage (hot tea) and shoo away invading cows and sheep.

Aside from the cow herders, one of the biggest attractions of these private beaches is the entertainment. Two guys sat in a metal kiosk and played the same CD, from 10:00am until we left at 6:00pm, at decibel levels that exceeded the capabilities of their cheap speakers. I can say with certainty that there is no stronger argument in favor of American cultural hegemony than the Euro-craze "Crazy Frog." We were treated to the best of Russian Rap, the latest Bollywood love ballads and Islamic pop, which is identical in theme, style and artistic value to Christian pop (simply substitute "Mohammed" for "Jesus").

By the end of the day, the Frisbee team pelted the metal kiosk with small apples whenever the first five notes of "Axel F" clattered out of the tinny speakers.

Since it was 4th of July weekend, we set up our red, shoe-box size metal barbecue in the sand and grilled up some chicken and beef 'dogs (none of that dirty meat). Fortunately, there are no archaic "no drinking on the beach" laws in Azerbaijan.

Sluggish from sun, beer and bad pop music, we wrapped up the day with a debate over whether the Absheron Peninsula could legitimately claim the tourist slogan "Caribbean of the Caucasus," when Turkmenistan's side might be more deserving of the title, given that it is arguably cleaner and less crowded.

Since you can't get to Turkmenistan, or the real Caribbean, in a Neva, we'll just have to be satisfied with our little slice of paradise on the Absheron Peninsula.

*This story would be greatly enhanced with photos, but we still don't have a digital camera.

Huzzah Evil Eyes!

So now that we've taken down the "Save the Producer" website and he's finally back in town with some fine coffee-colored bruises and a temporary passport, we can praise the team's fifth place finish. They also received the "spirit award."

I'd like to be able award them the "getting there and back with all of their members in one piece and accounted for at all times" award, but unfortunately, they were ineligible this trip.

Did I Say Hospital? I Meant to Say "Alert the Police"

Just got word from Nizhniy Novgorod, Russia. The Producer was mugged last night on his way home from a bar. Everything was stolen -- camera, credit cards etc. He's not hurt badly, though he was literally jumped by five guys and knocked around a bit. I guess it's easy to forget that not everywhere is as safe at 2 am as Baku.

If his passport hadn't been stolen, I think it would be time to revoke it, at least for Frisbee trips to Russia. The team came in fifth, though, a vast improvement over second-to-last in the last tournament.

Alert the Hospitals!

The Producer is in Moscow this weekend playing frisbee. No reports so far of broken bones, although I am usually among the last to hear about these things.

I'm a little jealous. We haven't been back to Moscow since we were there in August, 1991, during the first coup against Gorbachev -- the most significant in a decade-long+ chain of events that resulted in us being here. When we were there, the shop shelves were empty and people lined up around Pushkin Park to eat at the recently- opened McDonalds. I can only imagine how it's changed.

He took the camera, so maybe I'll post some action shots when he gets home.

Cheerleading

Carpetblogger has been recently taken to task for being insufficiently respectful of Ultimate Frisbee.

Indeed, Carpetblogger has been on the receiving end of a drunken diatribe from the team's hotshot flack for failing to acknowledge how Ultimate Frisbee promotes American values such as teamwork, camaraderie and world domination.

Carpetblogger officially apologizes and promises to use her power for good, rather than evil. Note to hotshot flack: good press comes at a price.

Here's some UF news:
Baku's team was recently re-christened, and not a minute too soon. Besides possibly being the worst team name ever conceived, the "Nodding Donkeys" apparently sent the wrong message in a country where no farm animal is safe in spring time. Carpetblogger fully supports the new name: "the Evil Eyes." They have had the ubitquitous blue and white eye printed on to their regulation-sized frisbees and blue uniforms.

After an intense recruiting campaign, the squad can now field four teams. Impressively, one of those teams is all Azeri women.

The team is going to Moscow to play this weekend. Huzzah! Kick some commie ass! (Don't worry. Patches is staying in Baku).