I recently revisited One Hundred Years of Solitude — this time through Netflix’s lush adaptation. The series swept me into García Márquez's Macondo with its breathtaking cinematography and meticulous attention to detail. Though decades had passed since I first read the novel, its spirit of magical realism, woven into Colombia's historical fabric, felt familiar.

The cycles of time, the endless loop of beginnings and endings, reminded me of Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence, the whirling dance of Sufi mystics, and Taoism's tranquil acceptance of life's flow.

But the truth is, like the insomnia plague in Márquez's Macondo, the story had faded from my memory over the years. I don’t know if my first reading of One Hundred Years of Solitude in high school truly shaped me. Perhaps it was that novel, alongside The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende and even The Lord of the Rings by Tolkien, that collectively left their mark. It wasn’t until last week, while watching the Netflix series, that Macondo came alive again—a return to something once loved, now seen with fresh eyes. In the years since that first encounter, my life has become its own tapestry of stories, a series of experiential lessons etched across continents.

Love, loss, discovery, and reflection have repeated in endless cycles, not unlike the generations of the Buendía family. These experiences have been my own version of magical realism, where the ordinary blurs with the extraordinary, where moments feel timeless and transformative.

Among these stories are two enduring figures: Mehmet and Erdogan. Mehmet, the enigmatic sea captain from "The Messiah of the Seas," carries the quiet wisdom of a sage, wrapped in the salt air of the Mediterranean. Erdogan, on the other hand, represents the unpredictable, whimsical charm of human connection — a guide who led me through Istanbul’s labyrinthine alleys into spaces I hadn’t anticipated.

One night, under a blanket of stars on Mehmet's sailboat, our conversation turned reflective. Mehmet, in his measured cadence, said: “Don't try too hard to find that one teacher. There will be many. Jacob did his thing as he was meant to. He left an indelible mark upon you. As shall I. And so will you upon others. It's the cycle of life and love. Once you find a teacher or two then stick to him, her, or it, as long as need be. Only you can know who your teacher is. The best learning is experiential, trial and error initially but then with increasing accuracy. Thus, your most sustainable teacher is yourself and your core beliefs that have been stripped of conditioning. But your best teachers are life and love…”

Sensing my mind beginning to drift, Mehmet stopped speaking. He stood up abruptly, pointed to the water, and asked with a smile, “Care to join?”

It took me a moment to register. I hesitated, fully clothed. But Mehmet, with an almost theatrical salute, dove into the Mediterranean below, the water swallowing him whole. Without thinking further, I followed.

The sea was colder than I had anticipated — sharp, unforgiving, yet liberating. When I awoke the next morning in the cabin, light filtering softly through the window, I was naked. Vulnerable, raw, yet undeniably alive. It wasn’t just a swim; it was a baptism, a shedding, a rebirth. That moment felt less like an event and more like a rupture in time—a Nietzschean loop folding over itself, as if everything was starting again.

In both Macondo and Mehmet’s Mediterranean, the backdrop isn’t passive, it’s alive. Márquez’s Colombia hums with dense jungles, torrential rains, and stubborn banana trees. Meanwhile, Türkiye’s coastline carries whispers of empires, histories, and forgotten lovers. These places aren’t settings—they’re storytellers. Every flicker of light on the sea, every stone alley in Istanbul, feels imbued with a quiet, watchful presence.

During my first trip to Istanbul in 2008, I met ‘Erdogan’—or at least that’s the name he preferred—a charming guide who promised stories of ancient hammams and secret histories. I followed him through winding alleys until the charm unravelled into something shadowy, something transactional. Erdogan wasn’t Mehmet, but his presence stayed with me. He reminded me of how easily we’re led—not just physically, but emotionally—into places we don’t expect.

Time behaves oddly in both Márquez’s Macondo and Mehmet’s world. It loops, it folds, it doubles back on itself. In Macondo, generations live and relive their mistakes, their loves, and their losses. Mehmet, too, seems outside of time — aloof, observing, knowing. There are no clear resolutions in either story because life rarely offers them. The sea, like Márquez’s endless rains, washes away answers and leaves behind only more questions.

The philosophical undertones of both narratives ripple outward —Sufi acceptance, Taoist surrender, and Nietzschean repetition. Mehmet’s wisdom feels Rumi-like, as if he were saying: “Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.” His actions mirror Wu Wei, the effortless action Lao Tzu describes — an alignment with the flow of existence rather than resistance against it.

When I wrote "The Messiah of the Seas," (published in The Express Tribune in January, 2023) Türkiye wasn’t just a backdrop — it was a muse. Every moment in Mehmet’s presence felt like meditation, every gust of sea wind like a whisper of something eternal. Writing about Mehmet wasn’t about telling a story; it was about capturing an essence, a fleeting truth felt rather than understood. Márquez must have felt something similar when he crafted Macondo — an intimate dance between memory, imagination, and longing.

Stories, whether set in Colombia or Türkiye, are bridges. They remind us that beginnings and endings are illusions, and that meaning isn’t something we find — it’s something we allow ourselves to feel. Márquez found his truths in Macondo. I glimpsed mine with Mehmet, under the endless sky of the Mediterranean, where time feels less like a clock and more like a tide — receding, returning, eternal.

Asad Mian, MD, PhD, is a physician, researcher, innovator, and freelance writer. With a background in paediatric emergency medicine and a passion for human-centred design thinking, he explores intersections between healthcare, education, innovation, and culture in his writing

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