The Barbershop Quartet

I've done a fair bit of traveling over the years and whenever I'm in a new country, there are two things I love to do...

Firstly, I try and find a supermarket. I think that a supermarket gives you an insight into the real world of the locals. Seeing the different products is fascinating and also gives me an opportunity to extent my collection of products with rude names.

The second thing I like to do is get a haircut. I'm not sure why this has become a thing for me, but I do my best to get a haircut in every new country I visit. From Barbados (where I was initially turned away as the barber was too scared to "cut Caucasian hair") to Thailand, I've had haircuts in some weird and wonderful places.

One of the highlights of time here in Turkey is my monthly trip to the local barbershop. Whereas, back at home, I would dread the thought. I'm the most indecisive person at the best of times and a haircut means a whole host of decisions to be made.

Do you join the porn-thumbing, seated silence of the barber or perhaps splash out on a more up-market affair? If you do, are you really going to be able to pull off the highlighted Hoxton fin?

While I was back in the UK, I decided to try the latter in a posh soho coiffure. 15 minutes and £50 later I was given the invaluable advice "you should let it grow a bit" (first time I'd ever heard that with my trousers on).

Well in Turkey, options are more limited and that, for me, is a good thing. You take a seat for a couple of hours and leave your appearance in the hands of Allah.

You may be a little apprehensive about entering a Turkish barber but I'm here to take you through the average process from start to finish. With the permission of Ozkan at Adali Kuafor and my cousin Sevki's photographic skills I've tried to document the process as thoroughly as I can. As far as I'm aware, the only thing I've omitted is the inner ear and under eye waxing. Forgive my cowardice.

Stage 1 - The welcome
This begins before even entering the barber. First you say hi to the neighbouring shop owners and wish them successful business for the day. Then, outside the barber, there should be a group of men sitting next to a clothes horse covered with towels. You may know some of them but it's not important. You sit with a glass of tea and a cigarette and chat about football, girls, the Prime Minister, the price of petrol, why it hasn't rained this year, how this summer season is going to be the worst ever and why the only tourists we do get are 'low quality'.

The end of this stage is defined by a deep sigh, smashing your tea glass down onto the saucer, slapping both hands on your knees and standing up (with hands still on knees) and a breathless "haaaaaaaydi bakalim" (meaning "come on then" or "right, off we go").

Stage 2 (part A) - Shave preparation
Not many Brits under 60 have any experience of a cut-throat shave. I was a little nervous too on my first go but after a few visits I was so excited I bought myself a set. Needless to say, I almost filleted myself. Leave it to the professionals.


Smile at your barber. Show no fear.


You may be wondering about the health risks but the blades are changed before every shave so there's no chance of catching anything nasty from the bloke before you.


Working up a lather and we're ready to go...

Stage 2 (part B) - Lathering up

With glasses off, I'm now completely at the mercy of the barber. He can shave his initials in my cheek, perm my hair, wax my eyebrows or anything that takes his fancy and I'm going to be none the wiser.


This blissful expression wasn't for the camera. The lathering process is very relaxing. Notice also the dainty position of the barber's little finger.

Stage 2 (part C) - The shave
The shave itself is usually pain-free. There may be some nicks here and there but usually nothing to worry about. Try not to talk, cough, laugh, nod or, in any way, change the contours of your face. I did once see a barber almost pass out from fear when my cousin sneezed in the chair. Give them warning.


The shave starts here on the cheek and works its way around your face.


Notice my expression. I'm looking at the television but, without glasses, I'm just zoning in on hues while I consider all the possible ways I could die from this situation. What if the barber goes postal? What if he develops a twitch? Does he suffer from epilepsy? Has anything happened in the news recently that may have left him angry at Britain?

But most of all, I try not to think about...


...the fact his brother owns the butchers across the road.

By the way, being a vegetarian, I can't give it a personal recommendation but it's where all my family go for meat so hop along to Ada-Et!


Don't move a muscle.

Stage 2 (part D) - The sting


Once the shave is complete, the barber uses lemon cologne to close your pores. It hurts but it's a nice pain. He may also use a type of soap to stop the bleeding of any nicks. This hurts and it's not a nice pain. The stone-like soap is rubbed back and forth across the cut until you can't help but physically show your discomfort.


A wipe down with a towel and your cheeks are as fresh and hair-free as a baby's bum.

Stage 3 - Haircut
There's nothing revolutionary in this stage. A haircut is a haircut the world over. But if you look closely, you might notice some subtle differences.


This strip of paper used to keep the hair from going down your neck. It's stretched tight then stuck at the back.


The paper is then tucked over the gown and the cutting begins.


The forever scary 'Dad's Army' phase. This is the point I wonder if he's actually going to grade it in or leave me looking like George Formby.


Still nothing out of the ordinary going on here. Just a man and his barber. So what's so different between this and any London barber? For the answer, we need to see what's going on round the front...


And there it is. The cigarette. But it should be clear to anyone familiar with Turkish culture that there's still something missing.


Now the scene is complete. Fully accessorised with cigarette and tea, the haircut can proceed.

*Intermission*
The barber may allow a few minutes to relax and drink more tea and smoke more cigarettes. This break could happen at any point during your visit but it usually falls before or after the haircut stage.

Although small talk is usual throughout, the temperature of the topics can be raised slightly during the intermission.

I've picked up all sorts of useful information and advice whilst at the barbers. From delicious recipes (over which everyone has an opinion) to how to bring to woman to orgasm with a horse hair (apparently you tie the hair from a horse's tail around the erect penis and the loose ends tickle the woman internally resulting in a marriage proposal. I've just not figured out the chain of events. Do you tie the hair in place before you go out for the evening? The problem with tying it to a flaccid penis is that once fully erect, the hair would become dangerously tight. Or do you wait until you've achieved your erection, then attempt to tie the hair? I feel, however, that the concentration involved in tying a hair around the penis, cutting the ends to length and laying them in position may dampen the mood enough to lose rigidity. Even before any of this, how do you pull a hair from a horses tail without getting a kick in the bollocks of enough force to render the process redundant in the first place?).

The barber often uses this break to remind me how much more hygienic it is to be circumcised and that, in smaller villages, it's the barber who performs the circumcision. He'll then take my index finger and demonstrate the various techniques. From simple scissors to more elaborate equipment, there are a multitude of ways to cleanse your person of that grotesque foreskin. Personally, all the tea in Konya isn't going to make me drop my pants in the barber's chair and have half an inch off.

Perhaps there's a connection between the horse hair trick and his quest to circumcise me. You see, Turkish barbershops are much more than a place to get your haircut. I had a skin flap on my neck (you know those weird mole-like things). Well the barber took one look at it, tied it up with cotton and a few days later there was nothing to be seen. You think you can get that at Toni and Guy?
*End of intermission*

Stage 4 - Facial hair
If you, as I did, decide to leave some facial hair, this is the stage where that face decoration is tended to.

The moustache is a huge part of Turkish culture. Dating back through Ottoman history, this element of facial hair has been handed down from father (and sometimes mother) to son. Ataturk sported one, as did many other important Turks.

It is claimed that the hair acts as a filter when drinking Turkish coffee and there is a unique golden glow to the moustaches of elderly gentlemen coming from a mixture of cigarette smoke and coffee.

In more recent years, the moustache has become less fashionable. The young rarely wear them preferring instead to go for goatees or imperials. Even the older generation are starting to drop the moustache.

Some people remember exactly where they were when JFK was shot or Elvis died but I remember vividly the day my father decided to shave his moustache. I was sitting with him on my nan's balcony. As he gazed into the mirror at his newly exposed mouth, he said something that will stay with me forever.

"Look this mouth now. Like a cunt".

This was the one and only time I've heard him use that word. It goes to show the power of losing something as important as a moustache for a Turk.




Like cat's whiskers, a moustache should be at least the width of your body allowing you to negotiate narrow gaps.


First the beard is trimmed with clippers, taking away the bulk.


Then the strays are removed with scissors.


The final shaping to get that goatee just so.

Stage 5 - The unmentionables
It could be that Turkish men are generally more hairy than Brits ...actually, what am I talking about? Obviously Turkish men are generally more hairy than Brits. Even so, this next stage can be embarrassing for the newbie. After a few visits, however, you become more relaxed and see it as any other stage of the process.

This is where all the unsightly hair is removed from facial orifices. The focus here is mainly on nose and ears but it can lead to eyebrow trimming and even forehead shaving.


Nose hair trimming. Most commonly done with scissors. The art here is to try and keep exhaling through the nostrils to avoid breathing your own nose hair into your lungs.

Here's a piece of useless personal trivia for you. I hate having my nose squeezed. It's probably linked to childhood memories of holidays in Turkey when adults would squeeze my nose in an "isn't he cute" gesture. The problem was, I had a very sensitive nose that would bleed at the drop of a hat. So they would squeeze and grin, I would grin, my eyes would water, I would feel the vessels pop, I would sniff-sniff-sniff my way out of the room to the toilet where I would sit for the rest of the evening trying to stop the hemorrhage.

The only thing to top nose bleeds on my list of childhood trauma was when, at one of my parents' dinner parties, the cat-lady from next door dragged me into the middle of the room to demonstrate that it's possible to pick up a human child in the same way a cat picks up a kitten. Though technically my feet did briefly leave the floor, I can confirm that it's not a way to transport children. Also, had she used her teeth, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be here now to tell the tale.

Anyway, why am I telling you this? No reason, but looking at the pictures of the barber pinching my nose pissed me off. I think, actually, you can see the anger in my face.


The cut-throat's back. This time to get a nice sharp finish to the sideburns. Judging by his nails, you may be wondering whether my barber's a drag queen. Not that I'm prejudice. I once had a wonderful cut and blow-dry from two ladyboys in Koh Samui.

His nails are stained from dying hair, so I'm told. Many Turkish men refuse to grow old gracefully, leading to a wrinkled face with jet black hair and moustache. The finest example of this is Turkey's answer to Cliff Richard, Ibrahim Tatlises (or Ibrahim Sweet-Voice). I've never really understood why anyone would want to look as though they've fallen face-first into a joke shop but I guess some people refuse to believe that grey looks distinguished.


Paint it black - Ibrahim Tatlises. The belief that the classic Turkish look should be somewhere between Sadam Hussein and Groucho Marx.

So your nose is now free from hair. You can breathe like you've just sucked on a Ventolin bong. Now it's time to work on your wookie-like ears.

Why don't English barbers feel the need to trim ear hair? This opens up the whole chicken and egg debate. Do Turkish men need their ear hairs trimmed because they have naturally hairy ears? Or is it because a barber once trimmed their ear hair, there by leading to more ear hair growth? All I know is that when I returned from my 6 month retreat to the UK, my ear hair was out of control.

So what's the best way to remove that hair? I doubt you'll guess.


Yes, it's fire. A stick with a cotton ball tip is dipped in white spirit and ignited. The fire ball is then tapped onto the ear and the hair is burned off. The barber is careful not to start a chain reaction by brushing out any remaining flames after every 3 strokes. So you get the rhythm : burn - burn - burn - brush - burn - burn - burn - brush...


Here the barber is going for the more tricky inner ear hair whilst simultaneously giving you all the finger. Though I'm smiling on the outside, inside I'm screaming.

To really get a feel for the process, I've put together a short video. Pay close attention to my eye-lids. They tell the true story:



I think you'll agree that, though I fought hard, you could still see that the process isn't completely pain-free. Something you can't appreciate from the video is the smell. Anyone who's reached across a hot stove or worked in a crematorium will know the smell I'm talking about.


Though the burning removes the bulk, any remaining charred hairs are removed with scissors. Similar to the way bulldozers move in after a forest fire.

So you think you're through the worst of it? You're wrong. Because invisible to the human eye (which begs the response "so just leave me alone"), your upper cheek is a disaster area of fluff. You could use depilatory cream here or even shave but neither would bring the barber the sadistic joy of the most painful part this entire grooming process.

I was chatting to a friend of mine who got her eyebrows done in Stoke Newington by a Turkish beautician. And I quote:

Her: It was all fine but I had to ask her to stop because she wanted to floss my teeth.
Me: What??
Her: Yeah, I know. She started unraveling all this thread and...
Me: Erm, that's threading. She wanted to shape your eyebrows.
Her: Ooooohhh.

Ladies may well be familiar with this. Men probably wont have a clue. I've heard women say they'd rather give birth to triplets than to go through this again.

I present the nightmare that is ...threading.


Cotton is wound into a cat's cradle and laid on the cheek.


With a twist, hair is torn from its roots forcing you to disrespect the barber's mother.

If, for some sick reason, you want to learn how to thread, there's a guide here. If, on the other hand, you simply want to see women in Beverly Hills being tortured, watch this video (not for the faint hearted).

At some point during the threading, you'll pass out.


In order for you to regain consciousness, you barber will rinse your head with water. Like in the Hamam, the temperature of the water depends entirely on the mood of the barber.


Now that you're conscious, the barber will take this opportunity to wash your hair and face. Paying close attention to your ears to put out any embers that may still be glowing, his fingers will dart in and out of any available orifice. Keep your eyes closed.


Can you see something odd about this picture? Something that I only noticed after they'd removed the towel from my face? At some point, perhaps while I was unconscious, the barbers switched places. The one who cut my hair is now sitting having a cuppa. It's magic.

You see, I think there's a pecking order in the Turkish barbershop. At the top of the pile, there's the owner. Beneath him are the barbers. Then there are the young men (usually late teens to mid-twenties) who can wash hair, massage and maybe even shave.

At the bottom of the pile are the boys, and I mean boys. Maybe 10 years old and up. You'll often find them standing facing you while you're being shaved. They're learning the skill. They watch and they watch for years. Stopping only to sweep the floor or fetch tea. The rest of the time, they watch and learn.

We could enter into a debate about child labour and the loss of youth, but I can't help thinking that this isn't so bad. They always seem happy and interested in what they're doing.


After the hair wash, cotton wool is twisted into the ears like an enormous Q-Tip, removing wax and drying the ears.

Stage 6 - Massage
You've made it. Everything from now on is plain sailing.


Your head is doused with lemon cologne and the barber begins firmly massage your face. Starting with the forehead and temples, he works every facial muscle. The only mildly uncomfortable moment comes when his fingers push into your eye sockets releasing a squelching noise that can be somewhat unnerving. I've learned not to wear contacts at the barbers.


Repeated kneading of the skin can lead too a loosening...


...your looks will return in time. Just don't look in the mirror for a while.


The massage, for me, is the highlight of the whole experience. Whenever I visit Adali Kuafor, I always see the same guy. Not because he's a fantastic hairdresser (which he is), but because he's an amazing masseur.

What Ahmed could do with his bare hands and a bottle of baby lotion is more than a straight man is willing to confess. Unfortunately, he's been called up for 15 months military service. I wish him all the best.

In the picture above, I'm getting a very rare 3-way massage. I've never been happier.


The finale of the massage is the device shown above. Only in Turkey would I bend over while a man goes to work on me with something that can only be described as a vibrator.

Stage 7 - Finishing touches
Your whole body is now jelly. You're face is free of any unwanted hair and your torso is tingling from the massage. The only thing left is the preparation for facing the outside world.


First is the application of, what I hope to be, moisturiser. Then you're offered hair gel and, finally, lemon cologne.


That's it. You're done.


It only took 4 men 2 hours but I'm ready to face the world again.

How much did it cost for this whole adventure? A little over £5. I love Turkey.

Pre-Intermediate Turkish - Unit 1

I learned a new phrase last night. It's one I've heard quite a bit and probably used without really knowing what it really meant. The phrase is: 'farkinda misin?' and it means 'do you realise?'. It can also be used as 'farkindayim' or 'I realise'.

I love learning new phrases because they enrich my conversation and give me a direct route to explain things I'd normally have to circumnavigate.

This nugget was taught to me by my friend while we were sitting having soup at a restaurant in the early hours of the morning. I asked him to give me an example of it's usage in a sentence. Before I'd even finished my request, he gave the following example:

"Ne kadar at yaragi oldugunun, farkinda misin?" ("Do you realise what a horse cock you are?")

So much more than I bargained for. An example usage of the target language plus an opportunity for a moment of self-reflection. Farkindayim.

Caption Competition #1

We're at a crossover time here in Kusadasi. The local council is getting ready for the new season, but the tourists have already started arriving. This means that our foreign guests are walking down muddy streets that are yet to be paved and beaches that are still being, well, created.

I was taking a stroll along the promenade at Kadinlar Plaji (Ladies' Beach - named in an age when communal bathing was seen as the work of the Devil) when caught this moment of utter madness.

I feel it deserves a caption so get your thinking caps on. The best suggestion wins fuck all. Good luck...

The Hamam - Home Sweat Home

After spending a couple of years in Turkey, I've come to realise that, comparatively, the Brits are really quite a dirty nation.

I've never been one for baths; the idea of sitting for an hour in my own filth soup never appealed to me. Turks, like most other nations, prefer a good shower.

The epicentre of the Turkish sense of cleanliness is the Hamam (or Turkish Bath). But don't be fooled by the name, this isn't a bath. As preening rituals go, the Hamam falls somewhere between a sauna and a fight.

The Hamam acts as a centrepiece to a great Turkish day of indulgence. Starting with cop sis (small pieces of lamb on a skewer, eaten in a smoky shed, standing around a grill), then onto the Hamam, followed by a few beers in a bar and ending with a night of Russian prostitutes and Raki (the Turkish equivalent of Ouzo or Pernod). But for most tourists, the Hamam is enough.

So what can you expect from a Turkish bath experience?

At the entrance of the Hamam, you'll be welcomed by the toned staff (see fig.1) and invited to haggle your way down to an unknown figure for unknown services. There are an array of options starting with a simple steam all the way through to a full service. I tend to go for everything but the oil massage, which happens outside the bath itself and isn't usually worth the hassle.


Fig.1 Your dreamy welcoming team of masseurs. If you're wondering where the sponge is, he's second from the left.

Once the deal has been struck you'll pass through the threshold and into the reception area of the Hamam. This is usually a dimly lit wooden affair with a balcony exposing an upper floor with changing rooms (see fig.2).


Fig.2 The reception area.

Staff will guide you upstairs to your room and tell you what you need to do. But you wont understand, so I'll tell you:

The changing room will be tiny and only suitable for two people. Inside you will find two beds, a table, 4 gingham sheets and 2 pairs of slippers. Close the door behind you and get your kit off. It may be wise to take it in turns as you will be in such close proximity to your changing partner that a stumble could lead to an awkward encounter.

The level of nudity you adopt is entirely your call. Turkish men will strip to nothing but women may decide to keep a bathing suit on. Though traditionally, genders are separated by time and space, if you're in a tourist area, the Hamam will probably be mixed. I was once offered a job in a Hamam by a masseur who tried to sell the idea to me by saying that "you get to touch women all day". Girls, be warned.

Once naked, take the gingham sheet and cover your bits. Put on the slippers and head back out in the foyer. Note to spectacle wearers (of which I'm one): take them off and don't wear contact lenses (the heat will fuse them to your cornea). Yes, I know, good luck with the stairs.

Off the reception hall, a large wooden door will take you into the bath itself. What with the steam, only thin shafts of natural light coming from the domed ceiling and my -6 myopia with an astigmatism chaser, by this point, I may as well be wearing a blindfold. However, the little I have seen of these baths is truly breathtaking (not that you'd want to take a deep breath. It can be pungent).


Fig.3 The Hamam steam room.

In the centre of the room is the Gobek Tasi (stomach stone - see fig. 4). This is a heated marble slab where the main action takes place. Lining the walls are cubicles or simple seats with sinks, hot and cold taps and plastic bowls.


Fig.4 The 'Gobek Tasi' or stomach stone. Although most of the men in this picture are unconscious, try not to lie like the man in the foreground.

Take a seat anywhere you want. Lie on the slab if that's what takes your fancy. Just find a place, sit, settle and sweat.

You're going to need some time to relax and take in the atmosphere. You'll also need time to acclimatise to the heat and allow your pores to open. One thing than can shock some people is that these rooms, generally, aren't as hot as your average sauna. Traditionally, these were meeting places and people spent time sitting and chatting. For this reason, the heat should be bearable.

Remember your gingham cloth at all times and realise its size. It's not much bigger than a tea towel so be careful when moving about or kicking back. I once sat on the Gobek Tasi to build up some heat. The sweat was dripping off me as I sat there hands on knees with my head bowed. Remember, my vision is limited at the best of times and now sweat and, consequently, tears were added to the mix.

As I sat there with legs akimbo and a gingham sheet that had ridden a little too high, I was shocked to realise that not only had I sat myself in front of the main door but that it was opening to reveal three silhouettes. From their curves I deduced that one was a member of staff and the other two were female. The subsequent series of flashes brought me to the conclusion that a) they were tourists and b) perhaps unbeknown to them, they had taken a picture of my bollocks. Somewhere in Holland, someone has got some rather disturbing holiday snaps.

After about 20 minutes, a member of staff will enter the room. This man is known as the 'tellak'. He will gesture for you to come and lie on the gobek tasi. When he realises you've not obeyed his orders and are staring blankly into space (because you can't see your hand in front of your face), he'll approach you and physically manoeuvre you into position.

The tellak will then produce something that resembles a square mitten. This is your introduction to the world of pain that awaits. The mitten is called the Kese (see fig.5). It has a texture similar to a scouring pad and is used to 'exfoliate'. I use this term loosely because, from the rolls of skin it creates, you will conclude that the tellak has almost completely removed your epidermis.


Fig.5 The Kese. If the devil wore mittens he would choose the kese..

The tellak will scour your entire body with this mit and comment on how disgusting you are as he points out the rolls of black grime he works out of your person. Don't take it personally, for this may not be entirely your dirt. As he rubs the kese around your face, bear in mind that he has, only moments before, been working that very same mit around the crevices of the guy before you.


Fig.6 Exfoliation Hamam style. You can keep your fancy creams, give me a sweaty, morbidly obese tellak with an arse scented Brillo pad.

The end of the exfoliation process will be indicated by a slap. The use of the slap in hamams can be a little confusing. For best effect, the hand is cupped to increase volume. Interpretations include:

1. "Get on the slab"
2. "Get off the slab"
3. "Turn over"
4. "This arm/leg/neck etc is done"
5. "Your gingham sheet has worked loose"
6. "I like you"
7. "I don't like you"
8. "I just want to slap you"

The tellak will now douse you in water. The temperature of which will depend entirely on his mood. This washes away any rolls of skin or tears that may be still present. He will then begin the firmer massage.

This is the famous moment of clicking bones and involuntary moans. In my experience, this massage can vary widely. Sometimes it's a simple slap and an arm stretch, other times it can leave you with a disability.

The contortions you adopt can be quite startling (fig.7). An English friend of mine recalls being in mid-massage when he noticed a white flank of skin next to his face, only to realise it was his own arse. Relax as much as you can and let the tellak work his issues out on you. Be warned, if he's gently rocking your head from side to side, he's about to perform a move that will have you staring briefly at your shoulder blades. Gets me every time.


Fig.7. In the Hamam no one can hear you scream ...actually they can ...and it echoes.

Next comes the soap-down. This, for me, is the highlight.

You will be lying, dazed on the slab. A little sore from the kese and a little bruised from the shoeing. The tellak will instruct you to lay on your belly and position your hands under your chin. Next you'll hear a sploshing, a puff, then a warm wave of soap suds will engulf you entire body. You will wonder how this is achieved. Well I'm going to let you into the secret of the foam.

The tellak has a bowl of warm water containing the biggest bar of olive oil soap you've ever seen in your life and something that resembles a pillowcase. This sack is swished around in the water before blowing air into it, closing the opening and forcing the soapy air through the pores of the bag and onto your trembling body (see fig.8).


Fig.8. The soap bath. You will notice that the pillowcase is now full of bubbles and that the guy on the right has a semi.


Fig.9. No trip to Turkey is complete without having a tellak empty his sack over your chest.


Fig.10. Here we can see a multiple soaping or 'Bukkake', as it's known in Japan.

The tellak wont stop at one sack load as he tries to impress you with his foam. Just ignore it and don't encourage him (see fig.11).


Fig.11. Especially during the slower winter months, prolonged periods without female contact can lead to tellaks becoming over zealous.

For most tellaks, the idea of working in tourist areas is a dream most will never realise. But who can blame them?


Fig.12 The dream.


Fig.13 The reality.

Through the voluminous foam, you will feel a slap. This marks the start of the soap massage process. The soap is worked firmly into your muscles. His hands will explore every inch of your body as he kneads and scrubs you to a state of squeaky cleanliness that would have Nanette Newman blushing.

The tellaks have a tendency to amuse themselves by pushing their thumbs into pressure points that'll make you squirm, giggle, yelp and coil. This is normal. Allow them this pleasure. Something similar happened to me once in Thailand (it turns out there's a pressure point in your upper thigh that can send a massage spiraling off into a whole new direction).

With various cupped slaps, the tellak will have you rolling around on the slab in order to cleanse your entire body. For me, the real spectacle here is how they manage to adjust your gingham sheet to a mere cocks-worth so as to expose as much flesh as possible. When they then give the 'turn over' slap, you'll be wondering how you'll manage this without showing your fellow bathers your giblets. The answer is that your tellak will follow your movements with the sheet to instill a false sense of security. Then, whilst in mid-turn, he'll raise the sheet and allow everyone, including himself, a good old butchers at what you're packing.


Fig.14. If, at this point, he swings his leg over, you're going to have to make some life decisions.


Fig.15. The photo that inspired me to finish university.

Now, you've been washed and are completely covered in soap. The tellak will now slap you indicating that it's time for you to leave the slab and head over to one of the sinks. If you take nothing from this post, listen closely to this... put your slippers back on. They may have seemed redundant until now, but this is where they make a whole lot of sense. Let me explain this with a very simple equation:

Soapy feet + wet marble = a fractured cranium and a £250 cheque from You've Been Framed.

Having reached your destination, in a style not dissimilar to Bambi venturing onto ice, you'll be seated with your knees around your ears and nuts open to the world before being doused, once again, with water. Draw breath as and when you can.

The tellak will now wash your hair (with the bar of soap), ears and any other orifice he can get a finger into. Close your eyes and think of Billericay.

After this final rinse, you're done. The tellak will move onto another victim and leave you weeping in the corner to gather the fragments of your shattered manhood. Take some time here. Don't go rushing straight out. Sit and relax a while. After a whole episode of unfamiliar experiences, it may take a little time for your adrenaline levels to return to normal. While you do that, ponder this:

In 1997, the film 'Hamam' caused controversy in Turkey. Depicting the life of an Italian man inheriting an Istanbul Hamam The film develops into something of a homo-erotic tale of love in the steam room. The very thought that the Hamam could be used for such activities was abhorrent to most Turks and none more so than the Head of the Istanbul Hamam Association who made the following statement (I'm paraphrasing because this is complete hearsay): "the idea of Hamams being a hub of gay sexual activity is both ridiculous and impossible as men and women are segregated". Case closed then? Think again, because according to Wikipedia (which is always correct), historically, Hamams do have rather different story to tell:

"Traditionally, the masseurs in the baths also worked as sex workers. We know today, by texts left by Ottoman authors, who they were, their prices, how many times they could bring their customers to orgasm, and the details of their sexual practices.

After the defeat and dismemberment of the Ottoman empire, in the quickly westernizing Turkish republic the tellak boys lost their sexual aspect, and now the tellak's role is filled by adult attendants who specialize in more prosaic forms of scrubbing and massage. Yet in Turkish the term hamam oğlanı, 'bath boy,' is still used as a euphemism for a homosexual."


Fig.16. "Whatever you do, don't stop".


Fig.17. The Hamam. Officially no longer gay.

My understanding is that, in the UK at least, the Turkish Bath is still something of a gay meeting place. Here in Turkey, however, it's not the case. It's a masculine affair of slapping, strutting, blowing your nose through your fingers, snorting, making farting noises with your belly on the marble or simply making farting noises.

Turkish women, these days, rarely visit Hamams. They are used for one special purpose; if a male member of the family has a girlfriend he's considering marrying, the women of the family will invite her to the Hamam. The real motive of this expedition if to check her physique out. Is she going to balloon? Is she going to be able to withstand childbirth? So many questions to be answered.

OK, so you've had enough of the steam and sweat. Gather your dignity (that includes your gingham sheet) and head back out the door into the foyer. If you can find the stairs, climb them. There, at the top, waiting for you will be another member of staff whose sole purpose is to dress you like a fool.

With a series of twist, turns and slaps you'll be wrapped up in towels like a newborn baby (fig.18).


Fig.18. The post-Hamam towel wrap is a look somewhere between an Arab and a twat.

Once wrapped, don't go rushing back to your changing room. Take a seat around the reception area. Personally, I like to have a glass of apple tea while I enjoy the sensation of my scrubbed skin tingling in the fresh air.

When you finally decide to leave the Hamam, notice how cool the air feels outside. It may be 40 degree heat but, compared to the Hamam, it'll feel like Spring. You'll feel revitalised and alive. This is the real reason for coming to a Hamam. Also, if you make your trip to the bath early on in your stay, you'll get a much deeper tan.

For me, a visit to a Hamam is an essential part of a Turkish holiday. Even if you lose the ability to turn your head for a few days/weeks, rest assured that you've never been cleaner in your life.

Rude Nan #5

Mum had come over from England for my birthday. We were all teary-eyed when nan remembered her name and welcomed her back after so long. Suzanna took the opportunity to wind up the poor old bed-ridden soul (nan, not mum).

Suzanna: Come on! We have a special visitor. Aren't you going to get up and make her something to eat?
Nan: *silence*
Suzanna: You're so lazy. You just lie in bed all day. Get up and make your visitor something. She's come all the way from England.
Nan: *silence and glaring at Suzanna*
Suzanna: Lazy!!!
Nan: Listen. Why don't you just fuck off out of this house, you prostitute. (Aimed at Suzanna, not mum).

Mum's grasp of Turkish wasn't enough to understand why I'd collapsed spitting tea.

Park Wife

So you sit and wonder how to follow up such a bitter post... then the answer falls into your lap.

A few days ago, the phone rang. It was my auntie's cleaner on the line. I've known this woman for many years and out of everyone I've met in this amazing country, she's the one I have most difficulty understanding. Though some may speak quickly, they speak simply. Others may speak slowly with complex vocabulary. The lovely Meral is both swift and complex in her communication.

So she called me to ask how I was and how the family was. I wasn't buying this. There had to be another motive for her call. Sure enough, it wasn't long before we got to the real reason. "I've found a girl for you. I will call you again". I uttered the appropriate string of convoluted 'thank you's and 'god bless you's before hanging up. I didn't take it too seriously because whenever any middle aged woman learns I'm single, she'll always suggest someone's daughter who would be perfect.

Well, true to her word, she called today.

Meral: "Hello Billy, it's Meral. Where are you?"
Me: "Hello Meral, I'm at home"
Meral: "Meet me in the park by the clinic as soon as possible"
Me: "But I'm still in my pajam..."
*click*

I pulled on some jeans and headed down to the rendezvous point. There sitting on a bench, her head covered with a scarf, was Meral.

I sat next to her and wondered for a while which salutation would be most appropriate. Do I use 'sen' (Turkish equivalent of the French 'tu') or the more formal 'siz'? Should I shake her hand? Should I kiss it? But if I kiss it, that might make her feel old. Should I kiss her cheeks? Is that too informal? Oh for fuck's sake! I nodded hello and smiled a lot.

After a few minutes of small talk about how sweet my parents are, we got down to business. She reached inside her handbag and brought out a handful of photos.

"I've known this family for 12 years", she said. "They're a wonderful family. There are two daughters. The one I'm talking about is the eldest. I've spoken to the mother and she agreed that I should show you some pictures of her. She chose these..."

With that, she started thumbing through the family shots stopping on each to indicate the girl in question, raising her eyebrows and smiling. I reciprocated with eyebrows raised, lots of smiles and the occasional 'masallah' (meaning 'wonderful', 'how amazing').

I sat looking at the pictures Meral had given me and was unsure what to say. Luckily Meral stepped in. "I'll arrange to meet her in a cafe with her family. You can be sitting at a different table. Then you can watch us and see what she's like. If you like her, you can come over and wish us a good day before going about your business".

I had images of a long raincoat, a trilby and a newspaper with eye holes cut into it. I also had images of tripping up when approaching the table, knocking over coffees and falling face first into her mother's lap (my cartoonist Grandfather's blood pumps through my veins).

Later, on explaining the events to my friend, he pointed out that maybe I had already been the subject of covert surveillance. Perhaps Meral had requested the meeting in the park deliberately. I hadn't properly scanned the area.

Meral then continued to talk about the girl and her qualifications and the fact that she'd cook and clean for me and that I wouldn't have to worry about the upbringing of my children- stuff that means very little to me. I was locked in full concentration to capture as many recognisable words as I could from Meral's excited monologue when, directly behind her, a man had just caught a pigeon with his bare hands. My focus suddenly switched to this fascinating spectacle of dexterity and agility as I fought the morbid curiosity of whether he was going to twat it on a rock and put it in his pocket.

Meral dragged my attention back by thrusting one of the pictures into my hand and telling me to take it home and think about it. Does that seem strange to anyone else? Just what was I supposed to do with it?

I walked away from the park clutching the photo, a little bemused by what had happened.

They say that if you want to up your chances of finding the 'marrying type' rather than 'good time type', get introduced by an older woman. It's an idea a few steps West of arranged marriages but I can see the logic. If the family is known, the daughter is known. Although I had to put my foot down when people started suggesting girls who already share my surname. I'm not quite ready to embrace incest yet.

So watch this space for updates on this particular covert operation and any other suitors who are led to my court. Do you think I should set them challenges or, perhaps, one big wrestling contest? Though I'm not sure I'd want to end up with a proficient wrestler.

Perhaps this is all going to my head a little. If you've ever seen me on a horse, you'd know I'm no Prince Charming. For now I'll concentrate on the blog and leave my love life to the Kusadasi Women's Institute.

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

I've always shied away from the subject of love and romance on this blog but I'd like to take this post to tell you what I've learned about love 'a la Turk'. I may be a little bitter from my experiences and I'm not saying that this is gospel or representative of the nation as a whole. This is just my learnings from my own personal experiences.

Today is my birthday. It was one year ago today that I sat on a secluded beach near the beautiful town of Agva on the Black Sea coast, a beer, some snacks, some candles, a sunset, a beautiful girlfriend and a marriage proposal.

Fast forward to September last year, me alone on the streets of Istanbul, a suitcase, a ripped t-shirt, a smashed mobile phone, a broken heart and the knowledge that I wasn't the only guy she was engaged to.

Turkish women, I'm told by friends and songs, are divided into two groups: the ones you have fun with and the ones you marry. Sometimes it's clear to see. There are those that play up to their roles with passion. But, for the vast majority, where they are on the scale is ambiguous and the trick is figuring out which type you've fallen for.

I chose the wrong type of girl and learned the hard way. Still somewhat dazed from the episode but, in the spirit of what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I'm as strong as a lion though I may feel as weak as a kitten.

I was a rookie to Turkish relationships. I didn't know the game that had to be played, I didn't even have a chance to learn the rules.

Turkish women can be brutal in both their simplicity and their complexity. They want security and insecurity. You should always be telling them how amazing they are, yet always allowing them some doubt that you could be up to your wrist in a stranger.

They expect jealousy - both giving and receiving. They expect lies. They are expecting you to lie and, in order to maintain the image of the perfect girlfriend, they are also compelled to lie.

Expect to be the second person she's ever slept with. When it comes to previous sexual partners, 1 is the magic number. Any more and she'll appear a tart. Any less it'll appear she's holding onto her virginity and she'll worry you'll lose interest. Turkish girls have as much, if not more, sex than Brits though they'd never admit to it. Turks, generally, have a fiercer libido than any other nation I've met. But don't make the mistake of believing that it's just the guys.

On the plus side, if you choose correctly, expect affection. Expect to be cared for. Expect someone who'll put their head on your shoulder and expect to hear the poetic Turkish words of love: my lamb, my Turkish delight, my soul, my love, my pistachio nut, my honey, my baby. With Turks, 'I love you' can come startlingly quickly. Maybe because, as with French, there is no differentiation between the words 'I love you' and 'I like you'.

Also expect youth and beauty. Turks are an incredibly attractive race and, as I've mentioned many times, they take good care of themselves. When it comes to age, as my uncle said, "take your age, halve it and add 7. That's the perfect age of your wife". Anywhere between 2-10 years younger appears to be the norm. In the UK, this seems to be reversed.

This all works if you know the rules. A simple guy like me from the Suburbs of London, taking everything at face value, didn't stand a chance. The recovery from my last dabbling in love has left its mark. It took 6 months re-grouping in the UK and a CELTA course before I was ready to come back and face Turkey.

Relationships here can take people down. I know at least two who are still recovering after 10 years. Stories of driving the length of the country to confront cheating partners, guns and prison sentences. The penal system here goes easy on men who murder cheating girlfriends. "The prisons are full of men who've been wronged", I'm told.

A small part of me understood the pain that drives a man to such crimes. You can't be in a relationship with a Turk and play by British rules and it's easy to unintentionally misinterpret the game you're playing if it's not your culture.

So what do I do now? I learn the rules or find someone who plays my game.

If there's a next time, I hope she's the right type of girl. I'm not sure my British heart could take another Ottoman slap.

Well, as I said before, it's my birthday today. I knew the day was going to be full of mixed emotions but mum has flown in to help me celebrate so we're off to eat Turkish pizza by the ring road.