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.
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Colognial Tang
There is one particular element of the Turkish culture that I feel deserves a post to itself. Something that any visitor to Turkey will encounter in one form or another. So as to avoid blank stares when offered, I'd like to introduce you all to the omnipresent lemon cologne:
Taris is the most famous brand of Lemon Cologne and generally a huge company. According to the website:
"Taris, the first and the biggest Union of Agricultural Sales Cooperatives Turkey, consolidates the conscious of responsibility it bears and the superior service comprehension exceeding the borders of Turkey with the devotion to its principles and targets."
Yeah, I have no idea either. I was too busy consolidating my conscious of responsibility to fully comprehend what the fuck they were on about.
Lemon cologne is everywhere and used for everything. Primarily it's offered after a meal (especially fish) to clean hands and mouth ...then rubbed round the back of the neck before finally covering the nose with hands and taking a deep breath. The result is an awakening comparable to smelling salts.
Upon exiting a restaurant, you will usually find a man standing by the door with a dimpled bottle in his hand. Your move is to offer both hands in a begging fashion and wait for him to douse them with the cologne until you say "sag ol" (literally meaning "stay healthy" or "thank you"). This cologne is then yours to distribute to any part of your body you deem fit (just remember this is a muslim country).
If there is no man with a bottle, you'll be provided with packets of cologne sodden wipes. The principle is the same; hands, mouth, neck, nose, breathe.
Lemon cologne kills all known bacteria. Other uses include:
I love watching the people around me on planes refusing to touch the sandwiches they're eating. Resulting in a hand, wrapped in a tiny napkin, clutching a sandwich as though they're recovering a family heirloom from a public toilet bowl.
Food dropped onto any dinner table surface is considered contaminated and thrown into the ashtray. Personally, I'd eat a dropped ice-cream off a gravel path. Surely a quick blow and a wipe with the wrist is good enough (FYI, that's my general motto for most things). Not here.
After dinner, if available, diners will go to the lavabo to wash hands and mouth. Now, doesn't that make sense? You've just sploshed your way through a pile of food swimming in olive oil. Your lips and chin are glistening in the moonlight. Shouldn't you go and rinse before kissing your friends goodnight?
After bowel movements, shaved nipsies are washed with water via a little pipe at the back of the bowl. It's sense.
When I first arrived, I asked the plumber to remove the little pipe because it looked vicious. He gave me a look as though I'd just wiped my arse on the curtains. Then, after I told him I'd changed my mind and I'd like to try the pipe out for a while, he hugged me.
I'll get onto Turkish baths another time. That's a whole post in itself.
If you're coming over, expect to see cologne and know how to use it. Take some back home with you. My life, and the life of all Turks, would be empty and filthy without it.
Taris is the most famous brand of Lemon Cologne and generally a huge company. According to the website:
"Taris, the first and the biggest Union of Agricultural Sales Cooperatives Turkey, consolidates the conscious of responsibility it bears and the superior service comprehension exceeding the borders of Turkey with the devotion to its principles and targets."
Yeah, I have no idea either. I was too busy consolidating my conscious of responsibility to fully comprehend what the fuck they were on about.
Lemon cologne is everywhere and used for everything. Primarily it's offered after a meal (especially fish) to clean hands and mouth ...then rubbed round the back of the neck before finally covering the nose with hands and taking a deep breath. The result is an awakening comparable to smelling salts.
Upon exiting a restaurant, you will usually find a man standing by the door with a dimpled bottle in his hand. Your move is to offer both hands in a begging fashion and wait for him to douse them with the cologne until you say "sag ol" (literally meaning "stay healthy" or "thank you"). This cologne is then yours to distribute to any part of your body you deem fit (just remember this is a muslim country).
If there is no man with a bottle, you'll be provided with packets of cologne sodden wipes. The principle is the same; hands, mouth, neck, nose, breathe.
Lemon cologne kills all known bacteria. Other uses include:
- Pre-dinner hand cleanse.
- Mid-dinner hand cleanse.
- Post-dinner hand cleanse.
- Post-defecation hand cleanse.
- Mid-day wake up (see breathing into nostrils)
- Post-mosquito bite cooling relief.
- Post-spillage all surface cleaner.
- Facial aftershave.
- Post-genital/anal grooming aftershave balm (Joke. Do not, I repeat, do not try this. Trust me).
- Post-haircut massage oil.
- Post-minor (note: not major) injury antibacterial lotion.
- Post-bereavement 'coming-to-your-senses' lotion.
- Spermicidal lubricant.
- Cheap prison booze (my grandfather got 2 weeks in solitary for making a punch out it this. Fact. He subsequently temporarily lost the use of his legs. Whether this was due to 2 weeks standing in a sesspit or simply the result of drinking a single measure of lemon cologne is open to debate).
- Foot coolant ...and any other areas you choose. Just, choose carefully.
- BBQ igniter fluid.
- 'Welcome on board our plane/bus/taxi/boat' celebration cleanse.
- 'We're about to land/pull into the garage/moor/crash' thank you cleanse.
- 'Thank you for a wonderful evening. What was your name again? Anastasia? How much do I owe you?' gratitude hand and mouth cleanse.
- 'What a cute little kitten/puppy ...now decontaminate me' hand and body cleanse.
I love watching the people around me on planes refusing to touch the sandwiches they're eating. Resulting in a hand, wrapped in a tiny napkin, clutching a sandwich as though they're recovering a family heirloom from a public toilet bowl.
Food dropped onto any dinner table surface is considered contaminated and thrown into the ashtray. Personally, I'd eat a dropped ice-cream off a gravel path. Surely a quick blow and a wipe with the wrist is good enough (FYI, that's my general motto for most things). Not here.
After dinner, if available, diners will go to the lavabo to wash hands and mouth. Now, doesn't that make sense? You've just sploshed your way through a pile of food swimming in olive oil. Your lips and chin are glistening in the moonlight. Shouldn't you go and rinse before kissing your friends goodnight?
After bowel movements, shaved nipsies are washed with water via a little pipe at the back of the bowl. It's sense.
When I first arrived, I asked the plumber to remove the little pipe because it looked vicious. He gave me a look as though I'd just wiped my arse on the curtains. Then, after I told him I'd changed my mind and I'd like to try the pipe out for a while, he hugged me.
I'll get onto Turkish baths another time. That's a whole post in itself.
If you're coming over, expect to see cologne and know how to use it. Take some back home with you. My life, and the life of all Turks, would be empty and filthy without it.
Sunday, 20 April 2008
Minos the Minx
I simply can't remember whether I've told this story before but, as there's a shocking new twist, I'm going to tell it again.
It was the 23rd of July 2006 as I was driving back from Bodrum. Along the way, I decided to grab breakfast at my favourite restaurant on the shores of Bafa Lake.
Whilst tucking into the olives, cheese and tomatoes, I noticed a small kitten lying on a chair. I couldn't resist but go and explore.
The kitten was tiny and frail. He looked as though he wasn't going to last the day. Around his neck the staff had tied a necklace of 'Nazar Boncugu' (evil eye beads) to keep him safe from harm but I reckoned it would take a lot more than that to keep this black and white bundle of skin and bones alive.
I picked him up and cuddled him but he was too weak to play.
Here are some pictures I took of the little fella:
They told me his name was Minos (meaning 'tiny or small'). It was a sad moment when I said goodbye to him that day to continue my journey back to Kusadasi.
In March 2007, I was driving back down to Bodrum and decided to stop once again for a break by Bafa Lake. As the waiter brought the menu I apprehensively asked of the fate of Minos.
"He's sitting behind you" said the waiter, somewhat confused by my fascination with this cat.
There behind me was a lion of a cat. He was in beautiful condition. Perhaps the healthiest looking cat I've seen since I arrived here. Mind you, if cats have a heaven, it would be living in a fish restaurant on the banks of Bafa Lake.
Just look at the difference. Now fully grown, Minos was a troublesome beast. He rarely left the side of the table and had no qualms with boldly reaching over and helping himself to the fish.
I can't describe how relieved I was to see that little Minos had made it, and in such style.
Fast forward a few months and once again I'm back in the restaurant, sitting at my usual table, admiring the view of the ruins on the nearby island. The waiter took my order and I smiled and asked "so where's Minos?"
The waiter's face dropped.
Now my Turkish isn't so good still but I heard words in his following sentence that I didn't expect and absolutely didn't want to hear.
Words like "I'm sorry", "unfortunately", "hit", "reversing", "car".
My heart broke there and then. After the struggle he'd gone through to becoming a handsome lion. All that gone in an instant. I remembered holding him in one hand as he flopped like a rag doll. The joy I felt when I saw what he had become. I felt sick.
But then, in the waiter's continued explanation of events, I heard more words that brought hope. "Not dead", "injured", "recover".
I hoped he would survive the accident. To be honest, I avoided the restaurant for a while as I was scared that he wouldn't make it through again.
Last week, though, I stopped for breakfast as I began my trip down to Bodrum and beyond. The great news is that Minos is still alive. He's been left with a bit of a limp and walks like Larry Grayson and the similarities don't end there.
It appears that the accident has brought about a bigger change in Minos' life. OK he's not the strapping young thing he was before; he's a little skinnier but no waif. But the biggest shock of all is that, at some point during the past months, Minos went all gay.
If proof is needed, here is a photo I took of him raping his adopted brother:
Minos is still bold, still cheeky, still confident but now as camp as Christmas. I watched with elation as he limply minced around frolicking with the other male cats, stopping only to beg me for food or to mount one of his brothers (the other cat in the picture only barely had time to get to his feet before Minos would grab him by the neck and play horsey again).
The Nazar Boncugu around his neck are gone. There is no need for them anymore. They kept him safe through 2 lives and into embracing his homosexuality (as well as any male cat that slows down enough for him to catch them). He may be as bent as a 9 Lira note but he's back to being the happiest cat on Bafa.
Heaven, for Minos, just got better.
It was the 23rd of July 2006 as I was driving back from Bodrum. Along the way, I decided to grab breakfast at my favourite restaurant on the shores of Bafa Lake.
Whilst tucking into the olives, cheese and tomatoes, I noticed a small kitten lying on a chair. I couldn't resist but go and explore.
The kitten was tiny and frail. He looked as though he wasn't going to last the day. Around his neck the staff had tied a necklace of 'Nazar Boncugu' (evil eye beads) to keep him safe from harm but I reckoned it would take a lot more than that to keep this black and white bundle of skin and bones alive.
I picked him up and cuddled him but he was too weak to play.
Here are some pictures I took of the little fella:
They told me his name was Minos (meaning 'tiny or small'). It was a sad moment when I said goodbye to him that day to continue my journey back to Kusadasi.
In March 2007, I was driving back down to Bodrum and decided to stop once again for a break by Bafa Lake. As the waiter brought the menu I apprehensively asked of the fate of Minos.
"He's sitting behind you" said the waiter, somewhat confused by my fascination with this cat.
There behind me was a lion of a cat. He was in beautiful condition. Perhaps the healthiest looking cat I've seen since I arrived here. Mind you, if cats have a heaven, it would be living in a fish restaurant on the banks of Bafa Lake.
Just look at the difference. Now fully grown, Minos was a troublesome beast. He rarely left the side of the table and had no qualms with boldly reaching over and helping himself to the fish.
I can't describe how relieved I was to see that little Minos had made it, and in such style.
Fast forward a few months and once again I'm back in the restaurant, sitting at my usual table, admiring the view of the ruins on the nearby island. The waiter took my order and I smiled and asked "so where's Minos?"
The waiter's face dropped.
Now my Turkish isn't so good still but I heard words in his following sentence that I didn't expect and absolutely didn't want to hear.
Words like "I'm sorry", "unfortunately", "hit", "reversing", "car".
My heart broke there and then. After the struggle he'd gone through to becoming a handsome lion. All that gone in an instant. I remembered holding him in one hand as he flopped like a rag doll. The joy I felt when I saw what he had become. I felt sick.
But then, in the waiter's continued explanation of events, I heard more words that brought hope. "Not dead", "injured", "recover".
I hoped he would survive the accident. To be honest, I avoided the restaurant for a while as I was scared that he wouldn't make it through again.
Last week, though, I stopped for breakfast as I began my trip down to Bodrum and beyond. The great news is that Minos is still alive. He's been left with a bit of a limp and walks like Larry Grayson and the similarities don't end there.
It appears that the accident has brought about a bigger change in Minos' life. OK he's not the strapping young thing he was before; he's a little skinnier but no waif. But the biggest shock of all is that, at some point during the past months, Minos went all gay.
If proof is needed, here is a photo I took of him raping his adopted brother:
Minos is still bold, still cheeky, still confident but now as camp as Christmas. I watched with elation as he limply minced around frolicking with the other male cats, stopping only to beg me for food or to mount one of his brothers (the other cat in the picture only barely had time to get to his feet before Minos would grab him by the neck and play horsey again).
The Nazar Boncugu around his neck are gone. There is no need for them anymore. They kept him safe through 2 lives and into embracing his homosexuality (as well as any male cat that slows down enough for him to catch them). He may be as bent as a 9 Lira note but he's back to being the happiest cat on Bafa.
Heaven, for Minos, just got better.
Rude Nan #4
I popped in to see nan the other day. She's not doing so well these days and it seems to be taking all her energy to ask me how I am. She does, however, still have the power to make me fall about laughing.
When I arrived Suzanna was giving her some snacks and brain exercise. As nan can't sit up, she can't really see what Suzanna is feeding her so it seems a perfect opportunity to test her palette and memory.
Suzanna eased a small piece of fruit into nan's mouth and asked "what's that mum?" (Suzanna affectionately calls her 'mum'). There was a pause while nan chewed and pondered.
"Apple" came the whispered reply.
Another piece of fruit is fed to nan. "What's that mum?"
A longer pause followed then an even quieter "orange".
Suzanna then shakes it up a little by putting a biscuit in nan's mouth. "What's that then mum?" asked Suzanna with a cheeky grin.
Silence.
"Come on mum, what's that?"
What nan actually said next is open to question. I saw her lips move and then Suzanna's face turn a worrying shade of red. "MUM!!!! SHHHHHHH!!!!! You can't say that! We have guests".
So what was it nan said that dropped Suzanna to the floor? The possible options are:
a) Cunt
b) Your mother's cunt
c) Your midwife's cunt
Answers on a postcard to the usual address.
When I arrived Suzanna was giving her some snacks and brain exercise. As nan can't sit up, she can't really see what Suzanna is feeding her so it seems a perfect opportunity to test her palette and memory.
Suzanna eased a small piece of fruit into nan's mouth and asked "what's that mum?" (Suzanna affectionately calls her 'mum'). There was a pause while nan chewed and pondered.
"Apple" came the whispered reply.
Another piece of fruit is fed to nan. "What's that mum?"
A longer pause followed then an even quieter "orange".
Suzanna then shakes it up a little by putting a biscuit in nan's mouth. "What's that then mum?" asked Suzanna with a cheeky grin.
Silence.
"Come on mum, what's that?"
What nan actually said next is open to question. I saw her lips move and then Suzanna's face turn a worrying shade of red. "MUM!!!! SHHHHHHH!!!!! You can't say that! We have guests".
So what was it nan said that dropped Suzanna to the floor? The possible options are:
a) Cunt
b) Your mother's cunt
c) Your midwife's cunt
Answers on a postcard to the usual address.
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Happy Police Day!!!
Turkey's calendar is full of days celebrating different professions and people. Today is Police Day, which means all the police spend the day driving in convoy through the streets with sirens blaring. This is also the time when people send bouquets of flowers which are now lining the outside of the Police Station.
I'll let you know when Web Designer Day is as soon as I learn the date. I wonder if there's one for people who've got their CELTA but haven't yet used it. Perhaps the 29th Feb.
Right I'm off to do some pilfering while the cops are out waving flags.
I'll let you know when Web Designer Day is as soon as I learn the date. I wonder if there's one for people who've got their CELTA but haven't yet used it. Perhaps the 29th Feb.
Right I'm off to do some pilfering while the cops are out waving flags.
Fezaurus #1
Kedi gotunu gormus, yara sanmis - A cat sees it's own arsehole and thinks it's an injury.
So you've lost your arm in a fishing accident? Your colleagues will probably throw you this sentence followed by derisory laughter. Meaning, "you big girl's blouse, that's but a scratch. Stop your bloody whining and finish gutting those seabass".
So you've lost your arm in a fishing accident? Your colleagues will probably throw you this sentence followed by derisory laughter. Meaning, "you big girl's blouse, that's but a scratch. Stop your bloody whining and finish gutting those seabass".
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
A Match Made in Jimmy's
During the winter Kusadasi is pretty quiet. The nightlife is restricted to the weekends and only to a handful of bars. My favourite Rock Bar (Big Bang) has recently opened for the weekends but is yet to pick up. The only other place in town is Biraver in the port itself. This bar has a live band playing the classics you'll hear played by most Turkish bands; "Wish you were here", "Mustang Sally", "Sweet Child of Mine" etc.
I was sitting having a drink with my cousin last Friday and enjoying the lead singer's pronunciation of some rock classics (how does "she's buried right in my back yard" become "she's very right in my bodyguard"), when we noticed the group of women at the table in front of us were clearly not Turkish and clearly not sober. I heard an accent and assumed they were Aussies stranded by the ship.
I spoke to my cousin about the current political instability in the country ...or was it ...that's right, we were talking about fannies, when I heard a bellowing voice in my left ear. "Have yuuu seeeen ma shooooooo?". I turned in shock to see the red face of a woman holding one shoe and whose eyes were having trouble synchronising.
"Yes, it's there on the table" I replied nervously
"I knooooo but it's the wrang size. This is a size foooooorr and that's a size six". I'm now completely lost. Even so, I managed to keep the conversation flowing whilst occasionally grabbing her in mid-collapse.
Before I knew it, she had dragged me off my chair and onto the dancefloor and was spinning me like a dervish. I have no idea whether this was intentional or just an elaborate stumble. After a couple of Mustang Sallys I offered the international sign for 'time out' and tagged her mate to help me out.
When I got back to the table my cousin was in conversation with one of the older women in the crowd. Apart from one teenager, the rest were comfortably middle-aged. So as not to look a complete tool, I started conversation with the eldest; a woman in her 60s who could have been a big star on Eldorado. She gave me the run down on who everyone was. 2 Brits, 2 Irish and 1 Scot. All were living in Kusadasi permanently except for the teenager who was on a short break.
"Why's your friend off her tits?" I asked politely.
"She's celebrating a divorce". Nice, I thought. "I'm commiserating myself tonight too actually" and with that began to cry. I remembered why I never chat up women in bars. This was going to get messy. "I wish I had a boyfriend to take me home and take care of me".
"So what's her story?" I asked pointing at the teenager and desperately trying to change the subject from anything involving tears, sex or both.
"She's come over to see her boyfriend. She met him on holiday last year". Then it suddenly struck me, sitting at this table, we have the full circle of the classic holiday romance.
I feel I have a right to speak out on this subject, being a child of a Turkish man and an English woman. But, ultimately, this is something I see all the time.
My parents met through work in Belgium so it's not quite the same, but take a walk down Bar Street and you'll see middle aged European women having lap dances from young Turkish men. You don't have to look too far into their future to see where it's all headed.
It seems the perfect match right?
She gets what she wants: a young, attractive, muscular, energetic, exotic, tanned, brave, masculine, caring man.
He gets what he wants: a woman who is 99.934% guaranteed to sleep with him, holding a passport that isn't Turkish.
So off they go into the sunset and live happily ever after. He runs a kebab shop in Stoke Newington, she carries on working and looking after the kids.
But this just ain't how it goes. This is the story of most I've seen:
She's in town with her friends and head down to Bar Street. Every night is a Hen night while they're away. They find a table in the liveliest bar and sit down (her veins are giving her gip anyway and she's pleased for the break).
Their waiter comes over and does a little dance, wearing a stupid hat. His t-shirt says something like "am I bovvered, innit?" and he wows them with a can of fly spray and a lighter. "What you want drink? Is cheaper than ASDA" then pats his back pocket and waits for the laughter.
4 pints of lager (of course) are immediately necked in a fashion that makes young Mehmet question the gender of his new customers. But he knows that this is his opportunity to strike. Rather forcefully heaving the ladies down the bench, he makes his presence known. His English is limited to footballers and cocktails but actions speak louder than words.
There is an unspoken agreement between bar owners and staff that should they be 'getting in there', they're allowed to 'get in there'. So Mehmet is left alone to work his magic ...well apart from Ahmet who also sees an opportunity and shuffles the other two geriatric tourists down their bench.
Most nights, Mehmet knows that after a hideous skinful and perhaps a snog, the ladies will leave him to clear the table and walk home alone. But he knows too that tomorrow they might just return and he could well be one step closer to his dream of mopping up chili sauce down Archway.
Sure enough, Sue and the gang stagger in at 1am the following night. Sue's off her tits again and succumbs to a night of sexual ecstasy with her Antonio Banderas (though he looks more like Glenn Medeiros after a night shift in Matalan).
So fast forward a few weeks or months. The ladies were only there for a couple of weeks and Sue got her money's worth. She calls him from the UK when she can and even visits him from time to time. They get engaged and the process begins.
They are surprised when the British Consulate don't welcome him into the UK with open arms and so they enter into a legal process that gives Sue enough time to create an image in her mind of a young stallion waiting patiently for her. This urchin she's going to save and bring back to a world of plenty.
On the other hand, this gives Mehmet the time to fuck his brains out with every other tourist that walks through the doors of the bar while he counts the money in his mind of the world of plenty that awaits him for this one sacrifice of banging a woman who makes his grandma look like a young Judy Garland.
From here it can go one of two ways:
Firstly, Mehmet gets his visa. They open the kebab shop. He beats the living crap out of her. She takes the kids and goes back to her mother. He goes back to Turkey and uses the pictures of his kids to spark conversation with women in Bar Street.
Secondly, Mehmet is flatly refused entry into the UK. Sue comes to live with him in Turkey. He beats the living crap out of her. She has a harder time divorcing him then either stays in Turkey and opens an Estate Agency or flies back home to her mother.
You see, the cultural difference between our nations is immense. It may not appear so when you're 5 tequilas to the wind in The Queen Vic in Bar Street but the truth is, these guys aren't usually locals. Even if they were locals, there's a cultural gulf to cross but the reality is, these guys are coming from the East of the country where the difference is even more pronounced.
Gender roles are clearly defined here in Turkey and it just doesn't sit comfortably with the British concept of Girl Power. I'm not saying it's a bad or a good thing. I would strongly argue that family values are far more intact here and divorce is nowhere on the scale of the UK. The options aren't considered as frequently as they are back in the UK. Marriages are made to work through hell or high water and that can't be a bad thing. In the UK, we know we can walk away if things go wrong. Divorce isn't a badge you wear for life.
I'm sure that some Turkish/English marriages work but all I'm trying to do is make the motives clear. These guys are looking to the UK as a nirvana that will have them living like kings. They don't see the reality of a life in the UK for a young Turk. They will end up being a waiter, living in a house the size of a Turkish balcony, trying to understand why the hell their wife isn't cooking dinner for them and why the washing up hasn't been done in 3 days.
The women are dreaming of this young hunk who'll bring some excitement into their lives. Sure, he will but not perhaps the type they were hoping for. It'll be a tough lesson in 'back to basic' values and, as they're approaching retirement, they wont want to be doing anything but car boot sales and 'Deal or no Deal'.
So I'll see you all down Bar Street and don't say I didn't tell you so. I hope someone can enlighten me with stories of true love and happily ever afters but until then, I'll keep watching the pensioners strip on the bars while Mehmet and his friends teach them the Macarena.
I was sitting having a drink with my cousin last Friday and enjoying the lead singer's pronunciation of some rock classics (how does "she's buried right in my back yard" become "she's very right in my bodyguard"), when we noticed the group of women at the table in front of us were clearly not Turkish and clearly not sober. I heard an accent and assumed they were Aussies stranded by the ship.
I spoke to my cousin about the current political instability in the country ...or was it ...that's right, we were talking about fannies, when I heard a bellowing voice in my left ear. "Have yuuu seeeen ma shooooooo?". I turned in shock to see the red face of a woman holding one shoe and whose eyes were having trouble synchronising.
"Yes, it's there on the table" I replied nervously
"I knooooo but it's the wrang size. This is a size foooooorr and that's a size six". I'm now completely lost. Even so, I managed to keep the conversation flowing whilst occasionally grabbing her in mid-collapse.
Before I knew it, she had dragged me off my chair and onto the dancefloor and was spinning me like a dervish. I have no idea whether this was intentional or just an elaborate stumble. After a couple of Mustang Sallys I offered the international sign for 'time out' and tagged her mate to help me out.
When I got back to the table my cousin was in conversation with one of the older women in the crowd. Apart from one teenager, the rest were comfortably middle-aged. So as not to look a complete tool, I started conversation with the eldest; a woman in her 60s who could have been a big star on Eldorado. She gave me the run down on who everyone was. 2 Brits, 2 Irish and 1 Scot. All were living in Kusadasi permanently except for the teenager who was on a short break.
"Why's your friend off her tits?" I asked politely.
"She's celebrating a divorce". Nice, I thought. "I'm commiserating myself tonight too actually" and with that began to cry. I remembered why I never chat up women in bars. This was going to get messy. "I wish I had a boyfriend to take me home and take care of me".
"So what's her story?" I asked pointing at the teenager and desperately trying to change the subject from anything involving tears, sex or both.
"She's come over to see her boyfriend. She met him on holiday last year". Then it suddenly struck me, sitting at this table, we have the full circle of the classic holiday romance.
I feel I have a right to speak out on this subject, being a child of a Turkish man and an English woman. But, ultimately, this is something I see all the time.
My parents met through work in Belgium so it's not quite the same, but take a walk down Bar Street and you'll see middle aged European women having lap dances from young Turkish men. You don't have to look too far into their future to see where it's all headed.
It seems the perfect match right?
She gets what she wants: a young, attractive, muscular, energetic, exotic, tanned, brave, masculine, caring man.
He gets what he wants: a woman who is 99.934% guaranteed to sleep with him, holding a passport that isn't Turkish.
So off they go into the sunset and live happily ever after. He runs a kebab shop in Stoke Newington, she carries on working and looking after the kids.
But this just ain't how it goes. This is the story of most I've seen:
She's in town with her friends and head down to Bar Street. Every night is a Hen night while they're away. They find a table in the liveliest bar and sit down (her veins are giving her gip anyway and she's pleased for the break).
Their waiter comes over and does a little dance, wearing a stupid hat. His t-shirt says something like "am I bovvered, innit?" and he wows them with a can of fly spray and a lighter. "What you want drink? Is cheaper than ASDA" then pats his back pocket and waits for the laughter.
4 pints of lager (of course) are immediately necked in a fashion that makes young Mehmet question the gender of his new customers. But he knows that this is his opportunity to strike. Rather forcefully heaving the ladies down the bench, he makes his presence known. His English is limited to footballers and cocktails but actions speak louder than words.
There is an unspoken agreement between bar owners and staff that should they be 'getting in there', they're allowed to 'get in there'. So Mehmet is left alone to work his magic ...well apart from Ahmet who also sees an opportunity and shuffles the other two geriatric tourists down their bench.
Most nights, Mehmet knows that after a hideous skinful and perhaps a snog, the ladies will leave him to clear the table and walk home alone. But he knows too that tomorrow they might just return and he could well be one step closer to his dream of mopping up chili sauce down Archway.
Sure enough, Sue and the gang stagger in at 1am the following night. Sue's off her tits again and succumbs to a night of sexual ecstasy with her Antonio Banderas (though he looks more like Glenn Medeiros after a night shift in Matalan).
So fast forward a few weeks or months. The ladies were only there for a couple of weeks and Sue got her money's worth. She calls him from the UK when she can and even visits him from time to time. They get engaged and the process begins.
They are surprised when the British Consulate don't welcome him into the UK with open arms and so they enter into a legal process that gives Sue enough time to create an image in her mind of a young stallion waiting patiently for her. This urchin she's going to save and bring back to a world of plenty.
On the other hand, this gives Mehmet the time to fuck his brains out with every other tourist that walks through the doors of the bar while he counts the money in his mind of the world of plenty that awaits him for this one sacrifice of banging a woman who makes his grandma look like a young Judy Garland.
From here it can go one of two ways:
Firstly, Mehmet gets his visa. They open the kebab shop. He beats the living crap out of her. She takes the kids and goes back to her mother. He goes back to Turkey and uses the pictures of his kids to spark conversation with women in Bar Street.
Secondly, Mehmet is flatly refused entry into the UK. Sue comes to live with him in Turkey. He beats the living crap out of her. She has a harder time divorcing him then either stays in Turkey and opens an Estate Agency or flies back home to her mother.
You see, the cultural difference between our nations is immense. It may not appear so when you're 5 tequilas to the wind in The Queen Vic in Bar Street but the truth is, these guys aren't usually locals. Even if they were locals, there's a cultural gulf to cross but the reality is, these guys are coming from the East of the country where the difference is even more pronounced.
Gender roles are clearly defined here in Turkey and it just doesn't sit comfortably with the British concept of Girl Power. I'm not saying it's a bad or a good thing. I would strongly argue that family values are far more intact here and divorce is nowhere on the scale of the UK. The options aren't considered as frequently as they are back in the UK. Marriages are made to work through hell or high water and that can't be a bad thing. In the UK, we know we can walk away if things go wrong. Divorce isn't a badge you wear for life.
I'm sure that some Turkish/English marriages work but all I'm trying to do is make the motives clear. These guys are looking to the UK as a nirvana that will have them living like kings. They don't see the reality of a life in the UK for a young Turk. They will end up being a waiter, living in a house the size of a Turkish balcony, trying to understand why the hell their wife isn't cooking dinner for them and why the washing up hasn't been done in 3 days.
The women are dreaming of this young hunk who'll bring some excitement into their lives. Sure, he will but not perhaps the type they were hoping for. It'll be a tough lesson in 'back to basic' values and, as they're approaching retirement, they wont want to be doing anything but car boot sales and 'Deal or no Deal'.
So I'll see you all down Bar Street and don't say I didn't tell you so. I hope someone can enlighten me with stories of true love and happily ever afters but until then, I'll keep watching the pensioners strip on the bars while Mehmet and his friends teach them the Macarena.
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Efe'ing Bus Service
Yesterday evening I boarded a bus for Izmir. Izmir is Turkey's 3rd biggest city and arguably the most cosmopolitan. It's a wonderful place, not necessarily beautiful, but Izmir has all the advantages of a big city while keeping a small town feel. Anyway, I've probably talked about Izmir before in previous posts.
The Turkish bus system is impressive despite the lying ticket salesmen - "Izmir, Izmir. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Izmir Now, Izmir now!" shouted one guy. I ran and bought my ticket and breathlessly asked him to point me in the direction of the bus. "Oh it'll be here in an hour". No real need to shout "hurry" then. Cock.
Anyway, the buses are clean, comfortable, on time and the service is excellent. One thing I noticed about the system is that, when booking your seat, they try their best to separate men and women. The assumption is that women wont feel comfortable sitting next to a man for a prolonged period of time, so they try not to put them together. Interestingly though, they don't have this on planes. Either they're assuming it's a different class of commuter or they're just resigned to the inevitable fuck fest that's bound to ensue when you seat a man next to a women without the safety of an aisle between them.
As I sat down, I noticed that a few mistakes had been made in booking and the steward was moving men around so as to give the women some breathing space. All this in the name of making women feel comfortable. It's a wonderful idea, I suppose. Chivalrous to the extreme. Imagine my surprise then when they started playing the in-bus entertainment; a 70's Turkish comedy that would make Benny Hill blush. Knockers all over the shop. Well I can't speak for the women on board, but I was enjoying myself.
I got chatting to the guy sitting next to me as I noticed he was giggling along to the film. His name was Halil. Now Halil was also the name of my Great Uncle and a name I know because of a famous song in the Aegean Region.
The state of Aydin and other close by were home to a group of legendary freedom fighters called the 'Efe'. Even now, you can hear people affectionately call each other 'Efe'. The 'Efe' people had their own culture, songs, dances and folklore. One particular song is called 'Coketme'. It's a personal favourite of mine as it starts with the line "Hey Halil, I've just got back from raping". Things were different back then.
The 'Efe'
Halil, from the bus, works as a elevator engineer. He was a calm, softly spoken but extremely warm character. Although I found him very hard to understand, we got along just fine. Just 10 minutes outside Kusadasi we pulled into a garage where we were told we were going to have a 20 minute break so that the driver could have some dinner. I was a little pissed off as the journey should only take an hour anyway.
Halil laughed as he broke the news to me. We decided to go and grab a tea. As we sat down, Halil stuck two fingers up at the waitor (you do that in Turkey, you get two black teas. You do that in England, you get two black eyes).
As we drank our tea, Halil told me all about his life as a lift engineer. How is job was very risky but full of adrenalin. How his hatred of safety harnesses as it feels like someone's holding him back, so he doesn't use it. He also told me how much he's paid. I tell you one thing, you're not going to get me dangling over a lift shaft for £180 per month.
After 20 minutes, we were on our way and they commenced the service. It starts with a hand full of cologne, which you use to wash your hands and rub anywhere that feels nice (usually back of neck and mouth). Then we had water. Then tea, coffee, coke or juice. Then water. Then more cologne.
To cut a short story even shorter, we arrived in Izmir and Halil helped me find the service bus into the city itself. This guy hadn't seen his wife and kids all week while he was working in Kusadasi, yet he didn't get off at his stop so that he could make sure I got to the right place. Once off the bus, he gave me his card and caught another bus back to his home.
This, my friends, is how civilisation should be. Complete strangers selflessly going out of their way for each other.
And this, Ken, is how a fucking bus service should run. I was a hand-job short of a perfect journey and all for £4. So please tell me why I have to endure the shit heap that is a London bus with its grime, abuse, stench and drivers deliberately trying to get you to run the length of the bus by accelerating as soon as you pay your fare for £2 minimum. That means if I want to get a bus from my home to the library (10 minutes walk) I have to pay £2. No coffee, no water, no juice and no fucking cologne.
I once got a bus home from Kingston and found myself sitting opposite a bus driver just off to start his shift. The schools were kicking out and I noticed him swearing to himself. Well, he was actually swearing loud enough in the hope that I would start conversation with him. It worked because I'm a twat.
He went on to tell me about how he hates children, most races and most everything. How he's been in compulsory counseling for anger management and how his military past has affected the way he views the world. "I'm programmed to kill" he said calmly. "I could kill anyone on this bus, and London transport know this". Now whether he's capable or not, the fact he's telling a complete stranger his desires should mean he doesn't get to drive the public around.
Anyway, I'm here in Izmir for another day and will be returning to Kusadasi tomorrow. I'm hoping to catch a ferry across the bay tomorrow from Alsancak to Karsiyaka. Watch this space for more public transport reviews and reports. Hmmm, OK I need to find something to spice this blog up.
The Turkish bus system is impressive despite the lying ticket salesmen - "Izmir, Izmir. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Izmir Now, Izmir now!" shouted one guy. I ran and bought my ticket and breathlessly asked him to point me in the direction of the bus. "Oh it'll be here in an hour". No real need to shout "hurry" then. Cock.
Anyway, the buses are clean, comfortable, on time and the service is excellent. One thing I noticed about the system is that, when booking your seat, they try their best to separate men and women. The assumption is that women wont feel comfortable sitting next to a man for a prolonged period of time, so they try not to put them together. Interestingly though, they don't have this on planes. Either they're assuming it's a different class of commuter or they're just resigned to the inevitable fuck fest that's bound to ensue when you seat a man next to a women without the safety of an aisle between them.
As I sat down, I noticed that a few mistakes had been made in booking and the steward was moving men around so as to give the women some breathing space. All this in the name of making women feel comfortable. It's a wonderful idea, I suppose. Chivalrous to the extreme. Imagine my surprise then when they started playing the in-bus entertainment; a 70's Turkish comedy that would make Benny Hill blush. Knockers all over the shop. Well I can't speak for the women on board, but I was enjoying myself.
I got chatting to the guy sitting next to me as I noticed he was giggling along to the film. His name was Halil. Now Halil was also the name of my Great Uncle and a name I know because of a famous song in the Aegean Region.
The state of Aydin and other close by were home to a group of legendary freedom fighters called the 'Efe'. Even now, you can hear people affectionately call each other 'Efe'. The 'Efe' people had their own culture, songs, dances and folklore. One particular song is called 'Coketme'. It's a personal favourite of mine as it starts with the line "Hey Halil, I've just got back from raping". Things were different back then.
The 'Efe'
Halil, from the bus, works as a elevator engineer. He was a calm, softly spoken but extremely warm character. Although I found him very hard to understand, we got along just fine. Just 10 minutes outside Kusadasi we pulled into a garage where we were told we were going to have a 20 minute break so that the driver could have some dinner. I was a little pissed off as the journey should only take an hour anyway.
Halil laughed as he broke the news to me. We decided to go and grab a tea. As we sat down, Halil stuck two fingers up at the waitor (you do that in Turkey, you get two black teas. You do that in England, you get two black eyes).
As we drank our tea, Halil told me all about his life as a lift engineer. How is job was very risky but full of adrenalin. How his hatred of safety harnesses as it feels like someone's holding him back, so he doesn't use it. He also told me how much he's paid. I tell you one thing, you're not going to get me dangling over a lift shaft for £180 per month.
After 20 minutes, we were on our way and they commenced the service. It starts with a hand full of cologne, which you use to wash your hands and rub anywhere that feels nice (usually back of neck and mouth). Then we had water. Then tea, coffee, coke or juice. Then water. Then more cologne.
To cut a short story even shorter, we arrived in Izmir and Halil helped me find the service bus into the city itself. This guy hadn't seen his wife and kids all week while he was working in Kusadasi, yet he didn't get off at his stop so that he could make sure I got to the right place. Once off the bus, he gave me his card and caught another bus back to his home.
This, my friends, is how civilisation should be. Complete strangers selflessly going out of their way for each other.
And this, Ken, is how a fucking bus service should run. I was a hand-job short of a perfect journey and all for £4. So please tell me why I have to endure the shit heap that is a London bus with its grime, abuse, stench and drivers deliberately trying to get you to run the length of the bus by accelerating as soon as you pay your fare for £2 minimum. That means if I want to get a bus from my home to the library (10 minutes walk) I have to pay £2. No coffee, no water, no juice and no fucking cologne.
I once got a bus home from Kingston and found myself sitting opposite a bus driver just off to start his shift. The schools were kicking out and I noticed him swearing to himself. Well, he was actually swearing loud enough in the hope that I would start conversation with him. It worked because I'm a twat.
He went on to tell me about how he hates children, most races and most everything. How he's been in compulsory counseling for anger management and how his military past has affected the way he views the world. "I'm programmed to kill" he said calmly. "I could kill anyone on this bus, and London transport know this". Now whether he's capable or not, the fact he's telling a complete stranger his desires should mean he doesn't get to drive the public around.
Anyway, I'm here in Izmir for another day and will be returning to Kusadasi tomorrow. I'm hoping to catch a ferry across the bay tomorrow from Alsancak to Karsiyaka. Watch this space for more public transport reviews and reports. Hmmm, OK I need to find something to spice this blog up.
Saturday, 29 March 2008
They only bloody pulled it off!
I was woken by a call this morning from a friend who's been reading this blog. He was wondering whether I'd looked out of my window yet. I hadn't.
This was the view before I turned in for the night:
As you can see, there were two tugs pulling away relentlessly through the night.
I was expecting to pull back the curtains to see the view I've got used to over the past 3 days. But no, the persistence had paid off. This is my new view of the bay:
Sky Wonder has been dislodged. The final team of 5 tugs seemed to have done the trick.
They are now in the middle of the harbour and appear to be running checks, pirouetting the ship while the lifeboats make runs to shore bringing back everything that had been jettisoned. If you look at the port side of the hull, you can see the black marks left by relentless shoving by numerous tugs.
So it appears this little adventure is now over. The balcony never ceases to provide entertainment in my television-free world. Whether it's a forest fire, spectacular storm moving across the bay or a stricken vessel, I never tire of pulling back the curtains every morning.
One other thing, when my friend called this morning, he also offered a new random swear word. "Olurken havalanan ruhunu sikiyim" - meaning "after your death, I'm going to fuck your ascending soul". It is, I'm sure you'll agree, a brilliantly brutal phrase. I will be testing this out over the next weeks to get my enunciation just right for my next dealings with DHL.
This was the view before I turned in for the night:
As you can see, there were two tugs pulling away relentlessly through the night.
I was expecting to pull back the curtains to see the view I've got used to over the past 3 days. But no, the persistence had paid off. This is my new view of the bay:
Sky Wonder has been dislodged. The final team of 5 tugs seemed to have done the trick.
They are now in the middle of the harbour and appear to be running checks, pirouetting the ship while the lifeboats make runs to shore bringing back everything that had been jettisoned. If you look at the port side of the hull, you can see the black marks left by relentless shoving by numerous tugs.
So it appears this little adventure is now over. The balcony never ceases to provide entertainment in my television-free world. Whether it's a forest fire, spectacular storm moving across the bay or a stricken vessel, I never tire of pulling back the curtains every morning.
One other thing, when my friend called this morning, he also offered a new random swear word. "Olurken havalanan ruhunu sikiyim" - meaning "after your death, I'm going to fuck your ascending soul". It is, I'm sure you'll agree, a brilliantly brutal phrase. I will be testing this out over the next weeks to get my enunciation just right for my next dealings with DHL.
Friday, 28 March 2008
Still Tugging Away
As I drew back the curtains this morning, I was hoping to see a change in the situation. It seems that not much has really happened. I have kept a marker using the funnel of the ship and the window of a hotel behind it to see whether the combined efforts of the tugs have had any impact on the position of Sky Wonder. But, no.
I noticed a change in tactics yesterday evening when they lined up the tugs (and even the pilot boat) along the side of the hull and appeared to be pushing the ship further towards the shore. It was an interesting move (if a 'move' can describe something stubbornly static).
But today, in a moment of frightening yet inspiring brilliance, they've shaken things up a little. So 3 tugs ain't moving this bad boy? Perhaps one alone could do the trick. Does the phrase 'too many cooks' really apply though? I would have gone for the more relevant 'all hands on deck'.
Oh well, here's the latest pic (note the rope hanging loose in a kind of "for fuck's sake" gesture)
I noticed a change in tactics yesterday evening when they lined up the tugs (and even the pilot boat) along the side of the hull and appeared to be pushing the ship further towards the shore. It was an interesting move (if a 'move' can describe something stubbornly static).
But today, in a moment of frightening yet inspiring brilliance, they've shaken things up a little. So 3 tugs ain't moving this bad boy? Perhaps one alone could do the trick. Does the phrase 'too many cooks' really apply though? I would have gone for the more relevant 'all hands on deck'.
Oh well, here's the latest pic (note the rope hanging loose in a kind of "for fuck's sake" gesture)
Thursday, 27 March 2008
Wonder Stuck
As we see the first of the season's ships coming into port, the town is beginning to wake up. I've seen 5 or so ships come in since my return and most come and go silently ...well except for the horn blasts of thank you as they leave. I've figured out the 'thank you' blast code. It goes like this:
Ship - Ship - Ship
Tug - Tug - Tug
Ship
Tug
And that's the basic 'thank you' in cruise linish. FYI if the horn is facing directly at my balcony, it can also be an instant relief from constipation (like constipation is ever a problem in Turkey).
One ship has yet to say thank you, however. That's the Sky Wonder. It arrived in the evening to a rather nasty storm with winds that were creating roof terraces where people didn't necessarily want them.
I heard a general rumour that ship had been run aground over by the yacht harbour and so ventured out on the balcony. Sure enough, Sky Wonder was blown away from the port by the winds and onto a sand bank just the other side of the bay.
According to the Telegraph, the ship was full of Spanish tourist and some Aussies. Most of which have now been evacuated to land but some chose to stay with the ship (why would you do that?).
Well it's been over two days now and the ship is still sitting there like, as the Turks would say, an 'armut' (meaning 'pear'. The term armut is used for anything or anyone that is stationary and useless).
On the first day they had one tug boat trying to pull the ship into deeper water. The second day saw the second boat join the action. Both desperately trying to dislodge the ship from its sand bed but still nothing.
I woke this morning to see that a large fishing boat had pulled up along side to, presumably, offer it's support. There is an air of flogging a dead horse about that whole procedure. At dinner last night, my relatives offered their own advice. "Just leave it there as a home for fish". Now, I thought they were joking but they then went on to tell me that this area of the coast is mainly sand which doesn't provide safe hiding places for fish to lay eggs. "Many people throw their old cars into the sea for the fish". Ecological salvation by polution. I hope you're listening Mr Gore.
I will keep you updated on the plight of the cruise liner but, in the meantime, here are some pictures from the balcony:
**NEWS FLASH**
They've sent a marching band out to entertain the tourists. Hmmm trapped in a Turkish bay to the sound of the Turkish military. I'm not sure the Australians onboard will appreciate the irony.
**ENDS**
Ship - Ship - Ship
Tug - Tug - Tug
Ship
Tug
And that's the basic 'thank you' in cruise linish. FYI if the horn is facing directly at my balcony, it can also be an instant relief from constipation (like constipation is ever a problem in Turkey).
One ship has yet to say thank you, however. That's the Sky Wonder. It arrived in the evening to a rather nasty storm with winds that were creating roof terraces where people didn't necessarily want them.
I heard a general rumour that ship had been run aground over by the yacht harbour and so ventured out on the balcony. Sure enough, Sky Wonder was blown away from the port by the winds and onto a sand bank just the other side of the bay.
According to the Telegraph, the ship was full of Spanish tourist and some Aussies. Most of which have now been evacuated to land but some chose to stay with the ship (why would you do that?).
Well it's been over two days now and the ship is still sitting there like, as the Turks would say, an 'armut' (meaning 'pear'. The term armut is used for anything or anyone that is stationary and useless).
On the first day they had one tug boat trying to pull the ship into deeper water. The second day saw the second boat join the action. Both desperately trying to dislodge the ship from its sand bed but still nothing.
I woke this morning to see that a large fishing boat had pulled up along side to, presumably, offer it's support. There is an air of flogging a dead horse about that whole procedure. At dinner last night, my relatives offered their own advice. "Just leave it there as a home for fish". Now, I thought they were joking but they then went on to tell me that this area of the coast is mainly sand which doesn't provide safe hiding places for fish to lay eggs. "Many people throw their old cars into the sea for the fish". Ecological salvation by polution. I hope you're listening Mr Gore.
I will keep you updated on the plight of the cruise liner but, in the meantime, here are some pictures from the balcony:
**NEWS FLASH**
They've sent a marching band out to entertain the tourists. Hmmm trapped in a Turkish bay to the sound of the Turkish military. I'm not sure the Australians onboard will appreciate the irony.
**ENDS**
Monday, 17 March 2008
Rude Nan #3
I arrived back here in Turkey on the 5th of March. After a good nights sleep I headed down to see how nan was doing.
I walked into her flat and she was lying in a hospital bed that they'd brought in for her. She looked so helpless and old.
"Look who's come back" said Suzanna, the Turkmenistan carer. "Who's this?"
There was silence as nan clearly had no idea who I was. My heart sank.
"Nan, it's me Billy." She kissed me. "Swear nan, can you swear?"
"Fuck your mouth" she muttered. I was overjoyed.
She's still with us.
I walked into her flat and she was lying in a hospital bed that they'd brought in for her. She looked so helpless and old.
"Look who's come back" said Suzanna, the Turkmenistan carer. "Who's this?"
There was silence as nan clearly had no idea who I was. My heart sank.
"Nan, it's me Billy." She kissed me. "Swear nan, can you swear?"
"Fuck your mouth" she muttered. I was overjoyed.
She's still with us.
Thursday, 27 September 2007
Rude Nan #2
I'm heading back to the UK tomorrow morning and I went to see my nan to say goodbye. The conversation went as follows:
Me : Nan, I'm going back to the UK tomorrow. I'll see mum, then I'll go and see dad.
Nan : Ata? (the name of my uncle)
Suzanna (remember? Her Turkmen carer) : Come on, that's not his father. Who's his father? Come on! Who's his father?
Nan : Your mother's cunt
I kissed her hand and headed home.
Me : Nan, I'm going back to the UK tomorrow. I'll see mum, then I'll go and see dad.
Nan : Ata? (the name of my uncle)
Suzanna (remember? Her Turkmen carer) : Come on, that's not his father. Who's his father? Come on! Who's his father?
Nan : Your mother's cunt
I kissed her hand and headed home.
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Won't 'aggle?
I've just been to the barbers. I always look forward to that. A shave, a haircut and a wonderful massage all for about £5.
While I was in there a tourist came in and asked how much for the full works. I winced in anticipation for the response. I was completely shocked. The barber quoted the guy only a little over what he charges me. He actually gave a fair price!
As I walked back through the busy shopping streets lined with souvenirs and fake watches, I noticed the tourists milling about like sheep whilst the sun glass wearing suited wolves leaned against shop doors trying to spot a loose fool.
Any tourist in Kusadasi right now has a problem. The season was bad this year and it's meant that the salesman have got to make up for lost time and money. This means that current tourists are getting royally shafted. I don't blame anyone; this money has to see these guys through the winter. But I thought I'd try and put together a 'how to' on getting the best price in a shop in Turkey (or anywhere for that matter).
I say 'best price' and not bargain because, ultimately, if you're foreign you're simply not going to get the same price as a Turk and so:
Rule 1. Try and make friends with a Turk and get them to buy it. This is unlikely on a 2 week holiday because, the chances are, they're going to take you to a friend who's going to give him commission anyway.
Rule 2. Think about how much you would be happy to spend on this product and keep it in mind at all times.
Rule 3. On asking the price, offer low (even half). Usually you wont insult the seller.
Rule 4. Shop around. Get as many prices as you can from different shops. You will need this later. Make sure you ask for their final price and then walk away.
Rule 5. Realise that some things are a fixed price nationally. Don't haggle for a pack of cigarettes.
Rule 6. Don't haggle for things that just aren't worth it. Don't haggle for a pack of cigarettes.
Rule 7. Don't seem too bothered whether you want to buy or not. If your girlfriend is chomping for a particular Versace handbag, tell her to control her emotions or leave her in a cafe somewhere. This is poker face time. I got a £120 robe down to £5 in Morocco because I genuinely wasn't interested in it but for £5 it was a nice memento.
Rule 8. Don't let on that this is the product you've been searching for all day.
Rule 9. Show you are capable of buying. A common mistake is to look poor. This will just mean you don't get good service. Be confident that you can afford this product but that you have money because you're no mug. Be authoritative but not aggressive or arrogant.
Rule 10. Don't be scared to walk away. If you've got down to his 'lowest' price then politely thank him and tell him you'll think about it and walk away. One of two things are going to happen: 1. He'll let you walk 2. He'll offer you more off.
Rule 11. If he lets you walk, you may have reached his lowest price or he is still playing the game. After some time, walk past the shop. Make sure he can see you but say no more than 'hello, how are you?' but keep walking. See if he offers you some more off (it's also good if you have some new shopping bags in your hands to prove that you've been splashing the cash). This has happened to me before.
Rule 12. Play one shop off against the other. Claim that the other shop has some advantage, either financial or quality. Make the seller think you'd be happier going to the other shop.
Rule 13. Show him the money! Get the cash out and show him the money. Cash. Ready. No problem. This can sometimes push it down a little. Especially if you tell him something like "well this is all I have, otherwise it will have to wait until I can get to the bank tomorrow". Oh you mean bugger! He knows he needs to get your deal there and then or you'll get cold feet.
Rule 14. The most important rule. If you're happy with the price, buy it and don't look back. After you've bought it don't check any other prices again. Move onto something else. Don't beat yourself up wondering whether you were ripped off. If you like it and you thought the price was fair, it was. Enjoy your new purchase.
Happy haggling!
While I was in there a tourist came in and asked how much for the full works. I winced in anticipation for the response. I was completely shocked. The barber quoted the guy only a little over what he charges me. He actually gave a fair price!
As I walked back through the busy shopping streets lined with souvenirs and fake watches, I noticed the tourists milling about like sheep whilst the sun glass wearing suited wolves leaned against shop doors trying to spot a loose fool.
Any tourist in Kusadasi right now has a problem. The season was bad this year and it's meant that the salesman have got to make up for lost time and money. This means that current tourists are getting royally shafted. I don't blame anyone; this money has to see these guys through the winter. But I thought I'd try and put together a 'how to' on getting the best price in a shop in Turkey (or anywhere for that matter).
I say 'best price' and not bargain because, ultimately, if you're foreign you're simply not going to get the same price as a Turk and so:
Rule 1. Try and make friends with a Turk and get them to buy it. This is unlikely on a 2 week holiday because, the chances are, they're going to take you to a friend who's going to give him commission anyway.
Rule 2. Think about how much you would be happy to spend on this product and keep it in mind at all times.
Rule 3. On asking the price, offer low (even half). Usually you wont insult the seller.
Rule 4. Shop around. Get as many prices as you can from different shops. You will need this later. Make sure you ask for their final price and then walk away.
Rule 5. Realise that some things are a fixed price nationally. Don't haggle for a pack of cigarettes.
Rule 6. Don't haggle for things that just aren't worth it. Don't haggle for a pack of cigarettes.
Rule 7. Don't seem too bothered whether you want to buy or not. If your girlfriend is chomping for a particular Versace handbag, tell her to control her emotions or leave her in a cafe somewhere. This is poker face time. I got a £120 robe down to £5 in Morocco because I genuinely wasn't interested in it but for £5 it was a nice memento.
Rule 8. Don't let on that this is the product you've been searching for all day.
Rule 9. Show you are capable of buying. A common mistake is to look poor. This will just mean you don't get good service. Be confident that you can afford this product but that you have money because you're no mug. Be authoritative but not aggressive or arrogant.
Rule 10. Don't be scared to walk away. If you've got down to his 'lowest' price then politely thank him and tell him you'll think about it and walk away. One of two things are going to happen: 1. He'll let you walk 2. He'll offer you more off.
Rule 11. If he lets you walk, you may have reached his lowest price or he is still playing the game. After some time, walk past the shop. Make sure he can see you but say no more than 'hello, how are you?' but keep walking. See if he offers you some more off (it's also good if you have some new shopping bags in your hands to prove that you've been splashing the cash). This has happened to me before.
Rule 12. Play one shop off against the other. Claim that the other shop has some advantage, either financial or quality. Make the seller think you'd be happier going to the other shop.
Rule 13. Show him the money! Get the cash out and show him the money. Cash. Ready. No problem. This can sometimes push it down a little. Especially if you tell him something like "well this is all I have, otherwise it will have to wait until I can get to the bank tomorrow". Oh you mean bugger! He knows he needs to get your deal there and then or you'll get cold feet.
Rule 14. The most important rule. If you're happy with the price, buy it and don't look back. After you've bought it don't check any other prices again. Move onto something else. Don't beat yourself up wondering whether you were ripped off. If you like it and you thought the price was fair, it was. Enjoy your new purchase.
Happy haggling!
Tuesday, 24 July 2007
We have internet
My internet connection has been up and down like a whore's drawers. After three weeks of telephone calls to Superonline (my ISP), Turkish Telecom and US Robotics (the modem people) (I wont bore you with the bureaucracy, just read the posts below and you'll get the picture), I finally had to find the source of the problem myself.
"It's definitely not the cable" said Turkish Telecom.
My discovery? It definitely was the cable. So I called them and asked them to come over. After a fight saying that it wasn't their business to fix problems with telephone cables (go figure), they realised that it was almost solely their business to fix problems with telephone cables and they sent 3 blokes over with some gaffer tape.
Well they fixed my problem with that precise Turkish finish.
"It's definitely not the cable" said Turkish Telecom.
My discovery? It definitely was the cable. So I called them and asked them to come over. After a fight saying that it wasn't their business to fix problems with telephone cables (go figure), they realised that it was almost solely their business to fix problems with telephone cables and they sent 3 blokes over with some gaffer tape.
Well they fixed my problem with that precise Turkish finish.
The results are in...
...and, once again, Ak Parti wins the general elections.
The result was a landslide. This is a little worrying for most people living around the coastal regions of Turkey who are more 'open' in their thinking. The Turkish AK Parti, from what I understand, is a step towards Islam. The Prime Minister's wife covers her head and any government run restaurants do not serve alcohol.
The voting was confused. With so many political parties to choose from (over 30, I hear) most people were trying to vote tactically. To try and second guess the results, voters were trying to get as many non-AK parti ministers into parliament as possible.
The problem is that by splitting the vote across a number of parties, AK Parti became a clear winner.
What does this mean for Turkey? Well, I think it's a step in the wrong direction. Everyone around is fearing a move towards becoming another Iran. Time will tell.
(I should be a political correspondent for the BBC, don't you think?)
The result was a landslide. This is a little worrying for most people living around the coastal regions of Turkey who are more 'open' in their thinking. The Turkish AK Parti, from what I understand, is a step towards Islam. The Prime Minister's wife covers her head and any government run restaurants do not serve alcohol.
The voting was confused. With so many political parties to choose from (over 30, I hear) most people were trying to vote tactically. To try and second guess the results, voters were trying to get as many non-AK parti ministers into parliament as possible.
The problem is that by splitting the vote across a number of parties, AK Parti became a clear winner.
What does this mean for Turkey? Well, I think it's a step in the wrong direction. Everyone around is fearing a move towards becoming another Iran. Time will tell.
(I should be a political correspondent for the BBC, don't you think?)
Random Turkish Fact #1
Almost without exception, Turkish women are fans of the Hollywood style.
If you don't know what the Hollywood style is, ask a friend. If you do know then you're probably too busy high-fiving the person next to you to read the end of this paragraph.
If you don't know what the Hollywood style is, ask a friend. If you do know then you're probably too busy high-fiving the person next to you to read the end of this paragraph.
Thursday, 28 June 2007
Wednesday, 27 June 2007
Holy mother of fuck, Spidey!
Last night I was just surfing YouTube when I saw something in the corner of my eye strolling across the wall. Something not dissimilar in size to a young camel.
Sometimes living on the edge of a forest can bring unwelcome guests. This little beauty decided to escape the bonkers heatwave and chill out in my air conditioned lounge for a while.
Now I have a terrible fear of spiders. I tried to conquer it by going to a course provided by London Zoo in which we were treated to hypnosis and flooding techniques to help us to become friends with these 8 legged bastards.
At the end of the day I had managed the following:
Not bad, but I'm not actually scared of tarantulas. They don't really fall into the spider category in my book. They're more of a rodent. What really makes my skin scrawl are those big old house spiders you get in England. The ones you find sitting in the bath.
So imagine my joy when I saw this mofo perched in the corner of my room last night...
Now, being a vegetarian and all round animal lover, I didn't want to give it a shoeing but rather do what we were taught on the course and to put a glass over it and remove it safely. Unfortunately there wasn't a glass big enough for this beast. It was also situated in the corner of the ceiling, meaning that it was almost impossible to perform my practiced maneuver. So I sat and watched and waited.
After 15 minutes I decided to be proactive and use the broom to nudge it to a more reasonable location. Well, one centimetre from it's body, it sprinted across the wall and I lost my mind.
I took a baseball-like swing at it with the broom but it caused no obvious injury. After two swings and a thorough spraying with mosquito repellent, there was no change to this monster's determination to scare the crap out of me. But luckily, by this time, it was scuttling along the floor.
Got it! A we had a picture for posterity. The next task was to heave it over the balcony where I clearly heard a thud as it hit the ground two storeys below.
Turns out, this is a fantastically poisonous little critter. One I hope has no homing instinct. But I now sleep with a gun under my pillow.
Sometimes living on the edge of a forest can bring unwelcome guests. This little beauty decided to escape the bonkers heatwave and chill out in my air conditioned lounge for a while.
Now I have a terrible fear of spiders. I tried to conquer it by going to a course provided by London Zoo in which we were treated to hypnosis and flooding techniques to help us to become friends with these 8 legged bastards.
At the end of the day I had managed the following:
Not bad, but I'm not actually scared of tarantulas. They don't really fall into the spider category in my book. They're more of a rodent. What really makes my skin scrawl are those big old house spiders you get in England. The ones you find sitting in the bath.
So imagine my joy when I saw this mofo perched in the corner of my room last night...
Now, being a vegetarian and all round animal lover, I didn't want to give it a shoeing but rather do what we were taught on the course and to put a glass over it and remove it safely. Unfortunately there wasn't a glass big enough for this beast. It was also situated in the corner of the ceiling, meaning that it was almost impossible to perform my practiced maneuver. So I sat and watched and waited.
After 15 minutes I decided to be proactive and use the broom to nudge it to a more reasonable location. Well, one centimetre from it's body, it sprinted across the wall and I lost my mind.
I took a baseball-like swing at it with the broom but it caused no obvious injury. After two swings and a thorough spraying with mosquito repellent, there was no change to this monster's determination to scare the crap out of me. But luckily, by this time, it was scuttling along the floor.
Got it! A we had a picture for posterity. The next task was to heave it over the balcony where I clearly heard a thud as it hit the ground two storeys below.
Turns out, this is a fantastically poisonous little critter. One I hope has no homing instinct. But I now sleep with a gun under my pillow.
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
Word up!
So what do you reckon these are all about? I saw them in the supermarket the other day and did a double take.
I'll give you a clue. They're to be worn after a certain ceremony. Something most little boys have here and something most people ask me about and try to convince me to have done. Not a fucking hope.
Yes, you've guessed it, they're to be worn after circumcision. Like a bizarre, crying Larry Blackmon the child dons these beauties to protect the newly shelled acorn. Then he's sat on a donkey and paraded through town. Personally I think a donkey ride would be the last thing on my mind if someone had just taken a knife to my Charlie.
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