I was just wondering how people are finding the site so I had a look through the stats. One thing the stats do tell me is what people are searching for on google that leads them to this collection of randomness. Don't worry, I don't know who searched for what but some of the things people typed into google simply had to be shared.
Of course, there's the classic "arse about fez", "arseaboutfez" and variations on the theme "arse over fez". Then, surprisingly, comes "ottoman slap". It seems I'm not alone in my quest to learn this killer technique.
Hamams appear quite frequently in the search phrases. From the DIY enthusiasts looking for "at home Hamam" or perhaps a simple "soapy massage full length" (innocent I'm sure) to every Turks dream of a "Russian Hamam washing men". There's a lone cry for help with "Turkish bath embarrassing erection" and the bolder "Bodrum gay Hamam", "gay Hamams Kusadasi", "Hamam Kusadasi sex" to the specifics of "older men Turks Turkish bath Hamam gay", "massage no towel naked Turkey", "erotic soap massage" (are you sure?), "mens arse massage" and everyone's favourite, the "Arab gay Hamam".
Popping up now and again in the stats, are questions that I feel I should try to answer:
"Why did Ataturk ban the fezzes???". An innocent enough question, but it's the many question marks that add a certain desperation. So here's your answer... From what I understand, Ataturk banned the fez to try and pull Turkey out of its Ottoman heritage and into the 20th Century. Other reforms include banning the Arabic script and the MC Hammer trousers.
"How do you clear a package from Turkish customs?". It's an arse-ache. Do whatever they tell you to do and just pay the money. In the future, don't import anything ever.
"What do olive trees smell like?". They smell like trees.
"Kusadasi prostitution prices?". 150YTL for 2 hours. 200YTL for the night. FYI I have a lovely smile and an ample bosom.
"How much for a pint of lager in Kusadasi?". Generally anywhere between 3YTL to 10YTL depending on how poncy you want your environment to be.
It's nice to see my family turning up in the results. People are actually looking for "rude nan" and even asking the question "who is rude nan?". Well, she's my nan. Also with "Elsie Kusadasi" it's great to see my cat getting a fan base. And who can forget "how do we keep Minos living?". It's a good question, but I think he's doing OK on his own.
Of course, the internet wouldn't be the internet without a whole host of slightly raunchier searches. "Arse fuck in cologne" had me puzzled for a while. I've already warned you about using cologne around the 'toilet area' so I hope you're talking about the city. Perhaps someone could explain "fez job" to me? I honestly want to know. "I love arse" brought someone to my virtual door. As did "shag my wife up the arse safely". I like the considerate use of the word 'safely' here.
Sometimes I wonder what people were hoping to find. With statements like "I got an erection when the barber massaged me" (everyone does, don't they?), "the barber massaged me with a vibrator", "I think my friend is gay, slaps me on the arse", "nans want to be fucked up the arse" (you can't generalise like that) and the less stomach turning "today I arrived at the airport to pick up my dad" to the reassuring "the foundations can hold", it seems as though people just want to share their thoughts with google.
As you would expect, all things Turkish litter the terms people are searching for. "Turkish mens armpits" (come on, we've all searched for this), "armpit shaved Turkish", "Turkish nans" (what??), "Turkish wetwipes" (why??) and "Turkish woman bukkake" (fair enough).
Sometimes you can see a story unfolding. "Turkish man looking for English woman" to "holiday romance, I've not heard from him" and the inevitable "divorce line English from Turkish"
The beauty of completely random phrases is a joy to me. How on earth did the following lead people to my door? "elevator engineer harness", "products with rude names", "fuck mother", "Japanese pre-dinner hand towels", "working for Benny in Kusadasi" (those from Kusadasi will know who they're talking about. Strangers will just have to appreciate this as beautifully random), "men boarding lift shafts", "rude fruit", "scuba fish hand signals" (fish don't have hands), "solar battery on my roof in Turkey" (so?), "bus London Izmir" (don't get on that bus), "fez toilet" (I guess it could be used for that if you're caught short), "Agva mosquitoes", "ello darlin' English prostitutes" (no doubt, swiftly followed by "'ello, 'ello, 'ello") and the majestic "sitting on a cock, a bus journey" (a journey in so many ways).
As my friend Pete would say, the final set would fall under 'the ego has landed' category. I can't help thinking that someone out there is looking for me: "half English half Turkish", "fez no name" (I want this to be my nickname forever more), "lemon cologne male" (what does that say about a man?), "nice legs, shame about the fez" (yes!), "Kusadasi prostitute" (remember, ample bosom), "cheeky little waif" (ahhh, I was once) and of course "Masallah" (that's very kind of you).
There you have it. The wonderful world of the Arse About Fez readership. Please keep using google as though no one's watching. I'm sure I've searched for worse in my time. But to all of you, no matter what twisted fetish led you to the site, welcome. Take your shoes off at the door, put on some slippers and join me in a Turkish coffee on the balcony. I kiss you.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Monday, 9 June 2008
But I'm not sure I want that...
Just reading the label on my new hair wax. Is that a boast or a side-effect?
Fezaurus #4
Essek sikmeninde bir usulu var - Even fucking a donkey has certain steps that have to be followed.
My uncle's wisdom continues with this chestnut. This phrase is used when someone is making a right pig's ear of something. They're perhaps taking shortcuts and not doing the job properly. The message here is that everything in life has a right and a wrong way of doing things.
So what are the steps for violating a donkey, I hear you ask? These were explained to me but I can't remember most. There was something about standing on a tortoise (because the hissing noise a tortoise makes is similar to the Turkish translation of 'whoa' or 'please don't move, donkey') and also tying a mirror between the donkey's ears so you can see the owner (or your wife) approaching.
My uncle's wisdom continues with this chestnut. This phrase is used when someone is making a right pig's ear of something. They're perhaps taking shortcuts and not doing the job properly. The message here is that everything in life has a right and a wrong way of doing things.
So what are the steps for violating a donkey, I hear you ask? These were explained to me but I can't remember most. There was something about standing on a tortoise (because the hissing noise a tortoise makes is similar to the Turkish translation of 'whoa' or 'please don't move, donkey') and also tying a mirror between the donkey's ears so you can see the owner (or your wife) approaching.
Friday, 6 June 2008
Caption Competition #2
Spotted in a toilet in Samos. What could it possibly be telling me I'm not allowed to do?
Thursday, 5 June 2008
You say dolmades and I say dolma
As a British tourist arriving in Turkey, you should know that you're expected to obtain a visa before clearing passport control. It's pretty easy stuff. You go to a window marked 'vize' and hand over £10 (they want English money) and the smiling face behind the glass puts a little rectangular sticker in your passport.
This is your multiple entry visa, valid for 3 months. For this reason, every 3 months, Brits living in Turkey without a resident's permit, have to make a visa-run to one of the nearby Greek islands. There's no specification as to how long you have to leave the country. You can be in and out in an hour, as long as you leave.
The picture above shows my visa and if you pay close attention to the date stamp, it expires today. This is why, the day before yesterday, I made my trip to Kusadasi's nearest Greek island, Samos.
Luckily a close friend of the family runs the ferries to Samos so it's never usually a problem for me to get out of the country on short notice. I called my uncle, who made the necessary arrangements and told me to "be at the port at 8am and ask for Abdullah" (Mr Tarantino, you can have that line for free).
Upon hearing I'm doing a visa run, most people I meet begin to place duty free orders. Armed with my booze requests, a camera, some Euros and my passport, I headed off to get my ticket out of here.
The new port of Kusadasi is very posh. I remember the days when there was not much more than a fish market and a policeman to welcome arriving cruise liners but these days it's a fully operational port complete with Starbucks.
Clearing passport control is always a little worrying. They tend to take their time looking at my passport as the amount of multiple entry visas barely leaves room for my photograph.
We boarded the majestically named 'Kusadasi Express' and began our short journey past Ladies Beach and out to Samos.
The spanking new Kusadasi port building.
The Kusadasi Express.
Turkish flag flying, we leave the port.
...past the island that gives Kusadasi its name.
...into Greek waters.
I found myself a seat and plugged in my headphones. Before long, the entertainment began...
As you know, boats are wet, they rock about and they have little steps all over the place. Well it appears people quickly forget. As I sat and watched the guy across from me turning green and sweating profusely there was an almighty thud.
I turned to see a girl lying on the floor at the bottom of some steps clutching her head. Behind her, descending four steps at a time, was her father and mother. Behind them was her sister who also slipped on the steps, only managing to avoid falling by slamming her hand against the wall and screaming "FIX THIS BOAT!!!!!!!!".
Now, forgive me, but the stairs are wet and the boat is rocking. What exactly could a team of engineers do to 'fix this boat'? Perhaps they could install straps to insure that fuckwits don't start wandering around.
Anyway, no sooner had the girl's head hit the deck than family members began taking pictures of the scene. How about seeing if she's alright before you call Claims Direct?
I may be a little extreme in my views on this point but one of the joys of living in Turkey is that I've left that compensation culture far behind. No doubt the wave will one day hit this country but, in the meantime, people are responsible for their own actions.
I used to love the National Accident Helpline's adverts in the same way I love You've Been Framed (my sense of humour can be best described as Schadenfreude). The sound of that fat lass hitting the deck whilst walking through reception always made me chuckle. And as for Dave Morris (you know, the electrician who was given the 'wrong type of ladder'?), I'd love to see him try and claim compensation from his Turkish employer. Of course, he'd then have to claim for the savage beating he got from his boss and colleagues.
But this particular family were clearly going to be great fun. The father's knees were bandaged up so he'd obviously been auditioning for You've Been Framed previously too. They then wanted the captain to write an accident report of the whole thing (which was also to include the sister's bruised arm). The fact was, the girl was absolutely fine. Her only obvious problem was that she was a nightmare (this claim is not only based on this incident but also that I later overheard her in a restaurant asking for 'vegan garlic butter'. I whole heartedly salute the waiter who promptly brought her a handful of garlic cloves. You're a credit to your nation).
Anyway, back to Samos...
After about an hour and a half, we moored in Samos Town Port. For years I've been coming to the island and it's only recently that I've actually attempted to explore the rest of the island. I'm glad I did.
Samos Town is fairly interesting. If you're visiting, I recommend a walk up into the old town both for its architecture and atmosphere but also for the views over the bay.
Samos Port. All the elegance and grandeur of a garden shed.
The tiny streets of Samos old town. If you can see this sign, then you can probably see the street. Therefore rendering the sign completely useless.
The view over the bay of Samos Town.
One of the first things that always strikes me about Samos, is the the subtle differences between the Samians (people from Samos) and the Adali (people from Kusadasi). You see middle aged women powering around on scooters here whereas you just don't in Kusadasi.
The girls are pretty but they're chunkier. Turks tend to pad out after marriage, whereas the Samians seem to be embracing the whole 'bootilicious' concept. Cleavage is far more on show here. These may seem like ridiculous things to be commenting on, but they're quite telling of the culture. You get accustomed to making judgments based on clothing in Turkey. If a Turkish girl is displaying cleavage, something ain't right.
I was once here for a festival and everyone was out in their finest. However they appeared to have almost no taste. Leopard skin leggings and leather was all over the place. It was like being flash mobbed by Los Angeles hookers. Their fashion sense is only topped by French hypermarket shoppers. Mind you, there was that time I saw a guy in a Berlin train station with a mullet, tash, lime green biker jacket (sleeves rolled up), leggings and winkle pickers. I thought someone had spiked my coffee.
If you're coming to Samos and you've got some time, I recommend renting a car and heading off to some of the other towns. One place is Pythagoreion (named after the famous Samian, Pythagoras. You know, the triangle bloke?) on the South coast of the island. It's a pretty little town with similarities to Bodrum and a far nicer place to stay than Samos Town.
Not sure how they wear these.
Boats, beards, backgammon and baby goats. Just what is there not to love about this island?
Unfortunately, there wasn't enough time to explore the island on this trip. I only had a few hours to kill so I drank Greek coffee, did some shopping, had some lunch and it was soon time to head back to port.
Proof. Me with my vegetarian moussaka.
When I arrived back at the port, the wind had picked up a little. It's usual for the return trip to be a little choppier, but this was just silly. Although this little chap was having a great time.
Our chariot awaits. The Kusadasi Express all ready to express us back to Kusadasi.
Goodbye Samos. See you in 3 months.
...and there it is. The reason for this whole day trip. My shiny new visa. Giving me the opportunity to clog up the internet with my drivel for another 3 months. You lucky people.
This is your multiple entry visa, valid for 3 months. For this reason, every 3 months, Brits living in Turkey without a resident's permit, have to make a visa-run to one of the nearby Greek islands. There's no specification as to how long you have to leave the country. You can be in and out in an hour, as long as you leave.
The picture above shows my visa and if you pay close attention to the date stamp, it expires today. This is why, the day before yesterday, I made my trip to Kusadasi's nearest Greek island, Samos.
Luckily a close friend of the family runs the ferries to Samos so it's never usually a problem for me to get out of the country on short notice. I called my uncle, who made the necessary arrangements and told me to "be at the port at 8am and ask for Abdullah" (Mr Tarantino, you can have that line for free).
Upon hearing I'm doing a visa run, most people I meet begin to place duty free orders. Armed with my booze requests, a camera, some Euros and my passport, I headed off to get my ticket out of here.
The new port of Kusadasi is very posh. I remember the days when there was not much more than a fish market and a policeman to welcome arriving cruise liners but these days it's a fully operational port complete with Starbucks.
Clearing passport control is always a little worrying. They tend to take their time looking at my passport as the amount of multiple entry visas barely leaves room for my photograph.
We boarded the majestically named 'Kusadasi Express' and began our short journey past Ladies Beach and out to Samos.
The spanking new Kusadasi port building.
The Kusadasi Express.
Turkish flag flying, we leave the port.
...past the island that gives Kusadasi its name.
...into Greek waters.
I found myself a seat and plugged in my headphones. Before long, the entertainment began...
As you know, boats are wet, they rock about and they have little steps all over the place. Well it appears people quickly forget. As I sat and watched the guy across from me turning green and sweating profusely there was an almighty thud.
I turned to see a girl lying on the floor at the bottom of some steps clutching her head. Behind her, descending four steps at a time, was her father and mother. Behind them was her sister who also slipped on the steps, only managing to avoid falling by slamming her hand against the wall and screaming "FIX THIS BOAT!!!!!!!!".
Now, forgive me, but the stairs are wet and the boat is rocking. What exactly could a team of engineers do to 'fix this boat'? Perhaps they could install straps to insure that fuckwits don't start wandering around.
Anyway, no sooner had the girl's head hit the deck than family members began taking pictures of the scene. How about seeing if she's alright before you call Claims Direct?
I may be a little extreme in my views on this point but one of the joys of living in Turkey is that I've left that compensation culture far behind. No doubt the wave will one day hit this country but, in the meantime, people are responsible for their own actions.
I used to love the National Accident Helpline's adverts in the same way I love You've Been Framed (my sense of humour can be best described as Schadenfreude). The sound of that fat lass hitting the deck whilst walking through reception always made me chuckle. And as for Dave Morris (you know, the electrician who was given the 'wrong type of ladder'?), I'd love to see him try and claim compensation from his Turkish employer. Of course, he'd then have to claim for the savage beating he got from his boss and colleagues.
But this particular family were clearly going to be great fun. The father's knees were bandaged up so he'd obviously been auditioning for You've Been Framed previously too. They then wanted the captain to write an accident report of the whole thing (which was also to include the sister's bruised arm). The fact was, the girl was absolutely fine. Her only obvious problem was that she was a nightmare (this claim is not only based on this incident but also that I later overheard her in a restaurant asking for 'vegan garlic butter'. I whole heartedly salute the waiter who promptly brought her a handful of garlic cloves. You're a credit to your nation).
Anyway, back to Samos...
After about an hour and a half, we moored in Samos Town Port. For years I've been coming to the island and it's only recently that I've actually attempted to explore the rest of the island. I'm glad I did.
Samos Town is fairly interesting. If you're visiting, I recommend a walk up into the old town both for its architecture and atmosphere but also for the views over the bay.
Samos Port. All the elegance and grandeur of a garden shed.
The tiny streets of Samos old town. If you can see this sign, then you can probably see the street. Therefore rendering the sign completely useless.
The view over the bay of Samos Town.
One of the first things that always strikes me about Samos, is the the subtle differences between the Samians (people from Samos) and the Adali (people from Kusadasi). You see middle aged women powering around on scooters here whereas you just don't in Kusadasi.
The girls are pretty but they're chunkier. Turks tend to pad out after marriage, whereas the Samians seem to be embracing the whole 'bootilicious' concept. Cleavage is far more on show here. These may seem like ridiculous things to be commenting on, but they're quite telling of the culture. You get accustomed to making judgments based on clothing in Turkey. If a Turkish girl is displaying cleavage, something ain't right.
I was once here for a festival and everyone was out in their finest. However they appeared to have almost no taste. Leopard skin leggings and leather was all over the place. It was like being flash mobbed by Los Angeles hookers. Their fashion sense is only topped by French hypermarket shoppers. Mind you, there was that time I saw a guy in a Berlin train station with a mullet, tash, lime green biker jacket (sleeves rolled up), leggings and winkle pickers. I thought someone had spiked my coffee.
If you're coming to Samos and you've got some time, I recommend renting a car and heading off to some of the other towns. One place is Pythagoreion (named after the famous Samian, Pythagoras. You know, the triangle bloke?) on the South coast of the island. It's a pretty little town with similarities to Bodrum and a far nicer place to stay than Samos Town.
Not sure how they wear these.
Boats, beards, backgammon and baby goats. Just what is there not to love about this island?
Unfortunately, there wasn't enough time to explore the island on this trip. I only had a few hours to kill so I drank Greek coffee, did some shopping, had some lunch and it was soon time to head back to port.
Proof. Me with my vegetarian moussaka.
When I arrived back at the port, the wind had picked up a little. It's usual for the return trip to be a little choppier, but this was just silly. Although this little chap was having a great time.
Our chariot awaits. The Kusadasi Express all ready to express us back to Kusadasi.
Goodbye Samos. See you in 3 months.
...and there it is. The reason for this whole day trip. My shiny new visa. Giving me the opportunity to clog up the internet with my drivel for another 3 months. You lucky people.
Monday, 2 June 2008
Bill Watson
I'd like to take a moment to pay my respects to a man who I met only briefly, yet was an inspiration to me.
Bill and his wife Cherie arrived in Kusadasi over 20 years ago for a brief holiday but fell in love with the place. They never returned to America and have been living on a yacht in the marina ever since.
I met them one day while fishing on my uncle's boat (which was mored next to theirs). Bill had been seriously ill for many years but his positivity never ceased to make me take stock of all the things in my life I should be grateful for.
My memory of Bill will remain that of watching him walking towards me in the winter rain with a beaming smile on his face. "Ahhhhh liquid sunshine!" he smiled.
Bill passed away yesterday and my condolences go to Cherie and all those who were fortunate enough to know him.
Bill and his wife Cherie arrived in Kusadasi over 20 years ago for a brief holiday but fell in love with the place. They never returned to America and have been living on a yacht in the marina ever since.
I met them one day while fishing on my uncle's boat (which was mored next to theirs). Bill had been seriously ill for many years but his positivity never ceased to make me take stock of all the things in my life I should be grateful for.
My memory of Bill will remain that of watching him walking towards me in the winter rain with a beaming smile on his face. "Ahhhhh liquid sunshine!" he smiled.
Bill passed away yesterday and my condolences go to Cherie and all those who were fortunate enough to know him.
Saturday, 31 May 2008
Single Hand Gestures - Part 1
The Turkish language is so much more than the spoken word. In order to communicate fully with Turks, the whole body must be used. Gestures are common and often a whole conversation can be conducted without saying a single word.
In order to help the beginner understand the subtle (and not so subtle) hand gestures used day to day here in Turkey, I've put together a short video...
In order to help the beginner understand the subtle (and not so subtle) hand gestures used day to day here in Turkey, I've put together a short video...
Thursday, 29 May 2008
Fezaurus #3
Ikiside ayni kaba siciyor - They're both shitting in the same cup.
As I was walking around the Marina this morning with my uncle, he used this expression. I thought it was quite magical. It also made me pause for a moment as I thought about that website that had recently been doing the rounds (I'm not going to post a link to it because it's hideous but let's just say it stars 2 girls and the above phrase is taken all too literally).
Simply put, this is 'singing from the same Hymn-sheet' a-la-Turka.
...then, of course, my uncle was curious about the website so we went back and looked at it together. FYI he felt they switched the contents of the cup with ice-cream. It still doesn't make it right as far as I'm concerned.
As I was walking around the Marina this morning with my uncle, he used this expression. I thought it was quite magical. It also made me pause for a moment as I thought about that website that had recently been doing the rounds (I'm not going to post a link to it because it's hideous but let's just say it stars 2 girls and the above phrase is taken all too literally).
Simply put, this is 'singing from the same Hymn-sheet' a-la-Turka.
...then, of course, my uncle was curious about the website so we went back and looked at it together. FYI he felt they switched the contents of the cup with ice-cream. It still doesn't make it right as far as I'm concerned.
Bunch of cuts
This morning I woke at 7:30 and joined my uncle for a walk around the Marina. I can't imagine a better way to start the day (well, I can but I wont go into it here). We walked and talked for an hour or so getting some fresh air and exercise.
Summer has arrived here in Kusadasi and the days and nights are hot (I've finally replaced my duvet with a simple cotton sheet). By the time I got back home I was soaked in sweat. Time for a nice cool shower and on with the day. Unfortunately the town council had other ideas.
As I turned the taps, I heard an all too familiar sound ...fuck all. Yes, a water cut.
If you're planning on living in Turkey then you're going to get used to these. If electricity or water is cut in the UK for more than an hour, people start panic-buying tinned food.
I still don't really know why they happen but, for as long as I can remember, Turkey suffers from water and electricity cuts. I have memories of holidays with my parents and the bath always being full of water so that we could flush the toilet no matter what the council decided (and believe me, if you've ever suffered from the 'Turkish two-steps', you'll know that being able to flush the toilet is absolutely vital).
Though water cuts are the most common, electricity cuts are pretty entertaining too. Especially if, like me, you work with computers.
So what should you do in the event of such cuts?
Water:
Summer has arrived here in Kusadasi and the days and nights are hot (I've finally replaced my duvet with a simple cotton sheet). By the time I got back home I was soaked in sweat. Time for a nice cool shower and on with the day. Unfortunately the town council had other ideas.
As I turned the taps, I heard an all too familiar sound ...fuck all. Yes, a water cut.
If you're planning on living in Turkey then you're going to get used to these. If electricity or water is cut in the UK for more than an hour, people start panic-buying tinned food.
I still don't really know why they happen but, for as long as I can remember, Turkey suffers from water and electricity cuts. I have memories of holidays with my parents and the bath always being full of water so that we could flush the toilet no matter what the council decided (and believe me, if you've ever suffered from the 'Turkish two-steps', you'll know that being able to flush the toilet is absolutely vital).
Though water cuts are the most common, electricity cuts are pretty entertaining too. Especially if, like me, you work with computers.
So what should you do in the event of such cuts?
Water:
- If you remember before hand, fill the bath.
- If you didn't, you're going to have to use bottled water.
- Turn on a tap so that you know the exact moment the water returns but...
- If you go out, remember to turn the tap off before you leave or you'll flood the place.
- Save your files frequently
- Get a backup power supply for your computer (I still haven't)
- Keep candles around and...
- Don't scream like a girl when the lights go out (I keep forgetting this)
- Turn off as many appliances as you can so the place doesn't fuse when the power returns
- Look out the window to see whether other houses are out too (I once sat without power for over 2 days before realising that it was just one of my fuses that had flicked off).
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk
You have no idea just how carefully I'm going to have to tread in this post. The Turks love of this man is absolute and one false move here could land me water hotter than Hell's Hamam.
It's been proved too. YouTube is still banned here. Why? Because someone in Greece posted a video allegedly disrespecting Ataturk. A comment made in public could have you beaten more severely than a ginger step-child. In fact, it's against the law to say anything negative about him but the chances are you'd not survive long enough to see the inside of a courtroom.
So why do the Turks hold this man in such high regard? Why did Mustafa Kemal receive the name Ataturk (meaning 'father of the Turks')? I'm not going to recite his biography; I'll leave that to those more knowledgeable than myself. I will only explain what I see and hear day to day.
Time Magazine ran a poll to find the top 100 most influential people of the 20th Century. Eventually, they had to put a hold on the internet casting because of the flood of votes for Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. My question is why, if by their own admission it was a landslide, did he come second?
This man is adored. Every shop, every school, every public building has a picture or a bust. Even homes have a picture as though he were family member. Ask any Turk and they can tell you the date and time of his birth, his death and the names of his family members. Here's a test for you. Forget the time or date, what year was Churchill born? What year was the queen born? no, me neither.
When I first arrived in Turkey, I found this devotion a little strange. But then, coming from England, who do I have in my cultural heritage who made the impact of Ataturk? Who single-handedly freed the nation of a multitude of occupiers (including England, France, Italy, Russia and Greece) even though his army was outnumbered at least 4 to 1? Who threw out the Ottoman Empire and formed an entire republic moving the capital from Istanbul to Ankara (yes people, Ankara is the capital of Turkey)? Who changed a language and alphabet in a single day? Who gave women the vote before anyone else in Europe? Who brought about secularism? Who brought about democracy? I know what your thinking. But Ken Livingstone's public transport reforms just don't compare.
David Lloyd George (who was fighting against him by the way) called him "the genius of our century - centuries rarely produce a genius. Look at this bad luck of ours, that great genius of our era was granted to the Turkish nation".
Even Churchill, who received the biggest shoeing of his life at the boot of Ataturk in Gallipoli said about his death:
"Ataturk's death is not only a loss for the country, but for Europe is the greatest loss, he who saved Turkey in the war and who revived a new the Turkish nation after the war. The sincere tears shed after him by all classes of people is nothing other than an appropriate manifestation to this great hero and modern Turkey's Ata."
Currently, the ruling party here is being prosecuted. Some of their policies are deemed anti-republic (therefore anti-Ataturk). Turkey has safe guards in place to make sure that Ataturk's word is followed to the letter. The army is one. Before politics, they follow Mustafa Kemal. This is also the reason Turkey has seen so many military coups in the past century. Democracy, it seems, is something that takes time to learn.
But if you're in power here and you do something that goes against the public's understanding of Ataturk's vision. This happens:
Even I was there...
These protests happened all over the country. The nation hit the streets with Turkish flags and pictures of Ataturk to make a clear statement that democracy and secularism is something they will protect with relentless determination. And so they should. The stories handed down from father to son about what Ataturk achieved are stories of victory despite impossible odds. These are the stories that drive people onto the streets to make sure Turkey will never step back into an Islamic ideology.
I don't think I'll ever be able to fully appreciate the sincere love and gratitude the Turkish nation has for this man. I can just watch from the sidelines and listen to the legends told over glasses of tea. OK, so I have to take the flack for being British occasionally and sit quietly while they point fingers and laugh at me when the subject of Canakkale arises. The only time I've had more abuse was meeting a couple of Aussies on the beach who'd just returned from a pilgrimage to Gallipoli. Being the child of both nations, I was reminded that the Brits sent the Aussies in and the Turks finished them off. We didn't chat for long.
Well, I hope I haven't offended anyone. I've tried to steer clear of the fact that Ataturk abolished the fez (it's just too painful for me). If there are no more updates to this blog, you'll know something was misconstrued. Wish me luck as I press the button marked 'publish post'.
Sunday, 25 May 2008
Arse About Fez Facebook Group
To mark my 2 year anniversary of my arrival in Turkey, I've opened a Facebook group. Feel free to chat, post videos, pictures, links and generally spam each other.
I've been racking my brains trying to think of an appropriate way to declare the group open. In the UK, we might get a celebrity to cut a ribbon and say a few words. I contemplated smashing a bottle of champagne over my monitor. But, ultimately, this is Turkey and I need to follow the local customs.
Traditionally, the start of a new venture is celebrated with the sacrifice of a sheep and allowing the blood to flow over the entrance of the premises. The problem is, I'm a vegetarian and chopping a carrot on the porch doesn't really have the appropriate level of grandeur.
So, instead, I'm going to sacrifice by proxy and hand the proceedings over to the wonderful staff of Istanbul airport who felt a sheep just didn't cut it:
"Turkish Airlines took swift disciplinary action Wednesday after it emerged that members of its technical staff had sacrificed a camel to celebrate getting their job done.
So without further ado (or blood loss) I pronounce the Arse About Fez Facebook Group open.
I've been racking my brains trying to think of an appropriate way to declare the group open. In the UK, we might get a celebrity to cut a ribbon and say a few words. I contemplated smashing a bottle of champagne over my monitor. But, ultimately, this is Turkey and I need to follow the local customs.
Traditionally, the start of a new venture is celebrated with the sacrifice of a sheep and allowing the blood to flow over the entrance of the premises. The problem is, I'm a vegetarian and chopping a carrot on the porch doesn't really have the appropriate level of grandeur.
So, instead, I'm going to sacrifice by proxy and hand the proceedings over to the wonderful staff of Istanbul airport who felt a sheep just didn't cut it:
"Turkish Airlines took swift disciplinary action Wednesday after it emerged that members of its technical staff had sacrificed a camel to celebrate getting their job done.
Maintenance workers all pitched in to buy the beast to mark the long-awaited dispatch to Britain of the last of 11 RJ100 aircraft which Turkish decided to leave out of its fleet due to a series of accidents involving the planes.
The camel was sacrificed Tuesday at Istanbul's Ataturk airport and about 1,540 pounds of meat was distributed among the staff.
The event surfaced when several newspapers ran the story along with photographs of the camel being led into the airport grounds and of workers holding up bloody pieces of meat after the sacrifice." USA Today
So without further ado (or blood loss) I pronounce the Arse About Fez Facebook Group open.
Fezaurus #2
Esegi amina su kacirdin - You let water leak into the donkey's fanny.
I'm not so clear on the origins of this particular phrase. Some say, matter of factly, that when villagers fuck a donkey, they stand it in the river so it wont run away. Makes sense.
Whatever the roots, I doubt you'll guess the meaning.
I once bought 500g of freshly ground Turkish coffee from Izmir. Seeing the packet on my kitchen table, my cousin insisted that I'd let water leak into the donkey's fanny. Having never been accused of this before I was, needless to say, somewhat confused.
It means 'to go over the top' or 'do something extreme'. He was trying to tell me that I'd bought too much coffee, but there are easier ways.
"What's the connection?" I asked.
"Well, putting water in a donkey's fanny is an extreme thing to do" he replied. I couldn't argue.
I'm not so clear on the origins of this particular phrase. Some say, matter of factly, that when villagers fuck a donkey, they stand it in the river so it wont run away. Makes sense.
Whatever the roots, I doubt you'll guess the meaning.
I once bought 500g of freshly ground Turkish coffee from Izmir. Seeing the packet on my kitchen table, my cousin insisted that I'd let water leak into the donkey's fanny. Having never been accused of this before I was, needless to say, somewhat confused.
It means 'to go over the top' or 'do something extreme'. He was trying to tell me that I'd bought too much coffee, but there are easier ways.
"What's the connection?" I asked.
"Well, putting water in a donkey's fanny is an extreme thing to do" he replied. I couldn't argue.
Thursday, 22 May 2008
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.
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.
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