School’s Out

Travel may well broaden the mind but upping sticks and relocating to a foreign field can blow it completely. The best laid plans may not prepare you for having the cultural rug pulled from under your feet, something that can throw the most balanced person off kilter. Becoming a novice expat is like the first day of school. All those childhood fears come flooding back. Will I fit in? Will people like me? Am I wearing the right kind of kit? Am I as good as them?

As the naïve new kids on the block, we made the classic mistake of chucking ourselves into the well-rooted and largely insular expat community that clung to the iridescent coast of Aegean Turkey. We didn’t dip our toes into the water to test the temperature. Oh no. We leapt in with eyes slammed shut, noses held and hopes raised. It was a salutary lesson in what not to do. The emigrey soap opera was, at times, a life-sapping experience and negativity stalked the smoky bars and over-crowded beaches. We spent the first six months trying to get to know people and the next six months trying to get rid of many of them. In retrospect, I don’t know why I expected a disparate group of people thrown together purely by chance to be our cup of tea. Four years down the line our burnt fingers had healed and we started to enjoy the sparkling company of a small cohort of like-minded people. As with many things in life, less is more. Ironically, just as we reserved our own corner of the playground with a hand-picked gang, we returned back to Blighty to be grown-ups again.

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Marriage Equality or Marriage Apartheid?

Typical indecisive liberal Libran, I’m all in a silly tizz. I just can’t make my mind up about the Government’s marriage equality law. Just for the record, the proposal is to legalise same sex civil marriage (a good thing) but will enshrine in the Law the notion that religious marriage is only between a man and a women (a bad thing). Presumably, this is a typically British fudge to placate the lofty preachy men who’ve got their cassocks in a twist. One minute I think I just can’t support this daft nonsense that will introduce a kind of marriage apartheid. The next minute I think that this is a step in the right direction. Maybe it won’t matter as the Government seem to be running scared of the blue-rinse brigade and getting cold feet anyway. The proposed Act has been kicked into the long grass by being dropped from this year’s Queen’s Speech which sets out the Government’s legislative agenda for the coming Parliamentary session. This smacks of political cowardice. It will be left to the Scots (as usual) to lead the equalities charge.

The law may eventually pass and, if it does, I suspect the dust will settle and people will wonder what all the fuss was about. Perhaps an amendment will then be carried to remove the discriminatory religious marriage clause and allow all those religious organisations who wish to conduct ceremonies for same sex couples to do so. Maybe then the preachy men will turn their attention to something more worthwhile like world peace and eradicating child abuse.

Interestingly, in Turkey, a Muslim majority country, religious marriage is not recognised by the State. As a secular republic, anyone wishing to marry (that’s opposite sex couples only, obviously) must do so in a State registry office. Those who are religious have their union blessed by an imam, priest, rabbi, etc.

While the debate rages on, take a look at the video of men in uniforms.

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We’re All Immigrants Really

I recently tuned in to a debate on BBC Radio Norwich. It was about immigration, something of a national obsession in Britain.  Some of the comments were intelligent and thoughtful, others were plain stupid. It made me think. How is it that, in general, relatively rich people from the West who move abroad are described as ‘expats’ whereas relatively poor people settling in the West are classed as ‘immigrants’?  Perhaps this is because ‘immigrant’ is a dirty word these days, laced with nasty undertones of freeloading and coloured by thinly veiled racism. The threat of the UK or anywhere else being swamped with lazy foreign devils sponging off the state and plotting a new world order is a tad exaggerated in my experience. Where would the National Health Service or the care sector be without imported labour? It’s also worth bearing in mind the United Nations of young people who greet the commuting worker bees of London at the Pret a Manger* counter each morning are there because they’re eager, committed and willing – not a scrounger among them. This is an attitude that some British youths would do well to emulate.

The smug, self-congratulatory term ‘expat’ does have more than a hint of the British Raj about it (or any colonial raj come to that) – people who move away for a sea-view room or a tax-free dream job but who maintain their cultural and language separateness in various expat ghettos across the globe. The word also suggests a sense of impermanence. Interestingly though, many foreign nationals I know in Turkey have no intention of moving back to their home countries. Some have even acquired Turkish citizenship (though I suspect few have relinquished their original passports. It pays to have a plan B, just in case). If expat life is transitory does this mean that immigration is permanent? This doesn’t explain the huge influx of Poles who moved to Britain in the 90’s looking for work, many of whom have since moved back to Poland because the work dried up. They are called immigrants (and less savoury words by some). Clearly, quite a few have no wish to stay longer than necessary. Perhaps it really is all to do with the filthy lucre.

It’s certainly true that expats tend to be more financially self-sufficient than those who move in search of a better economic life, but nothing is that simple. In Turkey, plunging interest rates in recent years have presented quite a fiscal challenge to those trying to maintain a hedonistic lifestyle on dwindling assets. I wonder how many will survive? In the end, some may have to head home anyway, kicking and screaming. Expat? Immigrant? You say tomayto, I say tomarto.

*Pret is very successful British coffee and sandwich chain. I recommend their breakfast baguette – delish!

Letter from Ephesus

Image: Thomas Depenbusch

No journey through Asia Minor is complete without a tumbling tour of the ancient wonder that is Ephesus: world heritage site nominee and arguably one of the most impressive open air museums anywhere. Ephesus (or ‘Efes’ to give the place its Turkish name which also happens to be the name of Turkey’s favourite ale), was one of the most sophisticated cities of antiquity, adorned with grand civic buildings, marble-clad pavements and street lighting.

More…

Arrested Development

Just before we clambered aboard our life raft and paddled back to Blighty, we learned that the popular and dashing Mayor of Bodrum had been arrested by a detachment of Polis and carted off to jail, supposedly on bribery and corruption charges. Such transgressions are nothing new. A nod, wink and palms well-greased have made a vital contribution to the mad march of little white boxes up and down the Turkish coast (and elsewhere around the Med). When mega money meets meagre purse the outcome is often a foregone conclusion. Even the honest and the honourable can be led (or forced) into temptation by big business bullies or murderous mafia gangsters. As a vetpat of our close acquaintance remarked recently:

“If an ugly thug in a shiny suit strutted into your office, casually placed a loaded gun on the desk and made thinly veiled threats to you and your nearest and dearest, what would you do?”

However, there may be more to this Mayor’s rapid fall from grace than meets the eye. Rumours abound that he is a victim of trumped up charges because he refused to join the governing AK Party. Certainly, the arrest was carefully staged with the media in full attendance. Smile for the camera, Mr Mayor, you’re going to be on the six o’clock news. It’s not implausible. The current administration do not have a particularly tolerant attitude towards opposition. Locking people up at the drop of a fez is their forte. Is this evidence of a spiteful government tightening its grip on power or simply another a greedy public servant caught with his snout in the trough? Time will tell but neither outcome will do Turkey any favours.

Hit the Road, Jack

Hit the Road, Jack

The show is over and the curtain has fallen on our final Anatolian performance. It’s been a long and successful run but they’ll be no ovation or encore. As we said goodbye to Gümbet, Liam and I reflected on our time in this ancient land of paradoxes and plenty. Turkey has provided a restful respite for our weary bones and taught us that we can live differently and work with less. This is a profound lesson that many would be wise to copy. We don’t regret a single second of it.

We’ve both enjoyed and endured some extraordinary exploits with some extraordinary people. From the outset I called our cast ‘the mad, the sad, the bad and the glad’. This epitaph was no less true in Bodrum than it was in Yalıkavak three years before. From our first encounter with the pretentious expat rat pack to the Bodrum Belles, the Gümbet Gals and the Bitez Babes all sorts – the ladies of this small corner of Asia Minor do what they can to live their lives in dignity and grace. Many succeed. Many don’t. Listen up, ladies. Take a little advice from an old pro. When your ship is holed beneath the waterline, head for the lifeboat. Don’t flounder about like flotsam just because the sea looks inviting.

We’re not looking forward to the downside of Blighty life – the unpredictable weather, the fretful recession or the endless whinging. Let’s face it, some of our compatriots, whatever shore they wash up on, have turned whinging into a class act. Nevertheless, our course is set and it is a step forward, not a step back. But, there’s a sadness in my soul. I shall greatly miss our entertaining encounters with the hopeless, the hapless and, yes, the happy go lucky. So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu to the emigreys, vetpats, semigreys, VOMITs, MADs, Emiköys, and sexpats. You gave me an unexpected tale to tell and for this I thank you. The next instalment is on the story drawing board.

Cock of the Coop

Cock of the Coop

Being a London boy with my London ways, I’ve had limited experience of country life. The occasional weekend cottage in North Wales and four-in-a-bed caravanning holidays in the middle of nowhere don’t really count. To be sure, on primary school trips to Swanage in Dorset and Shanklin on the Isle of Wight, I endured the obligatory excursion to jobbing farms to sniff the shitty whiff, pet the ponies and frighten the sheep. I do remember thinking ‘Sunday roast, mint sauce with all the trimmings, yummy’. The scale of modern-day industrial farming was driven home when I watched conveyor belt cows being drained by an enormous robotic milking machine. No wonder Daisy always looked startled.

Katie Price

Until we set foot on Anatolian soil, I’d never seen a live chicken in the flesh, so to speak. My chickens came hung, drawn and often quartered. Suddenly, clutches of clucking chickens were everywhere I looked, even in the heart of Bodrum. The harems of hens were invariably corralled by a loud and bad-tempered rooster complete with dandy plumage and a cock of the coop demeanour (a bit like the waiters). I remember thinking that British chickens must be smaller than their Turkish cousins. Perhaps Turkish fowl live longer and grow larger. Perhaps they’re fed on extra-strength growth hormones. Whatever the reason, Turkish chicken breasts were Amazonian by comparison, the Katie Price of the poultry world.

Cappadocia Then and Now

One of our greatest regrets during our time in the Land of the Sunrise is not taking the time to visit magical Cappadocia. I can offer no satisfactory excuse. We just didn’t do it. I give you some images to tickle the taste buds and stir the wanderlust.

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We were reminded of our failing by Pansyfan Bonnie. She sent me this fascinating Turkish film of Göreme from 1962, courtesy of Turkey Central. This is Göreme only 50 years ago, yet it could be from the time of Abraham – no camera-toting tourists, no swish cave hotels, no restored Disney murals, no over-blown restaurants, no hot air balloons, no hot air hawkers. From biblical to boutique. I have no words.

Kapadokya 1962

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Pink Flamingos on Lake Tuzla

This is being reposted from yesterday as I completely screwed up the scheduling. Duh!

Jack Scott's avatarPerking the Pansies

Some areas of the Bodrum Peninsula have miraculously avoided the triumphant march of the little white boxes up hill and down dale. Lake Tuzla provides a precious sanctuary for a host of wildlife, none so regal as the flamingos on their annual migration. Irreplaceable wetlands like this are under constant threat of draining for agriculture and development. When it’s gone, it’s gone. We should think about that.

Thank you to the lovely Yüksel for these superb images which were taken in February 2012.

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Pink Flamingos on Lake Tuzla

Pink Flamingos on Lake Tuzla

Some areas of the Bodrum Peninsula have miraculously avoided the triumphant march of the little white boxes up hill and down dale. Lake Tuzla provides a precious sanctuary for a host of wildlife, none so regal as the flamingos on their annual migration. Irreplaceable wetlands like this are under constant threat of draining for agriculture and development. When it’s gone, it’s gone. We should think about that.

Thank you to the lovely Yüksel for these superb images which were taken in February 2012.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.