Category: Turkish Men

Fancy a Fag?

Turkey is an unlikely place to introduce a smoking ban. Nicotine consumption is an obligatory male pastime, along with rakı drinking and parlour games. Since most Turks appear to have a distinctly cavalier attitude towards petty authority, I assumed the new rules, as with parking regulations, would be roundly flouted. To my surprise, it has caught on; rigorous enforcement by the jandarma and instant fines for miscreants have both provided added incentives. It hardly matters. Life is very al fresco and popping out for a fag is a breeze compared to huddling outside a London pub in the drizzle heckled by tut-tutting passing strangers.

VOMITs

The mirror image of the predatory Turkish male is a sub-species of the emigrey called the VOMIT, or Victims of Men in Turkey: vintage desperate ex-housewives with a few lira to spare who shamelessly chase younger Turkish men. They jump ashore like eager Shirley Valentines straight into the arms the willing waiters who hang around the docks. Predictably, such relationships rarely last once the money runs out. Listen up ladies. Have a little fun and shag the boys by all means, but never fall in love. While he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, he’ll dip his fingers into your purse and when the takings are spent, he’ll be off like a rat up a drainpipe.

Fancy a Jump?

Many Turkish men think western women are ‘easy’ and compared to Turkish women I suppose that they are. Meaningful female sexual liberation is a distant dream and girls must remain virgins (or at least pretend) until they marry. Of course, this applies to boys as well but this inconvenient fact is conveniently ignored by most. It’s a man’s world after all. So, rapacious men besiege unsuspecting solo female foreigners of any age or size in the hope of a jump. The unsuccessful may turn to each other for hand relief.

To be fair, we’ve met one or two young men whose sole driving ambition is to wed, rather than just bed, western girls. Perhaps this is the only way to break the unceasing cycle of seasonal servitude. And, from what I’ve seen of some demanding, sulky, petulant Turkish women, I’m not surprised they’re driven into the arms of willing westerners.

Tariq the Toothless Caretaker

Tariq the Toothless is our caretaker. A muscular man with rough hands, his hard labour life is etched deeply into his kind face. He wanders around the site day and night doing very little but then I guess there is very little to do at this time of year. However, he is an efficient rubbish disposer. We are eternally grateful as otherwise we would be forced to yomp up and down Mount Tepe with all the empty bottles. Tariq stares a lot. We must seem like a creatures from a different planet.

Bulging Biceps

As the cooler nights approach, Clement drove Liam to a local timber merchant to buy the winter logs for our open fire. It wasn’t entirely an act of neighbourly altruism since Clement lusts after the log man, a ruddy rugged chap with bulging biceps and a chest like a Turkish wrestler. The log man delivered and neatly stacked the consignment. Clement flirtatiously supervised lingering a little too close to imbibe the intoxicating blend of testosterone and sweat. I kept the smelling salts handy. Afterwards Clement convalesced in a darkened room for an hour or two. I can’t imagine what he was doing.

Old Scrubbers

Our house had been redecorated by our landlord and there was white paint splattered everywhere, literally. Turkish workmen don’t make good apparently. Our site manager, Hussein, a jovial man of seemingly industrial strength idleness, offered to arrange a spring clean. We declined. We’ll be scraping and scrubbing for days. Clement kindly lent us an old vacuum cleaner and a kettle.