Category: Vetpats

An Anatolian Adventure

Today’s guest is gorgeous Kym who is the author of Turkeywithstuffin’s Blog and the pretty brain behind On the Ege, the monthly online magazine about Turkey’s Aegean coast.  Kym is married to dusky Murat, her hunky Turk. When veteran expat Kym wears a headscarf, she wants to look like Sophia Loren but thinks she looks more like Hilda Ogden. Personally, I think she resembles a darker version of Gynneth Paltrow in the Talented Mr Ripley.

Kym

It’s a Thursday in November 2008 and I am on my first road trip to Sanliurfa, my husband’s birth town. When we first arrived in Urfa late at night, the electricity was off and the city was in darkness.  Perhaps because I was tired from the long journey, I felt uneasy and had commented more than once that I’d been kidnapped and taken to Beirut. I did for a moment consider taken a plane home the following day. As we stood in the dark alley I was moaning, but once the large iron gate opened things could not have looked more different. We walked into a beautiful stone courtyard with mosaic tiles, Ottoman seating, potted plants and a small fountain.

The Manager at the Beyzade Konak Hotel is Murat’s cousin’s husband, Omer. He shows us to our room and once I have the internet and some coffee (they have a generator), I’m quite happy to chuck Murat out for an hour or so to allow him to play with his cousin Mehmet. I have a boiling hot shower, get my pajamas on and send a few quick “I’ve landed” emails. Then it’s lights out and a sleep so deep I could be in the cemetery.

Urfa

Day breaks and I realise the hotel is between two mosques. I open my eyes to the dual call to prayer, one a heartbeat behind the other. I doze for a bit then remember I’m actually on holiday and there are shops out there.

After breakfast, I nip back to our room and cover my locks with a headscarf. It’s a simple gesture of respect while I’m here and among the more traditional rellies. Well, that and I don’t really want to get stoned in the street! Mu of course thinks this is great and off we trot, out through the iron gate and onto the streets of Sanliurfa.

Once we leave the cobbled alley and get onto the main drag, its bustling; busses hog the road, cars fight for space beside them, scooters weave in and out of the traffic and pedestrians narrowly avoid being run over.  The air is filled with BBQ spices, pungent & smoky and the smell is everywhere. Small eateries and kebab houses jostle for space alongside clothes shops and jewelers who have 24 karat rays shining from their windows.

Stunning

There are a few glances my way naturally. It could be the pale skin and the green eyes, or it could be the flip flops and bright red toenails that don’t quite go with the rest of my ensemble. Still, that’s a great excuse to buy shoes isn’t it?

First things first, I need a new camera. We wander across to the maze of connecting alleyways that make up one of the eight covered bazars, to the collection of electronic shops. The salesman shows us his wares and converses with Murat: “Senin Esin mı?”(your wife),  “Yabanci” (a foreigner), “Alman?” (German).  Mu confirms the first two and I answer the last. “English” I say, not realising at the time that we will have this conversation many times during our stay. I guess it’s due to my height and build and of course, my great Grandparents, Mr & Mrs Shram!

I end up with an Olympus, a compact professional the man says. We will see.

Leaving the shop we are met by Cousin Mehmet and Hassan Amca. Their first words to me are “Kym, Beirut Nasil?” Very funny!  The four of us then continue around the bazaar which contains a veritable Aladdin’s Cave full of treasure. There is even a street full of workshops where workmen batter copper and solder iron.

Heading into the Balikigol area toward the cay bache, we pass through the ‘Sipahi Bazar’ and the ‘Kazzaz Bazaar’, the oldest covered Bazaars of Urfa. These were built by the Ottoman Emperor, Suleiman the Magnificent in 1562.  It really is like stepping back in time and I watch ancient shalvar wearing salesmen sitting cross legged in their little tented alcoves, bathed in rich colour and drinking tea while customers peruse their antique carpets, kilims and hand woven head dresses.

Feed Me!

During our small shopping excursion, I’d picked up some elastic hair bands that I needed and watched as three pairs of hands reach into theirpockets to pay for them. Oooooo I like shopping here. I wonder if it works in shoe shops? A few minutes’ walk and we reach the cave of Abraham. Legend has it that the Babylonian King, Nemrud, had Abraham captured and thrown into fire. His crime?  Calling upon the people to worship the real god and not the icons of celestial objects, as was the religion of the time.  Of course, God was watching and on seeing this, he turned the fire into water, saving Abraham from certain death. Not content with that, he then turned the surrounding woods into the sacred fish, the ancestors of which we see today at the site of the “Halil ur Rahmen” Mosque in the centre of Urfa.

I buy a dish of fish pellets and watch the fat feisty fish fight each other for each tiny morsel, after which we take a rest in the cay bachesi. I sit sipping hot sweet tea and take a look at my photos so far. The photos are amazing; sneaky zoom shots of men at prayer and performing the abtest, plus the usual tourist shots of minarets and domes. It’s getting late now and as dusk settles over the city, we head back to the hotel.

Nemrud

So far so good, my first day in Urfa was wonderful and I am hungry for more. We have decided to use Urfa as a base for a few road trips. On my list are: Harran, Nemrut, and Hasenkeyf, then, a stop at Cappadocia on the way home.  I had no idea at the time but this journey would also encompass, Mardin, Midyat, Batman & Siirt. My Anatolian adventure continues.

It’s All Greek to Me!

My fourth guest blogger is Bodrum vetpat and dedicated pansy fan, Carole Meads. Carole offers keenly priced, top-notch holiday properties in the pretty and peaceful resort of Torba, just 4kms from Bodrum. Take a look here if you’re thinking of visiting this part of the world (no, I don’t get a cut!). Here’s Carole writing about her attempts to learn Turkish. We’ve all been there.

Carole

Six and a half years ago I decided to make this idyllic coastal part of Turkey my home, along with a good friend who reassured me that learning the language wouldn’t be a problem. The Turkish language has its roots in Central Asia and the written form dates back to the 8th Century BC. in Mongolia.  As part of Ataturk’s reforms in 1928 he changed the written form of the language from the Arabic alphabet to the phonetic form of the Latin alphabet. He hoped this would aid communications and simplify things for non-Arab speakers…

Sadly, for a first time new language student, grappling with a different word order is hard enough and then it gets complicated. The Turkish language is based on vowel harmony and agglutination. It has to sound right and words are built up into sometimes incomprehensible length in order to make a point! So armed with a library of grammar, phrase books and CDs we set about teaching ourselves but somehow it never came to anything. ‘Speak to the locals’ knowledgeable ex-pats advised. These attempts at communication were met with confused expressions, grunts or replies in perfect English!

We soon decided that living in Bodrum, learning the lingo was going to be no mean feat. To be fair we quickly picked up basic chat and essential phrases – we got by but as soon as the conversation went ‘off-piste’ we were flummoxed. Then eighteen months ago a minor miracle happened. We heard about a new Turkish course starting up locally and at a price which matched our “non working” status! By this time I had become convinced that I would never learn Turkish, my friend already having mastered a couple of other languages was not so easily put off and immediately signed up. Her enthusiasm spread, several of our friends joined up and eventually even I gave in and decided to give it a go.

Erhan our teacher can only be described as ‘saintly’. He painstakingly prepares idiot proof lessons, listens to our horrendous annihilation of his native tongue, laughs with us not at us, all the while trying to understand the idiosyncrasies of the English language and ex-pats.

These days I lurch between declaring that I will never be able to speak this damn language and catching the jist of overheard conversation as I sit crammed in amongst the locals on the Dolmus. They say you have lost about 90% of your ability to learn a new language by the time you reach nine years old. Having reached an age considerably past nine, perhaps I shouldn’t be giving myself such a hard time?

Summer Redefined

Today’s guest post is from Linda at Adventures in Expatland. Linda writes prolifically and brilliantly about her life in the Netherlands and the expat experience. I’m certain she was a spook for the CIA in her former life, though she denies it. ‘If  I told you,’ she said, ‘I’d have to kill you.’ Here she writes about the glories of summer. When I read her post, my own childhood memories came flooding back. Remember the days when summers lasted forever? These days, the years just fly by. At this rate, it won’t be long before I’m six foot under.

Linda

Growing up as a child in upstate New York back in the US, summer was a gloriously sunny season that seemed to go on and on. That is, when it wasn’t raining. Which wasn’t all that often, but still. After morning chores were completed, my days were generally my own, filled with swimming, riding bikes, the annual family vacation. More than anything else, summer meant just hanging out with friends.

We finished the school year in mid-June, and didn’t have to report back until the day after Labor Day. Since this national holiday must fall on the first Monday in September, that usually meant we headed back to school sometime during the first week of the month. The entire months of July and August were summer, pure and simple.

A few times I recall the thrill of September 1st arriving on a Tuesday. That meant that in those special years Labor Day Monday would fall on the 7th, and we didn’t have to go to school until the 8th. The 8th! I still recall that magical feeling that we’d somehow wrangled a few extra precious days of summer.

As I got older and moved around the country a bit, I learned that school districts in other cities and towns had sizable leeway in setting their school calendars. When we lived in Arlington, Virginia (outside of Washington DC), the local school district chose to cut back on a few vacation days during the year to allow children to finish earlier in June, yet they still adhered to the day after Labor Day as the start of the new school year.

Imagine Son and Daughter’s dismay the year we moved further south to North Carolina: school started and ended two weeks earlier. Their summer freedom that year was shortened by two full weeks. They were livid. I recall unpacking boxes in our new home to the sweltering chorus of Two full weeks! We’ve been robbed. Cheated!

Let me tell you: Handel’s Messiah it wasn’t.

We settled in, and for five years it was fine. Then we moved to The Netherlands. And you’ll never guess what we learned. (Yeah, right, like you couldn’t see this coming a mile away.) Their international school started one week – all together now – earlier than their schools back in North Carolina.

Go figure.

I’d like to say that they handled it better this time because they were older, more mature, and guided by my stellar parenting skills. Actually, it was because Son and Daughter were so bored not knowing anyone and so overwhelmed with culture shock that they were happy to get back into the school day grind just to meet others who could help them make sense of their new world. Oh, and we didn’t have cable television at home yet.

With school starting August 17th this year, I’m going to be at home by myself during the final days of August. And what will I be doing? Working, of course. Except for those extra special days of fabulous weather when I reclaim summer and steal away for a few hours, riding my bike on beautiful trails to the beach.

Shhhhh…don’t tell the kids.

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Turks and Tampons

My third Guest blogger is Alexandra from Death by Dolmuş. Alexandra is a Yankee lass who teaches in Istanbul. She writes about the quirky side of life in the ancient city and has a mild obsession with public transport. Alexandra also publishes an amazing photoblog. If you don’t like discussions about women’s itty bitty parts, don’t read the following (oh, go on).

Alexandra

There are strange things that occur in Turkey. I am pretty on top of most of it, but from time to time things do catch me off guard. I’m unfazed when a man brings a 12 foot (4 meter) ladder into an over-packed dolmuş (roughly 5 meters long itself.) I’m unfazed when my bank calls to ask permission of my employer when I wish to close my account (obviously a mere mortal like me can’t be trusted with such a serious decision.)

I was caught off guard when my colleague, a punk, riot-grrrl feminist with red hair (not Irish red, but like, the color red) and combat boots, moans to me, doubled over in pain, ‘Gahh, I wish I hadn’t left the window open last night.’ It had been a sweltering 80 degrees (25 C) and I couldn’t understand what that had to do with her abdominal pain. ‘The wind, the night air, you know, it gives me cramps.’ Efendim?

Now, I’m fairly certain that cramps are caused by your uterine walls contracting to expel the lining. But, you know, who can say for certain…

I was constantly appalled by the lack of knowledge these university educated women displayed about their own bodies and the science contained in them. I know Freud thought that hysteria (that vague, female-ish complaint) was caused by a ‘disturbance’ to the uterus, but I’m pretty sure somewhere in my 6th grade sex-ed class, I remember learning something different…

As I was moving out, I had an enormous amount of tampons that my roommate and I had hoarded like we were preparing for the apocalypse. God knows when we would be able to find tampons again, so every time we ventured out of the Islamic Republic of Turkey, we bought up the store like they were going out of style.

Not having space in my luggage for 47 boxes of Tampax Pearls, and with the confidence that I could pick some up any time nature called at my nearest pharmacy (that’s a chemist’s for you Brits), when back in the US, I decided to give them away. Because honestly, who doesn’t like free tampons? Apparently, Turkish women.

So that’s how I found myself, on my last day of work, sitting in a locked office with my colleague, demonstrating how to use a tampon. I unwrapped it, showed how the applicator worked, as she dissected the tampon I had handed her, checking that the string was in fact well secured at the center. I extolled the tampon’s virtues: you can go swimming! (Her face lit up, what do you mean? She asked in disbelief.) You can wear white pants with no fear! Thinking back to all those tampon commercials of my youth, you can go shopping with your fresh-faced friends and laugh to your heart’s desire while spinning around in circles to demonstrate your new-found freedom!

Penis Points

My second guest blogger is Alan from Archers of Okçular. Alan lives in the small farming village of Okçular. We live in the same province of Muğla but might as well be on different planets. His Turkey is the real deal and he’s been living it for 14 years.

Alan

Before you crack up, ‘Penis Points’ are no laughing matter; ‘Penis Points’ are, quite literally, a matter of life and death! At least here in Turkey they are. ‘Penis Points’ are a growth industry; ‘Penis Points’ figure in the GDP of the country, they are an essential component in keeping the economy ticking over. Above all, ‘Penis Points’ are a man thing and although I have observed the odd lady collecting her ‘puans’, they are, as a rule, far too sensible to join in these childish antics.

Before I go on, I’d like to relate a story from a time before J and I had considered coming to Turkey to live. We were visiting Istanbul on one of those ‘Weekend Breaks’ and whilst there had met up with Turkish friends. Mehri, the male half of the duo, was a gentle, quietly spoken university lecturer who emanated an aura of peace and love. He and his wife had collected us by car from our hotel and we had just merged into the stream of traffic when an amazing transformation took place; Mehri hunched over the wheel and began snarling and shouting. He hammered the car horn and drove aggressively at those around him; there was much honking back and screeching of tyres. At first it was mildly disturbing, funny even; but as the lunacy grew and the remonstrations from his wife went unheard, we began to fear for our safety.

Suddenly, he swerved violently into a narrow and very steeply descending side road and proceeded downhill at speed totally ignoring several crossroads before screeching to a stop outside his apartment. As he switched off the ignition another switch clicked in his demented, schizophrenic brain and the persona of Mr Hyde dissolved and there, once again, calm and smiling, was our friend Dr Mehri Jekyll!

This was our first introduction to the ‘Trafik Canavar’ or ‘Traffic Monster’, an incubus lurking inside so many, ever seeking opportunities for a quick ‘flash’ and the accumulation of those ego boosting ‘Penis Points’. The reality of the motor vehicle as an extension of the driver’s maleness was no longer some psychologist’s quaint theory; we had just witnessed it in reality.

So, what are these ‘Penis Points’ then? Well, they relate mainly to driving; are, as I said, almost exclusively a male thing and they are measured on a graduated scale from ‘Downright Stupid’ (1) to ‘Causing Death By Dangerous Driving’ (10).

Here are some examples:

  1. You overtake in a perfectly safe way but the guy you passed experienced a strange physiological happening – his penis shrivelled! His only remedy is to glue his car to your back bumper and then, when the moment is least suitable, over/undertake you. Oh! Joy, this prick is back to normal! Plus 6 points.
  2. You are at a junction, you check carefully and the nearest vehicle is 500 yards away so you pull out. The guy is so affronted that he accelerates up to your rear bumper blasting his horn before passing you on the pavement. Plus 8 points.
  3. You pass/pull out on a truck driver who suffers an immediate flaccid moment and then jacks up by hounding your bumper for the next 20 miles (or to the next incline, whichever comes first). He’ll usually catch you up later, when you least expect it and continuing to try sticking his manhood up your tail pipe! Plus 7 points.
  4. You are driving along peacefully when you are confronted by the flashing lights of the black Merc/BMW with Istanbul plates that is hurtling towards you at 180kms in YOUR lane, and you are required to drive off into the forest or compete directly with his superior crumple-zone protection. Plus 3 or 9 points depending on how soon you react!
  5. Some loony driving his tractor/car/ truck pulls out of the side road without stopping/pausing and turns directly towards you in your lane expecting that whoever is there will take the necessary evasive action. ‘Allah Korusun!’ Plus 4 points.
  6. This guy has been crowding your rear bumper for miles on straight, clear roads; suddenly, as you approach a blind bend, he sees his opportunity for an enlargement job and pulls out to confront the huge TIR truck that has just appeared with much flashing of lights and bellowing of horns! Judged well, this is a 10 pointer!

There are many other examples and variations on the theme which include the shooting up of road signs with pistol or shotgun from the moving vehicle. Penis Points are awarded based on speed and accuracy!

I am of the opinion that a significant percentage of male drivers in this country, whether Turk or foreigner, have been sexually repressed by their overprotective, overbearing mothers to some degree or other; and that the only possible relief is to be found in the soft porn pages of most daily newspapers or by traffic manoeuvres that have the chance to bring about the ultimate orgasm of killing yourself or, better still, some poor, bloody innocent third party!

Aaaaaahhhh! How was it for you, darling? Absolutely smashing!!!

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Glorious Gumusluk

My first guest blogger is Linda from Ayak’s Turkish Delight. Linda and I share a public sector past in the social work field, a much-maligned profession, fraught with risk – damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Linda writes about her first tentative steps of her glorious Turkish journey. 

Linda

I am delighted to have been asked by Jack to do a guest post on his blog whilst he is away.  Jack’s blog is one I look forward to every day. It’s amusing, informative and just so different from many blogs out there.

Let me tell you a bit about me.  I’m a retired Social Work Manager (in the mental health field) and I moved to Turkey from England in 1998 and married my Turkish husband in 1999. We have lived in different areas of Turkey. In fact we have moved 15 times to date.

Glorious Gumusluk

My very first home 13 years ago was in Gümüslük. The peaceful village of Gümüsluk is one of the oldest settlements on the Bodrum peninsula. It stands on the site of the ancient city of Myndos whose seafront sections slid into the sea in some long-forgotten earthquake. We rented the top floor of a two-storey house, which was really a holiday-let and because each room led out to an open terrace, was only really suitable for the summer months. We rented it during the winter because it was cheap and we didn’t have a lot of money.

There was no hot water or heating and I had one saucepan and one gas bottle to cook with. It rained a great deal and poured in through the metal-framed windows, to the extent that one morning we got out of bed and were up to our ankles in water.  We had no mod cons. In the absence of a washing-machine, I washed our clothes in a huge plastic bowl.  No TV, telephone or internet.  Just one very old rusty fridge.

Gumusluk Bay

The setting was wonderful…right in the middle of orange and olive groves, with no neighbours, and was very peaceful.  It’s hard to adapt to such a basic, primitive way of life from the one I had in England but looking back at that time, I realise I learned a lot about myself and how I am capable of far more than I give myself credit for.

We stayed in Gümüslük for 5 months then moved on to Turgutreis and so began my Turkey journey, to places as diverse as Side, Antalya and Cappadocia.  You can read more here.

Til Death Us Do Part

I’ve written before that some Turkish men prefer to wed, rather than just bed western women. Not all the Shirley Valentines who come ashore end up as VOMITs. Some lucky lasses marry their handsome hunk, learn the lingo and settle down. I can see the attraction to a modern, progressive Turk. Our girls do have their advantages – a can do attitude, a stronger sense of sex equality and a more open mind. This is something that some of the local po-faced princesses would do well to emulate. The trouble is that we don’t just marry our partners. We marry their families too. This can work once the village in-laws get used to the idea that their darling Ahmed has got hitched to a foreign infidel who can’t cook, can’t clean, answers back, expects fidelity and demands an orgasm. It’s not always a square peg in a round hole.

Pity the poor wife whose in-laws descend to scrub and whinge, colonise the kitchen, move furniture around, re-press the laundry and re-arrange the larder. It takes a strong woman to grin and bear it. There can be a dark side to this cross-cultural tale when the families simply refuse to accept the yabancı wife and make her life a living Hell. Some men are too weak or too stupid to resist the pressure and buckle under the strain. Strong, butch Ahmed will always be his mother’s little boy and do as he’s told. The moral of this story? Meet the in-laws first before he slips a ring on your finger. This doesn’t mean you can’t sleep with him though.

Check out

VOMITs

Fancy a Jump?

Icing and Slicing

We were delighted to be invited to celebrate the forty something birthday of a brand new friend. Vetpat Vicki is a gorgeous gal with pretty eyes and the radiant smile of an angel. The drenching humidity failed to dampen our spirits as we supped and chatted into the wee small hours. Earlier in the day Vicki was treated by her Turkish nearest and dearest.  A slice of Victoria sponge at three followed by the slaughter of a sheep at four. It’s a sign of things to come as we edge closer to Kurban Bayram, the annual feast of sacrifice.

Bodrum Belles

We’ve become acquainted with a number of hard-core vetpats following our move to the sweaty city. I call them the Bodrum Belles, single ladies of a certain age, rollercoaster pasts and plucky presents. We have yet to bump into any Bodrum Beaus. Middle-aged male singletons are thin on the ground round here. Most of the belles live quiet and contented lives with a refreshing insight into their lot and a sense of humour. However, we did have the misfortune of wasting some time with a pompous middle England misery, a highly educated woman of depressing stupidity. She waxed imperiously about the educational shortcomings of British youth. As this dumb belle was born with a silver spoon up her arse I wondered what she could possible know about the state school system beyond what she’d read in the tainted pages of the Daily Mail.

So You Think You Can Dance?

We decided on a diverting night of fun and frolics in Bodrum to celebrate vetpat Charlotte’s birthday. Nancy was back in town, continuing the ebb and flow of her frequent sojourns and combining her twin roles as best friend and chief concubine. Leaving Alan convalescing at home, Charlotte and Nancy arrived dressed to impress, replete with f*ck me heels and bountiful bouncing breasts shimmering in the twilight like overripe waxed melons. As we promenaded along the marina, men of all ages fixed their gaze at cleavage level and jaws hit the newly renewed paving. We dined at Tango, an Argentine-themed steakhouse where meals are served on bloodied breadboards and the price of run of the mill French wine is stratospheric.

After the meal, Charlotte escorted us to a bar of her long acquaintance called Seyfi, famous for ethnic entertainment and décor of manufactured authenticity. Charlotte, Nancy and Liam danced the night away in true local style. I eyed up the talent. Liam’s dance technique, woefully inadequate to the hard beat of the Freemasons was strangely adept at indigenous rhythms.

Our girl’s night of carefree flirtation was cut short by the drunken arrival of Sultan Irfan, the philanderer. Charlotte had unwisely texted him our location and he’d come in search of Nancy, his troublesome and tempestuous paramour. Irfan bounced in a like a giant pinball, finally coming to rest at an adjacent table. Nancy faked outrage at his intrusion but grabbed Liam for a seductive boogie in a brazen attempt to incite his jealousy. I observed from the wings. It was a pretty futile exercise as Liam hadn’t slept with anyone of the fairer sex since the early eighties and these days would need an instruction manual and a road map. Even though Irfan knows Liam’s inclinations, Nancy’s strategy worked. Clearly, I have completely underestimated the any port in a storm mentality of the average Turkish male.

Needless to say, Irfan and Nancy ended the game cooing like adolescent love birds. Irfan escorted the girls home, determined to nibble on Nancy’s savoury titbits. Liam and I retired to the house to watch the sun rise and contemplate the destructive tango of these two middle-aged, lustful teenagers.