One advantage of living in hair dryer heat is rapidly dried laundry. Our smalls that are strung low so as to not offend our neighbours are dried in a flash, sheets flap gently to an instant arid crispness and towels desiccate in a jiffy. Direct sun is not required as a breezy Turkey in August is like an open air tumble dryer. Not that there is much washing to dry since we wander round in only loose cotton shorts in a vain attempt to avoid a nasty rash in our sweaty nether regions. Perhaps we should emulate the locals by getting a back, sack and crack wax. I wonder if our local barber would oblige?
Friends invited us along on our first boat trip since our emigration, sailing from the pretty but hassle-bound Gümüslük Bay. We were accompanied by the definitive nuclear family with grandparents in tow. The mini-cruise was enjoyably predictable, dropping anchor at various identical brushy islets for a dip in the gorgeous translucent waters. I showed off my still impressive diving skills learned in my distant youth. Our cheery skipper provided a simple but serviceable meal of sea bass, pasta and salad. Over lunch, Mrs. Nuclear bored us with vapid tales of her multi-gifted progeny, a spoilt and rude little runt who showed little respect to his elderly grandparents. So underwhelmed was I by the tedious litany of his talents, I asked Mr Nuclear if Master Nuclear could do something about Syria.
Women and Children First
Without warning, the Meltemia picked up as we headed back to port. Struggling against the mighty head wind, the boat smashed repeatedly against the heaving swell, drenching us with the over-salty waters of the Aegean. We bounced around the deck like jetsam on a trampoline. Fearing a Kate Winslett Titanic moment we clung precariously to anything we could find. Our gentle cruise intended to calm the soul and relax the mind had turned into a white knuckle ride on the high seas – most amusing and, of course, potentially calamitous.
After weeks of sleep deprivation, we’ve finally solved our debilitating predicament with the installation of a wall mounted air conditioning unit in the ground floor spare room where the walls are of standard girth. We’ve abandoned our marital bed with its superior sprung mattress for the rest of the summer. No matter, the gentle cooling hum has delivered us from delirium.
Thank you for all the words of sympathy and suggestions about how to solve our pesky problem. It helps when people can feel our pain.
I am sorry to bang on about this but I really don’t know how the empire builders did it. Those buttoned up Victorians in heavy drapes must have been made of sterner stuff. We’ve mastered the art of minimising all movement unless absolutely necessary. The upper floor of the house is completely abandoned save for our clothes which radiate heat as if just removed from a tumble dryer. We take regular cold showers and Liam’s only bound copy of his treasured composition for string quartet is employed as a fan stand in an attempt to dry our clammy old hides. Death by heat exhaustion is surely to follow.
Obsessing about the weather is a national pastime for the Brits. I guess I’m no different from my compatriots. I railed against the wind, cold and winter monsoons in February. I’m now wilting in sizzling summer and the varnish is peeling off the window sills. So far our search for a cooling solution has been fruitless. I’m touched by the concern of others towards our plight and the ingenious suggestions to douse the heat (of the wrong kind) in our bed.
Carole suggests an industrial fan – comes with a built in facelift as a by-product which is well worth thinking about.
Deborah suggests sticking our feet in a bowl of iced water – a method of torture favoured by the KGB.
Karyn suggests sleeping outside which would be like trying to catnap on the hard shoulder of the M25.
Alan suggests a dehumidifier – more bloody lira down the pan
Linda suggests wrapping a freezer pack in a tea towel and applying it our hot bits – get your mind out of the gutter.
Kym suggests retiring at night in wet socks – guaranteed to dampen our ardour and rot the mattress.
Hana suggests getting down to Arçelik and reviewing the problem with someone who knows what they’re taking about – what in Turkey?
As a last resort, Karyn suggests using child labour to fan us with ostrich feathers – How very British Raj and a practice likely to court the attention of the local Jandarma.
All is not lost. We’ve hit on an idea that might bring relief. Inşallah.
Off we went on another flight of fancy in search of an air conditioning solution. The wall mounted unit was exchanged for a mobile machine which is vented out of a window. Another bloody catastrophe. The contraption did reduce the ambient temperature to almost sleep-able levels but it’s like berthing next to the engine room of a cross channel ferry.
It’s 103 in old money and we’ve like a pair of camp vampires only venturing out between the hours of sunset and dawn. Our sofa radiates heat like embers from a dying grate, the home entertainment system has gone on strike and the top floor of the house has become an oven which our useless ceiling fan only assists. We move slowly. This is not the climate in which to do anything quickly. We’ve never been keen on air conditioning. In our old Yalıkavak house on the hill we were able to leave our windows ajar to be cooled by the constant sea breeze. The mozzie net protected us from assaults by the squadrons of bloodthirsty bugs. Bodrum is a different kettle of fish. Twenty four hour traffic and a constant throng demands that windows are kept firmly shut at night. We can bear no longer our glowing bed and the nightly rite of sleepless sweats so we’ve relaxed our aversion to aircon. We procured a unit from a local store. The following day a child arrived to install it. The pre-pubescent boy stared at our 18 inch thick uneven stone and concrete walls in absolute horror, shaking his head and fumbling despondently with his woefully inadequate tools.
Liam rang our landlady for assistance. Canny Hanife arrived with plums in hand, quickly followed by husband and son. For good measure our neighbours also joined the jolly fray. An impassioned and gesticulated debate ensued around our marital bed. We left them to it and put the kettle on. Eventually, the Turkish Jury awarded nil point to the child and his woefully inadequate tools and cast him out into the street. More debilitating sleepless nights are anticipated until we find a solution.
Bodrum is always a few degrees hotter than Yalıkavak as it’s partially protected from the prevailing north winds by a south-facing aspect and a natural amplitheatre of low hills. It’s the price we pay for our stone-built Bohemian idyll. The searing heat is mercifully moderated by the dry summer Meltemi Wind that blows down from the Balkans and sweeps across the entire Aegean basin. Providing a welcome respite from the soaking humidity, the wind lasts for days and can gust to gale force, scuppering sailors, sand blasting beach bathers and fanning forest fires. Well, fancy that.
The mercury has risen. Summer is suddenly slapping us about the face like a sweaty flannel and the pansies are wilting. We took a stroll in the blazing sunshine along the refurbished promenade for a spot of lunch by the breezy harbourside. The Town is looking splendid, dressed in brand new quality livery. A new avenue of elegant adolescent saplings has been planted rising above a riot of red bedding flowers. The municipal gardeners should be proud of their speed and skill.
We took a seat at a waterside café near Castle Square to quench our thirsts. We sniggered like spotty school boys when the waiter placed the glasses on the table. They reminded us of something but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Spring in Turkey is always a magical time of the year, nature-wise. The hills seem to blossom overnight with all manner of flamboyant and exotic flora blanketing the usually arid scrub. It is a brief respite before the unforgiving sun burns the landscape back to its usual two-tone hue of dull green and ochre. To take advantage of the display we took a pleasing stroll into the old köy of Sandima set in the foothills above Yalıkavak. The village is derelict save for a pretty house renovated by a local artist and a couple of centenarians. Sandima was abandoned when the villagers exchanged subsistence farming for the more lucrative trade of sponge diving. Thus Yalıkavak was born and Sandima left to decay into peaceful, overgrown oblivion. Nowadays most sponge gathering has stopped and the local economy is dependent on tourism (and the steady supply of gullible girls for the local gigolos).
Perking the Pansies 