Category: Yalikavak

Supermarket Sweep

Liam and I took the dolly to Gümüslük, the pretty picture postcard bay with overpriced fish restaurants and tedious hassle from the press-ganging waiters. We were visiting friends who lived in the village. As we travelled along the pot-holed road, I was wondering what the scenery was like before the mad march of little white boxes up hill and down dale. Stunning I imagine. It’s still pretty in parts and the views from the coast road are dazzling. We turned a coastal corner and happened upon a huge supermarket that wasn’t there before. It’s a sign of the times. I see the advantage. Residents and holidaymakers alike no longer have to endure the sweaty trek into Yalıkavak or Turgutreis to stock up on booze and larder essentials. Who wants to do that in 40 degree heat? Sadly, I fear for the living of the little man in the local shop. Times are hard and, in the winter months, times are impossible. We all know the tale of the big boys who muscle in and soak up all the trade. It’s a sad story that’s oft repeated in high streets across Blighty. Still, this particular supermarket does have the most spectacular view of the Aegean from the rooftop terrace. Sütlü Americano, lütfen.

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The Juggling Smuggler

On our last day in Yalıkavak we ventured again into the village for a sunny stroll and a spot of lunch. We were greeted by a host of familiar waiters, foremost of whom was Ahmed the Kurd. Handsomely constructed, entrepreneurial Ahmed has a flirtatious charm and dishonest eyes. He juggles his life by waiting tables during the summer and smuggling contraband across the Iraqi border during the winter, bribing the border guards with cartons of Marlboro’ Lights.

After lunch, we sauntered back to the house for a final dip and a nap before our return home. On route we spotted little bit gay, local boy Rasheed sitting alone in a lokanta. We approached him for a cheery, shallow chat. It pained us to find him unkempt, fidgety and broody, so different from the flirty, chirpy chappy we’d met just a few months before. He said that he hadn’t been able to find work this year. This will have left him close to penniless. We offered a few words of solace and a refill which he declined. We left him to nurse his tepid Nescafé.

Irfan the Slut

During our stay we strolled down to Yalıkavak for a spot of dinner and a trip down memory lane.  We had a few snifters in the bar where last year the pretty stripping barman had danced around us prettily. He was nowhere to seen so we assume he’s moved on to greener pastures where the dancing is more profitable.

I spotted Captain Irfan sitting alone and beckoned him to join us. He did so enthusiastically and ordered a fresh round of Rakıs. Conversation was subdued as Irfan’s grasp of English has barely advanced beyond the ‘enjoy your meal’ stage and our Turkish has remained deplorable. Irfan leered at every bit of skirt that passed by, regardless of age. His lewd behaviour pressed me to exclaim ‘Irfan, you are a slut’ to which he enquired ‘What is a slut?’ My explanation drew the broadest of grins and the proud response ‘Yes, I am a slut!’

Irfan doesn’t really get us. In his world man on man action is, at best, a minor sideshow to the main event. Despite this he makes an affable, protective host which prompted Liam to depict him as the village muhtar (head man). Mighty Irfan was mightily flattered by the accolade. Finally, as the bar entertained the dregs we returned to the house for a final glass of red and a naughty skinny dip.

Hi-De-Hi

Alan’s daughter Samantha was holidaying on Rhodes so he and Charlotte decided to join her for a few days. They offered us unlimited access to their wine cellar and use of their plunge pool in return for cat feeding duties. We accepted without hesitation. Like the Raj of old we headed for the hills to escape the Bodrum heat. We spent a romantic and restful three nights in their luxuriant but unpretentious home overlooking Yalıkavak in the company of various soporific felines and their assorted multi-coloured offspring. The breezy calm was only occasionally interrupted by the call to prayer and the municipal public address system informing the townsfolk of local events, planned power cuts, road closures and the like. It’s a cross between 1984 and Hi-De-Hi. Liam was in frisky, horizontal mood as we lazied around the pool. He whispered to me

I’m ready for my blow job, Mr De Mille.

Summer Winds

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.

Words and Music

We took the dolly to Yalıkavak to lunch with friends. The once dormant village has awoken like Sleeping Beauty from hibernation and is draped in a new spring livery. The beach has been replenished with imported grit and dressed in sun beds and parasols. The tea houses along the attractive high street have been displaced by seasonal souvenir shops and postcard vendors returning from their winter pastures. Village life is in jovial mood and much improved with a new collection of smarter establishments that will give the greasy spoons a run for their money.

In some ways it’s a shame our perfidious landlord prompted us to move on. Yalıkavak is deservedly popular with visitors with a charm that eludes many of the resorts hereabouts. The trouble is winters are grim and the village is too small for city boys like us. We will return from time to time when we crave a little respite from the hassle and bustle of Bodrum.

To its credit wintering in a ghost town has given me the time and space to start Perking the Pansies. Until we moved to Turkey my writing was confined to dull business plans, strategic reports and the like that would gather dust on a lonely shelf, unread and soon forgotten. Now I blog daily, have a book in the offing and have developed previously unknown skills in web design. Also, Liam has started to write music for the first time in years. So thank you little Yalıkavak. We owe you one.

Did the Earth Move for You, Darling?

A Moving Feast

Friends called from Yalıkavak and Gümüslük to let us know that the earth had moved beneath their feet. Fridges rattled, beds wobbled and light fittings swayed. We felt nothing here in metropolitan Bodrum. However, as we foolishly live on top of the Anatolian Tectonic Plate surrounded by active fault lines, it is inevitably we will experience an earthquake sooner or later. According to the Kandilli Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute at Bogazici University there were over 40 tremors of various magnitudes across Turkey over the last 24 hours. They don’t tell you that in the brochures.

The Hills are Alive

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).

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Desperate Housewives

We popped down to the village for jar or two in the warm spring sunshine. We were more or less forced to spend the afternoon with a couple of desperate ex-housewives. Wizened Mariette is a French woman now living in London with a holiday home in Turkey. She was interesting for all of five minutes. We asked her where in France she was from. ‘Geneva,’ she replied. Liam helpfully pointed out that last time he looked on a map Geneva was in Switzerland. Our suspicion that she was one sandwich short of a picnic was confirmed when she responded ‘Yes, that’s right, in France.’ Her plump friend Suzy was a busty barmaid from Leatherhead with the ruddy complexion of a farmer’s wife. Suzy had a permanently startled look, an unfortunate expression for a barmaid from Leatherhead. It was as if she’d sat on something rather unpleasant.

Pot and Kettle

Chrissy phoned and invited us to meet Mandy, a long-time friend visiting from Blighty. Chrissy does not take no for an answer and with heavy hearts we reluctantly agreed. We met at a village inn for an aperitif. The restaurant is run by Giray the Kurd who has a much deserved reputation as a local Casanova and the regular ride for visiting VOMITs.

Bernard tackled me about our London landlady Karen who had just returned to Blighty. He didn’t think much of her and thought her rude. Pot and kettle sprang immediately to mind. I moved the conversation on to where to eat. Given Chrissy’s long history of food fussiness I asked her to decide. She chose to stay put and we took our table. Right on cue, they were exceptionally rude to the waiters, all tut-tutting and clicking of fingers. As expected, Chrissy hated the food. To be fair our chicken kiev, though delicious, did resemble a deep fried turd. However, this doesn’t excuse their hideous small town Raj demeanour

I went to take a leak as much to take a short break from their irritating fastidiousness as to empty my bladder. As I got back Chrissy was tackling Liam about Karen. She didn’t think much of her and thought her rude. I went up like a rocket. Chrissy spluttered into her chicken. A sharp and nasty exchange ensued with Liam targeting Bernard while I rounded on Chrissy. Liam eventually stormed off and sought sanctuary on the beach. I demanded the bill, paid and left. I hope that’s the last we see of the Vipers in Paradise, an epitaph coined by Karen, ironically.