I apologise for my second ghost post of the season. It’s been a long, hot summer and my brains are fried.
Swearing in Turkish
When I was on holiday and soliciting for guest posts, Dina, a Bodrum Belle of class and distinction, sent me two articles. The first, Siren Inflation was published last month, but I received her second piece too late in the day to include among the holiday crop. I’m unsurprised it was a little delayed as Dina and her partner Dave run a successful gulet charter business here in old Bodrum Town called South Cross Blue Cruising. It’s been a busy season.
Here is Dina’s second guest post.
Swearing in Turkish is an acquired art. The wrong word at a dinner party will guarantee a permanent ban, whereas a well-timed curse can open doors, and little is as satisfying as swearing profusely while driving in Turkey.
I once lived 20 meters up on a one way street from the main road in downtown Bodrum. This meant either driving up the one way street the wrong way in order to get into my private parking space, or circumventing the entire perimeter of Bodrum in order to arrive at the house 15 minutes and 2 liters of petrol later on the correct, one way route.
Fast forward to the bustle of August with Istanbul ’34’ number plates dominating all of the one way highways and tight Bodrum alleys. I was trying to get home and did a quick glance up my one way street which appeared completely clear. I gassed the little Fiat Uno up the alley the wrong way to duck into my parking space. From a parked position, a tired, late 70s model, avocado green, 34 plated Mercedes sedan crept out and met me at the entrance to my parking space, with just enough room to not let me into my garage. I signalled right – he shook his head. I signalled right again, as all he had to do is reverse one meter to allow me access. I made a face and pointed towards my alley. His brassy haired, bouffanted wife gave me the Turkish equivalent of the finger above her gold bangles.A combination of strong hormones and heat rash thus persuaded me to intentionally stall my Uno. Alas, two more 34 plates appeared behind the Benz, as did a neighbor’s 48 licensed Bodrum car behind me, with shortcut intentions similar to mine.
Salak kari! bellowed the fat, sweaty Benz driver through all three of his chins. (Stupid broad)
Lavuk! I tossed back. (Imbecile)
Oruspu! yelled the aging Istanbulite’s missus at me above her gyrating fist. (Prostitute)
Whore! I yelled back, trying to intimidate in English.
Manyak! screeched the red faced man, blowing on his horn at me. (Maniac)
Hiyar! I retorted out of my open window. (Cucumber)
The local market boys ran out to participate in the entertaining engagement. They first attempted to assuage the Mercedes, which, in the Turkish pecking order and its big city license plate, had potential clout which almost rivalled that of mine as a trusted and known neighbor. Realizing the aggressiveness and possible languid VIP factor within the aging Benz, as well as not wanting me to switch mini market loyalties, the market boys rearranged cement flower pots for me to pull onto the curb and allow the MB to pass. The Honda behind me continued the argument until the Honda became an ayi (bear) and the Benz became the son of a pimp of sodomy. Having delivered the purported greater insult, the 48 licensed Bodrum Honda backed up to let the frustrated 34 Benz pass.
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To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
My Anatolian dreams are frequent and intense, bordering on the nightmarish at times. This was not the case in Blighty. I wonder why? Was it something put in the water or something left out? Or perhaps I used to be too tired to dream, preoccupied with kiss-my-arse bosses and keeping the wolves from the door. My sleep pattern has radically altered since our exodus. Before, I’d be lucky to catch six hours. Nowadays it’s closer to nine, occasionally supplemented by a catnap after playing hide the sausage. The chances are I used to suffer from long-term, low-level sleep deprivation. Now my cycle is longer and shallower, and my dreams are richer and more vivid. This seems to be a common phenomenon. Liam says the same. Most people forget their dreams soon after waking. I wrote mine down as soon as got up this morning. It went like this:
I was introduced to a young Danish1 woman who composed Christmas carols for a living. Lovely, I thought and did my usual exploratory banter to show a bit of interest. I mentioned that Liam had won a Christmas carol competition way back in the eighties and had appeared on local television2. I also mentioned that he’d written various pieces that were sung by well-known choirs in Wales. Our Danish visitor seemed utterly disinterested and completely dismissive. She told me she was a devout Catholic and that we would burn in Hell. I launched into an anti-religious rant telling her that she’d been conned by ancient fairy tales and followed a faith that practiced witchcraft and cannibalism every Sunday (well, how can else could you describe the Catholic rite of transubstantiation – the actual turning of bread and water into the blood and flesh of Christ?).
I woke up with a jolt. Jesus, what does it mean?
1Apart from Cnut, our ex-neighbour I’ve nothing against the Danes and spent a wonderful weekend in fabulous Copenhagen. I also know most Danes are Lutheran.
2Some of you Brits may remember the glory days when ITV was a regional network. Liam appeared on HTV Wales. Liam’s winning entry was called Bethlehem Star and you can listen to the jolly hymn here. The recording is a bit ropey as it was transferred from an old tape recording.
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Blood on My Hands
A while ago, I bought a mandarin sapling in the Pazar and planted it in a large terracotta tub. I’m not noted for my green fingers, so googled growing mandarin trees in containers. I found that, just like me, they do well if fed and watered correctly. The trick to proper irrigation is to wait until the first 2 or 3 inches of the topsoil are completely dry, then soak until water pours out of the drainage holes. I‘ve been doing this religiously for a few weeks now. Yesterday, I stuck my index finger in the tub to check for dryness. It was time for a good drink and I duly dumped a whole load of water into the soil from my little plastic watering can. Seconds later, hundreds of small ants poured up through the inside wall of the pot, swarming hither and thither in utter panic. They were holding up their grubs with their forelegs. I could almost hear them scream,
‘Save the babies! We must save the babies!’
I felt like a serial killer.
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Tricks of the Trade
The Displaced Nation Trilogy – Part 3
During the height of the summer we were like camp vampires and only ventured out after dark. Earlier in the season, we found ourselves sweltering in 40 plus heat with no air conditioning. Because our little cottage has 18 inch thick stone and concrete walls, it took us weeks to find a technical solution. In the meantime, I received a host of suggestions to help us through the sleepless, sweaty nights. I’d like to share a few:
- Wrap a gel-type freezer pack in a wet tea-towel and apply it to your hot bits (and watch them shrink)
- Buy a floor-standing industrial fan (but nail everything down)
- Bathe your feet in an ice bucket (and develop frostbite)
- Take a cold shower before bedtime (except the cold water is hot at this time of year)
- Sleep on a wet towel (and rot the mattress)
- Decamp to the roof (and get eaten alive my mozzies)
- Emigrate to Sweden
Thank you Pansy Fans for the suggestions. Any more? You can read the full Displaced Nation article here.
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Disenchanted Jack
The Displaced Nation Trilogy – Part 2
We were wandering down Bodrum’s bar street, a procession of cheap and cheerful bars and hassle shops. We normally rush by; casual shopping in Turkey can be a bruising experience best only tried by the foolish or heroic. On this occasion, Liam popped into a corner shop to buy some cigarettes. Keen to use the local lingo, he asked for them in passable Turkish. The po-faced assistant looked at him blankly. Liam repeated the request. Another blank look. After a brief standoff, Liam relented and repeated the order in English. The surly man behind the counter viritually threw the cigarettes at Liam, snatched the payment and slammed the change on the counter. Welcome to Turkey where hospitality greets you at every corner. I know there are arses-holes in every country but next time we’ll just shout loudly in English.
Part 3 tomorrow – Tricks of the Trade
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Loudly in English
Enchanted Jack
Last month the fabulous people at Displaced Nation asked me about:
- My most enchanting experience this summer
- My least enchanting experience, and
- Tricks of the trade for dealing with the unforgiving heat.
I feel a little trilogy coming on.
Displaced Nation Trilogy – Part 1
Bodrum is the most secular and modern of Turkish towns. Normal social rules don’t apply here. It’s where people come to escape the conformity of everyday Turkish society. However, scrape the surface and you will find magic of a different kind. We were visiting our friend Jessica – a thoroughly modern Millie and a gorgeous Bodrum Belle to boot. Jessica lives just a few hundred metres behind the swanky marina with its luxury yachts and raucous watering holes. Her home is set within a traditional quarter of whitewashed buildings huddled together along narrow lanes. As we approached her door, we noticed an elderly neighbour dressed in traditional livery: floral headscarf, crocheted cardigan and capacious clashing pantaloons. She sat cross-legged in a shady spot of the garden and seemed to be plucking a fleece. Liam and I are self-confessed city boys and asked Jessica what the old lady was up to. Apparently, she was preparing the wool for hand carding, straightening and separating fibres to weave on the spinning wheel she kept in her house. The amazing woman hummed as she plucked, happy under the cool of an ancient knotted olive tree and doing what women have done in Turkey for millennia. Now you don’t get that in Blighty.
Part Two tomorrow – Disenchanted Jack
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I’m a Lady!
Following on from yesterday’s soccer post, a vetpat pansy fan sent me a picture taken at the Fenerbahçe Ladies’ Night. Allegedly, a supporter was accused of trying to trick the stewards at the turnstiles by dragging up in his mother’s headscarf and Playtex eighteen hour girdle (lifts and separates). Transvestism has a long, though often rocky, tradition in Turkey. Imagine the indignation of this poor sister, when what was thought to be a cross-dressing man was, in fact, a bone fide woman. Okay, she’s no Elizabeth Taylor but what an insult!
You can catch the original CNN Turkey article here but it’s in Turkish so let’s hope I’ve got the story right and I’m not maligning some poor woman’s reputation.
Thanks to Angela for this one.
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Sisters are Doing it for Themselves
I’ve never really got futbol. In my experience, few gay people do. Having said that, there is a Gay Football Supporters Network and London has its very own gay-friendly team, the London Titans, who play serious soccer in local leagues. So what do I know? Perhaps times are changing and the sport is finally shedding its well-trodden racist, sexist and homophobic image. I suspect the jury’s still out on that one. In any case, it’s too late for me. I’m set in my gay old ways. The only football game I’ve ever attended was when I popped along with my sister to watch my young nephew proudly captain his little league team in a local park. My usually calm and matriarchal sibling was transformed into a screaming harridan. Such is the intoxicating power of the beautiful game.
England gave football to the world then ruined it by exporting hooliganism. The tribal thuggery that afflicted the English game in the 80s and 90s has largely died out but is still alive and kicking in many other corners of the world. Fenerbahçe, one of Turkey’s top soccer teams, had a bit of bother with their own fans of late. Rather than play their matches behind locked gates, they decided to punish their unruly supporters by filling their stadium with women and children only. Men were persona non grata. It was a rip-roaring success that hit the headlines. The ladies electrified the good humoured ambience as they partied in the stands, sang, chanted, waved and danced. They knew all the words and all the moves. Was this a just a cynical gimmick to attract positive PR or a genuine attempt to keep the bad boys at bay and let the ladies shine? Who knows? Still, women are invading the pitch all over the world these days with their own local and national teams. Are Turkish women finally coming out of the kitchen and doing it for themselves? I do hope so. Go girls!
Thanks to Marie for the inspiration for this one.
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Emigrey Extras
Quite a while ago I wrote the Expat Glossary to help describe the wide variety of expats we’ve encountered on our Turkish escapade. The glossary includes the pre-eminent expats I call vetpats. These are veterans who have been living in Turkey for many years, have picked up the lingo and are better informed and more integrated than many of their peers. Today, I’m adding a couple more categories to the expat lexicon, both of which are vetpats of a unique kind. Please give a warm hand to the:
Bodrum Belles
The Belles are single ladies of a certain age with rollercoaster pasts and plucky presents. Some may once have been VOMITs but, unlike many of their sisters, they have learned from bitter experience and now live quiet and contented lives with a refreshing insight into their lot. To qualify as a Belle you must live in Bodrum Town. Anywhere else just doesn’t cut the mustard. Interestingly, we’ve yet to bump into any Bodrum Beaus. Middle-aged male singletons are thin on the ground round here. So, if you’re a solvent unattached straight man with your own teeth and working tackle, book your passage on the next emigrey express.
Emiköys
A rare breed of seasoned pioneers, Emiköys have forsaken the strife of city life and deodorant for the real köy mckoy and eek out a life less ordinary in genuine Turkish villages. They get down, dirty and dusty with the locals, contribute meaningfully to their small rural communities, keep chickens, get unnaturally close to nature and talk Turkish to the trees (well not always, but I’m sure some do).
The Expat Glossary has been duly updated. Any further suggestions gratefully received.
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Perking the Pansies 