News from the other end of the Med. Swiss-based multi-national engineering company, ABB recently axed 160 jobs at a plant in Bilbao despite reporting record profits. Some ex-employees decided to do a full monty to highlight their plight. Spain has suffered particularly badly during the recession and 1 in 5 of the adult population is out of work. Thank you to Staying Sane in Spain for finding this. I find it a little cheeky but readers of a nervous disposition who find semi-naked hirsute men too seductive or offensive should change channels now. There’s a serious message blended with the fun. We should heed it.
July is Türk sezon and Bodrum is crammed with a richness of middle income people of all generations drawn from across the country taking their annual holidays before the start of Ramazan. The narrow streets are grid-locked and the air is filled with the piercing sound of cross monotone horns. We wandered out into the sticky evening to imbibe the ambiance and sink a few jars. We ambled behind the multitude of multi-generational families promenading along the marina. We headed through the bazaar, past the cheap boys with their cheap goods and snaked along Meyhane Sokak. Miraculously, we found a free place at one of the tall tables outside the semi-gay bar we’d stumbled across the previous year to enjoy the good-humoured scene around us. Alcohol consumption, particularly by women, is generally frowned upon in wider Turkish society. However, there was little evidence of this in the tequila slamming crowd. We had a ball.
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.
I’m off message today to commemorate Amy Winehouse who died yesterday of a suspected drugs overdose. Her meteoric rise to fame and rapid descent into Hell was tragically predictable. Her seminal album Back to Black is work of a genius with lyrics laced with sorrow and utter desperation. Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain and Janis Joplin and now Amy – all died at the same age. It’s not called the 27 Club for nothing. She just couldn’t come back from the black. Let’s hope she’ll be remembered more for her art and less for her addictions.
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.
To celebrate our deliverance from delirium, we fancied a night on the tiles and chanced upon a small nightclub, very Turkish and surprisingly chic. Turkish pop filled the room and young trendy things revolved around the dance floor like whirling dervishes. There was one tiny sensory drawback though, prompting Liam drunkenly to declare ‘my gift to Turkey is deodorant.’ Foreigners were definitely in the minority, though we caught the eye of a couple of likely western ladies, one of whom was topped off with a curly ginger perm and who writhed around the dance-floor like orphan Annie’s grandmother. We sang The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow knowing full well that it always does in Asia Minor at this time of year. Happy and contented we made our way home in the wee small hours picking up a kebab on the way; a very distant relation to the slop that’s dished up in Walthamstow.
Turks are impatient motorists. Their ambling deportment on foot is transformed into Formula 1 wannabes as soon they get behind the wheel. Sometimes the narrow lane in front of our house is grid locked. This might be because a delivery truck is blocking the road by doing what delivery trucks do or simply due to the sheer volume of traffic trying to cut across town on market days. Crazy moped drivers weave dangerously through the static traffic and overheating drivers play the horn chorus. We watch the melee from the safety of our balcony. It can be quirky and comical, boisterous and baffling but rarely bothersome. However, we have witnessed two memorable hot-headed conflagrations, the first aided by a baseball bat and the second resulting in a violent push, a blow to the head and a few minutes on the ground unconscious. Still, I suppose it’s small beer compared to an average Saturday night in Croydon Centrum. To think that Alexander the Great, the most famous of ancient queens, marched along this very thoroughfare to claim old Halicarnassus (Bodrum that was) as his own before beating up the Persians and conquering half the known world. Get the madam!
For all the fast talk of political Islam and a return to piety, there truly are two sides to this magnificent resurgent nation. Istanbul’s Kadir Has University clearly has a modern, progressive curriculum that allows students to express themselves in music and dance in a fun and inclusive way. I’ve picked three great examples of this. The first two are uplifting romps that had us rolling in the aisles. The third brought us to our feet. You’ll see why at the end.
You might also like to look at Turkey’s Got Talent. I challenge you not to at least smile.
Yes, this really is a duet with Jennifer Saunders, presumably remixed from Shrek 2.
I’d like to introduce you to my namesake nephew, Jack. He’s fourteen and bursting with the energy and confidence that I never had at his age. If your ears can stand it watch his plucky performance in front of his peers at a school assembly. He’s got the look and the moves though sadly not the voice. He learns, he thinks and writes poetry. He’s good with a football and with a pen. He enjoys life and loves his family. He’s a young man of rounded ability. Let’s give it up for the much maligned state school system.
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.
Perking the Pansies 