Chrissy calls three or four times a day for no particular reason, liberally dispensing unsolicited wisdom on all matters Turkish. She assumes we sailed up the Meander on a banana boat. This is even more galling since she thinks ‘Anatolia’ is a city in Southern Turkey.
Clever Bitch
In a half-hearted attempt to integrate into the overwintering emigrey community we popped along to a local restaurant for a quiz night. We’re good at quizzes or so we thought. It was like a Derby and Joan Club with a sorry collection of depressed looking people in BHS knitwear. We stuck out like black people at a Ku Klux Klan convention. We sat next to George and Phyllis from Birmingham. We engaged in the usual exploratory conversation. We overheard George whisper to Phyllis “Look, they’re even wearing wedding rings”.
It seems that Phyllis and George have somewhat mislaid their family. They found out about their daughter’s wedding and pregnancy on Facebook. The are pooch people and their clever bitch can tell the difference between a Turk and Kurd because they smell different. Oh dear.
We came last in the quiz. Phyllis helpfully explained that many of the questions originated from BBC World so we should keep watching for next time. There won’t be a next time. As one of the answers was ‘cruet set’ I asked Phyllis when was the last time she heard cruet set mentioned on the BBC. That shut her up.
Karyn the Old Pro
I have a new best friend in the blogosphere. Her name is Karyn and she writes a tasty piece on village life called ‘Being Koy’. It’s an erudite, juicy read full of mouth-watering morsels of wit and wisdom tinged with a little irony – a real mouse clicking screen turner. She’s an old pro at this blogging lark with more hits than Cliff Richard.
She doesn’t know this yet, but I have decided that we are to be married as soon as my divorce comes through. I’ve been meaning to lose my virginity since puberty, and she just might be the girl to turn me to the path of righteousness. Naturally, Liam is devastated, and has reserved his cell in an Irish nunnery and picked out a habit. He’s gone for navy blue hot pants to complement his eyes.
Karyn contacted me a while ago to congratulate me on my modest blog which she found purely by chance. It must have been a quiet night down in the koy if she was travelling that deep into cyberspace. Her effusion made me blush. Since then we have established a mutual appreciation society, an exclusive club with a select membership of just two. To further cement the bond between we jobbing bloggers Karyn graciously invited me be a guest writer on her hallowed site. I bit her hand off. As a mark of respect, I penned something a little less irreverent and bit more thoughtful called Good as You In Turkey. I’m going to scratch her back by returning the complement. I think she intends to do a little piece on being constantly accosted by swarthy men offering comfort every time she leaves the house. And the point is?
If you have a few minutes take a look at Karyn’s blog and my guest post – Good as You in Turkey.
Dear Old Blighty
I make liberal use of the word Blighty. I assumed it to be a relic from the days of the Raj and was curious as to its exact origins. Wikipedia defines Blighty as…
…an English slang term for Britain deriving from the Hindustani word vilāyatī (pronounced bilāti in many Indian dialects and languages) meaning ‘the country’, a word which itself is derived from the Arabic word wilayat meaning a ‘kingdom’ or ‘ministry’.
Well, fancy that.
Emigrey Arms
I have detected that a defining anatomical characteristic of the emigrey male is an unsightly affliction called emigrey arms. No, this is not a popular watering hole for the expats but a kind of muscle wasting condition of the upper limbs, brought on by over-exposure to the sun and alcohol abuse resulting in leathery flaps of wrinkled loose skin dripping from sinewy triceps: bingo wings without the lard.
She Who Must be Obeyed
It was a breezy but sunny afternoon. We decided to take advantage of the benign climate and sink a sherry or two in Yalıkavak. We sat at a sheltered table outside a restaurant and ordered a couple of Efes’ (the ubiquitous Turkish brew). Sitting at an adjacent table was a small clutch of emigreys; one woman and two men. The woman was a skeletal, severe looking creature with angular face, beady eyes, austere short cut home-highlighted hair and a shrill voice. As she held court, her emasculated companions attended her silently, nodding in submissive deference as required. She complained stridently of all things Turkish. iam innocently lit a cigarette, provoking her immediate high octave wrath.
“I can’t believe” she screeched ‘how people can smoke while I am eating. How disgusting. It should not be allowed!’
We had hoped that we’d left sanctimonious anti-smoking fascists behind when we migrated. Alas not. We tolerated her invective for a few moments but when Liam could bear it no longer, he coolly but firmly asserted
‘Excuse me. Would you mind not bitching behind my back. If you have anything to say, please say it to my face.’
Clearly, a woman unused to such a direct challenge from anyone, she stuttered out her request lamely.
‘Fine,’ he replied.
Once she had finished her meal, he lit up again and chain smoked. The contest of wills that followed descended into an undeclared war of attrition to see who would leave first. We ordered a second drink, then a third. Finally, she conceded defeat and departed with one of her companions following meekly behind. As the clicking of her witches heels faded into the distance, her liberated second companion sank into his chair and lit a long-awaited cigarette.
Something for the Weekend, Sir?
Hairdressing, like undertaking, is a steady trade which never goes out of fashion. Having sampled a few establishments in the village, we have settled on a high street barbershop run by a delightful father and son combo. Our number two cut requires only a few minutes with a hair trimmer. However, this cannot be said of the average young Turk. Generally blessed with abundant tresses, even the humblest waiter vainly adorns his head with elaborate, gravity defying sculptures held aloft by a vat of gel. Armpits though, are not always so well groomed.
Our genteel Yalıkavak barber is a far cry from Liam’s first skirmish with a Turkish coiffeur. The fun began on the final full day of our gloriously romantic honeymoon in splendid Kaş. I persuaded Liam to join me in the exotic pleasure of a Turkish shave, an indulgence I have enjoyed many times on previous visits to Asia Minor. The barbershop boys saw us coming, and we were mobbed by eager young bucks queuing up to service us. The routine began innocently enough – an efficient double shave with a cut throat razor followed by ear and nose fuzz skilfully dispatched with a flaming cotton bud soaked in petrol. I thought it unusual to find that we were stripped of our tops for the neck and shoulder rub. My young man asked if I would prefer a full body massage in the little room at the back of the shop. I naïvely accepted thinking nothing untoward could occur in a busy barbershop on a main thoroughfare.
He led me into the room and lay me face down on the padded table. His expert hands kneaded and pounded my torso into rapturous submission, and my mind wandered into semi-trance. The spell was rudely broken by a tug of my shorts, which were expertly and unceremoniously whipped off in a single movement. I had gone commando that day which rather startled my young masseur but which only added to his vigour. His pummelling went into overdrive. I opened my eyes fleetingly to find him standing to my side inches from my face, shirtless, scarlet-faced and sweating like a dray horse and obviously aroused. For the remainder of the rubdown, I kept my eyes firmly shut and my arms religiously tucked to my side for fear of displaying the slightest encouragement. It was my honeymoon, after all.
Meanwhile, Liam was relishing an upper body rub. However, he became alarmed when the crimper’s fingers started to walk south towards the small of Liam’s back, playfully plucking the waistband of his shorts and continuing their passage into the abyss. Liam grabbed the boy’s wrist firmly giving a whole new meaning to the word hayır.
It is not hard to imagine what raced through Liam’s mind as he endured the grunting, murmuring and bed squeaking that emanated from the back room. Shortly afterwards, my tellak and I emerged into the light, me shaking uncontrollably, he drenched in sweat. We concluded our business with a quasi-post-coital cigarette.
Nick It!
Casual shopping in Turkey can be a bruising experience and should only be tried by the determined or the thick skinned. The cheaper outlets employ aggressive teenagers in tight, bright, white shirts to drag gullible punters in from the street. A firm refusal can often elicit a bellicose response. The posher shops seem to employ mostly female staff whose sales technique is softer but no less annoying. Speculative browsing is unbearable when tailed by the KGB and made to feel like a serial shoplifter.
I know customer service is all part of the culture but pushy people bring out the worst in me. Besides, recession ravaged Blighty has seen prices plummet with bargains galore and meaningful guarantees attached. We’ll be returning to London with an empty suitcase.
Pimp and Circumstance
I received an exploratory email from an old work colleague in London whom I affectionately call Vera. Clearly contemplating the changing circumstances of his looming dotage and having stumbled across my sexpat post, he asked me about the going rate for securing the regular services of a young Turk. ‘Why do you want to know?’ I quizzed. He replied bluntly, ‘Fat, 55, single and desperate.’ What am I now, a pimp?
The Barmaid Who Won the Lotto
Chrissy and Bernard invited us for dinner. They live in Torba, just outside Bodrum. They consider it a more upmarket kind of place. It isn’t. Their house is generously and expensively appointed but dressed in English country cottage naff with heavy drapes that wouldn’t look out of place in a jaded Thistle hotel. Fussy and provincial, Chrissy’s tastes are closer than she realises to her Turkish char, like a barmaid who has won the Lotto. As a couple, they are rather obsessed with social protocols and the emigrey pecking order, and they reckon themselves to be top of the heap. We have started to appreciate that they are all (little) style over (no) substance.
Perking the Pansies 