The final clutch of exiles I’ve observed are the semigreys, people too young to retire in the conventional sense, who are living the vida loca on the proceeds of property sales. Plunging interest rates present quite a fiscal test to those trying to maintain a hedonistic lifestyle on dwindling assets while waiting for the pensions to kick in, assuming there will be a pension to kick in given the parlous position of the British public purse. That’ll be us then.
VOMITs
The mirror image of the predatory Turkish male is a sub-species of the emigrey called the VOMIT, or Victims of Men in Turkey: vintage desperate ex-housewives with a few lira to spare who shamelessly chase younger Turkish men. They jump ashore like eager Shirley Valentines straight into the arms the willing waiters who hang around the docks. Predictably, such relationships rarely last once the money runs out. Listen up ladies. Have a little fun and shag the boys by all means, but never fall in love. While he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, he’ll dip his fingers into your purse and when the takings are spent, he’ll be off like a rat up a drainpipe.Fancy a Jump?
Many Turkish men think western women are ‘easy’ and compared to Turkish women I suppose that they are. Meaningful female sexual liberation is a distant dream and girls must remain virgins (or at least pretend) until they marry. Of course, this applies to boys as well but this inconvenient fact is conveniently ignored by most. It’s a man’s world after all. So, rapacious men besiege unsuspecting solo female foreigners of any age or size in the hope of a jump. The unsuccessful may turn to each other for hand relief.
To be fair, we’ve met one or two young men whose sole driving ambition is to wed, rather than just bed, western girls. Perhaps this is the only way to break the unceasing cycle of seasonal servitude. And, from what I’ve seen of some demanding, sulky, petulant Turkish women, I’m not surprised they’re driven into the arms of willing westerners.
Lock Up Yer Sons
We picked up an old copy of Bodrum Voices at the kiosk next to the main cami (mosque) in old Bodrum Town. I nearly choked on my crappafrappachino when I spotted the headline – Bodrum Becomes Gay Hotspot. According to the Independent on Sunday (my preferred Sunday rag) over 4,000 gay tourists have visited Bodrum in the past five years. How do they know? Have our passports been chipped by the secret police and we’re now tracked by satellite? I knew it was a stupid mistake to declare my sexual orientation on the census return. I’m a marked man.
The article went on to suggest that the numbers may rise to over 30,000 in the coming years. It’s amusing to think that Yalıkavak could become the new Mykonos. Alas, I really don’t think Turkey is quite ready for that yet and the emigrey ignorati might well have a collective seizure at the thought of it. Well, on the other hand…
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Anyone for Spare Ribs?
It is Kurban Bayram (festival of sacrifice) resulting in the mass slaughter of hapless sheep right across the entire Moslem World. The blood-letting commemorates the Old Testament parable when Abraham heard the voice of God commanding him to murder his son Isaac, a rather extreme test of devotion. Just as Abraham was about to slash the poor boy’s throat, a ram ambled by. Abraham took this to be divine intervention and sacrificed the ram instead. It occurs to me that, in this more secular age, anyone trying that now would be sectioned and hauled off to a secure unit for the delusional.
Nowadays, sheep are dressed up in drag before being dispatched by the head of the family with a sharp blade to the throat. I’m told that the slaughter of any animal by the unlicensed is illegal so it’s done on the sly in back yards and dark alleys. Given the significance of the ritual, the authorities turn a blind eye. Once butchered, the proceeds are distributed among family, friends and the deserving poor. Tariq the Toothless Caretaker came to the door and proudly presented us with a bag of bloody bones. It was a touching gesture but confirms that we are well down the pecking order just below vagrants and unmarried mothers.
The Emigreys
The ex-pats we’ve met are a select collection of friendlies and freaks. I have christened them the emigreys, retirees serving out their twilight years in the sun, most of whom seem to be just a little to the right of Genghis Khan and who bought a jerry built white box in Turkey because it was cheaper than Spain (well, it was at the time). Everyday emigrey life operates within a parallel universe of neo colonial separateness preoccupied with visa hops to Kos, pork sausages, property prices and Blighty bashing.
Cream of the emigrey crop are the vetpats, veterans who have been living in Turkey for many years. Usually better informed than their peers with a less asinine view of the world, vetpats have taken the trouble to learn Turkish and are better integrated into the wider community.
A little noticed and discrete group of emigreys is the sexpats, grey men of means who are serviced by young Turkish men in return for a stipend. The contract suits both parties well and the trade is conducted in secrecy far removed from prying eyes and tittle-tattlers.
We are trying hard not to get too involved and cultivate a mysterious aloofness – courteous but distant – spectators rather than participants. We prefer to amuse ourselves with the obsequious wintering waiters, most of whom seem both repelled and fascinated by our obvious union.
It’ll Never Last
What’s with the blanket coverage of Prince William’s engagement on BBC World? Of course I wish them well but it’s hardly a world transforming event. And, I do hope the lovely Kate knows what she’s signing up to. The dull and emotionally stilted Windsors don’t exactly have an admirable track record of matrimonial harmony or dealing sympathetically with eating disorders. The ‘Firm’ will spit her out if she doesn’t make the grade which is to put up and shut up. Don’t do it, Kate. Marry a fat cat lawyer and move to Chelsea.
Let Them Eat Cheese
The European Union’s plans to distribute cheddar to the needy of the Irish Republic in the run up to Christmas must be causing a stink. It’s gratifying to know the poor children of the Emerald Isle will not go to bed hungry. Would you like pickle with that? You couldn’t make it up.
Hello Dolly
We are finding local people to be warm, welcoming and obliging. We’re having fun riding around by dolmuş (or dollies as we call them) though it’s taken us a while to get used to dolly drivers collecting fares and dispensing change as they drive at speed along the highway, swerving to avoid pot holes and untethered cattle. Kindly strangers occasionally stop to offer us a lift, including a sweet little old lady with impeccable English, who pulled over in her beaten up Beetle and gave us a ride into town. She seemed unperturbed at inviting two strangers into her car. Perhaps this is because Turkey is blessed with a low crime rate when compared to the West and, therefore, the associated fear of it is also blessedly absent.
By comparison, Clement fled England because his fear of crime had reached hysterical levels. He’d become terrified to venture out after dark, lest he might be mugged by the drug addicts and beggars who loitered menacingly at every corner. He considered himself lucky to have survived the ordeal. We listened sympathetically and enquired where he had lived thinking it might have been Moss Side or Brixton. ‘Dorchester,’ he replied.
Blissful Bodrum
It was a magnificent day, so we ventured out to Bodrum for a light lunch and a beer on the beach. The town was in jolly mood and filled with laid back holidaying Turks strolling along the promenade. The sweaty bother of the summer months has been displaced by a more agreeable autumnal tone. We settled at a modest watering hole opposite the town beach which proudly displays a rainbow flag alongside the usual pennants. The bar has been a constant during our many holidays to Bodrum as the prices are reasonable and the easy on the eye staff are attentive without being fawning. The clientele has completely changed from tattooed tourist to Turk and is much the better for it. We watched the sun set over the castle and were reminded, as if a reminder was needed, why we are here.
Perking the Pansies 