Our glorious Indian summer has been violently deposed by an unannounced contest for meteorological supremacy between apocalyptic tempests and dazzling sunshine, a battle which sired a family of stunning, perfectly cut rainbows (which my picture cannot do justice to). The electric rage lashed the house with horizontal rain and peppered the walls with hailstones. I feared the End of Days. I now better appreciate how people in less scientific times attributed this natural replay to the eternal struggle between good and evil with humanity caught in between. The electricity company wisely cut the power during the heavenly discord. We shrugged our shoulders, lit some candles and chucked another log on the fire.
Our chattels have been delivered to the house. As we unpacked each box, we were delighted to find that we had suffered few breakages, but gradually developed a nagging suspicion that someone had been subtly rummaging about. A number of the metal clips that hold the back plate in place for the smaller picture frames were in the open position. It was as if the backs had been covertly removed to check what might lie behind. Given the total apathy of the Turkish customs officer, I assume it was a sneaky British spook making sure we weren’t drug smugglers or money launderers. Little did they realise that we stuffed all the dirty cash down our trousers (that’s a joke, by the way).
We met the rude little man outside the Customs House at Izmir Airport. As the goods were registered in my name alone Liam had to wait outside. I then embarked on my second major appointment with the Byzantine Turkish bureaucratic system. The rude little man ferried me around various offices to pay various official fees to various bored officials, obtaining various bits of official paper, all duly officially stamped along the way. He then deposited me in a holding pen and wandered off, returning now and again to demand ever more cash. I sat there for about an hour and a half with not so much as a cup of a çay for solace, observing the drama unfolding around me. So much of Turkey appears modern or modernising but alas, not the State Sector it seems. My place of confinement was bleak and starkly furnished. Lonely electric wires twisted aimlessly from the cracked ceiling, and an ancient typewriter sat sadly neglected in the corner.
That Infamous Film
Next to me was a glass fronted office where five of six apparatchik sat working at their desks. Well, I use the word ‘working’ euphemistically. All I witnessed was a lot of gossiping, tea brewing and reading of newspapers, periodically interrupted by someone waving a piece of paper in need of an official stamp. Stamps are big in Turkey; everything must be stamped. Without a word, a heavy-boned, hirsute man would give each document a cursory glance, apply the requisite official stamp and then return to his newspaper. Clearly, this is his job, probably his only job: keeper of the official stamp. However, I assume all the over employment keeps the unemployment figures down and each of these underemployed men probably saves a large extended family from destitution.
The waiting was finally over and the rude little man led me to the depot for my goods to be scrutinised by a rude little customs officer. She didn’t seem much bothered and only inspected the top layer of one crate, though much hilarity was generated by my embarrassing and doomed attempt to mime the function of a terracotta patio heater. At last, I got the last official stamp I needed to release the family silver. I emerged from the Customs House two hours later to a relieved Liam, who had convinced himself that I had been arrested and carted off to prison in a ‘Midnight Express’ kind of way.
We received word that our cargo has arrived from England. We are thrilled. A gay boy just can’t survive for long without the little essentials of life like decent cookware, ethnic knick-knacks and gallons of scent. We paid quite a bit extra to have our precious accessories air freighted and were assured by Pickfords that the crates would be flown direct to Bodrum; a naïve notion. A rude little man from the Pickfords nominated Turkish agents told us to get down to the Customs House at Izmir Airport and to get there pronto otherwise we’d be charged warehousing fees. Off we go on our second Izmir junket at the crack of dawn.
As respite from home making, we popped into Yalıkavak for a drink or three. The village is shutting up shop, but we found a few watering holes still open for trade. Unfortunately, we found ourselves in the company of Scots Max, who moved to Turkey from South London. Max is a sinewy, embittered, youngish man with an obvious drink problem. He told us he absconded from England because of all the “political correctness” to coin an over-worn tabloid phrase. He said that he was now free to call a Paki and Paki, not that he’s racist, of course. “Anyway”, he continued, “Britain is overrun with foreigners”, totally oblivious to the irony of this statement. He was fascinated and probably repulsed by us, and couldn’t understand why “you lot are always banging on about your rights”. I pointed out that, since I have always paid my taxes (and at a higher rate in recent years), I did not think it unreasonable to expect to enjoy the same rights as everyone else with the same protection under the Law. The argument flew over his low IQ head, and I didn’t push the point for fear of a Glasgow kiss.
We decided upon a strategic withdrawal. As we toured the village inns, we passed a little place on the high street which seemed more promising. The promise delivered. As the Turkopop became more frenetic the barman peeled off his t-shirt revealing a rather enticing hairy chest, and I was dragged up to dance by an amorous older Turk, who got very touchy-feely. There were a number of likely lads about the place and the ambience was full of clandestine possibilities. After a little innocent flirtatious fun, we meandered home in the wee small hours.
As the cooler nights approach, Clement drove Liam to a local timber merchant to buy the winter logs for our open fire. It wasn’t entirely an act of neighbourly altruism since Clement lusts after the log man, a ruddy rugged chap with bulging biceps and a chest like a Turkish wrestler. The log man delivered and neatly stacked the consignment. Clement flirtatiously supervised lingering a little too close to imbibe the intoxicating blend of testosterone and sweat. I kept the smelling salts handy. Afterwards Clement convalesced in a darkened room for an hour or two. I can’t imagine what he was doing.
The Vile Vikings’ upper terrace sits just beneath our patio. It’s a bit of a sun trap and shielded from the wind. Ragnild has decided to let it all hang out, and we have a constant view of her gravity-ravaged baps. To be fair she tries to hide her lower dignity with a piece of string, but she has a rather over-abundant bush which is most upsetting. I am mischievously thinking of presenting her with a jar of Veet as an early Christmas gift. Miserable Cnut continues to be a wretched little man who whines all day about everything. I thought whining was a peculiarly British habit. For the sake of good community relations, I am resisting the temptation to tell him to sod off.
We said our goodbyes to Marina the Shitting Kitten and closed the door on the holiday let for the last time. Weighed down by heavy suitcases and boxes of groceries, the under-powered hire car struggled to reach second base camp on Mount Tepe. The smell of burning rubber filled the air. Liam kept his eyes shut and I got out and ascended on foot.
Our IKEA delivery arrived. Incredibly, the van managed to scale the north face of Mount Tepe, the crumbling, virtually vertical, concrete access road that leads to our new home. Ascension requires an ultra-low gear, decent tyres and nerves of steel. Out of the van leapt half a dozen men who swung into action, unloading, unpacking and assembling. Five or so hours on, our IKEA room sets are ready to be dressed and accessorised. We will move in tomorrow. Fabulous!
We bought three shit bins for the toilets. It’s the custom in Turkey to deposit soiled tissue in a bin next to the pan. Apparently, no one has thought to install large enough pipes to flush the waste away effectively. Subsequently, toilet paper poses a real risk of blockage. In any case, Turks use very little tissue, preferring to rinse their rings with the bidet-style water pipe installed in all pans. It’s a novel idea and one which could be exported globally as the toilet/bidet combo solution for the smaller water closet everywhere. However, I’m told that there is an obvious design flaw as, in the depths of winter, the jet of cold water can result in a nasty icy surprise (or an instant climax, depending on one’s proclivities).
As Liam is a bit squeamish about the whole shit bin thing I delicately raised the matter with Clement. This is one quaint Turkish tradition he refuses to indulge so we have decided to follow suit. From now on, the only solid objects dropped in our bins will be empty jars of Clarins Beauty Flash Balm and Boots No 7 face cream (for men, of course).
Terminal blockage is proving to be the least of our worries. Turkish plumbing in general has a uniquely Anatolian flavour. S-bends are shallow affairs and when the water seal evaporates, noxious fumes leach from every drain. Top tip for Turkey: invest in bleach production.
Perking the Pansies 