Whenever I threw a hissy fit about the direction my foster home was taking, whether from a political or religious perspective (or a toxic mix of the two), something invariably popped up to calm my troubled soul, reduce my blood pressure and bring a smile to my face. This was such a time:
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Our tatty chattels finally made it across the high seas, landing safely at the port of Felixstowe in Suffolk. Her Maj’s Revenue and Customs eyed the consignment with cynical suspicion and decided to x-ray the boxes for contraband Turkish delight. This public service was provided at our expense, incurring a charge of £100. Isn’t this a bit like being frisked by the fuzz and paying for the privilege? The boys in blue found nothing untoward and the family silver was released. That was that, or so we naively thought.
We received word from the carriers that our precious cargo would be delivered by a 19 metre road train (their words) and if they couldn’t park within 15 metres of our new gaff we could kiss our goods goodbye (my words). When I pointed out that the medieval streets of old Norwich are characteristically narrow and that a 60 foot mega truck was a tad excessive for our modest six square metre load, they recanted and decided that a van of standard girth would suffice.
D Day arrived. The van pulled up outside and two large gentlemen swung into action, huffing and puffing as they piled the boxes into neat rows inside our new living room. The entire sweaty exercise was completed in under 30 minutes. As we unpacked each box, it was obvious that spooky hands had been fondling our family jewels. A shattered lamp emerged from one battered box. Glass fragments from the same lamp magically appeared in a different box. 
Hey presto. The backs of photo frames had been removed and replaced with the clips left open (the same photo frames suffered the same fate when they delivered to Turkey four years previously). Most distressingly, the base of one of our tall super-sleek speakers had been hack-sawed off and the broken thread lay discarded at the bottom of the box. Just as well we smuggled out the rechargeable marital aids in our hand luggage. Clearly, this bump and grind was much more than a bit of rough handling by a hairy docker. Who would have thought?
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The day after we moved into our ancient gaff, a nice man called Richard from Virgin Media (not the Richard, obviously) installed our all singing, all dancing multimedia techno-wizardry – 30 megabyte fibre-optic broadband, telephone line and high definition TV. The whole compendium was half price for six months and came with free installation, free equipment and free weekend calls. We now have more channels of crap than you can shake a stick at. Currently, I’m being forced to watch wall-to-wall Olympics (Liam’s current obsession). We’ve never had HD TV before. I can see every wrinkle, every blemish, every spot and every blackhead on the faces of the famous – except for Gary Lineker (who surely must have had a nick and lift). No wonder an old bundle of ageing TV presenters decided to hang up their auto-cues and throw in the flannel: there are some things even the thickest slap can’t hide. Now we have free weekend calls, they’ll be no more Sunday Skype calls to mother. Just as well. I could never get the bloody thing to work properly from Turkey anyway and the compulsory weekly check-in was always a painful exercise, invariably ending in complete frustration.
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We made our great escape from Stalag 17 and dashed to Morrison’s Supermarket to stock up on cheap plonk, check prices and observe the local Suffolk wildlife in its natural habitat. The place was packed. It may have been a Sunday but Brits have long since abandoned praying for paying on the Sabbath. Despite many protestations to the contrary, we found prices more than comparable with Turkey, particularly meat, staples and non-food essentials. While Liam stalked the aisles for bargains, I went in search of a decent newspaper. Morrison’s sold neither the Guardian nor the Independent so I made do with the murky Murdoch’s Times. The queue was fronted by a Suzi Quatro looky-likey, all feather cut, tight ribbed vest and rock-chick tattoos. Suzi was in a heated debate with the check-out assistant, something about a pot plant. I didn’t intrude. I didn’t fancy a volley of expletives from the girl from Devil Gate Drive. We fled back to our bunker to get drunk.
Hit it Suzi…
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Next: The Voice Hits Pontins
QuestTurkey is a top notch property and lifestyle website about Turkey. I’ve been lucky enough to feature on the site a few times in the past. Quest is always looking for contributors with a tale to tell with an interesting angle about living in a foreign land. If you’d like to share your expat story, why not drop Lauren a line on lauren@questturkey.com?
I’m always chuffed to hear from people I don’t know who take the trouble to tell me how much they enjoyed reading Perking the Pansies. It’s even better when I hear about what readers have been saying to each other. The fab fun in the sun people behind the phenomenally successful Turkey’s for Life website (I’m cabbage-faced about their numbers) told me about someone who couldn’t find the link to my book because she’d been searching for Picking the Poppies.They provided the link, she bought the book and then she wrote:
“His writing is great. I bought it for my Kindle last night and can’t put it down. Great book, very funny. Anyone who has made the same move to Turkey will really understand. Well worth the purchase so everybody out there buy it, get yourself a nice bottle of wine sit in your garden or balcony and prepare to let dinner burn. Lol. Well done Jack. Bring on the next one xx”
So, to Angela, whoever you are and wherever you may be. Thank you for the giggle and for the compliment. You sound like my kind of girl (in a platonic kind of way, obviously).
We closed the door on our little stone house in the heart of old Bodrum Town for the last time and said our fond farewells to our great neighbours. Tears rolled down Bubbly Beril’s cheeks and Vadim distributed rib-crushing bear hugs. We left Bodrum a week before returning to Blighty. We would have been homeless itinerants if two Gümbet gal-friends hadn’t come up trumps and offered us their holiday villa for a week, no strings attached. It was a fantastic parting gift. Lovely Lemon Tree Villa comes highly recommended. If you want to know more, contact Carole or Liza on info@turkuoise.co.uk.
Ironically, it was like taking a proper holiday, the first for four years. We planned to relax around a cool pool with a G&T, ice and a slice. We also planned one or two evenings getting down and dirty with the good, bad and the ugly along chip pan alley with its competing cacophony and naff neon. We were looking forward to witnessing the garrison of tattooed emigrey arms, pussy pelmets and pot-bellied Nike tops on proud display. It was not to be. Instead, our week became a fabulous fanfare of farewells as the Belles and the Gals sent us on our way in drunken style. I’ll be taking my liver back to Blighty in a jiffy bag.
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When we decided to jump the good ship Blighty, we enjoyed an extraordinary run of good luck. Our neighbour bought our house and its contents. IKEA-chic (or is that shit?) was clearly to his liking. We hauled over just 17 boxes of our precious personal possessions (aka old crap we couldn’t give away). Our extraordinary run of good luck has continued. Thanks to a select group of Bodrum Belles, we’ve flogged off our house contents all over again. We’ve hauled back to Blighty just 17 boxes plus Liam’s beloved Roland keyboard and our marvellous Samsung flat screen TV (miraculously still working; most of our other electrical goodies have malfunctioned). I love this recycling lark. No need to re-flat-pack the flat pack. So, a massive hand to the Beau Belles of Bodrum.
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After the Hump’s disastrous showing at the farcical Caucasian Eurovision circus, we awoke to a thump at the door to match the thumping in my hung-over head. The removers launched into a fast frenzy of wrapping and packing at a speed I’ve never experienced in Turkey before. Our meagre chattels were efficiently boxed, labelled and loaded like a well-oiled Germanic assembly line. The procession of sweaty men was halted only momentarily by a traditional Turkish marching band – all monotonic horns and clashing drums – as it passed along the ancient street. Our fabulous Turkish neighbours popped across the courtyard with tea, cake and smiles. After the briefest of breaks and a quick fag with the fags, the boys chucked themselves back into the fray. The entire endeavour was all done and dusted in just three hours. We had shopped around for a few quotes but most of the silly prices were higher than the value of the family silver: it would have been cheaper to flog the whole lot off and start again. BacktoBodrum came to our rescue with Soyer International Removals – fast, friendly, and cost effective. Our goods will soon be sailing on high seas back to Blighty. We’ll be following them very soon, a suitcase each and handful of high hopes .
Some Bodrum Belles of our acquaintance have been living hereabouts for a couple of decades (or more). They tell of cold water flats, power supplied on a wing and a prayer, a town virtually devoid of modern conveniences and fun, lots of it. Bodrum was where the intelligentsia was exiled and where the artistic found sanctuary. It was far enough away from Ankara to stay under the radar of the more reactionary tendencies of the ruling elite. Even today, Bodrum has a diverse, edgy vibe unique in all of Turkey. This is why we chose it. Ambling along the newly marbled streets lined by fancy bars crammed with the well-heeled, it’s hard to imagine how it must have looked in times past. Imagine no longer. Here are some old grainy snaps of the town. The last two images are of the lane that runs along the side of our house – then and now.
A curiosity is the Greek Orthodox Church that once stood in the heart of the town (first two pictures in the sequence). It’s a reminder of Bodrum’s Greek past before the euphemistically called ‘population exchange’ of 1923. Liam and I debated what now stands in its place. We think it’s the rather large and ugly concrete library. Perhaps those in the know could help us out.
Postscript
There’s a fabulous Facebook group page dedictated to old images of Bodrum places and people called Eski Bodrum. It’s a fascinating study in social history. Thanks to Back to Bodrum for the heads up.
Perking the Pansies 