Sunday, December 28, 2008

Whither?

These are my current possessions:

10 year-old backpack in need of a replacement zipper
green JanSport daypack
two pair of jeans
black Nike sweater
brown cable-knit wool cardigan
maroon and white check wool jumper
brown button-up wool jumper
multi-coloured wool scarf
two Quicksilver T-shirts; one chocolate brown, the other dark blue
chocolate brown Quicksilver long-sleeve short
two pair of my own underpants
one pair of underpants stolen from Athens International Youth Hostel
a brown belt
five socks
laptop
2GB flash drive
digital camera
pocket English-Turkish dictionary
keys to an apartment in Istanbul
a nazar boyuncu to protect me from the Evil Eye
two books; Salonica - City of Ghosts and Paradise Lost, Smyrna 1922 - The Destruction of Islam's City of Tolerance

Clearly, everything one needs to re-establish one's life in Sydney. In the middle of summer.

It's now time to bring a halt to feelings of self-pity and medium-level despair that have enveloped my world-view over the past few weeks. It's time to recognise that forces beyond both control and comprehension have landed me back in the Antipodes, that I must accept a temporary full-time existence in The City of Sin, that for some time I shan't be requiring most possessions strewn across my attic bedroom.

After a life dedicated to avoiding responsibility, work and meaningful personal relationships, I have just received a Victoria Cross, of sorts. I have no job, no abode of my own - my world fits in a 70 litre backpack.

A good thing. Challenging. It's freedom at its most frightening. I have no plan, no idea of what to do next, and, aside from anguish of being wrenched from my city, friends and cats, the upcoming year is a blank slate.

I'm going to do as I damn well please.

This is my chance to do it again, to do it properly, to chase a few more dreams. To spend more time ambling around the globe, to reacquaint myself with Sydney, with friends, with supermarkets, footpaths and greenery. I'm going to read everything I want. That 'things to do before I die' I compiled on the terrace of some filthy hovel in Delhi in 2003 is going to be re-written. I can even mark as completed a few things too.

Most importantly, I promise that I am going to complete my travelogue of Istanbul, commenced way back in late 2005 and never finished. I'm going to start today.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

These people just hosted the Olympics, didn't they?

According to every erudite scholar educated in the Western tradition, the city in which I have passed the last two weeks gave birth to our civilisation. Though these days Athens looks more like an afterbirth.

However, that's not to say I dislike Athens. In fact, I like filth, sleaze and louche. When travelling, I love ambulating in cities which carry a higher-than-recommended degree of personal risk. Well, at least I enjoy a titillating frisson of fear every now and then. If the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade squeal about security in a particular region, then that's probably where I'd like to be. But I'm no adventure traveller, don't get me wrong. I'm just attracted to people who look as though they might cause trouble and places where I might get hurt. I have no quarel with that type of backpacker who aches to tell of his perilous 52 hour journey from Uttar Pradesh into the Tibet strapped to the back of a mongoose. I'm happy to arrive by plane and just enjoying hanging out with the undesirables.

I am a voyeur. I love to watch. For someone more or less stuck in the city for nigh on two weeks, there are worse places I could've been. Athens has provided the cheapest, non-stop supply of human parade. Hours passed sitting in squares, half-heartedly browising a novel but feasting upon the plethora of souls. Athens seems overflowing with defective beings.

To be fair, I suspect that during the last two weeks I have displayed signs that make other move away from me. That far away unattached looked in my eyes that seems to trouble others. I might be weirding people out too just like those leering men in the street facing the hotel.

So central Athens is a kaleidoscpoe of the down-and-out. Omonia Square, undoubtedly a former shopping district of some worth, has swapped consumer for bench-sitter. And it's crammed with men, most immigrants clearly struggling to make a new life in Greece.

The Pakistanis and Afghans are distinguished by dress - I don't think the shalwar kameez has much been worn in these parts since Ottoman times. According to the locals, Bulgarians are here for drugs and prostitution (Man, it's like the whole ex-Communist rabble are labelled the same the whole world over). My source of local information tells me that the immigrants are legal, and generally harmless - except of course the Arabs who naturally are the arse-end of the world's genetic make-up. (Why is it that Arabs induce scorn, almost without exception?) West African are also numerous, and unique among the immigrants as both males and females walk the streets.

Anyway, there are few Greeks in central Athens. Just a mass of immigrants, drug addicts, down-and-outs and piles of fairly unsightly buildings. These people could do with a few more trained architects.

The staff of the Acropolis has been on strike since my arrival and riots have broken out sporadically across not just Athens, but all major cities in the country over the past week. Smashed windows, burned out buildings and vehicles and the proliferation of graffitti will be my most vivid memories of Athens.

I have a feeling it might be more pleasant on the islands.

Athens has been a good place to wander and think. Questions have arisen and my little brain has been surprisingly up to the task of finding answers. It's good to know that approaching forty I'm no closer to achieving material success, and yet I feel a smug satisfaction at how lucky I've been up until now. Being refused entry into Turkey had never been a hypothetical situation, it was a fait accompli that Istanbul was my home. Appropriate mental adjustments have been made.

Only sixteen days out of Turkey, my brain has wandered far from my neighbourhood of Cihangir, mainly to the vast spaces of South America that I'm yet to explore. In the meantime, I look forward to being among friends again in Sydney. And I'll finally get that meat pie I craved several months ago on another post.

Sunday, December 07, 2008

The last post

If I weren't stoically Anglo-saxon then I might be given to an emotional outburst here.

Unbeknownst to them, they are about to begin life again out on the streets.

Today I conceded defeat and made the decision - it's time to return to Sydney. Ten days away from home and I realise how impermanent everything is. My apartment will go, my possessions boxed up and stored until some such time as I can afford to send them to my next destination, my cats back out onto the street and my lifestyle appears as much as it always has - unstable. In fact, the only stable thing in my life is instability. I can at least count on that.

It is with grande tristesse that I'm having to bid adieu to Istanbul long before our affair came to a close. But still, we always lose what we love and it's better to have left perhaps before the magic turned to familiarity and thus changed to complacency.

Istanbul still retains her mystery and charm, and in a way I prefer to leave it like that. Three years is not long enough to know well a gargantuan city the size of old Constantinople, less still did I have enough time to discover all the hidden neighbourhoods and backstreets.

There are many things that I will miss and I want to write them down before they begin to fade. My memory has never been strong and I'm recording this so in a year or two I can sit down and relive some souvenirs of this city... instead of wanting to rise up against the Turkish bureaucracy, as I do right now.

Here then is my list of what's worth remembering and savouring in Istanbul - the good, the bad, and the other bits.

Generosity You ain't experienced nothing until you get the Turkish treatment. Turks are hospitality personified, almost annoying so. When you're stuck arguing for the umpteenth time over who's going to pay the bill, just laugh - the Turk will always win. Let them, they are known to turn violent and many a guest has been seen clasping his own innards while squriming on the restaurant floor after being knifed by a Turk who wanted to pay the bill... Man, if I were re-born, I'm come back as a Swedish woman and live in Istanbul. Men, as macho as they are, never let the woman pay. Luckily for me, my female Turkish friends are very modern indeed.

Cats See it to believe it. I leave many friends in Istanbul but my only two loyal bedpartners were the lovely Shish and Kebab. I am really, really going to miss you guys. Be good to each other and don't let George give you grief. Fight back. I miss you both very much and hope you understand I never meant to abandon you. It's just that a complete prick at the Turkish-Bulgarian border decided to ruin my life.

Bayrak No idea why, but I love the Turkish flag. It does nothing for me emotionally but it doesn't have to. I'm indifferent to Australia's, and detest the boxing kangaroo thing that gets pulled out at sporting events. Jesus, give me a break. It makes me cringe. A star and croissant, I mean, crescent, is kinda sexy. It looks tough, for the kinda people you wouldn't want to fight with.

Footpaths I dunno, but I must have some kind of obsession about them. There is no city outside of India that has worse footpaths than Istanbul. My feeling is for the last eighty year footpath contracts have been won by the same company that has then proceeded to pocket 90% of the designated funds and instead builds somethng that the majority of residents will trip over at some point in time. The man who wins these footpath capital work projects undoubtedly lives in a very big mansion. It is not possible in the city centre to find 10 metres of footpath that does not have some freakin' flaw, it places an activity like, well, walking, into the realm of extreme sports. You have no idea how many times I have gone a**** over t** in this town. History is no excuse, the Italians can build footpaths and look at how corrupt they are.

Lies Turkish children lie to their parents. About almost everything. They think it stops them worrying. Think again kids.

Tutting The first time it happens you stare incredulous. After a few years you have also adopted the habit that would have made your grannie slap your fae. The Turks tut at every minor grievance but it's not ill-intended. It does take some getting used to and I hope not to do it when passing through customs at Sydney airport.

Chewing gum Until arriving in Istanbul I thought only Americans and people who wanted to look American chewed gum. But no, Turks definitely don't want to look American and the average Turkish male even chews with his mouth open. Quite frankly, what is the point of gum? It's not fun, it's not healthy, and it makes an even bigger mess in a city which barely has footpaths, let alone ones wide enough deal with take the onslaught of discarded gum. Singapore, stupid nation of Lee Kwan Yew (sic) arse-lickers that it is, at least got one thing right. Ban the gum.

Headscarves Let's allow Turkey to work this one out for itself, shall we? Whatever my own view, it's clear that this politically charged non-issue expends intellectual resources that would be better used focusing on more pressing issues in the country. Anyway, if God had wanted us to wear a headscarf he would have said it in the Koran. Which he didn't.

Black Turkish people couldn't get dressed in the morning without it.

Bread I have no idea how much of the stuff I consumed over the last nine hundred odd meals.

Gesticulating and warmth Man, I have to go back to a land where the handshake is about as much physical affection as people allow. Gone are the warm hugs, the kisses, the friendliness and ease of the tactile Turk. I have to return to talking without use of other limbs. This also depresses me.

Grooming Turks dress well. Rich or poor, the Turk loves to look good. These are more hairdressers and barbers per sqare inch in The Greater Istanbul City Council than at a Vidal and Sassoon Annual General Meeting. And Turks are an unbelievably well dressed race, notwithstanding that Middle East gangster is not the look for everyone. The male Turk is almost beyond metrosexuality. Perhaps one of the only things I won't miss about Istanbul is the vain male sporting a ridiculously manicured beard and ostntatiously preening himself in any mirror available. They have no shame and do it even in public places, and again, I'm sorry, but I think that's wrong.

Of ya! How the rest of the world is yet to adopt this phrase is beyond me. So handy when you really, really need to whine.

Orhan Pamuk A pleasantly political choice for the Nobel Prize for literature. Either I'm not clever enough to understand his work or his sentences are so tediously long that I lose the will to live; either way, I admit after all this time that I've read only three of his works.

Moustaches No-one, but no-one beats that Turk. Gotta say though that I do look kinda sexy with a handle bar number myself. This is one sport in which you will win all medals (with The Pakistanis coming a close second, India third). It's just that the championship hasn't been organised yet.

Turkish muscle Don't be dirty, I'm talking beer gut. Every male in the nation, either upon marrying or reaching 35 years of age, will develop a certain rotundity fast. But since I man without a belly is like a house with a balcony, I've grown fond of mine too, because I've always liked a balcony.

Attention It's narcissistic to say but at least I'm honest - in Australia no-one will notice me. In Turkey I look foreign, sound foreign and probably still act foreign. It made me stand out, and yes, I liked that. I'd never felt so exotic.

Guns Too many of them. Turkey, guns don't make a society safe, they make it paranoid. A nineteen year-old wielding a semi-automatic weapon down Istiklal Caddesi during peak hour does nothing for my peace of mind.

Turklish I'm now a fluent speaker. I hope to regain fluency also in English over the following few months. I have a terrible feeling I'm going to continue uttering broken phrases in graded language until someone punches. That'll take a week.

Beyaz peynir When I first sampled the bleached white tasteless rubbery substance passed off as cheese, I spat it out thinking I was chewing on the plastic wrap. Now, I can't live without it, but may well have to.

Politics Tricky one. It's time to ditch the leader of the CHP. Your only serious opposition party is run by a suspect megalomanic who can only scream on camera and doesn't seem to want to share power. You need fresh blood or you're going to be stuck with the AKP for a lot longer yet.

Turkish males moving fast This is both unnatural and quite probably against the law. Watch a Turkish man run. It's hilarious. I can't explain why but you have the impression that it's perhaps the first time he's realised his body could achieve such a thing. Complete lack of co-ordination. I dunno, but this always amused me.

Inhibitions (the lack thereof) These people get up and dance and sing without drinking alcohol. It's very, very unnerving.

History If there is one thing I will miss about Turkey, it's Istanbul's timelessness. In Sydney there's little chance of wandering about and thinking 'who lived and breathed and worked and loved and fought and died in this place 1500 years ago?' This thought depresses me. I love Istanbul above all because it is a town that lives with it's rich past so very well.

French If you speak it, your Turkish vocabulary increases by 300% overnight. Handy, but doesn't help you one iota to comprehend the unfathomable grammar.

Kiro Take a lanky youth. One tub of hair gel. A tight fitting lurid-coloured shirt with only three buttons (or you only need three as the remainder won't be buttoned). Eyebrow tweezers. A necklace your grandmother got in 1926. Genital-squishingly tight dark demin jeans. A white belt. White shoes. Mix and voila. For variety, try the less-than-90-IQ-and-snarl look, or go with the more popular brood-at-everyone-even-though-you're-the-one-who-looks-like-a-complete-twat. Slink around a lot with your less than intelligent mates and use your mobile phone at every given opportunity. I tried it and failed as I've too much grey hair.

Barbers A trip to see Cemal and his uncle was often the highlight of the fortnight. Why I actually allowed someone to poke a burning stick into my ear was beyond me, however, the head massage was as close to Nirvana as I am every likely to reach. After losing my cats, obstructing access to my Turkish barber is reason number two to hunt down and torture Mehmet the border control officer at Kapikule.

Menemen The world's best breakfast food that I became a specialist at preparing. Looks repugnant but so does Roquefort, toad-in-the-hole and daal. In fact, most things in life I like tend to have a disgusting edge to them.

Altaic linguistics No explanation is plausible, no comprehension foreseeable.

People I guess I should call them friends. Some of them were also students. I fell in love with Istanbul because it is inhabited with exactly the kind of people I want to live among. Irrational in the extreme, emotional to the point of queeziness, giving, sharing, caring, thoughtful, frustrating, exhausting, tiring, dependable (except pertaining to time managment), affectionate in just the right amount, inquisitive, and cok yaramaz. Turks taught me lot of things I needed to learn, and some things I shouldn't have. From the taxi drivers to the tantuni seller, from my adorably undisciplined 6th grade students to my wonderful neighbours, I love the Turks.

In a way it's perhaps preferable that I never had the opportunity to say goodbye. It means I never left.

Saturday, December 06, 2008

Nostalgia, or 'Three years later I have learned nothing'

Now, this is cheating. I've ample time on my hands so decided to clean up my in-boxes from various email accounts. I found a few emails I sent long ago, when I had first arrived in Istanbul and was unware that almost four years later, they wouldn't let me back in.

I knew I was in love with the city then, and I still am. Strangely enough, visas were already an issue way back... I never learned.
_______________________________

February 2006

Well, I’ve now turned into that sort of person I’d said that I’d never become – I’m sending a collective email. After several months kidding myself that I’d eventually get around to writing to all of you individually, I’ve had to eat humble pie and admit that it’s just not going to happen soon.

I have no valid excuse, so I proffer none. I’ll just get on with regaling or appalling you with details of my little life in a big, busy metropolis. Some of you are already privilege to the events recounted herein. You therefore have a perfectly valid reason not to continue further, but instead to make better use of time by ironing, cleaning the oven or maybe just falling asleep.
Let’s start with work life, mainly since my sad tales of woe ought to provide you with enough reasons to stay in your current position and stop moaning about whatever it is that annoys you in the workplace.

As an illegal worker, I rely enormously on the goodwill of my current employer to do what’s required to keep me being physically removed from the country. Sadly, my current employer has no goodwill, but happens to be a lying, cheating pig-eyed sack of shit who spends his day hunched over a laptop, staring at Christ-only-knows what and, in my mind, possibly searching in the keyboard for any sign of his brain matter which has clearly leached from his cranium during recent months.

New to the world of Teaching English as a Foreign Language, I knew I’d have to make a few adjustments to my varied ways of thinking; that I’d encounter a steep learning curve and need to put in a lot of work for the first few months; that I’ve have to remain flexible in my outlook, enthusiastic in my approach; in short, I was in for a few surprises.

What I didn’t factor into my thinking was the pathetic bunch of lies that I would be confronted with from the start, and to which I initially remained oblivious. Over time things would happen that just didn’t make sense. Things weren’t adding up. Different responses to the same question from the same person in too short a space of time for the situation to have changed. When you finally realise that lying is an acceptable part of your corporate culture, you either play the game of you don’t.

I have chosen not to join in on the fun, not because I have higher morals than anyone else, but simply I rely on work to pay me money to stay in this city. Recently staff have not been paid on time and in fact, small amounts of money are sometimes passed discreetly into our palms, like a adulterer might placate a enraged mistress – ‘Go on, treat yourself to something nice, we’ll settle this little tiff later’.

More disconcerting is maintaining a valid tourist visa, something that causes undue stress on numerous teachers in my school.

The ‘system’ works thus. You supply the school with a copy of your passport, ten suitably sized photos, a standard bureaucratic form with personal details. The school uses its contact in the Foreigners Police Office to obtain a Foreigner Resident Permit. The permit expressly prohibits working, but it does allow you to stay on an extended tourist visa. It’s a case of you-know-that-they-know-that-you-know-but-we-all-say-nothing-and-somewhere-someone-makes-a-stack-of-cash-out-of-all-of-this. So I did know what I was getting myself in for when I decided to teach here. what I didn’t anticipate was lie upon continual lie, compounding each new difficulty and blurring the contours of reality so often and so well that I frequently ended up believing the sincere bullshit that constituted answers to my simple questions.

However, a benevolent ray of sunshine appeared. Five weeks ago I landed a job opportunity that seemed too good to believe. In comparison with my current situation I would work fewer hours for twice the money, have a driver transport me back and forth, work only weekdays between eight and four-thirty, and benefit from long paid holidays. I sailed through the interview, charming everyone with reach of my smile. It worked. They had me sign an pre-contractual agreement before I’d even finished my third cup of tea. I left feeling fabulous and treated myself to a new pair of burnt orange Adidas™ trainers on the way home.

Over the following days I rummaged about filling in new forms, getting signatures on documents, requesting academic transcripts, thinking about a new wardrobe and whether there was anything in the new contract about sporting a beard. I was on a high, and handed in my resignation to my current employer, giving an ample five weeks of my intention to cease employment.

Some time later my boss, already under financial pressure and perhaps reeling from the fact that on average a teacher leaves the school every month, took it upon himself to make some unilateral changes to the work contract. Notwithstanding the fact that my visa had expired at the beginning of June and that I will continue to work here until the end of next week, Ahmet informed his administration staff that they needn’t pay for my visa extension. No-one bothered to tell me, which, I feel, was a shame.

The school has long had all the papers it needed to renew my visa. Indeed, my papers have been sitting in a draw, along with my passport, for the better part of two months. During a highly-strung moment of complete and utter rage last week, I vented my anger downstairs and demanded that someone process my visa. I threw the necessary money on the desk and stormed off. I am still waiting for my Foreigner Resident Permit. and of course, I am quite angry.

My current employer is effectively jeopardising my new job, as my new employer needs to see my visa before they in turn approach the Turkish Ministry of Education – the latter, in some bizarre twist, is exactly the power that can both regularise my visa and extradite me from the country simultaneously… Christ, does any of this make sense? Also, I cannot leave Turkey, since without the Foreigner Resident Permit I have only a passport containing a visa that expired last year. Well, let me correct that. I can depart, but will be made to pay a hefty fine.

Such is my sad life. But I do have very fashionable burnt orange Adidas™ trainers.

And aside from work, I’m still loving Istanbul. Here you can see it all, even if you really don’t want to. I usually get an eyeful of it every day on my way to work.

Istiklal Caddesi, probably best translated as Independence Street and formerly known as the Grand rue du Péra in times gone by, is a two kilometre pedestrianised stretch linking the heart of the European side of my city, down to this historic quarter that I call home, Tünel.

The streets is lined with all the normal consumerist crap, though the Turkish take on fashion makes for some fairly outlandish window displays. I’m not sure whether words or phrases like subtle or understated elegance have equivalents in this very difficult of languages, methinks not.
As with all peoples of the Mediterranean, less in not more. Only more is more. More stitching, more embroidery, more bits of useless material dangling off God-awful designs, most of which have disturbingly large bit of gold and silver on them. Fabric in Turkey comes only in two shades – vivid and glaringly-vivid. To be fair, in a shop window I can easily divert my eyes from such vulgar displays of tastelessness and continue up the High Street knowing I look great in unironed jeans and a T-shirt that’s probably as dirty as the Shroud of Turin but… just look at the people who wear these clothes.

If there was ever an investment opportunity in this country, then Hair Gel is where the money is at. These people are quite likely the worlds’ largest consumers of that greasy sludge, trowelled on in quantities that could support the weight of a four-storey building on the average seventeen year-old’s head. At thirty-six, I’ve lost touch with fashion and it’s quite possible that across the planet today’s youth adorns itself with massive blobs of the stuff that is then sculptured into styles that defy both gravity and common sense. Whatever the mode actuelle, I’m certain that Turkish men account for a disproportionately large share of hair product consumption.

Fashion here is so, well, busy. You cannot purchase anything plain, everything sports some garish pattern or additional thing or bit that you’d rather it didn’t have. Friday night in Istiklal Caddesi is my absolute favourite people-watching hour. Scores of restless youth pour in from the suburbs to hang about gaping at foreigners, women and whatever else seems to be on the street.

The passing parade is not soon forgotten. A blind man clacks his stick over another example of mismanaged infrastructure, and as he stumbles over loose pavers, his lifeblood of cheap lighters scatter in front of him. Veiled women clothed in black shuffle past with their regulatory disobedient sons, while the odd transsexual glides past on roller blades, pinching the buttocks of an outraged posturing wannabe Casanova, his shirt so tight it might actually be causing permanent lung damage.

The wannabes lurk in doorways, ogling each woman who passes as though she were the first of the species they’d set their eyes on. To other men they simply furrow their brow, contemptuous that any male might be tougher, more handsome or able to get away with a shirt exposing more chest themselves.

The odd conservative religious type wanders past, the type media like to portray as the bomb-throwing fundamentalists, but personally, in this town those who do most damage to the environment and are a general affront to my well-being are well-heeled females – the fairer sex and money do not a gracious combination in this city make.

Turks are a good looking race of people. Why the women destroy their looks with badly bleached hair, heavy-handed make-up, collagen-fuelled lips and Paris Hiltonesque haut-couture… well, I just lost the train of though in that sentence.

Gipsy kids try to pick-pocket you and louts eagerly entice you to visit a nice Russian dancing girl in a bar ‘not too far from the street’. Ooh, yes please, I’d love to sit on the lap of some sad prostitute while you ring up a tab on my credit card then muscle me into paying one thousand dollars for a beer…

Among the natives are the throngs of slovenly-dressed backpackers, kids from the village in the big smoke on holiday and strangely enough, huge numbers of families who seem to enjoy being thrusted this was and that across a street by perhaps a hundred thousand souls.
Bewildered tea-quaffing, rosary-clacking mustachioed old timers sit on miniature stools, no doubt bemoaning the fate of the country and biding their time until nationalism raises its head again to shake the country to its senses. Arthouse type try desperately to look dangerously aloof and cool, somehow forgetting that Sleepless in Seattle is years past its prime, and, let’s be honest, who really ever gave a shit about grunge and Winona Ryder? A small punk contingent hangs out the famed Galatasaray Lycée, something in their dress and countenance makes me wonder how soon they’ll swap the mohicans for side parts and the rags for Armani as their bourgeois backgrounds weigh down on them in years to come.

Down toward my neighbourhood is where the musos are to be found. Someone seriously needs to tell these people that Metallica is dead. Long straight hair may have look good on Crystal Gayle and Carly Simon, but it’s a hardly sensible look for men in the first decade of this century. Black is not the new black.

Lastly, if the shops don’t bedazzle with their window displays, there are always the hagglers on the street. Personally, I like to buy my Nike and Adidas socks for one dollar - who cares if they’ve fallen of the back of a truck? Yes, I love day-glo light displays. Oh, yes, please, sell me anything, as long as it’s made of plastic and as long as it’s from China.

And that small wind-up fluffy chicken that barks like a irritated Rottwieler? Only $2.50. Please, I’ll take two of them. I plan to insert them both painfully into my boss when I leave the school next Friday.

Friday, December 05, 2008

This is the face of an exiled cat lover

He is not a criminal.

Man, Athens is splendid. Today I again overdosed on the wonders of Western cilivilisation and pondered for hours over the dedication required by some people to scratch around in the dirt for clues, for history, and for meaning.

I too have been scratching around for a little meaning, to my life, mostly giggling at my current absurd situation.

Today I received official notice that the Turkish Embassy in Belgrade is also unable to assist me further.

It's incredible how philosophical I've become. The same incident several years ago would undoubtedly led to the death of many. My rage would have been fierce, unlimited, vengeful. However, Turkey is now the cause of both my frustrating situation and present state of mind.

At least I can finally join the ranks of those who describe themselves as 'patient'.

The Feast of the Sacrifice had begun throughout the Muslim world and the very earliest I can return to Istanbul is after the expiration of another seven days. While everyone who's anyone will be out slaughtering an innocent animal in the name of Abraham, I'm stuck here with Souvlaki & Co. Still... I'm lovin' the Greeks.

But I must bid farewell to the Mediterranean and head for the Middle East proper. I'm going to try my luck in Dubai, and perhaps do a little duty free shopping while I'm at it. I could do with some clean undies.

Turkey, I am coming back. Your obstinacy is no match for mine. Besides, I'm pig-headed. You can quote me on that.
Try as you might, but I'm coming back to my apartment and my cats. If you don't let me, I plan to make an international incident out of it. And you'd be best to avoid any negative press. I mean, you do still want to join Europe, right?

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Not Istanbul

Well, haven't I just had an interesting week?

Intrigued?

I think you might be.

I thought I'd add this post to reach the maximum number of friends and family members to elicit the optimal amount of empathy, or sympathy at the very least. For those who know me, please read the following with my sense of humour firmly clenched between your buttocks and in your mind. For those of you who have had the pleasure never to meet me, I'm in no way the miserable, curmudgeonly, cantankerous fool you will soon believe me to be. It's just that I happen not to come across as an aimiable chap in my written ramblings.

Anyway, I've had an interesting week because I am in Athens and I don't want to be.

Now, don't get me wrong. The Hellenistic peoples have given much to the world and, under more pleasant circumstances, I would be happy to munch on yiros and idle away the hours among naked marbles in the Archeological Museum.

However, I should be feasting on doner kebabs and sitting with my cats on the couch in my apartment. Fortune has turned on me and it's going to require a Hell of a lot of charm to get Her her do a 180 for me over the next few days.

You see, I, in the company of a couple of Frenchies, left Istanbul on the 10:00pm Seltvelgrad express (or something like that), destination Sophia. Laurent, Thibaut and myself chatted for a while, wondered if the train would actually even reach the end of Istanbul, or whether indeed Istanbul would ever end, and finally fell asleep around midnight in the comfortable, if not a little chilly, sleeper wagons of the Turkish National Railways.

At 04:00 we arrived at Kapikule and jumped out into the mist. I could smell the Communism, I swear. It was ripe in the air as we crossed the platform, passports in hand, and proceeding in an orderly fashion to the Turkish customs.

Third-to-last in the line, Ahmet asked me why my father's name wasn't in my passport. For those of you who are wondering, in many parts of the world one of the two necessary people present during conception is required to appear in your travel document. Strange, yes. But hey, I'd been asked the same question before, however, it seemed odd this time since Turkey sees thousands of foreigners and I'm sure this guy had seen an Australian passport before. And although I felt certain he probably couldn't sign his own name, I kept it to myself.

I was moved to the end of the line with the resounding word, 'problem'. Jesus. When I was the only thing left in the queue he began to skim through my passport, scanned it, and promptly told me I had overstayed my residency permit.

Except I hadn't, because when I returned to from Spain at the end of August I re-entered on a tourist visa. My residence permit was due to expire so I checked with the issuing office at the airport and took a tourist visa to avoid the need to exit the country within the following three weeks. I thought I was good for ninety days.

Nope. Ahmet hated me on sight. Which is hard to do, I'm sure of it. (God, the guy next to me just asked if I'd heard the world was going to end sometime during December 2012 - they really should start being more selective about who they allow to stay in these International Youth Hostels). Anyway, Ahmet wasn't interested in listening to my tale of woe.

Suddenly, I wanted to extend my hand through the gap in window, grab him by his shirt collar that his mother had undoubtedly ironed for him, and pull him forward so abruptly that his cranium would smash instantly against the bullet proof glass. I envisioned blood, all if it his, covering the linoleum counter as I somehow, after a show of exceeding strength and ruthless brutality, managed to remove his bleeding pulp of a head from the now-lifeless cadaver and kick it far into Bulgarian territory.

I kept my cool. I'm proud of myself. I seethed but remained polite, unmovable. Sometimes it's good to be a Protestant. We may not have glamorous churches or dance very well, but neither do we gesticulate wildly like the rest of the planet when something goes wrong.

Ahmet took one hour to fill out a form that required his name, my name, the date, and the amount of the fine. While he clearly had difficulty using the modern ball-point pen and perhaps it was asking too much to spell his name correctly, again I thought better than to offer help.

It did feel bad to know the entire train was held up because of me, but hey, it's Ahmet they should have been angry with. Even when he filled out the form and I sprinted to another building 300 metres away to pay the fine, I was sent back because because stupido Ahmet hadn't filled the stupido form out correctly.

By that time I was laughing out loud.

My newly discovered enemy of the Turkish customs service stamped my passport. I told him what his mother did in Hell in French and left the building, only to be screamed at as soon as I opened the door.

'Run! run!'

Honestly, Ahmet the spastic takes an hour to ruin my life and I have to run 10 metres to the train... Still, I did at least canter, if not gallop. The Frenchies were almost asleep in their compartment but I made sure I woke them properly to whine a little.

'I told him I have two cats in the apartment and he still wouldn't listen.'

I think the boys needed to sleep.

The next day we arrived in Sophia. The Turkish Embassy was unwilling to help me and I thought, 'you know what, maybe it's time to go to South America.' Then I remembered I had almost no money and that Buenos Aires was maybe dreaming a touch too wildly. I had only two t-shirts, a jumper and three underpants in my backpack, so again, South America was not an intelligent choice here.

And then I discovered a short hour later that what bank balance I had was now out of reach. Despite the fact I specifically called the bank before I left Turkey to ensure I would be able to access funds from machine displaying the Maestro symbol... Well, guess the end of that sentence.

And at this point, it's worth mentioning that Murphy's law was possible first uttered by a Turk. Or at least by someone who had a lot of dealing with a Turk. But then again, I don't know any Turks called Murphy so it might originally have been Mehmet's law, or something similar.

Sophia was lovely and we ate a lot of pork. To pass the time I began to play the role of a spy behind the iron curtain who has to sneak past the authorities. In my head I'd already envisioned how Ahmet the border guard would perish, so I moved on to bloodier scenes involving mostly me fighting and maiming Turkish customs employees. I doubt the film version would be a success, but in my head I was having an award winner.

Less than two days later, with 100 Euro in my underpants and my French friends heading back to Istanbul, on the advice of a friend I headed to Athens. The woman sitting next to me on the bus force-fed me peanuts and finally we arrived at Ammonia, or some such place at six-thirty in the morning.

I felt like rubbish and looked like a big pile of it. I made it to the International Youth Hostel, necessarily located in a seedier Athenian quarter. To be fair, it looks more like Peshawar with a dash of North Africa and Bangladesh thrown in for good measure. Everyone speaks English or French and quite clearly no-one in this neighbourhood is Greek. The restaurants serve halal food and a lot of people are just lurking and leering. I love it and am already thinking of renting an apartment.

I've been twice to the Turkish Embassy, donning a clean shirt on both occasions. I almost had an involuntary bowel movement, when, after explaining my situation, the woman at the counter said,

'Well, Australia is a nice country too, but if I want to go there I have to respect the law and..' By this time, in my head, she was dead from two short, sharp slaps to the temple.

I truly don't think I've done anything wrong. In my life I've done a lot of wrong things but this is not one of them. And what about my cats?

I love Turkey and I adore Istanbul. I've finally managed to get a good grip on the language. I have friends there. My two cats remain ignorant of the whole affair. How are they going to react? God, my apartment contains the last three years of my life and I can't get home.

Now I wait. My pleading email has reached the office of the Vice-Consul and a decision will be made soon.

Turkey, let me back in. Please. I'll be good.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

A very Istanbul day

'Mr James', my wonderful ground floor neighbour whispered as I exited the building.

Perihan's kitchen window is right next to the apartment entrance. Nothing, but nothing, escapes her.

'James, come. I spoke with your landlady last night.' They are good friends.

'Oh yes, I'm late two days with the rent. I know.'

'I told her your fridge is broken' (It's not).

'Well, thank you.' This is Perihan's way of looking after me. She keeps in contact with the landlady and over tea and baklava reminds her what a good rent-payer, charming person and superb cat-lover I am. And then she works a few angles to further populate my apartment with furniture I don't need.

Truth is, my freezer doesn't really function so well these days. It ices up. I'd never noticed it or, at least, it had never bothered me until Perihan one day let herself into my apartment to move a pot plant that another neighbour suggested I'd placed to close to the edge of the balcony. I guess Perihan must've had a peek around because she then went on to admonish my cleaner for such oversight. I rarely even use the freezer and bought Swiss chocolate for the cleaner to let her know I wasn't bothered about the chunks of protruding ice that keep my ice-cream squishy. That was weeks ago.

I thanked Perihan for the possibility of new white goods and then remembered the actual conversation I'd had with the landlady daughter a few days previous.

'I want to talk with you about painting the apartment (it's beige), changing the light fittings (no word in any lexicon can appropriately describe their hideousness), and install new floor covering in the bedrooms (previous tenants have introduced questionable marks and a nice iron print). Oh yeah, the curtains have got to go (my cats have kind a ripped then into an Alexander McQueen monstrosity).'

After placating her gently, insisting I was more than willing to pay the costs, she promised to get back to me with a decision.

This afternoon I received a text message requesting I ensure keys were with the downstairs neighbour since two hefty lads with a wheelbarrow were on their way to deliver a bed.

A bed is not a fridge and is not a general passe-partout for minor renovations.

Puzzled? I think I was.

Returning to the apartment later in the afternoon, Perihan had already been informed of the new mattress.

'Don't worry, go and teach your lessons James, I'll be here to collect it.'

Which is great because this woman could single-handed re-organise Middle Eastern affairs and is possibly the very reason Arab and Middle Eastern countries are so frightened of pursuing equality among the sexes. If this octogenarian is anything to go by, women should actually be in charge of the entire region.

My lesson completed, I fell down some stairs and returned tired, bleeding and sore to the apartment, anticipating a minimum eight hour slumber on my new firm spring-loaded sleep-inducing mattress.

Disappointment was total. I sat down but recognised the stains immediately. This was my mattress (and that of many previous tenants, none of whom bothered with a protector sheet). I went downstairs.

'I know my dear. I was waiting here for hours and they never showed up'.

It turns out that Perihan, running late for her husband's own appointment at the hospital, stayed back until it was clear: something was amiss.

'I called your landlady. She was in a cafe... I said, what are you doing sitting in a cafe Ilknur? I'm waiting here for the mattress for this lovely boy James and I have to get Muharrem to the hospital'.

Well, it appears that while sipping her latte somewhere off in la-la land, she simply forgot. Forgot. So today the fridge I fleetingly hoped for, the painting, floor coverings and lamp fittings I requested became the mattress that never was.

I sank back onto the suddenly old, stained and sagging bed to nurse my aching elbow and knee, glared at my offensive light fittings and wondered 'why do I bother?'

I'm definitely, definitely paying the rent late this month.

I did it again.

There doesn't appear to be a simple Turkish equivalent of the term 'expatriate'. While this is of no concern to my cats, one of which has been sniffing the same spot on the couch for half an hour, the other chasing a small shiny metallic object about the hallway, I find it problematic.

In English, the word conjures up opinions and thoughts numerous enough to fill a couple of tomes. Good, and not so good anecdotes come to mind.

To face the not-so-attractive reality, we, the expatriates, are everywhere. And I, one of them, seem to have issues with some of the others, who recently, count themselves among people I'd like to maim in a painful manner. Damn, that's two sentences commencing with a conjunction... What kind of language teacher am I?

Have you ever walked down the street in a culture fairly dissimilar to your own, where the natives act, look, dress and generally go about their daily lives in a manner different to your own? Of course you have, since we've all travelled at some point and even a trip from the suburbs to the centre of town can bring the out-of-my-comfort zone sweat stains and accompanying unsightly rash.

And while making your way down that very same avenue, have you ever crossed paths with another from your world, your own culture? You can spot it in the eyes. When you've travelled a decent amount you can spot the tourist, spot the native, spot the lost tourist, spot the evil person with a moustache who is going to scam you, the person who needs help with directions, the pesky unavoidable thing who's going to ask you for some spare change. Nothing wrong with any of that though.

In Istanbul, I can spot Antipodeans easily. First, there are few of us in Turkey. Secondly, we generally dress appallingly. It seems to us that if you walk around in un-ironed garments and clothing more suitable for the beach, we hope that others will think us relaxed and easy-going. It's not for me to explain what my Turkish friends really think of they way we dress, but hey, it's not that complimentary.

Anyway, we expatriates are a sometimes funny breed. We come in contact with another of our kind and immediately look away. We did not see each other. Why is that? It's impossible to blend fully into the Turkish fabric for most of us, and what should that matter anyway, we're here to absorb the culture, hopefully learn the language and make a few friends along the way. I'm not the only expat in Istanbul and I couldn't care less about it. This is not a competition.

I passed another of my kind on Sıraselviler Caddesi this morning, an untamed, ramshackle thoroughfare with the world's most hilarious excuse for functioning footpaths. The expat guy looked at me and straight through me. But it was immediately preceded by that flicker or recognition, that you-look-just-like-me-and-that-makes-me-less-special-now. Yeah, go away quickly.

I'm not putting forward the idea that we should shake hands each time we run into another expat. I mean, granted, most of us would probably not get along to well if we were on our own soil. What's amusing here is the conscious decision to be annoyed with someone after making eye contact with them. for no good reason. I guess, chances are that expats engaged in conversation are often just moaning about Turkish food/currency/housing costs/weather/traffic/disorganisation ad nauseum. So, sure, move on. Just why the obvious displeasure in your demeanour?

I've even been guilty myself of acting the moaning expat. Hey, sometimes it is hard to live away from your native culture and, while I'm positive Turkish norms are not so different from what might be branded Western culture, there is language, customs, mores and morals that certainly differ from those which many of us grew up with. I'm sure I'd even suffer from culture shock in the United States, least of all because they('re about to) have a black president...

Anyway, expatriates do tend to hang out together because we sometimes need a dose of the familiar, and if living outside Australia has taught me one thing, it's that humour rarely translates gracefully or successfully between cultures. My apartment has known both Irish and American flatmates with their respective humours, and while we chuckled along quite well together humour often fails when you have to offer alternate cultural elements that can be summed up otherwise in a single word or short phrase.

I remember crying with laughter at a recent Australian mini-series or mockumentary or whatever the ABC was flogging it as, which naturally failed to impress or leave much of an effect on the flatmate. And I guess that's the very reason why so many of us do eventually suffer bouts of homesickness; we miss laughing. Well, I do.

So why completely ignore each other now when chances are you'll be at the same party in a few week's time? Just we just accept this town is big enough for the two of us?

The second part of the now overlong post deals with the nastier expat. There are quite a few. Those who consider themselves superior or inferior because a) they've landed a great job that pays them seven hundred times more that the average Turkish wage and have no need for you, b) they still haven't bothered to acquire even the most basic Turkish after an embarrassingly long period and believe after seven years that every Turk is still out to scam them, c) they're French by nationality or d), they can't live in their birthplace because they are hated by everyone, possibly already belonging to group c).

Man... today I was in the bank and that was already stressful enough - I loathe those institutions. However, this was going to be exciting for me as I planned to deposit instead of withdraw. Took my ticket. Waited in the queue. Over the next fifteen minutes, as I slowly lost the will to live, a tall man with hair that can only be described as a gross error in judgment twice jumped the line and decided that he wanted his customer service now.

In principal, I'm not against queue-jumpers, provided they offer the obligatory 'I'm sorry but (insert reasonably lame excuse) and have to get this done before my head falls off'. For example. During his second approach to the counter I politely demurred and asked what might be the issue, prey tell? I questioned him in Turkish but since he looked both blank and irritatable I understood French was the way forward. His response?

'This is not Paris. Things are done differently here.'

What the $%#* is that supposed to mean, other than my French accent is damn impressive?

So of course, I decided to let him know that basic rudeness is hardly culture-specific and all he had needed to do was ask if he could move forward in the queue. Basic politeness demands this.

And then he did something that he shouldn't have done. He moved his index finger to his mouth in a teacher/parent manner to silence me. He really oughtn't have done that. I think. I rather lost it, in fluent French fashion.

It all turned out satisfactorily, though designating him un clochard instead of un connard took something away from affair's general sucess. I don't think he cared that I called him homeless tramp instead of a #$%head, though with his haircut not all the effect was lost. Sometimes my savoir-faire amazes me.

Then he called me tourist - a little rich considering his Turkish made my French sound worthy of l'Academie francaise.

I uttered something very, very rude.

This evening I have a wallet stacked with un-banked lira. I guess it's back to Anger Management classes and the local branch tomorrow.

More comical yet, me and the Gallic turd will undoubtably cross paths at a party in the near future. Let's hope he's had a hair cut and wearing non-staining, inflammable clothing. I'm not going to shake his hand, and I will look right through him.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Menemen! For single men!

I've never been a fan of the English breakfast. The vision of so much scorched flesh writhing on an overloaded plate hardly inspires the palate at any hour of the morning. The traditional English fare was always enough to send me back to the bedroom for another two hour's sleep, and if breakfast is supposed to prepare you for day ahead, well, I'm hardly needing gargantuan quantities of protein required for toiling in the fields, driving cattle or installing lifts in the tower of Babel.

My days consists of approximately three hours working on a computer, four hours reading and taking notes, and four hours talking.The most important meal of the day needs to provide only enough for these activities, plus sufficient reserve at the end of the day to feed the cats, load the washing machine and climb under the covers.

And while the traditional Turkish breakfast deserves a post all to itself, there is one dish of Anatolian cuisine that I am superbly excellent at preparing: voici menemen.

Yes, it is a silly name.

In the Western part of the country lies a small district of the same name, but not its namesake. There are even two events, the Menemen Massacre of 1919 and, eleven years later, the Menemen Incident. The incident in question was a distasteful affair during which an anti-secular Sufi and self-proclaimed prophet (aren't they always the latter) rode into town with his mates, and, with the goal of reinstating Islamic law in the newly secular nation, attacked a garrison, killed it's lieutenant and paraded the unfortunate's head about town on a stick. I really, really hate fundamentalists of every ilk.

Anyway, the whole incident probably put all the citizens off their breakfast for quite some time, though this doesn't really matter since there appears to be no connection between the town's beheaded lieutenant and the dish itself, which mysteriously looks like mashed up, decapitated head. Quirky.

According to another group of people I detest - purists - memenen has to contain egg. It also has lots of diced tomatoes and green pepper, onion and parsley. Season to taste. I like to add cheese and sometimes sucuk, lightly spiced but often yucky Turkish sausage, and here the purist would also interject.

Recipes state that you should score, peel and de-seed the tomatoes. Who the Hell has time for that? I simply cut the tomatoes and pepper into small bits and leave out the onion because we all know what effect that noxious bulb has on our bodies. Fry it all, add the cheese and egg (if you must), season to taste.

There are a number of menemen purveyors in my neighbourhood but, even as a part-time smoker, I object to scoffing breakie while inhaling a truck load of other diners' cigarette smoke. At nine in the morning. Turkey is the only place on the planet where men are truly addicted to nicotine on this level.

I also prefer to make and eat menemen at home because I can eat brown bread and not the poor white substitute offered in restaurants that contributes to the Turkish male's, and my belly. A close friend tells me the the glycemic index of white bread is startlingly high, so it's off the menu for good.

Anyway, breakfast is more fun when the cats join in and try to crawl over my plate, repeating the routine daily even though neither of them like hot food, nor any of my cooking for that matter.

Lastly, I saw this on a website:

This is a quick, fix dish for breakfast in Turkey. Menemen is commonly
preffered (sic) by single men since it is easy and quick

Yep, if a Turkish man's mother, girlfriend, sister, grandmother, aunt or any other female with tenuous filial link isn't in das Küche, he ain't gonna be taking long to cook. In fact, he'll go to join his cigarette-chuffing mates at the restaurant I mentioned earlier.

Turkish men don't cook. I guess they're right too. Moustache with apron has never been a fashion fad.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Does it make me a bad person?

For me, homesickness is practised in much the same fashion as religious observance. Half-heartedly. Sporadically. Non-committedly.

Prayer is reserved for time of need, times of admonishment for a life hurtling down the wrong cul-de-sac on a skateboard without brakes, for moments of dubious grievance. I'm not what the Pope might call a practising Catholic, and that naturally is because I was born and raised a diluted Protestant. Still, my point here is to demonstrate that I seem to think only of family and friends at home when my Istanbul existence has intermittently sapped me of the required energies to get out of bed and face another day in a city that never sleeps, let alone closes its eyes and dozes during a World Series Test Match on Easter weekend.

Like a un-Catholic guilt-ridden Calvinist, I think it rotten that I'm so self-involved, forgetting birthdays, bypassing anniversaries, avoiding milestones that in our age of instant messaging appears irrational and mean, self-centred and ungenerous. Unlike my grandmother, extensive lists for sending celebratory greeting cards have no place among possessions cluttering my desk and I have metamorphosed into the kind of brother who often cannot instantly remember the precise age of his siblings. When I sense a birthday, I call a third party for assurance, hang up after delivering sycophantic praise and then make the call that keeps me in everyone's will.

I think it does make me a slightly less-than-admirable humanistic type.

Homesickness rarely presents itself. I think I might even be a bad Australian. I don't miss the place, just its inhabitants who count themselves among friends and relatives. I almost envy people who miss their family home, mother's cooking, time spent with relatives, childhood picnic on white, sandy beaches. Unluckily I'm just not made that way and I long ago gave up hoping that by thinking I was, I would become somehow, well, more sensitive, more nostalgic.

Perhaps the ability to communicate in so many new and inventive ways allows all of us to indulge less in homesickness-type feelings. Maybe I'm never really out-of-touch, just never really rushing to buy a ticket back home for a visit.

And the saddest truth of all is the only thing from home I actually crave is meat pies.

I think it's time to look within. Personal development may be what the psychologist would have me order.

Monday, November 03, 2008

Sakin oldum

I'm mellowing. Anger Management Classes seem but a distant memory.

Why, I can't fathom. Perhaps age is finally teaching me that exploding aortas and bursting jugulars fail to keep me in a good state of mind.

I've never been proud of my temper, which, until age thirty, lay dormant like the pre-1883 Krakatoa. Family values instilled in me ensured I always smiled, no matter the situation and regardless how offensive, rude, barbarous and ignorant the person in front of me might be. Elder family members were the height of English hypocritical politeness, and from them I learned always to say nothing at the required moment but wait until, cup of tea in hand, complaints could surge forth vociferously around the kitchen table. Highly constructive.

At high school I never once remember losing my temper or speaking out against those who had wronged me. I was too meek and mild for my own good and can't imagine how much of a wimp I must have appeared to those around me. I was never in a scuffle at school and used to avoid anyone I found aggressive or threatening.

Then of course, as it always does, something snapped. Not in the kind of way that a North American might crack, leave the house, buy a gun and randomly shoot any living creature along the way. I learned to focus my anger like a guided SCUD, and rarely missed my target.

As the staff in the ANZ Bank Market St branch one day discovered, asking me to collect my new credit card and then not having it ready for the aforementioned collection was poor customer service. In hindsight it certainly wasn't acceptable to threaten to return with a sawn-off shotgun, and with foresight the whole thing might have been taken a lot more seriously had the event occurred post the Two-Big-Buildings-Come-Down-And-Governments-Retract-Civil-Liberties era.

Further, I'd like to remark that while intimidation and menace are hardly attractive in themselves, I've never since experienced garbage customer service at the hands of the Australian and New Zealand banking peoples. They always smile after swiping my card and I can't help but think there's something flashing up on the computer screen to caution them.

And the urologist deservedly had it coming. How special can a specialist doctor be if, two hours after the appointed time reserved one month before you are still sitting in a corridor wading through last year's TIME and Vogue and National Gun Association Family Excursion gazette? Out of patience, I remember knocking on the doctor's door and, receiving no answer, barging my through demanding an explanation for such tardiness. Unfortunately for him, telling me the first thing about being a patient is to be patient was not the desired rejoinder, so I told him where to stick his homonyms and the gathered storm clouds let forth a sub-continental downpour. It rained expletives.

Long after I was punching backpacking partners while ambulating through holy towns in India, throwing electric fans across hotel rooms in Vietnam, shouting at inhospitable hospitality staff all around the world and generally acting like an Israeli recently released from military service.

However, I've calmed right down. As I teacher of children I still need to raise my voice every so often. But the death threats and possible grievous bodily harm has come to a halt. I can maintain a calm state of mind, lucid thoughts and logical arguments when angry. Even when confronted by a repentant and terrified eleven year-old.

Istanbul is my medicine.

First, it is not possible to survive in a city of this many millions if you are going to throw a wobbly. To cope with the endless traffic and teeming, swarming crowd, you just have to chill. I learned this early on after discovering the average Turk cannot walk in a straight line. Exiting a shop, a Turk rarely looks neither right nor left to see if a person might cross his path. Taxi drivers are responsible for so many social faux-pas that to let it bother you would spell your doom. Turks do not say please or thank you easily and irresponsibly. And I've eventually beat my entrenched prejudice that my mother's way of dealing with the world was the only civilised one.

I've had to change my perceptions. Friendliness is conceivably even more important than politeness, though for a long time it was politeness, and the way I perceived it, that took the upper hand. I now believe them to be two separate and distinct things.

Naturally, particular aspects of la Comedie humaine still really do my head in. A few weeks ago, when the imam refused to open the mosque that my cat could escape and return home, I definitely uttered some atrocities under my breath about him, religion, and religious people, all regardless of denomination. But I didn't shout and my cat returned home safely the following morning, looking a little more ecstatic than usual.

And of course, I've become my own boss. This, more than anything else, has contributed to my state of chilled-out well-being. I don't have to attend any meetings, perhaps humanity's most pointless achievement.

Personally, I think the proof is my inability to cuss in Turkish. As an Australian, and according to transformational grammar theory, I would have been born with an innate capacity for swearing. And I was. In Paris I successfully managed to upset a lot of Frenchies too with Moliere's tongue but foul Turkic terms do not flow easily from my mouth.

Maybe these people are just a lot nicer to me.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

The little park that was no more.


A week or so ago, I woke up. As I do most days. However, this time, rather than to the wailing call to prayer, brawling felines, chamber music or my cleaner coming through the door, the dulcet tones of heavy machinery filled the air.

Crashing sounds followed by more things breaking, falling apart, and then crashing again.

Occupational Health and Safety are probably best defined in Istanbul as two nouns, an adjective and a conjunction. Town Planning could also be adequately interpreted in simplified terms. Someone got approval to initiate something but no-one can actually explain or be bothered to enlighten you about what they intend to do in the once-functional space that now resembles a disused quarry.

Welcome to my neighbourhood park in Cihangir, or as we clever Turkic-comprehending people might articulate, Cihangir Parkı. Home to well over the legally acceptable limit of cats, truant children and people who never pick up their dog's faeces, the park was previously the crowning glory in a neighbourhood of which other Istanbul residents were clearly jealous, in a metropolis where verdant foliage appears as frequently as drag queens at a brick-laying convention.

My thoughts are this: What in Allah's good name are they doing to the park, the only green space within spitting distance and beyond?

I've scoured the newspapers for information, hoping to discover the the park will be refurbished, refurnished with playground, lacquered benches and maybe one of those little metal contraptions that dispense plastic bags for all the selfish dog owners of Cihangir who think it's fine to allow their animals to defaecate in the park so that it might slowly putrefy and let the rest of us suffer and the park look and smell more like a sewer than an area where residents should be able to relax without smelling foul heaps of dog dung. I'd like to see one of those installed, pronto.

To no avail. The only iota of news suggests that the multi-story car park upon which the park lies is riddled with concrete cancer and presently unable to withstand an earthquake. At this I rudely chortled. Man, the day an earthquake hits this town we're all going for a long, fatal slide into the Bosporus.
So people with moustaches and yellow trucks moved the gate, or more correctly flung it about three metres from where it stood. All trees have been uprooted, and in my opinion, ransacked for firewood. Fencing from the basketball courts sits huddled and unloved on smashed concrete slabs. It looks miserable.

The people with moustaches and yellow trucks have moved on, probably to wreak havoc elsewhere and sell firewood to poorer inhabitants of Istanbul, and the Cihangir Park gate sleeps uncomfortably in its shallow grave. For two weeks now, nothing.

In another country someone would trip over the wreckage of the gate, sue the municipality and then get a massive stack of cash. Back home you'd make sure you were really intoxicated before you stumbled over it ensuring your negligence case would be rewarded even more generously.

In the neighbourhood life goes on. Dog owners continue to allow their pets to soil the grass and people care even less about it than they did(n't) before. And maybe they're right.

My cynical self even thinks the whole thing was done so that the park might appear a suitable backdrop to the burnt-out car that has stood next to the park entrance for the past three months.

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Good Mourning Istanbul

Today the sun was positively shining, a blue, cloudless sky burst forth provocatively to 16 million Istanbullites and I excitedly popped on my regulation shorts and T-shirt before trotting off to endless hours of traffic jams through fifty-three neighbourhoods on public transport to teach some English.

This week, me and the kids are focusing on irregular forms of the simple past. In English, this requires discarding notions of logic and modern teaching methodology and instead resigning oneself to memorising a rather tedious list of verbs.

Deciding against to forbid and to beget among others, my eyes soon glazed over and I leaned against the bus window to examine instead the faster-moving world outside the 42M Levent-Bahçeköy un-express-yet-clean-gas-powered otobüs. Black. More shades of black. This is not Saudi Arabia or pre-war Sicilia, so why the fascination with wearing a colour that makes you look like a dirty rotten gangster?

I'll never understand it. Growing up in sunnier climes, I never, ever remember wearing a single garment the colour of death and mourning my entire childhood. To be honest, I cannot recall donning once a Grim Reaper-inspired number for any occasion, no matter how sober the event.

Turks love wearing black. Far too much.

I've never worn a tuxedo. I've never dressed as a Carmelite nun. I've never wanted to wear a hue I associate with depression, gloom and nasty, ominous things. Black looks good on evil omens; the crow, for example. It's a great colour for ink, a pentacle, and also, in my opinion, computer keyboards. But on people black looks, well, dark. Gloomy. Shady. Mafia-esque. Alla Camorra. People from Naples called Carlo and Donatello are supposed to wear it brazenly. But for me, black belongs in funerals, on over-ripe bananas and up chimneys.

There's clearly a link here between the Turkish addiction to melancholy and their choice of garments. In a nation where ninety percent of citizen's hairs waver between ebony and soot, ninety-five percent of moustaches charcoal and all five o'clock shadows jet-black , the all-encasing chador-wearing women of the city's more conservative neighbourhoods just look a little too over-the-top.

I just checked my wardrobe. No simple cocktail dress. One black item. It's a belt, and that's more correctly classified an accessory than a garment.

Someone needs to explain to me why people choose to wear this hue. I mean, think about this: when someone wearing lime-green Prince of Wales check shorts and a dark blue Quicksilver T-shirt (for example) smiles at you, you're going to return the warmth, right? While someone smothered in funereal garb doing the same, well, it's not smiling - it's a leer, a sinister warning, an I-know-what-you-did kinda oblique look that makes you turn away in fear and cross to the other side of the road.

And another thing. Have you ever wondered about a stange yet likely correlation between those who wear black and missing teeth? I have. And it makes me shudder.

Friday, October 31, 2008

The rain in Spain...

Tonight I sank to a new linguistic nadir while cruising the aisles in the local Carrefour supermarket.

Browsing for mayonnaise, I accidentally de-shelved a jar of the stuff. Splat.

The Turkish verb for spill wasn't forthcoming and when I finally ran into a staff member, I managed to mumble something about squeezing the mayonnaise jar onto the floor. Except, I didn't mutter squeeze.

Let's just say that by inserting an open vowel in place of the required closed one (or was it the other way around), I informed the rather pallid-looking Carrefour employee that I had actually made love, albeit in a very coarse way, to the unfortunate mayonnaise. The bit about on the floor came out fine. Lucky me.

It kind of reminds me when, freshly arrived in this city, I politely cautioned an elderly woman to shut your damn mouth when she innocently questioned me about a lump of nasty looking cheese.

In fact, keslan, as I was made aware of not no long after, is rarely used for please wait a moment (while I locate my friend who can speak Turkish). In fact, it shouldn't be used at all.

Another reason that after three years, I ought consider enrolling in formal language classes.

The verb for spill in Turkish is dökmek. Now I remember.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Good news

It's often too easy to be dragged down into a state of depression and hopelessness after reading the headlines in Turkey.

As an expat, it occasionally seems better to remain unconcerned with events that happen in and around Turkey. Though after three years I've built relationships here, and since I still choose to call Istanbul home, it's getting harder to remain impartial to all the ups and downs in the region.

The Ergenekon affair, a supposedly anti-secular government, controversial decisions made by the country's Constitutional Court that promise action from the more nationalistic parties, the tiresome headscarf issue that diverts attention and resources from Turkey's more pressing woes, the supposed creep of Islam into the Education sector the never-ending pointless and murderous actions of the PKK... It requires ample time to stay abreast of the news here.

And if I were Turkish I'd be prone to feel rather depressed.

So when I read today that a group of Armenian and Turkish academics were meeting in Yerevan with the goal of moving towards reconciliation, it felt like people were taking a step in the right direction.

Academics grasp mantle of peace

The shared history of the Turks and Armenians is a long one, with many bitter memories since the unclear events of 1915. It's a story that it difficult to unravel as rhetoric from both sides makes it almost impossible for the outsider to grasp any point of view that if free from bias or prejudice.

Any move that will bring about some form of mutual understanding will be welcomed by moderates in both countries and beyond. I hope the discussions will be used to better inform the peoples of both nations. It will be a sign of great political maturity if the two nations can finally work towards peace.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Conspiracy (groan...) Numero Uno


One of the saddest things about growing up is having to enter the real world, a place inhabited by ruthless, power-hungry politicians, belligerent war-mongers, fanatics of all creeds and people who think fashion is an acceptable conversation topic in polite society.

I've realised that, yet again, I've let the real world slip quietly past and have of late not been keeping abreast of the political and social turmoil that appears to be tearing Turkey apart. Or of the people who threaten to do it.
It's time for me to introduce, in order for me to understand, The Ergenekon Case.

Since Turkey can appear at times to be a highly confused and confusing nation, this might take a lot of my time and what remains of my patience. However, my hope is that by understanding the Ergenekon case I might finally comprehend what's really goes on in the world of grown-up people. Hell, I might even find it interesting - for according to the media the saga contains every imaginable element needed for even the most tedious, unintelligible and perplexing TV series.

OK. We need a touch of history here. Ergenekon, the stuff of legend, is an inaccessible locale in the Altay mountains of Central Asia, birthplace of the Turkic peoples. Think Romulus and Remus, substitute a grey wolf, and you're on the right track.

In today's environment Ergenekon is the name of the deep state operating within Turkey, containing members of the judiciary, military, business world and the all-too-spooky mafia, who essentially think that ultra-nationalism is the way forward and whose current goal is to topple the incumbent government. Very, very secretly.

I don't believe in conspiracies because, quite frankly, I haven't got the time. And they all sound so freakin' childish.
Ergenekon is perhaps the largest and most complex conspiracy I've ever encountered, making JFK and Marilyn look like a more uneventful episode of the OC.

If you believe the incessant press, the state within the state has operated more or less as a group of untouchables at the highest levels of national government for quite a long time. And I guess it would have to, since bringing down a democratically elected government requires large quantities of money, influence, time and manpower. And plenty of will.

The storm had already been brewing for quite some time when in July 2007 a house in Ümraniye, known to me only because Istanbul's first IKEA opened there, was found loaded with all manner of ammunition. In a nation where 3000 people die by gunfire each year, I can imagine even a cursory inspection of my neighbourhood would unearth more. We could start with the imam across the way - he's been looking particularly and evasive shifty of late.

Anyway, The Turkish National Intelligence Organisation confirmed that it's been aware of the Ergenekon group since 2002 and the case is now being conducted by the Istanbul Court of Assize for Organised Crimes and Terror Crimes. Almost 86 people have been charged with conspiracy to overthrow the State. That is a lot of people for me to remember, especially when 1 in 10 Turks are called Mehmet and the rest, Ahmet. It's difficult to distinguish everyone.

The sheer number of people involved make it almost impossible for the foreigner to follow. The length of the indictment runs to over 2500 pages. Quite frankly, do you have the time for this? An interesting comparison was made with the Nuremberg Trials, whose indictment totalled 70 pages. But then, Microsoft Word has made all of us rather more verbose and probably less loquacious. When was the last time you read a 2500-page document? War and Peace? Proust? Let's face it, no-one reads articles or novels of that length unless you want to appear as a pretentious wanker by confounding others with facts you're not all that clear about yourself.
Hence the role of today's lawyer.

Anyway, the trial began on Thursday 16 October. I'm going try to get myself up-to-date, so I can keep you, the reader, in touch with the latest adult-like going-ons in this wonderful world of ours.
And on a personal level, notwithstanding the outcome of the case, some of these people should be indicted solely for their outrageously unacceptable moustaches.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

The moral of the story is...


It was a cold, dark and stormy night.

After returning to the neighbourhood from English lessons I was too late for the corner shop and even too late for the other corner shop. I was ravenous.

The cats were catered for as there was plenty of the outrageously expensive food I buy for them. They ate contentedly while I systematically probed the refrigerator for something to sate my hunger. Nada. Equally, the kitchen shelves, while hardly bare, promised only dried pulses, farfalle pasta, a sad motley assortment of Asian condiments and a tin of green beans that has maintained its current position for two years.
And then I spotted it. Thank you Damon, ex-flatmate and procurer of fine German food stuffs. Lyoner canned meat from die Schwarzwald. Over the years I've learned that the Teutonic peoples manufacture all manner of excellent product. Cars, whitegoods and a lot of wurst.
The tin winked and gleamed and flirted with me. Greedily I snatched it. Within an immeasurably short space of time I'd defeated the ring-pull and was devouring the can's contents. In between mouthfuls the phone beckoned.

Naturally, I left the can long enough for my cat to wander onto the scene. Whilst I chatted with someone I can't remember about something no doubt of little significance, Kebap savoured the finest Bavarian fare in the town. He wasn't even hungry. And he didn't even bother with a spoon.

Still gabbling, I returned to the kitchen and resigned myself to sharing the wurst. I kind of spoil my cat. In turns we both ate from the same spoon, since if I was going to catch something unpleasant from my cat it would've happened long ago. Besides, I already scratch more that he does.

And, in our quest to get as much of the quality German victuals down our respective gullets we failed to notice our elderly neighbours looking down on us from the opposite balcony.

As I looked up at their horrified expression, the best I could stammer was '...but it's not cat food'.

Well done me.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Komşularım

An image that has nothing to do with the blog entry. Though the balcony is relevant to the story, the cat is not.

As a teenager I well remember my younger sister laying on the living room floor, head propped upon elbows, watching the sitcom that would launch lots of people with dubious talent into the world of cinema, television and, principally, English pantomime. Neighbours. And what a show it was. Classy stuff.

Although I too lived an Australian suburban existence, I never remember the six marriages, eight deaths and fourteen divorces happening on Knightsbridge Avenue, Valley View, as they undoubtedly occurred each season on Ramsey Street. However, I do remember bubble skirts, ugly knitwear and Kylie Minogue before botox and her ever increasingly bizarre buffed forehead. Yep, I'm that old.

Anyway, the point I'm making here is that my neighbourhood didn't really resemble Channel 7's interpretation, and Cihangir, Istanbul is a little further still from the mind-numbingly catatonic pall that hung over my early years growing up in a city that remains memorable only for murdering and dismembering pubescent boys. Oh, and it's pleasant wine growing region.

I survived Valley View, grew up in a house and now I live in an apartment, the latter something I swore I'd never do many eons ago. I thought people who inhabited apartments spoke with harsh Irish accents and practised domestic violence instead of playing board games. We threw dice and moves our checkers, they coughed blood and hacked up molars onto a checked vinyl kitchen floor. Apartments were for people who smelled of boiled cabbage and in which everyone over the age of three smoked copiously, soaking the whole depressing dwelling in a scent of Marlboro that permeated even the deepest recesses of the obligatorily stolen, torn, faux-leather furniture. I think I might've been prejudiced.

Australia is so full of space that you have no option than to grow up abnormal. 6 billion people on the planet (a slight increase from the estimated 3.5 around the year I was born), and yet at twilight on a Sunday evening in Valley View I was actually spooked if I saw anyone on the street. The fact that a predatory group of child murderers was frantically scouring my city for victims may have made a notable impression on my teenage vision of my very suburban upbringing. I was the perfect age to be drugged, raped, decorated in barbed-wire and placed into several shallow roadside graves. I'm sure I equated man-on-street-whose-face-I-know-not with 'Oh, this might be quite bad for me. Don't take eat those boiled sweets'.

In any case, I was never really at risk as I've always preferred savoury foods, and thus little chance of me being led astray with humbugs or lemon sherbets. You can't really imagine a killer pedophile enticing a would-be victim with hot chips, and yet such a scenario could have led to my downfall. I think I've digressed.

So, Valley View was as quiet as most of Cihangir is not. My part of the neighbourhood even has it's own name, Purtelaş. I'm sure there's a story behind that name just like there isn't one behind Valley View. It's not even situated in a valley. My building faces the mosque, within whose gardens sits a Little-House-on-the-Prairie type dwelling housing the imam and a ragged collection of children. The cemented courtyard in front of the mosque is their playground and football field, in which impromptu afternoon matches are held between the calls to prayer. A bunch of sly looking street urchins usually join in the game, often asking me to move my motorcycle from the cemetery wall, which I refuse to do because it's not my motorcycle. During game practice I'm normally enjoying my cup of tea on the balcony, chatting with cats and real people in equal measure. Below me lives the extraordinarily youthful Perihan Hanım, doyen of the cul-de-sac, de-facto administrator of the apartment building and tormentor of the man who sells fresh breads from a wooden pallet on top of his head.

'Fresh bread, fresh bread...'. 'Why are you screaming like that? I'm trying to watch (insert appalling Turkish day-time soap opera title)'.

'I've been coming here for twenty years, every day, selling these breads'.

'And I've been asking you the same thing every day for twenty years'.

You get the idea. I'm too scared to buy his bread, but Perihan Hanım likes me and says 'You're a good boy. Don't leave Istanbul.' So I'm also kinda afraid to leave the city too.

The neighbour with whom I share the second floor is a fabulously glamorous and elegant dame, owner of a local art-house cinema. She is immaculate. She speaks a broken but charming English and oozes style. Her hair wavers between maroon and vermilion, always perfect. She makes me drink coffee that prevents me from sleeping for 36 hours. I seem to quaff a lot of her liqueurs, and always leave drunk.

The building that faces opposite is a five storey affair, housing as many generations of the same family and their radically insane Golden Retriever. Nazlı Hamın is 82 and the best evidence you can have that travelling is the way to spend your life. She's tramped through thirty-five countries. You know; Libya, Uzbekistan, Georgia. Places that travel guide publishers rarely get around to covering even at this point in the century. She keeps an eye on my flowers and tells me if I need to water them, how my cat behaved when I was out this morning, and why I shouldn't wear short in windy weather. All very helpful advice.

It often happens that English-breakfast tea time coincides with Perihan's admonishments, Pervin's coffee break and Nazli's balcony-sweeping hour. And so we chat. And it's a simple thing like neighbourly conversation that makes this city unleavable.

Everybody needs good neighbours. And I have them. They even offer me sweets and candies which I accept. I fear nothing here.