Category Archives: Village Life

Fantasy v Reality

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Well it is that time of year again when I hear from those who have fallen head over heels, met their one true love and are looking at moving (or perhaps have already moved) to Türkiye to live the fantasy with their beloved.

Holiday romance

This is the epic love story isn’t it?  This is the love story that The Bard wrote about centuries before, a love more powerful than Napoleon and Josephine and a love that will last through eternity like Jack and Rose.  But just before you go packing your bags and dreaming of a new life in Türkiye with your true love let’s go over what you are getting yourself into – a little bit of a reality check shall we say.

For the sake of this post I am going to assume that you have met your true love in Marmaris or Fethiye or Bodrum (like me).  A holiday romance (like me).  And for the sake of this post I am going to assume that you are female (although no discrimination intended guys).  Finally for the sake of this post I am guessing that your man does not live permanently in Marmaris, Fethiye or Bodrum and instead comes from a small village some 18 hours away (or 12 hours or even 4 hours) where he will return to his family home for the winter months (again like me).

Right – let’s get started.

Can you imagine a life living in a quaint Turkish village?  Would you be happy living with your in-laws, his family, literally surrounded by hundreds of people and yet somehow being incredibly lonely?  Are you ready to immerse yourself entirely into a culture that is incredibly foreign and can be relentlessly unforgiving at times?

Take off the rose coloured glasses people.

Look again at that quaint village?  In daylight what it might really be is a bit of a dump.  If this place was back in your homeland you wouldn’t be caught dead living here.  Right?  Am I right?  I’m right.  Electricity comes and goes.  So does the water.  And speaking of water, is it safe to drink? Maybe.  And those people around you?  Are you merely a slave to wait on them or perhaps you are seen as nothing more than a yabancı and generally get ignored from morning to night.  I am not saying that they are going to treat you like that so don’t start losing your mind and writing me horrid messages, I am saying they might be.  It happens.  You, as the gelin, may be expected to do a lot of running around for the fam bam.  Be prepared for that possibility.

What about that lifestyle you were after?  Do you picture yourself spending your days on the farm, perhaps walking through the quaint village, arm and arm with your love, waving to your neighbours and having time to smell the roses?

That’s not roses you are smelling people – its horse shit, or cow shit, or goat shit, or … well you get the picture … and it is everywhere!

Are you designed to live on a farm or did you grow up in a wing at Buckingham Palace (or in my case Manly Beach).  Trust me when I say the sounds of chickens clucking and cock-a-doodle-dooing is like a jackhammer to my ears and I believe that meat should be purchased from a supermarket and not retrieved from your driveway after Baa Baa was slaughtered before your very eyes.

But you will make allowances after all you will be together with your love.  It will be wonderful.  A happy life.

*Cough, cough*

As long as you realise that he has been working away from home for over six months and, now that he has returned home, he will no doubt need to get another job to continue to support his family (and you) for the next six months until the summer season re-starts.  Work can be scarce for many here in Türkiye.  He will no doubt work extremely long hours leaving you at home with his family or maybe all by yourself.  Perhaps he will disappear for hours to the local cay ev for cards leaving you to stare at the four walls making you feel like your home is your prison cell.  Of course he will need to visit all of his extended family and you will be dragged from home to home like a show pony.  Are you ready for that?

Don’t get me wrong people, I love Türkiye but I arrived here in The Village with my eyes wide open.  I had travelled here every year for a decade before we made the decision to pack up our lives.  I knew what I was getting myself into and I still find it difficult.  Every single day.  Difficult.  If you think that this is going to be your very own Shirley Valentine or Eat, Pray, Love then do yourself a favour and unpack your bag right now, get on the telephone or on Skype or Whatsap and nut out some ground rules for you and your love.

He will need to support you 110%  I don’t mean financially, I mean emotionally.  You have moved here from your comfortable home, from a country that is your mother tongue and you have left your family and your friends behind.  He cannot get angry at you.  He must not get frustrated or ignore you.  You will have questions.  Hundreds of them.  I still do.

You will be lonely.  Thank God for Facebook (don’t diss me I mean it).  Find expats groups.  Find likeminded people.  I know this might be difficult in the small village (I’m the only one in our village) but look in the neighbouring towns.  Some from our expats group here in Mersin come from small villages in the mountains or even from neighbouring cities to spend the day with friends.  Offer to help at the local school.  Your English is a gift to the teachers here.

Really, really do your research.  Find out where you will be living and what it means to live in that area.  If it is a teeny, tiny village you need to throw yourself into that lifestyle wholeheartedly.  Find out what allowances you will need to make – culturally that is.  Will you be living in a conservative area?  Can you do that or do you want to wear your cut-off shorts and to hell with them all?!  Perhaps you will be living with his family.  You will have no privacy.  They will come and re-arrange your drawers or walk into your room unannounced at all hours.  Boundaries.  Draw that line in the sand and make sure he (and his family) abides by it.

Finally a little bit of advice for your partner from me –

This lady is your true love.  She has moved here to be with you.  Don’t make her regret that decision.  Do the right thing.  Treat her with the respect that she deserves.  Treat her like a fecking princess!  She IS a fecking princess!! Spend time with her.  Don’t disappear for hours on end leaving her to your family to entertain.  Help her settle in to her new environment.  Please don’t get agitated at her when she is unsure of herself or of what is going on around her.  Understand the difficulties that she is having with the language barrier or the culture.  Most importantly don’t be a complete douche or you will lose her forever!

Now breathe … and go pack those bags!

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Oops I did it again

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It has been brought to my attention by you lovely people that I have not burdened you with my most recent exploits here in Mersin.  Honestly life has been busy and between the illegal building work, the constant rain, Daughter morphing into an obstinate teenager and The Turk driving me nuts I haven’t had a moment to sit down and write plus I am trying to concentrate on my novel – yes I am a frustrated (unpublished) author – perhaps the next J.K. Rowling – perhaps not.

In order to give you a quick Janey fix I will tell you about how I ended up (yet again) covered in shit after a night out in the Village.  This time it was cow shit not human shit but shit is shit and I am starting to question how these things happen to me – over and over again.

Last weekend the expats here in Mersin decided a get together was in order and a fish restaurant was chosen here in the Village as the venue.  I was ecstatic.  Not only did this mean that I was a hop, skip and jump from home it meant that I didn’t need to catch a dolmuş or two dolmuş or even three dolmuş (would that translate to dolmuşlar?) to get where I needed to go.  I merely had to walk less than 1 kilometre to the beachfront.  1 kilometre.  That’s all I had to do.  1 kilometre to the lokanta and 1 kilometre to get home.  I mean how hard could it be?

I guess it starts, as all good stories do, with alcohol.  Yes an expat night out means I go all out, so excited to be speaking English to a whole table of English speakers that I let my hair down and am out for a big night.  I was sensible though (in my own way) after all there was Raki (ick) as well as vodka jelly shots (and a vodka desert) but I stuck with my bottle of şarap (wine) that I brought with me.  Sadly though the first bottle was drained as was another … and another … and so by the end of the evening I was feeling very jolly indeed.

Walking home was very pleasant and one of the reasons why I love living here is walking through the village at night.  It is starting to warm up now, the stars were shining brightly and the smells through the village are just so delicious whether it be walking through a farm of freshly cut maydanoz or nane or passing a home where a family are listening to Turkish music as they enjoy the last of their mangal (bar-be-que).  The Turk decided to cut through one of the bahçeler (gardens) to speed up my drunken dawdling (and yes singing) and so we turned into a garden where they had recently tilled the soil for the next crop.

I have cut through this garden many times with My Hurley Dog and I am well aware of the cow shit that is piled high on the side of the grassy track.  In fact I have spent many an hour standing by the pile of cow shit as My Hurley Dog throws himself head first into it every. single. time.  What I did not know or perhaps had plum forgotten that the owners have dug a rather large hole in the grass immediately beside the poop.  On reflection I was bloody lucky I didn’t break my leg to be honest.  Anyway I turned to Daughter (who was feeling very jolly herself as she had enjoyed a sneaky vodka jelly) to watch out for the poop when all of a sudden the entire ground disappeared from under me.  It was as though I was being sucked into the vortex of a demon netherworld (which would make sense) but my fall was a slow one, slow enough for me to call out, “I think I’m falling” and for The Turk and Daughter to watch the collapse with glee.

As I fell I watched the pile of poop moving slowly towards me.  All I could say is, “Oh shit!”.  Yep it happened again although thankfully I am happy it was a dry poopy-poop not the human waste that chased me out of the long drop last time. Someone asked on FB whether Daughter captured this embarrassment on film and I am again happy to say no she did not for she is well aware of the unfortunate events that would occur if she ever crossed me publicly!  She and The Turk merely stood there laughing as I tried to roll out of the poop and the mud and pull myself back up.

hole 3

It took me 24 hours to recover from my night now and today I can examine my bruises that are forming a little more closely.  I am taking My Hurley Dog for a walk to the beach this morning however, honestly, I will not cut through the bahçe as a shortcut home.

Next time on Janey … in Mersin – my appointment with the Governor for my kimlik.  Stayed tuned.

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The Silence of the Lambs

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I don’t eat an awful lot of meat here in Turkiye.  It just doesn’t have the same taste and consistency and, frankly, my hips are thankful that I give meat a miss more often than not but the one thing I cannot avoid here in the village is my neighbours preparing a Feast of Thanks to Allah.

I always know when a neighbour is preparing a feast.  The huge pots are delivered early in the day to enable a thorough cleaning prior to cooking.  Then sheep, goats and even cows are delivered for inspection before a choice is made.  It is usually at that time I disappear and don’t come back out until morning although yesterday I walked straight past a sacrifice just as it started – devastation.  I understand why an animal is sacrificed.  I understand why it is important to the worshipper but I find the whole practice of an animal being put to death cruel and I choose to not take part in the preparation.  Before you cry “but you still eat meat” yes I do.  I am a hypocrite – I get it.

Bayram feast

The Turk’s family prepared a feast recently in memory of his mother’s passing.  This is called Yas Bayram (mourning bayram).  I know that two sheep lost their life in our driveway and I know that everyone in my family stayed up the whole night to prepare a meal of meat, rice (cous cous) and chickpeas that are then given to neighbours and the less fortunate in Refika’s memory.  I did not eat the meal that was prepared by the family and I apparently offended my sister in law in the process.  I do not regret this decision.  I miss The Turk’s mum a lot, she has a wonderful woman and think her fondly each and every day.  I do not need to take the life of an animal to remember her.

The Turk argues with me that I ate a butt load of meat back in Australia (which is why my butt is now a wide load) but more importantly I need to immerse myself in all aspects of the Turkish culture and take part in these village rituals.  I took part – I helped pay for the feast.  That is more than enough for me.

Growing up in the Sydney suburbs I was not privy to the inner workings of a farm or an abattoir.  Yes I am part of the meat and two veg lifestyle but the meat that I ate was purchased in packages and its blood isn’t staining my driveway.  An animal still died to feed me but not by my hand or by my husband’s hand or a neighbour and certainly not where I can see it die.  I guess you can ignore a lot when it is not in your face.

Daughter has often gone fought with her conscience about eating meat but here in Turkiye she pretty much has become a vegetarian.  She will not eat chicken (as she hears them clucking on every corner).  She will not eat cows or sheep (as they are often in the garden across the street although she will eat a hamburger – go figure) and she will never eat fish (more about the taste than anything else).  She is happy with her decision and I am quite proud of her for standing by her quasi morals (other than the hamburger that is).

I still love a steak and the next time I find myself at the Newport Arms Hotel (best pub lunch in Sydney) I will order the steak with pepper sauce and salad *drool* but here in Turkiye I will continue to maybe pass on the meat depending on each situation but what I wouldn’t do for a pub lunch.   Mmmmm.

Pride and Prejudice – Turkish Style

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For the sake of this post the character of Miss Elizabeth Bennett will be portrayed by Daughter.  Mr Darcy is The Boyfriend and Wickham is The Bad Boy/Stalker.

It was a pretty exciting evening at ours on Friday night.  I made Spaghetti and meatballs.  No that was not the exciting part of our evening.

I am well aware that Miss Bennett has a “boyfriend” whom I have named Mr Darcy.  Sidenote: for illustration purposes I have included this photo of Colin Firth as Mr Darcy (definitely the best Mr Darcy).  I still remember seeing this BBC show the first time and going “Woah” when he climbed out of the pond at Pemberley.  Anyway Mr Darcy in this little post goes to the same school as Miss Bennett.  They call each other boyfriend and girlfriend and she has updated her social status appropriately as “In a Relationship”.  Help me please!

Mr Darcy

So Mr Darcy and Miss Bennett continue to flaunt their relationship at school with wistful glances and perhaps a little hand holding as they walk the corridors between class.  While true love blossoms there is a thorn – a thorn who also has love for Miss Bennett but whose affections are not coveted.  Yes. We have a Wickham to our Mr Darcy (so to speak).

Miss Bennett calls him “The Stalker” but let’s stay in character and call him Wickham.  Wickham is in her class and since school started in September he has attempted to gain her favour with bunches of wildflowers on her desk, the occasional chocolate and, yes, even love letters hidden in her school bag.  Miss Bennett does not covert this attention and, in fact, has told Wickham in no uncertain terms to go and get f*cked (definitely not very ladylike) but Wickham perseveres with his unwanted affections.  He sits behind her in class and draws on her school shirt with a permanent marker – “I love you” in English.  His eyes watch her as she is in the school yard with her friends (or with Mr Darcy) and has recently started following her home from school of an evening.  Very stalker-esque yeah?

Miss Bennett has mentioned Wickham to me before.  She told me that she dislikes Wickham immensely and even told me about an altercation a few weeks back between Wickham and Mr Darcy.  I warned Miss Bennett that she should keep away from Wickham and that perhaps he is not a very good friend.  On a serious note as a parent when do you say that a child has crossed the line, that the child’s intense need for friendship has become too unwanted by your child or that his behaviour makes your child feel scared or feel like a victim?  In Turkey children are not taught the same boundaries that are taught at school in Australia.  Is it considered cute when a boy harasses a little girl and follows her home each day? At what point do you say to your daughter – this kid is a psychopath! Run, don’t walk!?!

Anyway on Friday night Wickham followed Miss Bennett home yet again.  Miss Bennett yelled at him to leave her alone but he continued to follow her.  Miss Bennett proceeded to run the last couple of hundred metres passing her Uncle Vito on the way home.  Vito (being Vito) stopped Miss Bennett and, after learning what had happened, chased after Wickham giving him a piece of his mind followed by a fast whooping.  Wickham ran into the darkness in tears while Miss Bennett rushed home yelling about the embarrassment she has suffered.

After a couple of deep breaths we sat down to our spaghetti and meatballs when we had a knock at the door.  The polis had arrived.  It seemed that the whooping Vito gave Wickham had understandably upset his family who also arrived on our doorstep shortly after the polis.  Wickham began yelling about his love for Miss Bennett and the fact that Mr Darcy had stolen Miss Bennett’s heart.  He explained that he had in fact had dibs on Miss Bennett and Mr Darcy should be reprimanded for his behaviour.  Miss Bennett reply was a fast “F-you” (much to my embarrassment and to the shock of the other adults in the room) while Wickham’s parents yelled at Wickham so furiously that I couldn’t even begin to grasp was what being said.  Moments later Vito came running through the door grasping a large stick (no doubt ready to give Wickham another whooping) while the polis tried in vain to calm the whole crazy down.

After a lot of accusations and finger pointing Wickham has agreed to not follow Miss Bennett as she walks home anymore.  The Turk, in his wisdom, has decided to go to the school (yet again) to ensure that Wickham is appropriately dealt with and Vito has promised to not attack children for no good reason (yes I think it was for good reason).

The Turk and I are hopeful that Wickham has learned his lesson.  He will become merely a blip in our memories as Darcy and Miss Bennett continue their fledgling friendship (should I say relationship(?)) into the future.  Finally we are all hopeful that Vito refrains from chasing children with sticks.

Never a dull moment in our house – for sure.

Turkiye’s Very Own Polar Vortex

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In case you have been living under a rock the past few days social media in Turkiye has been blowing up with both the expats and Turks alike going on about the crazy cold weather we are having right now.  Soğuk, çok soğuk! (It’s cold, very cold!). Talk about “Keeping up with the Kardashians”, Turkiye goes and freezes over just to be like their fancy neighbours.

All over the country the weather has been abysmal.  Villages and towns have been snowed in, flights cancelled and even here in Mersin hell has literally frozen over.  I mean really – it snowed!  I know right!?!

Mersin snow

This shouldn’t happen.  I was only writing here about how hot it was a couple of months back.  This is an extreme turnaround and it really isn’t acceptable to me.

Electricity is scant and this transforms The Turk from his manly man Turkish self into, well, into a bit of a girly princess.  As expected this transformation has also pushed The Turk into his “I want to go back to Australia” phase of his re-entry into Turkish life.  We don’t have a soba here (Turkish fireplace) so when the electricity dies then icicles begin to form over any uncovered appendage.  The Turk is definitely concerned about his favourite appendage freezing and breaking off and has been checking it regularly.  Last night I threatened to move into the Hilton just for a hot bath and internet access (side note – what is it with Turkey not having instantaneous hot water?  Install a fecking Rheem for Christ’s sake!!).  But no I stayed and suffered in silence, well relative silence compared to The Turk that’s for sure!

But it is not just us who are suffering in the cold.  I feel for the stray animals that live in our village.  The kediler are breaking into any house with an open door trying to find a warm spot and I swear I saw a pack of kopekler milling around an open fire on an empty block.  I am not going to say that they started the fire but … it looked very suspicious.  My Hurley Dog is refusing to go outside and when I finally got him outside his pee froze mid-stream!  True!  I swear!!

I know I am ridiculous.

Yesterday was my birthday.  Did you know?  Yah happy birthday and all that!  I made a pretty strong statement on FB the other night saying it might be cold but there’s no way it will snow and certainly not on my birthday.  I will eat my hat.  Well as I was reminded by a well-wisher yesterday that it did in fact snow – soooo – would I like fries with that hat?  Humfph!  The Turk also reminded me of my wording off this morning and handed me his beanie and the salt and pepper shakers.  I didn’t eat it as that was his hat.  I agreed to eat mine.  Technicality?  Yep but I am going with it.

So happy birthday to me – and welcome to the Ice Age!  Bbrrrr!

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Rage against the Latrine

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Warning – excessive use of Game of Thrones memes following.  Continue at your own risk.

I am well versed in the art of the squat toilet and it is an art form indeed.  I know that the squat toilet can be grosser than gross.  I know there will be a bucket or a hose and I know what to do with it.  I always BYO my own paper, never trip over the step and always remove my mobile before pulling down my jeans.  Hell I even carry my own sanitizer, as it is highly doubtful that there will be any soap – a nightmare for any self-respecting germ-a-phob such as myself.  Yes sir, I know my way around a squatty.  Nothing is going to phase a squatty pro like me but last night my worst nightmare came to life.  A nightmare so terrifying that you, gentle reader, will run, not walk, from the next squat toilet that you come across.  This story proves that there is no rest in a rest room, no dignity in the long drop and nothing but crap in the crapper.  This is my story.

My most recent post discussed the hava (weather).  It has been cold, not polar vortex cold but cold enough for me to go all nerdy and proclaim “Winter Is Coming” a la Game of Thrones.  See what I did there? Throne?  Toilet?  It will become clearer.

cold 2

Last night and despite having succumbed to Daughter’s sickness I found myself at dinner with some Turkish friends at a lokanta down by the sea.  It was really no hardship as we had been without electricity for most of the day and we also had no running water so cooking dinner was going to be a bit of a trial anway.  By the time we got to the restaurant the downpour had become a monsoon and it was colder than Joffrey’s blackened heart so I did what I always do to fight the cold – ordered a bottle of red.  Dinner was excellent and I enjoyed myself immensely forgetting about my sinus headache and the gale that continued to howl outside.

After quite a few glasses of wine it was time for me to visit the iron throne and I toddled off in my high heels to locate the bathroom behind the lokanta.  I opened the door and my first reaction is my normal reaction when I see a squat toilet.  “Ewww”.  My second reaction was to hold my breath as I stepped in and locked the door behind me.  I did what I needed to do, made slightly easier in the high heels funnily enough, and turned to flush.  The hole below me began to groan, a strange groan akin perhaps to Hodor fighting against a Lannister – “HODOR” – and I stepped back to make a break for freedom.  As I took that step in my heels I slipped, whether it was from the rain or the urine soaked tiles I will never know, but I found myself on all fours facing, but thankfully not actually in, the squatty.  Phew.

hodor

As I took a moment to regain my composure the toilet gave another groan, this time it was the groan of the dying Oberyn Martell as he took his last breath (I mean honestly his head looked like cantaloupe that had fallen from a horse and cart!).  I stared at the squatty as the groaning intensified and suddenly, to my horror (and taking into account that my head was no more than 30 cm from the gaping hole) my “sacrifice” along with everyone else’s began gurgling up intent on escaping from its excrement stronghold.  It was Mt Etna coming to life!  Dear God in heaven help me!  I scrambled to my feet ignoring the thoughts of the germs that now were embedded in my hands from my fall and I fumbled with the door handle as the slow moving mountain of shit continued to escape from its volcanic dungeon.  Holy shit!  Literally, there was shit everywhere no doubt a casualty of the flooding that was happening outside the lokanta!  The ground became a brown carpet of evil and I threw myself against the door, yelling at the top of my voice “Bok! Bok!”  I ran into the open air gasping for breath and staring at the shit that was now slowly oozing through the doorway and wondered why I never have my camera when I really need it!

game of thrones

The owner came running and it did not take him very long to realise what had happened.  He began to holler at me, at his staff, at Allah and anyone else who would listen.  Not really sure what I could do to help I left him to it and skidded across the courtyard back into the restaurant leaving my shitty foot prints trailing behind me.  I stood in front of my friends completely soaked, freezing cold and partially covered in shit.  Instead of sympathy they reacted in exactly the manner that I would expect all friends to react.  They laughed.

Finally and continuing with the Game of Thrones feel I have going I add one final meme.

cold 3

I thought it was funny.

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Today’s weather forecast is … crazy!

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Oh my fecking God!  Yes it is a little chilly outside but, please, people, calm the feck down. Let’s not lose our head about this.  What is cold anyway?  To those of you visiting from the UK it is in fact rather pleasant in Mersin at the moment.  Yes there is a chill in the air.  There is a fresh layer of snow on the mountain range behind us and yes it was raining earlier in the week but is it cold?  Ummm, I really don’t think so. 

Right now I am wearing short sleeves although I admit you definitely need a cardigan at night.  Around me though people are dressing as if we were dealing with a polar vortex, discussing whether they need to dissect a Tauntaun (sorry nerdy Star Wars reference) and deciding whether to wait it out in the New York library with Jake Gyllenhaal (well alright if you insist).  Sorry folks it is just cold and it is not really all that cold for that matter.

day after tomorrow

You know once the weather changes here Turkish people literally lose their minds.  They verily believe that if it is not 400 degrees then you need to layer.  Actually even if it is 400 degrees you still need to layer but not with the same intensity. Cover your back!  Cover your neck!  Do you need a scarf?  *Sigh*

Flash back – middle of summer and I take Daughter and her cousin to the park.  Daughter is running around in shorts and a singlet and Tatli is wearing  – a singlet.  A t-shirt.  A long sleeve top.  And she is carry a jacket with her.  A jacket!  She must keep her jacket with her at all times.  OMG!  It is literally – literally – 400 degrees in the park and Tatli has a jacket!  Calm the feck down people!  Daughter is drenched in sweat in her singlet and is throwing water on herself at any opportunity yet she’s the crazy one?

Truthfully though right now Daughter is sick.  I am told by my kardeş (sister) that it is my fault because I have allowed Daughter to go outside in 25 degree heat wearing her short sleeve school shirt and without woollen stockings.  Diagnosed with akut bronşit (bronchitis) she has spent the past few days in bed.  Actually that is not accurate.  She has in fact spent the past few days lying around on the couch, surfing the internet and watching old episodes of Pretty Little Liars.  She has been prescribed a butt load of medicine (which she is, of course, taking reluctantly) although the clinic doctor is well aware of how I feel about enjeksiyonlar (injections) so he refrained from prescribing the Turkish equivalent of a headache tablet – the all secretive aşı (vaccine).  This “vaccine” is suggested every single time I go to the clinic.  What is this secret shot?  God only knows but I can assure you I am not pumping Daughter with some unknown aşı by our neighbour whose official title is “village injector”.  Trust me Doc once the antibiyotik kicks in you certainly don’t need the magical aşı pumped into your ass twice a day for a week!

So yes it is a little chilly here. Will Daughter wear a jacket next week?  Probably.  Is there a Snowpocalypse forecast?  No, but if you are coming to Mersin in November, bring a cardigan alright?

Rant over.

Education Turkey style

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The Turkish education system is screwing with me.  Literally!

The village school just decided in all its wisdom to amalgamate the morning and afternoon classes.  This means that all of Year 6 has been allocated an afternoon session which means my entire life has been uprooted.

DSC00550

The past twelve months have been early morning starts.  I am used to the early morning starts and after 3 months of holidays I had to re-adjust to these early morning starts again.  Up at 6.00, breakfast, dressed and Daughter out the door in time for school to start at 6.50 in the morning.  I will just say that again yes 6.50 ante meridiem.  For me an early morning start meant washing done early, house tidied early, out to do the shopping or run errands – I even had time to blog – while Daughter was at school and, be home by 1 pm when she walks through the door.  I was totally motivated to get things done.  It also gave Daughter lots of time to hang out with friends after school, get her homework done and spent 2 hours a day with her tutor.

Now our carefully made routine has been thrown thoughtlessly out the window by an unthinking school board. I understand why this situation has come about.  In Turkey the Ataturk Reforms put in place that primary school education must be available for all in Turkey and that it is compulsory between the ages of 5-16.  Compulsory it may well be however if there are not enough schools these ridiculous plans are put into effect and, like Daughter, children found themselves either up at 5.45 or (as is the case now) does not get home until after 7 at night when it is pitch black outside thanks to the lack of street lights.

The village school is adequate.  I cannot say much more than that.  We opted to put Daughter in the village school to give her the opportunity to learn the language without the pressure that an özel okul (private school) puts on kids and to make friends with other children in the village.  The teachers worked very closely with Daughter to help her transition into a new learning environment and I cannot fault the assistance that the teachers have given us.  She is currently taught Turkish, maths, science, social studies and foreign language (English) although she spends half of the English lesson teaching English to the teacher!  She also does religious studies (definitely a bone of contention with her and a situation that brought us up to the school more than once).  Oh and did you know that Turkish primary students are not taught about any other country until high school?  I imagine that this is to teach them about national pride (Turkish are very proud countrymen) but to watch Daughter draw a map of the world as home work recently and she had to label “Türkiye” – Turkey, “Avrupa – Europe”, “Aysa” – Asia and “Amerika” – America.  Frankly the lack of detail made me feel a little ill.  I questioned where Australia was but apparently Avustralya didn’t even make it into the equation!   Umm Hello??  I made Daughter go back and draw Australia in and put a big ass arrow on it!  *sigh*

It is clear to me that once The Turk returns from his “holiday” (read that as luckily visiting Australia when he had his heart attack) we will be visiting the private schools to decide which school is best for Daughter and, as a bonus, the private schools have normal school hours albeit longer school hours although I haven’t made that public knowledge just yet.  Yes private school education is definitely on the cards now and, perhaps with the normal school hours (and longer hours) I can take back control of my now out of control life.

Right now the only good thing to come out of this ridiculous change in our routine is Daughter getting a decent breakfast and lunch prior to going to school.  It also means I don’t have to yell at her to get her ready for school.  Today she turned to me at 10 and said, “Well I guess I better start getting ready.”  Um – OK!

Kurban Bayram

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Today marks the eve of Kurban Bayram and its 4.5 day celebration.  All the households are busy with preparation for the celebration.  I am frantically cleaning as I know there will be a constant flow of guests through the door.  Daughter is crazy excited as there is no school until next Wednesday and can currently be found downstairs with her cousins while trying to round up My Hurley Dog who appears to be chasing kittens around the garden.  The Turk’s sister is arriving tomorrow with her family as well which means a very full household for the next week.

All this plus a sneaky expat get together on Saturday night means I will probably not be around for the next few days.  For those of you who are unaware of Kurban Bayram I wrote a piece last year (link below) which sums up my thoughts on this celebration.

To all my readers I say Kurban Bayramin kutlu olsen and I will be back on board next week.kurban bayram

Incidentally I don’t think the sheep are really all that happy about Bayram.  Pretty sure about that actually.

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What’s Mine is now Yours

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Now I don’t know what the correct etiquette is in this situation but let me tell you a story and perhaps you, my dear and favoured readers, can give me some advice.

Over the past six months I have been photographing my zeytin ağaci (olive tree) in my garden with the intent of showing my olives growth, change of colour, harvest and finally the curing of my olives.

The past few weeks I have been keeping a close eye on the olives as they were looking pretty good and, in fact, I asked The Turk prior to him leaving for Oz as to when I should harvest.  “Give it two weeks,” was his reply.

Done.

So today I went out to my olive tree, my big beautiful olive tree and … my olives have been pilfered!  How is this possible?  How did I not notice that the olives were gone?  I mean I must be pretty oblivious sitting here typing away on the computer and not hearing or seeing what is no doubt going on right under my nose.

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I feel violated.  Robbed of what could potentially be my best blog post.  I had researched the best way to cure olives and also researched some quick solutions for curing (including fast curing in the oven).  I was going to bring you some amazing pieces about my olives but now I have hiçbir şey (nothing at all).

After some nosing around I found out that my sister in law harvested the olives last weekend and has already begun the curing process.  Next year then.

But let’s just look at my olive tree over the months shall we?  April – little tiny buds.  Spring has sprung and the olives are just starting to push through to reach that precious, precious sunshine.  May – I can see it, there will be olives.  They will no doubt be delicious because I am going to cure them and make them my own.  June – yep, keep it coming little olives.  I see you are trying your hardest to be the biggest, juiciest olives ever seen in the Village.  July – I think you WILL be the biggest, juiciest olives ever seen not just in the Village but in all of Turkiye.  Champion olives!  And finally August – you will soon be in my tummy!  Or not!

Don’t fret though gentle readers I still have my biber salçası (pepper sauce) that is currently drying out in the sunshine upstairs.  I will give you a blow by blow account of that soon enough (assuming someone doesn’t swipe my sauce under the cover of night).

So what do you think I should do?  Let it go?  Say something?  I am at an impasse.  I know, I know I will have many opportunities to cure my olives and I appreciate that my sister in law was trying to help but I really wanted to try and do this myself.  Bilmiyorum.