Category Archives: Village Life

No Touching Please – I’m Australian

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I have never been a big fan over overfamiliarity.  No unnecessary hugging or kissing or . . . look just get out of my dance space okay?

Here in Turkey it is in fact unusual to not be overly familiar with people.  A “gunaydin” (“Good morning”) is usually accompanied with a kiss on both cheeks and a hug for good measure.  The first time it happened I stiffened like a board but now I have come to accept (albeit reluctantly) that friends or strangers alike they will come at you whether you want them to or not.

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It is also absolutely acceptable to give a kiss or a hug to a stranger’s child, which would not only be be unheard of back in Australia., you would probably be arrested for it!

The first time I took Daughter to Turkey she was 10 weeks old.  The Turk did not yet have a visa and so I was taking her to meet her father.  It was a 27 hour flight from whoa to go – Sydney/Bangkok/Istanbul/Bodrum.  By the time I reached Istanbul I was haggard.  Travelling as a single mother was extremely challenging particularly with the precious little package that I had with me.  Arriving in Istanbul I had a 4 hour wait for my connection to Bodrum.  I sat with Daughter in my arms on a chair and promptly passed out from exhaustion.  When I awoke Daughter was no longer in my arms.  She had been kidnapped by the elderly Turkish lady sitting next to me who kept her for the whole flight and at one point I wondered if she was ever going to give her back.  Luckily The Turk was waiting and she reluctantly handed Daughter over to him but not before she kissed, cuddled and thoroughly examined her.

Daughter also has her own issue with the overfamiliarity.  It seems that not only do her friends in the village school greet each other every morning with kisses and hugs it is also not unusual for a teacher to hug or kiss a student – certainly not what this Aussie kid is used to and it made me say “Yikes” when I found out!

Over the past week I have probably kissed and hugged over 1000 people which, putting aside my non-touching issues also brings up my germaphobe issues.  People – keep your hands and lips to yourself.  It’s the flu season.  I have run out of my Dettol hand sanitizer and I am now having a general melt down.  The Turk is sick, Daughter sounds like she is hocking up a lung and I am running around with my Eucalyptus spray wiping down every hard surface that they touch.

The Little Things

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Since moving to Turkey and more particularly moving to The Village I (along with Daughter) am learning to appreciate the simple way of life and to, perhaps, disparage what we had and how we lived in Australia.  I have learnt to not complain about things that are not perfect and instead focus on the good things that we do have (unless you refer to those neighbours in which case – watch out!).

Living in Australia Daughter was always on the lookout for something new.  Shopping was a weekly event and clothes, computer games or gadgets were expected.  I was exactly the same.  Like mother, like daughter.  I used to sneak my purchases into the house so The Turk would not have a conniption, funny thing though – he would always find it no matter how well I hid things.  Bags hidden under the bed – he would find it.  Bags hidden in the garage – he would find them.  Hell he was like one of those dogs at the airport sniffing out contraband!  I could never hide anything from him and despite his terrible ability to read English he could read the credit card statement!

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Here in Karaduvar it is a little different.  Firstly we do not have two disposable incomes.  We must live on a budget and admittedly we are not doing a very good job of that.  We now need to be a little more stringent with our spending habits and that . . . well that definitely takes some getting used to!

The other reason Karaduvar is different is that our friends and neighbours do not have disposable incomes.  They work extremely hard and long hours to put food on their table and to ensure that their family and those around them are warm and happy.  I watch women arrive at the bache (farm) across the street before the sun has risen and they will work all day for approximately 30TL (AUD$15.00).   These women then return to their own homes and cook dinner for their family and, after the family have had their fill they will clean their homes until they shine.  If their neighbour needs anything they will give them theirs no questions asked even if this means they will go without. There is no jealousy, there is just caring and friendship.  Is this not what life should be about?

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I have begun to realise that I do not need all the material things that seemed necessary at home.  I look out my window where Daughter is playing with her cousins on the street with Hurley running after them.  I recall how her entire class came to check on her recently when she had a day off from school.  This would have never happened back in Sydney.

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I think our little family will be happier here with a simpler lifestyle.  Look at me – I am growing!    Who would have thunk it!

Everybody needs good neighbours

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I am going to have a little rant, just a little one.

I have never been a part of a very large family.  I am adopted and no I am not crippled with issues about being adopted.  I had a happy childhood with my adopted parents and brother.  They are my family.  In case you are wondering, yes I have met my natural mother (who is lovely) and my three natural brothers and sister.  I have been very lucky with my upbringing however it was and is a very small family.  I did not have cousins to run around with and family gatherings were always a very small affair.

Now I am part of a very large family with sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, distant cousins – I could go on.  Not only are they my family they are also my neighbours.  Next door is a three storey house with The Turk’s parents (at the rear), his older brother and family on level 3, his youngest brother and family on level 2 and another (estranged) brother on level 1.  It is the estranged brother on level 1 that I will have my little rant about now (thankful that he cannot read English I might add).

In Turkey military service is compulsory for all men aged between 20 and 40 years.  For those men without a university degree the service is 15 months and for those with a degree it is a six month service.  On Sunday night The Turk’s nephew was leaving home to spend the next six months to complete his conscription.  Like most Turkish families they threw a party and invited their nearest and dearest.  There was a lot of music, drums and dancing.  It was most likely a wonderful evening and I say most likely because we were not invited to this shindig and nor was anyone else in the family!  Frankly I was shocked at this blatant rebuff.  Daughter could not understand why she was not invited so she dragged me downstairs to watch the frivolities.  I stood with Hurley (should anyone ask I was waiting for my dog to pee) before moving to the shadows only to find my mother in law behind her gate standing alone watching her grandson dancing.  It nearly broke my heart (and it made me pretty darn angry).

The next morning I rang The Turk and yelled down the telephone at him.  Why would his mother not be invited to the farewell?  Actually why was no one invited to the farewell and while I am at it why have they not spoken to me since I arrived 8 weeks ago!  The Turk’s reply was simple but was definitely not an explanation, “Fuck them!”

I am sitting here thinking of my mum and dad, wishing I could just give them one more hug or talk to them just one more time and here is a family who have no idea just how lucky they are.

“Fuck them!”

Well no thank you.

 

Let’s talk about cheese

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My love of cheese is legend – wait for it – ary!  Legendary!  I will eat cheese anytime, anywhere and in any manner.  I will have it for breakfast, as a snack, as a main meal, hot, cold or even as a cake.  Cheese.  Peynir.  Nom, nom nom!

Last week I was called by my mother in law down to her kitchen.  Bubbling on the stove was a huge pot of milk (which I subsequently learned was in fact yogurt).  Once boiled she strained the yogurt (separating the whey) into three parcels wrapped in clean cloth, tied it up and let it hang in the kitchen.  Cheese!  She made cheese!

I returned to her kitchen yesterday afternoon to find her mixing the cheese with red pepper paste (which we had made a few weeks earlier), dried thyme and a butt load of salt.  She rolled the cheese into balls, placed them on a large metal plate and put them in the sun on top of my garage where they will stay until they dry.

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If I ignore the flies that are constantly congregating over the cheese at the moment I am sure it will taste delicious when ready.  This spicy cheese is usually eaten in the morning with ekmek (bread), domates (tomatoes) and a drizzle of yağ (oil).

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My mother in law tells me that she has made this cheese for The Turk as it is his favourite.  Yes the prodigal son will return to her next weekend and she is very excited!  I guess I am excited too.  Daughter is currently indifferent but will probably change her tune when he actually gets here.

Got milk?

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Yesterday afternoon I found myself searching fruitlessly for fresh milk or sut as it is known in Turkish.  Milk in Karaduvar is generally sold on the shelf (UHT) and it is rare that I can find a bottle of fresh milk in the cold aisle of the local supermarket so when I saw a display of ice cold bottles of “white gold” my heart skipped a beat.  I swung on my heels towards the milk nearly wiping out a little old Turkish lady who was skulking a little too close to my prize.  I slid to a halt next to evil granny and grabbed 2 bottles exalted knowing that tomorrow morning’s Cornflakes were going to be coated in fresh, full cream dairy milk.

So last night when Daughter asked for milk before bed I ceremoniously poured her a glass and placed it lovingly before her.  “How is it?” I asked with a grin.

“It’s milk mummy,” came the reply with a roll of the eyes.

“No, it’s more than that.  It’s fresh milk.  From the market.  It’s not from the box.  They had fresh milk at the market today!”  I found my voice rising in desperation, rejecting the notion that for Daughter it was merely milk and not the precious commodity that I believed it to be.

She finished her milk and placed the glass in the sink.  “Milk mummy.  Milk”.

With that final remark she hugged me, said goodnight and left the room.

I stared at that empty glass wondering if a punishment would be going overboard.

Sitting down to breakfast this morning I had my Cornflakes and, yes, I covered them with my prized milk.  Daughter entered the kitchen and, spying the Cornflakes box, grabbed a bowl and sat down next to me.  I watched her pour the milk over her flakes.  She turned to me, “Mmm good eh?”

It took all of my will power and motherly goodness to not roll my eyes at her and say, “It’s milk Daughter. Milk”.

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The Art of Being Sick

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I should have realised that this was coming.  There were warning signs after all.  The hot days had become merely pleasant and the light breeze had become blustery. A couple of nights ago I was woken by a storm that came crashing over The Village and when I awoke the next morning could see the light scattering of snow that announced the change of season.

Yes, I should have realised that this was coming but I didn’t . . . and now . . . it’s too late!  I am sick and I am grouchy.  I have lost my voice and I have a runny nose.  My throat hurts and my headaches.  I have chills and they are multiplying (although I am yet to lose control).  I have named this concoction of evil – the Turkish Lurgy.  I have it and I am crabby. The Turkish Lurgy is ravaging my body and I am certain that I will never recover.

“Nasilsin?”  How am I?

Well, frankly I am shit!  I look like shit and I feel like shit!

Normally in Australia, I would fight through the shit (sick).  I would soldier on with Codral and go to work, drop Daughter off at school and get on with life (spreading germs as I go).  Now, in The Village, I have reverted to my alternative personality known by many as Princess Janey.  This particular personality rarely presents herself these days however if she does make an appearance people shake in their boots and run for the hills.  Daughter has lived through Princess Janey before so has sensibly decided to ignore me and went to her cousin’s house.  Hurley is sneaking around for fear of upsetting the person who feeds him and even Kedi has retreated to hiding in my wardrobe while I recuperate.

I am currently in bed surrounded by tissues and propped up by pillows.  The Turk’s mother has taken over my house and is whispering demands to family members who scuttle off to carry out her instructions post haste.  I can hear the sounds of my vacuum humming, my washing machine washing and I can detect (even with my stuffy nose) the distinct smell of chicken soup simmering on my cooktop.  Unfortunately, I am finding it increasingly difficult to be gracious, surrounded by all the kindness and it is just making Princess Janey even more grumpy.

I spoke with The Turk on the telephone, “I just want to be left alone”.  “No darling, they do this because they love you.  It is the Turkish way.”

Hmph!  And so I push Princess Janey back into the recess of my mind and I smile at my mother in law when a tray is placed on my lap.  I smile at my sister in law when she hands me some Turkish syrup with instructions to take it 3 times a day.  I smile at everyone who pops in to ask me Nasilsin? and I am thankful that they do not know the word “shit”.

I think I will throw my duvet over my head and hide under here until they leave.

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Why didn’t I realise this was coming?

Kurban Bayraminiz kutlu olsen!

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Today is the first day of Kurban Bayrami (or Eid al-Adha) here in Turkey which is one of the most important holidays in the Islamic calendar and is best likened to Christmas to us heathens.  I actually had to do some research to fully understand Kurban Bayrami and why it is so important to Muslims around the world and why there has been a flurry of activity in my neighbour’s homes over the past few days.

Simply put Kurban means festival or holiday and is used to describe all national or religious holidays here.  There are two major religious holidays here in Turkiye Seker Bayram and the festival that we are celebrating now Kurban Bayram.

Kurban Bayram is a 4 1/2 day festival which takes place 70 days after Ramazan has ended.  It is known as the Festival of Sacrifice referring to the story of Abraham who was willing to sacrifice his son Ismael at God’s bequest.  Pretty much the same deal as Abraham and Isaac if you are running in Christian circles.

The festival is all about charity and community.  Each family (who can afford to do so) will purchase an animal for the sacrifice and over the past few weeks there has been an abundance of animals to be found grazing on any spare parcel of land around the city.  After the animal has had its throat cut and the life-blood has drained away the meat is split into three – one third to your family, one third to your neighbour’s and one third to the poor.  It’s a lovely idea (well except for the sacrifice that is).  If you cannot afford to purchase an animal you can make a donation to an organization such as Türk Hava Kurumu and have animals slaughtered in your name. The organization will also make sure the food is correctly distributed to the poor.

I tried to find an image to add to my blog that reflected Kurban Bayram but to be honest most of the images made me a little sick and they were way too graphic for my PG brain so perhaps this cartoon will sum it up for you (although do not ask me to translate as the only thing I could understand was “Ipneye bak” which roughly means “Look at the asshole”).

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My first experience of Kurban Bayrami was many years ago when Daughter was quite young.  I remember all the wonderful cooking and the many visitors and parties.  There was a lot of love and a lot of laughter coming from all the homes you visited.  I also remember the sacrifices being made in the local park or in our case the front garden *sigh*.  My brother in law had purchased a sheep and brought it home ready for sacrifice however Daughter saw it and thought it was a pet so placed a large pink bow around its neck.  Here the sheep stayed for two days being fed and loved by Daughter.  On the third day she ran downstairs to feed her “Baa Baa” only to find it had disappeared bringing tears and tantrums by the 3 year old.  I, of course, had to explain that her pet had gone to stay on a friend’s farm although I knew full well that the sheep was currently sitting in the refrigerator upstairs in easy to handle pieces ready for his wife to package for family and friends that evening.  A word of advice for those of you visiting family during Bayram – if you are squeamish don’t open the refrigerator!

So here we are again dressed in our finest clothes (not really), ready to celebrate Kurban Bayrami with The Turk’s family.  I reminded Daughter of “Baa Baa” last night and horrified she informed me that she is not eating any meat for the next week (or possibly ever again!).  Having heard this statement a number of times in the past I merely smiled and nodded in agreement after all I can hear the preparations that are underway for tonight’s feast.  Someone remind me to go for a run tomorrow as I know I am going to eat way too much tonight – and this is just Day 1.  They will need to roll me home after 4 days of this!

During Bayram there will also be a lot of music and dancing in the streets.  From early morning until late evening men will walk through the village banging away on their davul (drum) and playing their ney (wooden flute).  If they come to your door give them a few lira.  Don’t make the same mistake I did during my first Bayram and give 10TL because they will never leave!  Similarly the local children will also visit your door during Bayram and wish you “Iyi Bayramlar” in the hope of getting some sweets so have a bag of sweeties handy for them when they knock.

Be aware that during any national holiday here in Turkey most shops, banks and government offices are closed.  Leading up to Bayrami the shopping centres are overflowing with people stocking up on everything they will need over the coming festival days.  There is also a lot of people on the roads with family members travelling great distances to visit loved ones.  Intercity buses are packed, flights are sold out and public transport operates on a holiday schedule so you may find yourself waiting some time for a dolmus (I know I did).

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Never put off till tomorrow what may be done the day after tomorrow just as well

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When the decision to move to the Village came I imagined the idea of a blog keeping all my friends up to date on the day to day crazy that is Turkey.  Of course since arriving I have been completely overwhelmed and have not had more than 5 minutes to myself, let alone find the time to write this blog.  So today I resolved to not leave this desk until I wrote at least a little something to let you all know what has ensued over the past few weeks.

Of course procrastination set in.  Rather than writing about our numerous visits to Turkish government offices in an attempt to get a Nüfus Cüzdanı (Turkish Identity card) I was chatting to friends back home on Skype.  Rather than blogging about Daughter’s first days in a Turkish school I was caught playing Candy Crush Saga (rather unceremoniously and with photographic evidence provided by said daughter).  And finally, rather than introducing you to my new life I generally dilly-dallied about by reading articles about procrastination!

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Yes I can safely say that I have spent most of my day doing the absolute opposite of what I had intended. I had thought it would be simple for me to write after all I have done it my entire life.  How many novels have I written (or have I started before putting them aside for other more exciting activities).  I know that many of you have encouraged me to continue to write however sitting down and talking (or blogging) about my life has proved to be an extremely daunting task!  So here I am over analysing my thoughts and rejecting each idea in the process.

It may be that I just have too much that I want to say and that all my thoughts are becoming muddled although if I am honest with myself it is more likely that I feel that my writing is not good enough for public consumption.  Having acknowledged this fact confidence in my ability to write this blog or to write anything is now at an all time low and try as I might I cannot put “pen to paper”.

What I can say to you is that we have arrived in the Village and have settled into our new home.  Having no option but to hit the ground running, we have quickly adjusted into a daily routine of school and village life.  Daughter has made many friends, is surrounded by her family and is, of course, very happy.

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I am enjoying my sea change, muddling along with the language and learning the Turkish way of life.  My mornings are blissfully my own while Daughter is at school and I can usually be found walking through the markets and using my limited Turkish skills to haggle with the vendors.  If that seems too much like hard work I will take My Hurley Dog to the deniz (sea) to watch him run along the sand and chase the wave ripple.  Walking to the sea also means a walk through the fish market and past the harbour which makes the dog quiver with excitement.  The smells and the stray cats are like manna from heaven to a dog!

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The evenings have been warm and we tend to congregate outside my mother in law’s home, eating what can only be described as a Turkish banquet while listening to music (Turkish of course), laughing and talking well into the night.

And, yes, I have gotten down and dirty making chilli paste (which was extraordinarily messy), shovelling what seemed like a never ending mountain of soil in an effort to finish the garden and attempting numerous Turkish recipes (which is more complex than an explanation of the political strife in the Middle East).

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So perhaps I have procrastinated today but I promise you that I will begin a new tomorrow and maybe tell you about my spider bite and subsequent trips to the village hospital (yikes!).

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You’re Moving Where???

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I have always detested New Years Eve.  There is such high expectation to revel with other revelers, rejoice in your tomfoolery and have oodles of casual sex as we come together as one to countdown and celebrate a new beginning.  Blah!  Yet every year I would dress up in my finery ready to revel, indulge and make general whoopee  when in fact I would rather be on my couch eating pizza and chatting to my cat about our plans for the coming year (and there would be some epic adventures involved).

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“It’s going to be the best night of your life”, THEY say.  Well who the feck are they because I have always found New Years Eve to be the suckiest night of the year.  Is “suckiest” a word?  If not, it should be.  New Years Eve always sucks balls! And New Years Eve 1999 proved to be exactly the same.

That fateful evening as we held our breath for the Y2K bug to implode our world and as Jennifer Lopez was Waiting for Tonight I was, yet again, breaking up with my “Mr Mediocre”.  Yes I am stealing the idea from S&TC but I think in this case the name given to my ex is insightful and, well, he really was  mediocre at everything that he did (nudge, nudge).  It is clear to me, probably also to you and almost certainly to a psychologist, that I still have some unresolved issues with him but Mr Mediocre is mentioned only briefly so I will now move on with the story.

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Anyway, Mr Mediocre had succeeded in letting me down for the tenth New Year in a row and I found myself sitting harbour side watching the Sydney fireworks alone – again.  Around me merry people applauded the year that had ended and rejoiced with their lovers celebrating the celebration of a new millennium.  A New Millennium!  It was kind of significant wasn’t it?  2000 years ago – or thereabouts – “a child was born”.  Obviously many children were born but this one was kind of important.  As I sat drowning my sorrows I decided that I needed to reconsider precisely what I was doing with my life as, after all, not only did I have issues regarding my relationships, I also was turning the dreaded 30 in eight days time.  Crap!

Within days I had rebounded into Mr Mediocre’s arms (like I said – issues) but had also made the fateful decision to embark on the holiday of a lifetime to find myself.  Perhaps have an epiphany that would change my life forever.  This holiday was going to be outstanding too as I had incorporated good friends with amazing destinations from the birthplace of the abovementioned significant child, camel riding to the Pyramids of Giza and a trip to Petra to re-live the final scenes from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Yes, I know that scene rocked!

Shortly before flying out my girlfriend rang from Londra and suggested a side trip to Türkiye – a chance to unwind.  “An excellent suggestion.” said I.  And by the time I arrived in Türkiye to meet my girlfriend those two weeks would be well earned as I was mentally and physically exhausted from the hieroglyphics and the craziness and the heat and well, I just needed to re-boot my system.Image

On our first night in Türkiye I met who I will forevermore call The Turk.  He suggested that we spend the day on his sailing boat.  He said that we would have a great laugh and enjoy good food and have a wonderful time swimming in the blue sea.  He promised us a day to remember.  Cheesy eh?

Well as cheesy as it was we did spent the next day enjoying his food and laughing out loud at his silly jokes.  We enjoyed swimming in the sea and it was indeed very blue, almost turquoise!  Upon arriving back to the jetty The Turk suggested meeting up again in the evening for drinks however as we had both had too much sunshine and perhaps a few too many beverages throughout the day my girlfriend and I fell asleep in our hotel room before the sun had even set over Bodrum Kalesi.  I didn’t see The Turk again before I left and frankly, didn’t really think about him either.  He was merely an anecdote when recalling my adventure to others.  (I know that my girlfriend will no doubt recall this day quite differently but I don’t really want you all to hate The Turk before you get to know him so this is the story I am going to stick to).

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I returned to Sydney in time for the 2000 Olympics and then it was New Years Eve again.  A full year!  Had I grown?  Had I learnt anything?  Did my life have new meaning?  Not really but I did, finally, end it with Mr Mediocre having finally realised that he would never mature into the man that I deserved.

Fast forward to June 2001 and I find myself with friends ready to indulge in the delight that is Türkiye once again.  Walking down the caddesi on my first night I bump into – wait for it – The Turk.  Kismet?  Destiny?  Inevitability?

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Well whatever it is I now find myself married to The Turk and we have been blessed with our one little darling, my baby, the ever wonderful, always beautiful, Daughter (who is currently morphing into an obstinate teenager) and we are ready for a new adventure.

Today surrounded by boxes we are preparing for the biggest move of our lives from Sydney, Australia to a small village on the outskirts of Mersin in Türkiye.  I don’t know how long we are going to last – could be 3 months or it could be forever.  Whatever happens I will keep you updated with my witty banter and hopefully not too much twaddle.

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