Tag Archives: Travel

Spit or Swallow?

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I have a friend named Millie who, along with her family, is lucky enough to be spending a year in Italy.  We are similar people Millie and I, in similar situations and, those who look at her blog, will see we too have similar styles (hello Confit theme).

I originally met Millie at a health centre in North Sydney.  We both took a Cardiolates class together which for me, as someone who hated exercising, I actually loved.  How could it be exercise when you were on a trampoline bouncing around to music?   Our kids also went to the same school so it was no surprise that we finally crossed paths.

Millie recently wrote a piece here about the darker side of Italy and it brought a big grin to my face when reading it. 

In short Millie has taken good issue with the fact that she is in the beautiful Tuscany countryside but spends most of her life with her head down dodging poop (canine) or vomit (human) on the streets.  Like I said I laughed out loud when I read this because in Turkey the pooping and spitting is rife (I have not yet spotted vomit thankfully). 

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The dog poop does my head in.  When I left Australia I brought 10 packets of doggy poop bags with me (I am ready for approximately 1000 poops by My Hurley Dog when on our frequent walks) however I find myself picking up not just my dog’s poop but the poop from strays as well as other dogs whose owners just ignore the fact that their dog is dropping their bundle out the front of my home.  It seems that the local strays have turned the little track that leads of our house into their toilet and every morning there is new and sometimes explosive doggy poop to wash away.  Daughter (who is reading over my shoulder) just pointed out to me that there is horse poop also on the track.  Horse poop is fine.  It is fertilizer.  It doesn’t even smell that bad and it is from a working horse not a stray dog.

Then there is the spitting.  I know it is a common practice in Asia and the Middle East and the Turks are well versed with the ideology of hocking up your lurgy and spitting it to the ground.  I accept that to them it is more appropriate to do this than to use a tissue (although I am at a loss as to why this is more appropriate) and I completely understand that some people have health issues and need to clear their passages but come on!  I really have no interest in watching a middle aged, portly Turkish man (or woman!) launch a grenade-like  green substance onto the street.  Even worse is when I watch a young man or a child spit as they pass.  I want to yell at them, “Don’t do it.  You are never going to get a girlfriend” but all these boys grow into men and, of course, the circle of spit continues.

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As I am typing this paragraph alone I can hear the builder’s next door working and I think I have heard at least 3 flying lurgies with such ferocity that they shook my windows.  Nice!  Daughter has just piped up with “Better out than in.”  I am thinking about sending her from the room.

I recall reading an article last year about a Professor travelling through Asia to study the cultural differences of spitting.  Well!  Imagine putting that on your resume. 

“Good day and nice to meet you.  I am Professor Blah Blah and this class is Spitting 101.”

He sounds hot doesn’t he?

I am sorry to anyone who is offended by my giggle.  I mean no personal offence.  I understand it is cultural and a health issue at times, but please, I find myself dodging spit bombs as I walk down the street and wonder if I should be wearing a raincoat for protection.  Daughter final input to today’s blog is the suggestion that gumboots would be necessary for protection and, of course, and to match the raincoat.  Because style is important!

I will finish this by asking the question – Is Justin Bieber Turkish?  Biber?  Turkish word.  Spitting?  Hmmm.

Schapelle

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I need to go off topic for a moment.  I know this is a blog about living in Turkey and its trials and successes but the story of Schapelle Corby has been blasted all over every social and media website that I have looked on today so I may as well have my ‘two cents worth’.

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For those of you who do not know I am Australian and, like many Australians, I was fascinated by the story of Schapelle Corby.  In 2004 Schapelle travelled to Bali with friends for a surfing holiday.  On arrival at Denpasar International Airport her luggage was searched by customs officers who found 4.2 kilograms of cannabis in her board bag.  Convicted in 2005 she was sentenced to 20 years imprisonment in Kerobokan Prison. 

I do not care if she did bring the drugs into Bali (although she has always denied her doing so and has maintained her innocence steadfastly throughout the entire ordeal).  I really do not give a toss.  I will, however, be interested to see just how the media portray her over the coming weeks, months and, no doubt, years.  Her first interview will be worth millions.  Will she be able to trust any person that she meets or will they all be trying to make money off her?  The paparazzi will chase her for months.  First photo.  First outing.  First swim.  First whatever.  I just hope that after the initial juggernaut that is ‘Schapelle’ ends they will leave her to get the treatment that she needs and allow her to heal in peace.

Here I am writing about her as well.  Have I become part of the circus that is probably camped outside her sister’s home right now?  Do I have a right to an opinion about this woman?  Of course I do but do I have the right to send my opinion out into the blog-o-sphere?  Maybe.  I understand that Australian television had a TV-movie rushed to release last night – glad I missed it. 

Rant over – back to normal scheduled programming and a photo of Sultanahmet Camii that I took on my recent trip to Istanbul – go about your day now.

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40 days

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Yesterday marked 40 days since the death of my mother in law.  Another tough couple of days with tears flowing freely for Refika.  She was truly a remarkable woman and loved by so many people.

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Having never attended a Turkish funeral I really had no idea what was going to happen and due to the speed in which a funeral happens here (same day) I did not even have time to gather my thoughts or ask what to expect.

Refika had been feeling under the weather for some time.  She had had heart surgery 2 years earlier however the surgery was not a success and she had never really recovered.  She was still her welcoming and wonderful self to us when we arrived although it was obvious that she was not doing as well as she could have been.  Her death, however, was a complete shock.  I certainly did not anticipate it and when The Turk received a call from the hospital at 5 am requesting that the family attend I knew, as did he, that it was not going to be good news.

By 7 am two trucks arrived with chairs, apparently this funeral was going to be attended by hundreds of aile (family) and also her many friends that she had made over the years.  I am not exaggerating when I say there was over 400 chairs delivered and set up on the street.  A portable morgue, of sorts, was then delivered and set up in the driveway.  I was told that this was where Refika would be washed by a hodja (female washer) and prepared for her journey to paradise.

At this point I started to freak out a little as people were arriving in their droves and clearly I had no idea what was going on or what was expected of me.  Those who know me know that I am not really one to show emotion but the crying, nay wailing, that had already begun was the most awful thing I think I had ever heard in my life.  Of course I had been to funerals before.  My beloved parents, extended family members and also to support my friends in their time of grief.  I have not, however, been to anything like this.

When Refika was brought home absolute bedlam broke out.  There was a lot of screaming and wailing, a lot of tears.  The grief was almost too much for me to bear and I tried to keep out of everyone’s way but before I knew it Daughter and I were brought into the portable morgue to say goodbye.  Daughter was distraught – although I let her come to my father’s funeral two years ago that was a western funeral and quite sedate in comparison – in my mind I kept wishing she had gone to school that morning as her cousins had done to protect her from the emotion and grief.

After Refika had been washed and prepared for burial the imam (leader of Islamic community) arrived and gave a prayer.  The men then took her body and placed it in a casket where it was then settled onto the back of a truck and taken to the mezarlik (cemetery) for burial.  Interestingly women are not invited to attend at the burial.  They will attend the next morning to pay their respect.

There was a constant stream of family members attending over the next seven days.  From early morning through late in the evening there was visitors coming to pay their respects.  The mourning areas were separated – one for the men and one for the ladies.  This annoyed me as the men got to sit in the sunshine while us ladies were segregated to the rear of the property in the shade (and you wonder why people kept getting sick).  Cay was constantly being served and meals were delivered by neighbours for next seven days which is the first part of the mourning period.  By this stage I began to hide as between the tears and the stress of attending on a daily basis was beginning to take its toll on me.

On the seventh day the iman re-attended at our home and gave another prayer for Refika.  This was also the day that a sheep was sacrificed and meals were prepared for all of our neighbours and fellow mourners.  This now marked the end of the official seven days of mourning.

The next date of commemoration will be the 52nd day although again I am unsure exactly what this will entail.

I am glad that we were in Turkey before Refika passed away.  I am glad that Daughter spent at least some time every day with her.  I am glad that The Turk was able to be with her in the end and I am glad that I had met and loved this wonderful women.  She will be missed by me and missed by anyone who ever met her.

Başiniz sağ olsun (Let health be on your head)

Toilet Humor

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I had to laugh when I saw the recent memes doing the rounds regarding the toilet situation in Sochi.  I wonder if any of the journalists who have spent the last few days complaining about the less than stellar facilities have ever been to a country where the pressure in the pipes is not really sufficient to handle your squares.  I mean that wipes (hehe) out at least half of the world so are these journalists on their first overseas assignment?  Have they never been south of the border before?

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When The Turk and I first discussed building a home in the Village I questioned the plumbing situation.  It is not like I fill the bowl or anything but I need the necessities here people – “will I be able to flush my toilet paper down the toilet?”  Yes that is all I want and anyone who has holidayed in Turkey or Greece or, well, many eastern European countries, Asian countries, South American countries (again at least half the world) know “DON’T PUT THE TOILET PAPER DOWN THE TOILET!”.

What I have never understood about the technicalities of Turkish plumbing is the fact that you can drop a rather large kaka in your toilet and it will disappear down the s-bend with no difficulties but god help you if you even placed one square of toilet paper in that same toilet.  The little fucker will block up your toilet from now until judgment day.

The Turk tells me I should be thankful that at least my toilet is of the sit down variety because originally the plumber was going to install squat toilets in both the ensuite and main bathroom.  Seriously?  To quote Roger Murtaugh “I’m getting too old for this shit”.  I mean literally my knees would have given out on me by now.

The first night Daughter and I slept in our new home I will tell you I did a kaka and yes I put that toilet paper in the toilet.  It was an exciting moment – not the kaka the flushing of the paper.  A week or so later I had a telephone call from The Turk back home in Australia, “Jane we have a problem.”

“Huh?”  Picture the total confusion in my voice and on my face.  Thankfully we were not circling the moon at the time.

“You blocked up the toilet!”

“Me?  No!  It works fine.”  And it did because I had been flushing paper down it all week.

“Darling no paper down the toilet!”

“But . . . but . . . you said it would be fine.  I don’t understand.”

I really didn’t understand but what I subsequently found out that my brother in law (who had been parking his car in our basement at the time) had to call the plumber practically on a daily basis to have our pipes cleaned out as there was an overflow of excrement in the basement that was flowing towards his precious car.  He was too scared (read that as too embarrassed) to tell us so kept paying for the plumber himself!

Five months down the track and I have been conditioned to placing my toilet paper in the bin provided.  I hate it of course.  It is so unhygienic.  I have to scrub my hands like Meredith Grey going into lifesaving surgery after I clean that bin out and then there is the walk of shame to contend with.  What is the walk of shame you wonder?  It is not enough that you have to take your garbage down the street and around the corner to the large industrial bins for collection but when you know you are walking down the street carrying your used toilet paper or other sanitary items and then are stopped by a random on the street with a merry “Gunaydin”, honestly, I just want to die!

Çay Time

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It is so fecking hard to make a cup of tea in this place!  There is a reason why I like a teabag.  It is easy.  It is simple and it does not require a damn engineering degree just to complete the task.

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Before I go any further I wish to point out that at no stage has The Turk ever taught his yabanci eş (foreign wife) how to make either traditional Türk çay (tea) or kahve (coffee) so when the inevitable time came for me to attempt either of these two beverages it was going to prove a difficult task.  Earlier today I found myself without electricity but with the desire for a “cuppa”.  I bet you are wondering what I did.  Well I became the perfect yabanci eş and attempted to make some Türk tea – some real Türk tea.

My SIL recently gave me a çaydanlik (Türk teapot) as I suspect she was sick of tea bags when she came for a visit.  She also gave me a show and tell on how to correctly make çay.  There is an art in how to prepare Türk çay, pour Türk çay and even drink Türk çay however when SIL was giving me instruction I was a less than stellar student as I was more interested in the biscuits that she had brought over rather than how to make the tea itself (I mean, really, how hard could it be?).

I just want to remind you (in case you skipped it above) that The Turk has never taught me how to make çay so when you read below I imagine you will rally behind me at the suggestion that he has a little “accident” in the near future.

A çaydanlik consists of two separate pieces.  Crazy you would no doubt say.  The Chinese have been making tea for centuries without the need for two pots and my mother (along with her English ancestors) would have scoffed had I suggested that they had been doing it wrong for all these years but this is Turkey and in Turkey you need two pots.  I delved into my cloudy morning mind to recall Songul’s instructions on how to correctly make cay.

2 heaped spoons of çay – check. Water in the pots – check.  Put it on the stove – check.  Pride people.  I took the challenge and accepted my accolades when pride called my name.  Cok guzel Janey!

After about fifteen minutes the water in the bottom pot was boiling so I thought I should take it off the stove but the water in the top pot was nowhere near warm enough I put it on the cooktop to boil.  The Turk wandered past and stuck his larger than life nose in just as the top pot came to boil, “What are you doing?”

(“Building a rocket ship,” was the bitchy wife comment in my head)  Dutiful yabanci eş replies, “Making çay.”

“Well you can’t do that.”

The Turk proceeded to lecture me about what I was doing wrong and why I was doing it wrong (apparently you do not let the top pot boil as it will burn the leaves) and then gave me a little speech about “tea dust”.  Bitchy wife was beginning to get quite aggravated at this point but dutiful yabanci eş was still in complete control of my bodily vessel and set forth to make a fresh pot of çay with a smile.

2 heaped spoons of çay – check.  Rinsed for tea dust – check.  Water in the pots – check.  Put it on the stove – check.

The Turk called from the balcony, “Do you need any help?”

“No!”  Arsehole.

Another fifteen minutes had now passed and to be honest I really didn’t want a cup of tea anymore but I persevered as a good yabanci eş would.  About this time The Turk decided he should come and check my handiwork.  I mentioned that the water is still not hot in the top pot and out of his arrogant male mouth came this reply, “What?  You really have no idea what you are doing do you?”

Any hope of yabanci eş continuing to reside in this bodily vessel was just thrown out the window, “What the holy mother of all hell are you talking about?”

The Turk nudges me away from the stove and throws the contents of the top pot into the sink – yet again.

“You can’t use cold water.  You use the water from the bottom pot to heat the leaves.”

“How the feck am I supposed to know that?”  Yep bitchy wife is now in full possession of this vessel.

At this point the idea of pushing The Turk off the balcony came to mind.  He had washed the tiles on the balcony that morning and it was still a little slippery.  I stared at his measly body for a moment – I am certain that I could make this look like an accident.

Another 15 minutes now passes while The Turk’s çay simmers away on the stove.  Let’s just add all this time up.  45 minutes after I got the ridiculous notion in my head to have a cup of fecking tea I finally got a cup of fecking tea and if you are wondering if I can taste the difference between this fancy-smancy Turkish delicacy and a Jiggler-bag?  Nope, they taste the same to me.

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Mamma Under The Shirley Valentine

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When I used to imagine my life in Turkey I likened it to a mixture of Under the Tuscan Sun and Shirley Valentine with maybe a bit of Mamma Mia thrown in.  I would have the provincial life of living in a small village in Turkey, interacting with the locals, learning the customs, massacring the language, singing Abba songs and all the while making passionate love in the Adriatic Sea with my very own Costas (The Turk).

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I realise that Turkey will never be Florence.  I am not walking through those lush fields of green or staring in awe at the beautiful buildings all the while eating delicious Italian food.  No I am wearing my gumboots while navigating muddy puddles while passing by dilapidated houses (old yes but not provincial).  I accept that Turkey will never be Italy nor with The Turk ever be Costas (and would be mortified if I suggested making love on the beach).  I do sing, especially after a few glasses of red, but I highly doubt I would sing an Abba song.

So instead of being Under the Shirley Valentine I need to make it my own story which is full of love, family and joy.  Years ago I attempted to write my autobiography for a writing course.  It was called “Memoirs of a Drama Queen” but that isn’t really who I am now.  I had excessive drama during my twenties, mainly caused by my Mr Mediocre although he is now a distant memory *cough cough*.  I am, however, enjoying the blogging.  It helps me analyse my thoughts and I appreciate the feedback that I have received over the past few months.  I often think my blabbing on about personal things to the world is oversharing to a completely unacceptable degree but then it becomes more of the case of “fuck it”.  I think I am humorous, sometimes, and I think I can be empathetic, sometimes.  I hope my stories are interesting and, on the occasion that I become opinionated, please take that opinion with a grain of salt.

I have a wonderful friend back home in Australia who rings me every couple of weeks and we chat about this and that.  She does, however, give me enough encouragement to continue to write.  She said that I should imagine that it is just her reading the blog – that I am writing just to her.  So to her I continue to write.  My daily happenings.  The silliness.  The sadness.  And the occasional rant.

I miss you my friend and hope that we chat again soon.

Sex in the Stairwell

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Not me and The Turk – get your minds out of the gutters people.  It is mating season for cats in Turkey at the moment and the Village Kediler have been busy at it morning, noon and night.  My mother in law had what we fondly called “the whacking stick” to give a good tap to any cat who ventured too close to her Nanu or any of its offspring.  Of course since my mother in law passed away I (and My Hurley Dog) have taken on the job of protecting the strays from lusting he-cats.

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As you all know from my posts here and here My Hurley Dog is not a fan of Nanu and this revulsion is equally reciprocated by her however since the onslaught of two particularly nasty (and horny) he-cats My Hurley Dog and Nanu have maintained a relatively calm cease fire.  Nanu has been cornered on more than one occasion by the nasty he-cats and My Hurley Dog upon hearing it or seeing it races past Nanu straight for the culprit.  It seems that My Hurley Dog has accepted that he must share his domain with the Villager Kediler but dog damn it (typo but stays) he will not share with these two interlopers that have nothing but sex on the mind.

Last night it all came to a head when it seems I forgot to lock the downstairs door thereby allowing our stairwell to become, well, a bordello for the evening.  At around 3 am the sound of horny he-cats coupled with screeching she-cats woke us all up.  Daughter screamed thinking we were under attack, The Turk merely put a pillow over his head and went back to sleep which left me and My Hurley Dog to go and stop the onslaught.

Opening the front door I was confronted with the site of Nanu and two of her offspring screaming past me followed by big buff ginger and white he-cat spitting fire as he ran up the stairs in hot pursuit.  Well this was all My Hurley Dog would stand for and he slid past me and chased all 4 of them onto the roof.  I too gave chase (grabbing my whacking stick on the way) and arrived on the rooftop to witness he-cat on top of small ginger girl, Nanu attacking he-cat from behind and My Hurley Dog throwing himself into the mix.  I ran screaming, ninja style across the roof wielding my whacking stick and sent all 4 of them in different directions.  Just then the light came on from my niece’s window next door and My Hurley Dog and I came to a running halt, shocked by the light or perhaps embarrassment.  My niece stuck her head out the window “Ne yapiyorsun?” (What am you doing?).

I must have looked ridiculous standing there in my ugg boots, wielding my whacking stick at non-existent cats (as all of them scattered as soon as the light came on).  I sheepishly waved goodnight and ran back downstairs, locked the security door and returned to my bed.  Daughter informed me that it sounded like elephants were running across the roof (thank you!) and The Turk asked me to get him a glass of water!

Good night!!

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Weekly Photo Contest – Objects

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I took this photo on Wednesday morning.  A dreary day in Istanbul with the temperature sitting at 3 degrees Celsius.  Our time was limited though so despite the cold Daughter and I roamed the city exploring. The colour of the tram stood out to me and I quickly snapped this photo as we dodged the crowds down Istiklal Caddesi.

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http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/31/photo-challenge-object/

Weather Update

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As you all know I have been keeping you abreast of the lack of rain in Mersin.  I think at last check it was 4 rainy days in 138 days.  That’s a lot of sunny days!  Anyhow, Daughter and I went to Istanbul last weekend for a little holiday and, on the way to Adana, our rain free run came to an end.  Yes it rained.  Daughter was excited.  Me?  I was more concerned about the weather in Istanbul.  I googled it that morning and saw a high of 3 degrees Celsius.  That falls under a huge “Yikes” for me.

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In the six days that Daughter and I were in Istanbul it rained in Mersin – a lot.  There was some localised flooding (not in the Village thankfully) heavy rain and strong winds.  Since our return yesterday it has been sunny and rather pleasant, in fact I managed to get a little pink while sitting on my newly completely (finally) balcony this morning.

And Istanbul?  Yes it was cold.  Really cold in fact.  But despite the zero degrees and the occasional snowflakes that turned the city a dreary grey we had a great week away from Mersin.  Daughter did a lot of shopping (she “discovered” Topshop while wandering down Istiklal Caddesi) and we visited our usual haunts including the Basilica Cistern, Sultan Ahmet Camii and Hagia Sophia.

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Will blog more about Istanbul soon but right now I have a lot of laundry to get on the line.  Just before I sign off I just want to add one more thing.  Away for a week and The Turk is unable to do the washing despite the fact that I have showed him a dozen times how to use the washing machine AND the fact that the instruction manual is in Turkish AND who uses a clean towel every – single – day?  Clean undies – yes – but clean towels???

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Failing Religion

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It is now school holidays in Turkey which means that Daughter has survived her first term in the Turkish village school.  She has survived classes where no one speaks her language.  She has navigated the social minefields of school life and made friends with kids and teachers alike.  She has gotten in trouble for talking in class, picked a fight to protect a friend and even got called into the principal’s office on one occasion.  She has also received her first Ilkogretim Orgenci Karnesi.  Her Elementary Student Report Card.

How did Daughter do?

You have probably already guessed that I am not only of those mother’s who brag about how wonderful and talented and amazing their child is.  I would rather call a spade a spade.  I will merely say that for a kid who four months ago was coasting along in a suburban school in Sydney she did pretty well.  She got a Certificate for passing the term (which is a good thing apparently).  She received 4’s and 5’s for most subjects (highest is a 5).  She got a 4 in Turkce which is pretty good considering it is not her first language.  The only subject she got a “2” in is Din Kulturu ve anlak bilgisi also known as “Religion”.

Long ago I made the decision to allow Daughter to choose her own religion when she was old enough to make an informed determination.  It is not to me as the parent to force something as important as spirituality on my child.  I always gave her the information when requested.  I took her to Sunday school classes at our local church, arranged for her to meet other Muslim families in our area and even enrolled her in Buddhism classes at Bondi.  We often attended the Hari Krishna Centre at North Sydney (best vegetarian samosa’s around) and I even explained the religion of Jedism (alright so perhaps I made her watch Star Wars with me).  I gave her the tools to learn about spirituality in her own way – and she has.  This is why a double lesson of Din must send her closer to the edge and also explains why she hates her Friday’s so much.

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I have, however, made one suggestion to her –

“Please do not argue with the Din Ogretmeni (Religion Teacher) again about Islam as this causes him to go red in the face and gesticulate in a manner that made your father laugh and made me flinch.  It also means that we do not need to make another trip up to the Principal’s Office on your behalf.  Thank you.”