Tag Archives: yabanci

“Grow The Feck Up”

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There are days when I just cannot do it.  I just cannot “adult”.  It’s a thing you know.  I used to go through it on a Monday morning when I would be getting ready for work.  I would morph into the petulant child.  I become bitter and mean.  I would stand in my living room in my pyjamas and I would stamp my foot.  I would sulk all the way to work while sitting on my bus.  I did NOT want to “adult”.  Now it happens to me when I have to go into a Turkish Government office.

adult

You may all recall my recent yabanci post; well this is my follow up.  Shortly after that post we lodged my Residency Permit for renewal.  Now I am not going to bore you with all the idiosyncrasies with your RP.  Go to YellAli or Doc Marten for all the information as these are my “go to” websites.  Anyway, we lodged my RP.  We had everything that we needed.  We went over the documents – twice.  The Turk checked it.  I checked it.  His brother checked it (the smart one).  It was perfect.  Done and dusted.  The appointment date was easy to get and I went for my appointment on Tuesday morning.  I knew I had to “adult” but, as mentioned above, I spent my morning sulking, stamping my foot and, well, sometimes I can be just damn difficult.

And I know I have to be on my best behaviour when we get there.  I know that I need to smile and say teşekkür ederim and wish them a merry day despite their gruff behaviour but, honestly, when you know you are going to be ignored, talked about, ignored and spoken to in a manner that is nothing short of condescending and finally, ignored, it makes it very hard for me to “adult”.

Before we stepped through security The Turk whispered to me, “Don’t act like a bitch.”  Awwww.  He knows me so well.

Up to the 3rd floor we went.  We found our door – can you feel the excitement?  The Turk knocks.  In we go.  We stood at the counter while three men sat diligently ignoring us while updating each other on their scintillating personal lives.  We stood.  Patiently.  I counted to “87 Mississippi” before The Turk clears his throat to get their attention.  We have an appointment.  Without even stopping their conversation, without even looking up, one of them did the head flick (you know the one) and “tskked” us before flicking his wrist indicating we go to the desk on the right.  At this point I laughed out loud.  I had to.  How fecking rude is that?  Would this fly in a Government department in your home town.  No it fecking wouldn’t!  I stared at him and said, “Well aren’t you an ass”.  Of course, no one understands so that works out well for me.  The Turk gave me the death stare that would make Emperor Palpatine tremble in his hoodie before turning to the appropriate desk where sitting behind it was a woman who had, by her appearance and demeanour, obviously just caught her husband in bed with a supermodel.  I mean she was practically catatonic.  You could literally taste her despair and melancholy.  Seriously her aura would be a big black cloud of death!  For the sake of this post she will be known as Misery.

Documents were handed over and hurried conversations were had.  Not to me of course but between The Turk and Misery.  After a few false starts (that had us running to the other end of Carsi to obtain additional documents) Misery gave us the all clear and said we were good to go.  The new ikhamet should arrive in 4 weeks.  Yah!!!  Petulant child clapped her hands and skipped out of the building.

Friday morning we were called back into the Government office.  “Don’t wanna”, said I as I wanted to go to the beach with my friends.  Again my other persona of petulant child appeared.  I stamped my foot.  I sulked all the way there in the car.  I was NOT going to “adult”.  We got there.  Before we walked through security The Turk warned me, “Grow Up”.  Alright that was a lie.  What he actually said was, “Grow the feck up”.  (see how I keep this PG-13 after all feck is much nicer to read than FUCK isn’t it?).  I sighed.  Okay.  I can do this.  Taking The Turk’s excellent advice (and knowing that I wanted to get this done so I could go to the beach) I put a big, fat, fake smile on my dial to which The Turk sidelines me with, “Is that your Bitching Rest Face?” Yes.  Yes it is!  We were first through the door on Friday morning.  First through the security check and the first ones up on the 3rd floor.  We were ready for anything.  We sat.  We waited.  It was soooo fecking hot that my ass was sweating freely but I still kept Bitching Rest Face on my dial.  Finally we were called back to see Misery (who was only slightly less miserable in our second encounter).  She pointed at the last page, “Işaret”.  Signature.

Oops!

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My Most Hated Turkish Word – Yabancı

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This community service announcement is coming to you from my balcony with a glass of red in my hand to calm my frazzled nerves.  It is just on 7.30pm and its 33 degrees (Celius people not that crazy Fahrenheit that only, like, one country in the world still uses) and I am trying to enjoy the mild ocean breeze wafting over our ev.  I have had a crappy day and it all comes down to one word.  A word, I believe, is possibly the worst word in the Turkish language (and that’s saying something ‘cause a Turk can tell you to go and feck yourself in so many unique ways).  The word that has become the bane of my existence is … Yabancı.

meditation

Just breathe Janey.  Breathe!

For the uninitiated the word Yabancı simply means “foreigner”.  According to Google translate (my Bible) it also means “alien”, exotic”, “outlandish” and a few other words but basically a Yabancı is anyone that is not Turkish but can also be used for someone who is not from Mersin or not from The Village so it can be a very diverse word when it puts its mind to it.

Yes people today the word Yabancı has been tossed around more than a football at the Superbowl or a Frisbee at a family barbie and I am not taking it anymore!

We all know that my Turkish is crap.  I have not mastered the language and, despite thousands of liras worth of lessons, I am possibly worse now than when I started (that is not true at all).  BUT I can understand enough to know two things – 1. When they are talking about me; and 2. When they are talking about me.  Alright I only know one thing but I only need to know one thing and I do KNOW WHEN THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT ME!

So the point of this rant?

It is time for me to renew my residency visa.  “A residency visa?” you ask, “Why would you have a residency visa when you have been married to The Turk for what seems like a 1000 years of servitude?”  Why indeed curious reader.  Well the reason that I did not get a kimlik (Identity Card) back when was simple – pure laziness on our part.  Not just me but The Turk too.  We just never got round to it.  “But why don’t you apply for your kimlik now?” Why not?  Well I did actually apply 22 months ago and now 22 months later I am still waiting on my kimlik.  Everything has been lodged.  I have had my interview waaayyy back in March it is now just playing the waiting game but I tell you this right now – if I do not have my kimlik by this time next year I am moving back to Oz!  Yep I’m putting a “used by date” on this shit!

Alright so I am babbling again – back to it.

So now we find ourselves moving into Year 3 of our time here in Türkiye and I need to renew my residency visa yet again.  I went to the bank – they needed paperwork from the Nufus.  Got it.  Back to the Bank, got my statement.  Too easy.  I went to the sigorta and argued the toss with them for a good 2 hours about my place of abode.  They needed proof from the Nufus.  Got it.  Got the confirmation of insurance (oh and thank youto the FB group Doc Martin for your assistance in this regard).  Alrighty then.  Proof of address.  Easy.  Tapu.  No for some stupid, idiotic reason of which I cannot truly understand I needed to go to the Nufus and get proof of place of abode – yet fecking again!  Back to the Nufus for the third time in this week.  Well the past two trips had been relatively easy even though The Turk tends to talk too much and unintentionally irritates the Government employees with his banter but regardless they were pretty straightforward trips up until today.  TODAY.  Feck my life.  For whatever fecking reason today’s employee decided that my address wasn’t correct on the computer and sent The Turk and I backwards and forwards the bloody office like a tennis ball at a Grand Slam.  The word yabancı was tossed around often and every single time I heard it I shuddered.  Not only was yabancı tossed around there was also Avustralya tossed around like a shrimp on a barbie.  At one point I actually counted the number of times the word yabancı was used in one minute.  It was 11.  11 times!  11 times by three Government employees.

Here’s what you need to know people.  Yes I am a yabancı.  Yes I am from Avustralya.  Yes I live here.  Why?  Because I fecking want to.  Give me my fecking document.  Just give it to me.  NOW!

We arrived at the Nufus at 9.15 am and we left at 12.22 pm.  The Turk has suggested I take up meditation before I lose my fecking mind.

Feck.My.Life!

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The Inquisition

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I currently have a two tier problem here in Mersin.  My second problem stems from my first problem not being finalised.

Welcome

When The Turk arrived in Mersin late last year we immediately lodged documentation pertaining to my citizenship application.  There was a lot of trips to various Government offices,  more perilous than trekking across the Sahara Desert or more difficult than reaching the summit of Everest.  There was a lot of paperwork including – current passport (easy), medical certificate (bir şey olmaz – no problem), 4 passport photos (heads up peeps you should always have at least a dozen passport photos on hand – you will go through them like tissues), completed application (done), marriage certificate (translated into Turkish of course), confirmation of residency (hello I am here thus I am a resident) and the doozy – Certificate of ability to speak Turkish (WHAT????).  That last one I thought we had gotten away with as The Turk and I had been called in for an interview at the Emniyet a couple of weeks after lodgment of the documents.  The interviewer asked a few very simple questions and I answered with a yes or no (evet / yok).  I was then fingerprinted, they did a police check (they never did find out about that international jewel heist I was involved with – shush) and they arrived unannounced at our home to ensure that The Turk and I were in a real relationship.  They found me sitting out the front on the road in my pajamas waiting for My Hurley Dog to do a poop.  You don’t get any more real than that folks!

Fast forward to last week and I began hassling The Turk that we should chase up my citizenship before he disappears to Sydney next month.  Good idea!  We arrived at the Emniyet to find that nothing had been done to move my application forward since last December!  WTF???  Which brings me to my next problem – the expiration of my residency visa but I am jumping ahead of myself here.  Bir dakika (one minute).

This morning The Turk got a call from the Polis requiring my immediate attendance at their office in Yumuktepe.  Incidentally I had been to the suburb of Yumuktepe before as there is a ruin mound there and as a lover of history I wanted to get a gander at it.  This mound reveals a Neolithic settlement which continued up to the Middle Ages.  Like the Gözlükule Tumulus in Tarsus this one is located in a park and there really is nota lot to see however it has 23 levels of occupation dating from 6300BC which, for the geek in me, is really interesting!  I know I have gotten off topic but as a history buff this is really interesting stuff!

Anyway The Turk and I jumped and after I directed the taksi driver as he had no clue where to go we made it to the meeting out of breath and sweating.  I assumed that this was the final formality to approve my citizenship.  I did not know what it would be but I bet it was going to be simple.  Nope.  It was THE INTERVIEW.

I think this post should actually be re-named The Interview From Hell because that is what it was.  I was seated in a room underneath the Polis station where I could clearly see straight into the cells.  As I waited for the interviewer to arrive I curiously scoped out the two people in the cells opposite.  There was the buxom blonde with waaayyy too much makeup directly opposite me as well as another man to her left who was babbling loudly in a language that was not Turkish but I could not tell you what language it was or even if it was a language.  The woman, we found out, was Russian and had overstayed her visa.  Gulp!

The Turk was asked to wait outside and the interviewer proceeded to ask me a butt load of questions – in Turkish – and then write copious amounts of notes when I could not answer the question correctly.  Tears!  I was welling up and had never wanted The Turk beside me more than I did at that moment.

For those of you who are going to go through this in the coming months the questions were pretty much the following:

Where do you live?  I don’t know the address but I know how to get there.  I know which dolmus.  I can explain it to a taksi driver but right now, with you staring at me like I should be in a cell next to the Russian I cannot answer you and certainly I cannot answer you in Turkish.

Where do you like to go in Mersin (insert your own city or town here)?  Ummm?  Ne???

How is your mother and father? ölü.

Do you have any brothers or sisters?  If so how many?  Do you like your brother or sister?  Jeeze how would I explain the crazy that is my family?  Is adoption even a word in Turkish?  Regardless I cannot answer with the Russian smiling a gummy smile at me through bright pink lips.  Pass.

Does your husband (or wife) have any brothers or sisters?  If so, how many?  Yes but I truly had no idea what you were saying.  Pass.

How is his mother and father?  Pass.  His father doesn’t like my cooking.  In English.

Do you like living in Mersin?  Evet.

How old are you?  44 (using my hands).

How long have you been married?  On iki yil (that one I had).

Do you have any children?  Evet.  Bir.  (I am acing this part of the interview).

How many bedrooms in your house?  Huh?  Oh yes I know this one – üç.

What is your address in (enter your place of birth or last known residence)?  I wrote this as he shook his head in mirth at my attempted answer.

Each of these questions were mixed up so he would ask me a question about my family and then asked how many bedrooms we had in our house.  My brain was still trying to translate the last answer when the next question was being shot at me.  It was horrendeous.  It was the Inquisition.  In fact that should be the name of this post The Inquisition!

I failed.  Miserably.

The interviewer was basically laughing.  The Russian visa over-stayer with too much makeup was watching me from her cell and she was laughing.  She said something in Turkish (much better than me of course) and the interviewer shushed her.  The other man in the cell opposite was giggling but I feel this was more in reply to the dust bunny in the corner of his cell.

This was a disaster.

The Interviewer called The Turk into the room and said that I would have another interview with the Vali (Governor) in 4 weeks.  Hold on!  The Turk is leaving for Australia in 3 weeks!  Can we have it before he leaves?  No.

Feck My Life!

In the interim my residency visa has now expired and I have a mere 15 days before I have to either renew or leave the country.  This was the second part of my problem.

The residency requirements have changed in the past year.  Most people (including myself) was well aware of the changes but to be honest I did not think I would still be waiting for my citizenship 10 months down the track so did not look into the visa issue.  Now it was pressing and I am swiftly running out of time.  Needed for my residency application was the following – translated copy of passport (jeeze really?), valid health insurance for the length of my residency (1 year approximately 1000TL), five passport photos (told you to keep them handy), proof of address (more difficult than you would think as I do not have any correspondence that gives my address and the Nufus will not include me in their documents until I have a kimlik which of course I cannot get until I get citizenship – the epitome of a vicious circle), copy of your tapu or your residential agreement, bank statement ensuring that you have enough funds to cover your stay and your tax number.  Easy right?  Ummm . . .

I did not even have a Turkish bank account!  So after spending the next 3 days running around and not having a breakdown after the Spanish Inquisition took place today I hope to be applying for a further 12 month residency visa tomorrow.

If they give me any grief there is a small possibility that I will go postal.  Keep an eye out on your local news channel.  If they start talking about an Australian going crazy in Mersin, well, that will be me!

The Lord of the Kimlik

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“One does not simply walk into Mordor.  Its black gates are guarded by more than just Orcs.  There is evil there that does not sleep.  The great Eye is ever watchful.”

When Tolkien wrote this I wonder if he had already had the great misfortune to attend at a Government Office in Turkey because these words have never been so true.

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Before Daughter and I left Australia we had foolishly assumed that obtaining the correct residence visa was going to be a piece of cake.  It would be no more than a quick trip to the Turkish Consulate in Sydney and they would welcome us with open arms.  Hosgeldiniz.  After that fateful first trip to the Consulate it became quite clear that this was not going to be as simple as originally thought and that the journey to residency was long and thwart with peril.  In the end due to delays and the wrong paperwork Daughter and I actually entered Turkey on a tourist visa and I knew that I was now going to have to sort out the visas here.  In Mersin.  Turkey.  Yikes!

The first time I attended at the Emniyet in Mersin I will be honest.  I was nervous.  I mean the Consulate in Sydney was bloody hard so I can only imagine what it was going to be like here.  I had arrived the night before and was jet lagged and grumpy.  This was not a good start to what was going to be a very long, very tedious day.  The Turk’s brother had taken a week off work to assist with the difficulties (read that as nonsense) that is the Turkish Government and our first stop was at the Emniyet Genel Müdürlüğü (Turkish National Police) so we could obtain a Residence Permit.  We ran up and down stairs (why is there no lift?) in 40 degree heat (why is there no air conditioning?) and waited in queues that went down the corridor before being issued with a number(!) to be dealt with.  When you are issued the number 74 your heart begins to sink and as there are no chairs available (after all there are 73 people ahead of you) I leaned against the wall, sweat pouring down my back while staring at a photograph of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk.  It is a long wait.  People come and go.  Smells come and go.  I try in vain to translate the signs on the wall.  Cay comes and goes but none is offered to the suffering hordes.  I watch other, more successful, people make their way to the front of the queue.  I listen to the numbers being called.  So close.  So very close.  And then – it’s lunchtime.  We are ushered out of the building.  My postal levels are high but watching The Turk’s brother I can see that he is also becoming quite frustrated with the wait.  After the lunch break I returned to my wall and started to doze when suddenly, joyously, our number is called.  Hallelujah.  Praise the Lord or Allah or whatever!  My brother in law fought his way to the front of the counter where a heavily moustached, non-smiling government employee, glanced at the papers before handing them back.  We are missing a document.  Come again.

It took me four trips to obtain my Yabancilara Mahsus Ikamet Tezkeresi or Residence Permit for Foreigners.  I think that this is probably quite straight forward normally but as The Turk was not with us it made completing the documentation exponentially difficult.  I cursed The Turk a lot those first few days.

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As a resident of Turkey I also needed to obtain a Kimlik number.  As a foreigner I am not eligible for a TC Kimlik and instead I obtained a Yabanci Kimlik No.  Pretty much the same thing but we are identified with the number “99” as the first two digits.  Getting a Yabancı kimlik No. is actually pretty easy because you do it online and any excuse to not walk into a Turkish Government office is a win-win in my mind.

Fast forward a few months and The Turk reminded me that I still needed to get my citizenship finalised (which was lodged the previous September).  Foreigner’s can become Turkish citizens if they jump through a number of ridiculously difficult hoops but being a Turkish citizen does mean that I no longer need to fluff around with visas and various other benefits as a long term resident.

After a tedious number of hours at the Emniyet we finally received the news that my application was now held by the Nufus Office or also known by other poor yabancı as Mordor, which is well known by all as a treacherous journey, full of peril all in an attempt to retrieve ‘my precious’ also known as my kimlik card.  The Turk and I have attended this office so many times over the past week that the polis remember us and let us through without going through the metal detectors or standing in the queues.  We have attended this office so many times that the employees recognise us “Yabancı” (a most hated word) and “Al Pacino” (Good Lord!).  We have attended this office so many times that when the documents were finally stamped there was a united cheer and a lot of handshaking and congratulations from staff who proudly told us that in “six months or so” I will have my official kimlik card!  Six months!  Wow!  They did mention to us that there would be a polis check and, of course, that other well known yabancı terror known as the Interview but then it should be smooth sailing.

As I write this I feel a sense of forboding akin to Frodo before he started on his great journey:

Aragorn: Are you frightened?
Frodo:  Yes.
Aragon:  Not nearly frightened enough. I know what hunts you.

Oh incidentally Daughter’s kimlike was actually issued back in Australia but no one told us so we find ourselves now liaising with the Consulate back in Sydney in an attempt to locate it.  I feel another journey coming on.

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