Turkey: Place of My Heart

Babil Sokak

goreme1990 — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 23:30:00 GMT

Life on Apple Mountain (Babil Sokak) – by Lisa Morrow, June 2010

I went back to Apple Mountain the other day, the little inner city suburb of Istanbul where we lived a few years ago. About a ten minute walk from Taksim Square, it is worlds away from the faded 20^th century elegance of Istiklal Caddesi, famous for its Art Deco architecture and run down consulates, Orthodox Greek churches and old tram way. There the tourists mix with the moneyed Turks and the wannabes, all strolling up and down in the chaos and noise of people wanting to go somewhere with nowhere to go.

To reach our old street, we almost always walked down Babil Sokak. Babil Sokak, in Apple Mountain, wends down one of Istanbul’s famous hills, and has a ramshackle collection of tea houses, restaurants, hairdressers, bootmakers and other local shops lining its rough and ready bitumen street, ending abruptly in a steep staircase that drops down mercilessly to the bowels of Tarlabasi, an as yet unreconstructed suburb of the poor and disaffected. When I walked down Babil Sokak to my street, I was known to and knew almost all the shopkeepers by sight, and felt warmed by their welcome. On the top right hand corner was a sparse and basic supermarket, ably cashiered by Meryem, who we called Bucky, on account of her unfortunate teeth. She liked me a great deal and from under her headscarf gave me the double blink welcome, particular to Turkish women, while uttering other words of welcome. I was always polite to her, even though she served me so slowly, counting out aloud every single time as she calculated the change. I felt sorry for her as her headscarf only accentuated her hook nose and prominent teeth, which seemed to jump out when she smiled.

Under the supermarket was the aptly named Tizzy hairdressers. I say aptly because the women who frequented it often scuttled in hidden under gauzy headscarves (designed to accentuate their femininity and beauty rather than to hide it a la Meryem style), only to reappear some hours later as natural bottle blondes teetering out on high heels in impossibly tight jeans. Next to the hairdressers was an assortment of shops including a photo developing place that specialized in glamour passport shots. These are necessary for everything from actually getting your passport, to transport passes, residence permits or identity cards, high school and university paperwork and a vast array of other documentation, most of which require a minimum of four photos, although I am yet to know just what each copy of the photo is used for. At last count there were probably over fifty photos of me looking far more sophisticated and groomed than I do in real life, circulating or maybe filed in the bureaucratic labyrinth of Turkish government departments.

Next to the photography shop there was a bread shop, a café, electrical goods and other small non-descript shop fronts I rarely visited, because the other side of the street held more interest. Starting from the top was the shop where I bought my phone recharge cards. After ascertaining the actual price by asking in three separate establishments (in Turkey, always ask at least three times if you want to be sure the information is correct), it was here I went when my credit was running out. There are many such shops in Turkey, filled with numerous mobile phones, phone covers, cables and accessories, batteries and many items of varying prices so that anyone who passes will see something they either need or can afford. If I was unlucky the owner was behind the counter, smoking the cheapest brand of cigarettes (the odour can kill from 50 paces), otherwise I had to wait for him to run up from our favourite cake shop. Run by an affable man who happily extended our Turkish vocabulary for pastries and sweets, he sold the most divine almond pastries that we bought at least once a week. The glass display cases were filled with a mouthwatering selection of pistachio filled baklava, individual pieces of chocolate whipped torte, and tray after tray of sweet biscuits. No matter how much or how little you bought, the goods were always placed on a cardboard tray, then inside a paper bag, and if it was a gift, it would then be wrapped in coloured paper and ribbon. For really exorbitant purchases you could buy a quilted, beribboned, cloth-padded chocolate box, heart, oval or square shaped, of the type once used exclusively on Valentine’s Day.

At one of the three inside tables our neighbour, an overweight Lebanese man who spoke good English, would usually be smoking and talking about football. We learnt little personal information about him, except that his nine year old son lived in Canada, and was due to visit in the early spring. His gentle nature and obvious education conflicted strongly with his heavy stubble, and the tracksuit he always wore, teamed with a pair of indoor slippers. He looked more likely to be living rough under a bridge than discoursing on world politics, which he also did.

The next establishment was a dodgy nightclub, with exterior walls that were painted black, and a group of Turkish Arabic speaking bouncers gathered outside, day and night. We never went inside, as the presence of Arabic speakers suggested the place to be one of those clubs where lonely businessmen are lured in on the promise of a drink and a girl, only to reel outside many hours later, with empty wallets and broken dreams. Nonetheless, the bouncers were on the whole nice young men, sometimes joined by older, harder looking characters, but all, having determined I was a local, never gave me any bother. On the contrary, once when my partner was really sick, one of them walked me up to the main street to point out the late night chemist, so I could get something to relieve Kim’s cough and fever. I never saw anyone entering or leaving the establishment, and often wished the bouncers bon appetite when I saw them eating lunch on low stools at the entrance. The other locals also accepted their presence, although from time to time the club was closed, with an official notice plastered on the front double doors. This usually occurred about a week after we saw a police car parked outside. Babil Sokak is essentially a residential area, but like many inner city suburbs undergoing change, there is a mix of old and new, private and public. This was mirrored in the way the main road, a hub of commercial activity by day, became a bleak strip at night, frequented by transvestites shifting uneasily on high heels, half hidden in dark doorways. It was always their laughter, in disturbingly deep voices, that alerted one to their presence, and their pimps waiting in cars parked at the curb.

All down the same block as the nightclub there were small restaurants, either only selling chicken or beef doner, or only selling ‘wet’ food. These bufes displayed four or five different stews everyday. Common to them all were rice cooked in butter, and large white beans in a tomato sauce. These two were the cheapest combination you could buy, and many people could not afford the meat dishes at a few dollars more per serve. As we both worked in the week, we only saw these places at the end of the day, either with only a sliver of doner on the vertical skewer, or with the ban marie gleaming and empty, ready for the next day’s service. However, one weekend, at the beginning of the Sacrifice Festival (Kurban Bayram in Turkish but more commonly known as Eid el-Adha in Arabic), I saw one of the restaurants being put to another use. It was one of the larger establishments, further down the hill, neatly tiled in blue and white. Three men in the black and white of waiters, were frantically wrestling a disobedient sheep into the premises. Looking inside I noted that all the tables and chairs had been stacked away, up the back, leaving the large tiled floor free. It is my guess they planned to sacrifice the animal themselves, or pay a roving butcher to do it for them. The site was crucial as the tiles could easily be hosed off, and the bloody water swept out with a broom.

Above them was the video shop, where I bought pirate copies of new releases for about $3 each. Unfortunately for me, the local tastes seemed mainly to run to boys own adventure action films or horror slasher movies, so when I found something to watch, I felt really lucky. Doubly so if the movie was foreign and had English subtitles. My Turkish is adequate but not yet that good!

The final place I visited on this block was the bootmaker, snugly lodged in a small shop in the corner building. A small man with shiny black hair and moustache, his dark olive skin suggested he originally came from the east of Turkey. He usually sat among the bootstraps, laces, leather strips, shoe lasts and shoe polish grime of his shop, passing the time with a crony or two, drinking tea and smoking. Like most of his clients, I never stepped fully into his shop cum workspace, for it was so caked in black paste it seemed impossible not to be marked by it no matter how careful you were. He would handle the offered shoes and quote a price a third that of in Australia, and the cheerful promise the work would be done by the following morning or afternoon, depending on what time you had arrived.

Like every suburb and neighbourhood in Turkey, there was a mosque nearby. Unusually though, the local mosque was built into the basement of an apartment building, and the imam worked as a barber across the road. Unless it was actually snowing, which it did one January, Friday lunchtime prayers were always well attended, and the narrow road leading off Babil Sokak would be carpeted with prayer mats, each occupied by an intensely devout individual, who earlier in the week would usually be found hanging around the cafes, carparks and nearby street corners, generally unshaven and particularly secular in appearance. Up the same street was Istanbul’s own Vatican city, with a large yellow and white building surrounded by high walls, barbed wire and CCTV cameras. I never saw any priests entering or leaving the building, but then I rarely passed by once I knew of its existence. Over the years bombings in Istanbul have always targeted foreign representatives, be they consulates, synagogues or banks. It feels safer to take a different route.

The only other place I visited frequently was the internet café on the next corner. The skinny young manager stayed outside with all his friends in summer smoking and talking. In winter the same crew sat indoors hugging a small heater, still smoking and talking. Expense had been spared on the décor. The computers were built into small wooden booths with only enough room on one side to roll the mouse, and on the other side space for a small, tulip shaped glass of tea. The windows were covered with dark sheets of fabric, crudely hung, and what lighting there was, was minimal to the point of being useless. However an alluring atmosphere was not essential, as the customers gave the place life. Like most internet cafes in Turkey it was predominantly peopled by small school boys, those lucky enough to have spending money that is, playing video games at high volume and shrieking non-stop with excitement. The other inhabitants were desperate, lovesick boys, Skyping girls in other cities or countries on the promise of a dream or a visa and a better life. I was the only person to be in there alone as everyone else came with a friend or a gang, depending on the age and planned activity.

The internet cafe was situated just before the point where Babil Sokak began to fall away so steeply that in winter, when it snowed and ice covered the road old ladies would grab the arm of the nearest person and insist on a safe escort down to the turn off to their street. Halfway down this treacherous slope was the water shop. As we only lived around the corner and could never make ourselves understood on the phone, we would drop in when passing and order another 19 litre bottle to be delivered to our apartment whenever we ran out of drinking water. Not long after we slowly and wearily climbed the three flights of stairs to our front door the buzzer would ring, and we would let the water boy in. An impossibly tiny boy of maybe 13 or 14, he would heft the heavy bottle up the same three flights of stairs at a run. The staircase was narrow and circular, and at times the light went out, but he never slowed his pace. He was not even out of breath when he arrived at our front door where he respectfully discarded his shoes to enter the apartment to deliver the water bottle to the kitchen, remove the seal and affix the pump. Then he would accept payment for the bottle, refuse a tip and with a sunny smile, run back down again.

The January it snowed, this same boy was one of the many we saw sledding down neighbouring streets, joyous that school had been cancelled. All the kids used plastic bags in the place of sleds, but their excitement was as high as if they had the latest snow equipment. In particular in the poor areas, the children rarely had many toys, but they had imagination and took every opportunity to play outside on the small, often grimy narrow streets. Unlike the German Shepherd that guarded the nearby carpark. It expressed its disdain of the cold white ice covering the ground, fastidiously shaking each paw clean as it looked for a warm place to perform its toilet.

Today, some years later, the nightclub has gone, and the pastry shop is now a small restaurant serving chicken and meat doner, on half a loaf of bread or a plate. We learnt from the new proprietor that the brother of the man who used to run the pastry shop has opened up down the street, so there is still a family connection there. Most of the other places were the same, although the bootmaker no longer had a proper shop. The building he rented in was completely renovated and he missed out on a new lease. Now he has a spot on the corner opposite his old workshop, under an umbrella, in front of the vacant lot that still shows signs of a new building going up, except only the foundations have been laid, exactly the same state of progress as it was before.

Just as when I lived there, if you walk down the narrow pavements, dodging people sitting in the sun on low stools or chairs and boys delivering water, others pass you, waving hello to their neighbours, or calling down from their 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th floor apartments. Women still put money in a basket tied to a long piece of rope and lower it to street level, so Ahmet, Hasan or Fatih, who runs the nearest shop, can place a loaf or six in it for the housewife to haul back up and serve with lunch. Small children race past grappling large loaves of bread for dinner, men walk arm in arm laughing loudly at some joke, while teenage girls eye the boys hanging outside the internet café with decorous interest. Roving peddlers pass with trays of simits on Sunday mornings, baskets of new season cherries or grindstones attached to their motorbike to sharpen knives. Everywhere you look people are living their lives voraciously, loudly and well.

The kindness and community of the people who live and work in Babil Sokak, on Apple Mountain, is still the same. As we sat under the awning of the restaurant, at a table just small enough to fit on the narrow pavement and wide enough to eat off, glad to be sipping ice cold freshly squeezed orange juice while waiting for our chicken doner to be served, a woman slipped on the street and fell. Within seconds one man helped her up off the ground, a different man picked up her handbag and shopping bags, another came rushing over with a chair for her to sit on. A fourth man handed her a glass of water, and the patron of Tizzy hairdressers brought his hand cologne for her to dab on the grazes on her hands. When she pulled up her trousers to check the blood on her knees, two passing women commiserated with her and helped her on her way.

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Chapter 4 – Voting & Fasting

goreme1990 — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 22:13:00 GMT

Just as I was feeling really low, I found out there was an American teacher living in our housing complex. I went to visit her.

“Hi, I’m Lisa. I heard about you so I thought I’d visit,” I said, standing nervously on the doorstep.

“Hey, come on in,” she said. Much taller than me and rather overweight, Susan had white blonde hair and pallid skin. In her soft American accent she showed me into an apartment the same size as ours, painted a pale blue with carpets to match. “Sorry about the mess, I haven’t really had time to do anything yet.”

“When did you get here?” I asked.

“Two days before teaching started.”

“Wow, that must have been hard.”

“Yeah. I was really tired from the flight and then wham, straight into teaching!” She came from Spokane in the US, and had completed her Masters a few years ago. Since then, she’d been employed on a contract basis in various colleges and also taught composition writing in a prison.

“What was it like teaching prisoners? God, the idea sounds pretty freaky!” I said.

“It wasn’t too bad. There were guards there and most of the guys were really pleased to be doing something. It meant they’d at least come out with a college degree. Although my supervisor did tell me before I started to not wear anything particularly tactile, you know, like mohair or something. The men didn’t get much contact with women.” The conversation switched to our respective departments and then about the difficulties we’d experienced in the weeks since we’d arrived.

“Do you know what the story is with the hot water?” Susan asked.

“Well, we were told it was meant to be on from six till nine in the morning and then 6 till midnight. But since we’ve been here it hasn’t been that regular.”

“Oh man, I was really pissed! I have to teach class at eight o’clock in the morning and this morning there wasn’t any hot water,” she replied.

“You know that guy called Mustapha? The one who’s the caretaker?” I asked her.

“Yep. I Do. I asked him about the water and all he does is nod at me, smile and then wander off. A few mornings this week, really early, I’ve seen him running down the courtyard around seven or so. I think maybe, he’s going to turn the water on, you know, in that building down the end.” She was referring to the little concrete box structure, with a door, just outside the boundary of the apartments, which had stairs inside leading down under the ground. It was surrounded by concrete poles strung with barbed wire for security, but the barbed wire didn’t go all the way round.

“Yeah, well, with him in charge I’m not surprised the water isn’t hot”, I said. “Our shower’s been leaking and he won’t fix it. When we complained he turned up the next day with his arm in a sling and a plastic bag full of medicines. Now we call him Dr Do Little. Did you know he gets his apartment rent free in exchange for maintenance? It’s unbelievable!”

Through Susan, we met two more foreigners, Jason and Yuki. That first time I met them, they’d popped in to invite her to a party to celebrate the end of their first year in Kayseri. Another American, Jason spoke with a soft Texan drawl. Blonde and slight, he had met Yuki, a Japanese teacher, when they were both working in southern Thailand. After four years there, they came to Kayseri. They told us there were about 40 foreign teachers at the university, spread over three different locations, two on campus, and one a few suburbs away in upper Talas. Many came from Russia and the Turkic Republics, so there wasn’t a common language. Who you met was largely determined by what language you shared. Two days later at their apartment, which was just the same as ours only with a different colour scheme, we met two Korean teachers, who brought homemade sushi with them, a Turkish post-graduate student called Necit, and our next-door neighbour James, a teacher of Chinese on an exchange program.

“So, how’re you guys getting on?” asked Jason, after we were all settled on couches and chairs just like ours.

“Hmm, the teaching’s OK ...” said Kim.

“But we’ve been feeling a bit lonely lately,” I added.

“Yeah, it sure is hard to meet people here,” Jason said. “You know, we got here last October and it was a really hard winter. Man, we didn’t meet anyone for five months!”

“There’s something a bit strange about Bılım Sitesi . . .” I began.

“At night,” Susan added, “you can’t see anything. Those lights!” Electricity was expensive in Turkey, so lights never had the full quota of bulbs in them and they were always really low wattage.

“I know,” said Kim, “you have to wait until someone is about five feet away from you before you can see if you know them!”

“I’m really glad there are people working on the amphitheatre now”, I said. “It makes me feel safer, because you know the lights along the path don’t work.”

“Have you heard the guy singing?” Susan asked. I had, and went on to tell her how in Istanbul I’d been serenaded by a security guard standing outside a building down the street from our apartment, every time I walked past him.

“I think he’s hoping to be discovered, like Tatlises was”, added Kim. Seeing their blank looks he continued. “You know, Tatlises, the famous Kurdish singer. Apparently he was singing to the herd of goats he was minding and next thing he was a major star.”

I tried to get to know a little about James, but his English wasn’t good, and neither of us had enough Turkish to hold a conversation. Yuki told me that he’d been here five months through an arrangement between the Chinese and Turkish governments. Susan added that he still hadn’t got his contract yet.

“But I get my stipend. 500,000 TL, it is enough,” James insisted, nervously pushing up his oversized glasses that were forever slipping down his nose.

“James,” Susan said sternly, “That’s not the point! It’s the principle. They promised you more money, and you should get it.” As we, along with Susan, were currently surviving on the same amount, and all of us were battling to get our contracts, we agreed.

Throughout the night Yuki said very little. She was small and petite and rarely sat down. Her English was good but her manner reminded me of Japanese women I’d met on my brief visit there. She kept an eye on people’s drinks, topping up their glasses as needed, and darting around the room to empty ashtrays and refill bowls of snacks. She mainly chatted to the Korean teachers in Turkish, and my feeble attempts to join in, although welcome, didn’t get me very far.

Turning to Jason I asked, “So, do you work in the Literature department as well?”

“No, I don’t have a contract. After teaching in Thailand I wanted a break. I do some private teaching so that I can afford to pay for materials. I’m a sculptor.”

“Oh, that’s really good. How do you manage to stay here though? Do you have a resident permit through Yuki?”

“No. We’re not married see, and unless we’re married I can’t get a permit. We could get married, it’d be cheaper, but it’s pretty hypocritical to do that.”

“So you have to leave the country every three months then?”

“Yeah, I usually go across to Greece. It’s a bit of a drag and the money part is annoying, but it’s nice to have a change.” Americans pay US$25 for a three month visa, so Jason had to pay that four times a year. On top of the cost of leaving the country it added up. Even though you could go overland to Greece, he opted to take a boat across to one of the Greek islands. The port taxes in both countries were really high, but the compensation was spending time in a different, holiday environment, and eating all the food you couldn’t get in Turkey.

Although it wasn’t yet midnight, we all had to be up early to teach. We tried to leave but Jason, the only one of us without a set schedule kept insisting we stay. Finally, at about one o’clock we went home. The next day, the effects of the alcohol were obvious, but the social contact more than made up for the slight weariness I felt.

The following week we had a great time with our students, which sort of made up for our disappointment over problems with money and our living conditions. The students really seemed to like us, and one of Kim’s classes showed their sentiments by placing a plate of biscuits on his classroom table before he arrived. They all laughed when he tried to share the five biscuits with the class of 24 students. In one of my reading classes the boys, rather than the girls, frequently ask me about my clothes and jewellery. Sometimes this was to try to distract me from the work we should be doing, but it was mainly teenage adoration. At times it’s disconcerting, as I have a few young men who just sit and gaze at me non-stop in the classroom. I am greeted by “You are beautiful teacher” and frequently told, “I love you teacher”, by young men whose acne hasn’t cleared. Many of them still don’t shave and are in the process of developing their adult voices. Kim has a cluster of pretty young girls desperately in love with him. As he pointed out, it’s hard to keep from laughing when your admirers turn bright red and stammer uncontrollably when called on to answer the simplest of questions.

Despite feeling more confident about my teaching, I was still having enormous trouble teaching my C classes. The kids had 25 hours of English a week, and for many of them it was an uphill battle. I had my two worst performing C speaking classes on Friday afternoon, and nice as the students were, they were sick to death of English by then. There was no set pattern as to what I was meant to teach them, so this Friday I decided to try something a little different. As I entered the class the students called out,

“Hello my teacher.”

“Hello class, how are you today?”

“Good. It is Friday. Tired. Hungry,” came the various responses.

“Ok, today we are going to practice prepositions. Can any one tell me what a preposition is?” I asked. Looking around the classrooms I ignored Mehmet, who always had the answers and tried again.

“Serhan, can you tell me a preposition word?” Serhan smiled at me and leant towards his friend. “Serhan,” I said, mock sternly, “if you always ask your friend, what will you do when your friend is not with you?” His friend Deniz quickly translated into Turkish. Serhan laughed and called out the word “at.” I wrote the word on the board and managed to coax more prepositions out of the class. “Alright, now we are going to practise the words.” This time, I used Mehmet’s enthusiasm and confidence in order to demonstrate what I wanted them to do. “Mehmet, can you come here please. Now, please sit on the desk.” He looked at me in surprise, but did as I asked. “Class, what is Mehmet doing?” After a pause, Fatma called out, “He sit on desk.”

“Yes,” I said, “He is sitting on the desk. Now Fatma, please sit on your desk.” Fatma obeyed and soon I had students sitting under my desk, standing behind the door, in front of the door and outside the door. I held my breath for that one as I was afraid Gurhan might wander off, but he was having too much fun and wanted to come back in. The last action I requested of Hasan. “Hasan, please sit in the windowsill.” He was a big boy, not that bright but very popular for his football skills. With a bit of persuasion he lumbered over to the window and put his finger on the sill, looking back at me for confirmation. The class yelled out encouragement, and I cast a look at the brighter students to stop them from helping. Finally he said, “I cannot sit in the windowsill. Maybe I sit on the windowsill, but it is too small.” Everyone broke out into loud happy laughter.

I was really pleased with the way the class turned out and tried it with my next class as well. Unfortunately I still hadn’t found a way around the students’ habit of always helping one another. This was as innocuous as whispering in their friend’s ear when asked a question, to letting another student look at their answers in the weekly pop quiz. They didn’t see anything wrong with it because they were just helping each other. The classroom was a reflection of Turkish society, where community was more important than the individual. It also meant that when one student was upset or sick the mood of the whole class changed to suit.

We were still living on our stipends so were pleased when Halil arranged for us to meet some doctors from the hospital with a view to teaching them privately. It was strictly against the rules, but everyone, including Halil, did it. The afternoon we met I dressed carefully in a knee length skirt and top which covered me almost to the neck. Waiting for us were two men dressed in suits.

“Kim, Lisa, this is Cemali Bey and this is Hulusi Bey. They are endocrinology doctors at the hospital.” We shook hands and talked generally about Turkey and specifically about Kayseri. Then we got down to business.

“Kim,” said Cemali, “we are eight doctors, wanting English classes. The others are my colleagues but there is also our professor Farih Bey. We would like one two hour class a week.” We’d already asked Alison’s advice on private teaching, and she’d regaled us with stories of how unreliable the doctors could be, and warned us how fiercely they’d bargain. Well prepared we negotiated an hourly rate, set whether they all turned up or not, as well as insisting that cancellations of less than 24 hours would have to be paid for. It was agreed that I would teach a group on Thursday and Kim would take another on Tuesdays, beginning the next week. Cemali wanted to be in my group, and after watching him eying my legs and chest the hour we were with them, I decided I’d wear trousers.

After they left we pressed Halil Bey about our contracts again, and told him about the hot water problems. As it is we’re lucky if we can shower every day, do the washing up and Kim can manage to shave. Susan and I have taken to visiting each other as soon as we know the water is hot. We can’t ring each other because the phones haven’t been fixed yet. We make do by running out into the night to knock on each others doors with the message “Water’s hot”. Then we bolt into the bathroom and shower before trying to wash the dishes as fast as we can before the supply runs out.

Halil said, “Alright, I can’t refund the . . . alright . . . air fares to you now . . . alright . . . because . . . alright . . . we don’t know . . . alright . . . anyone in Ankara. Your hot water problem . . . alright . . . I can ask about . . . alright . . . let me talk to the General Secretary . . . The telephone, they are renewing the lines, alright. When this is done alright, they will work. Alright. . . we will see if we . . . alright . . . can solve your problem. Alright?” After wading through Halil’s speech, what could we say other than ‘alright’? Despite the sympathy Halil Bey exuded, meetings with him left both Kim and I on the verge of committing homicide. He is a really nice guy, but he has all the strength of a wet paper-bag when it comes to tackling our problems.

The difficulty of contacting our parents was a real worry. The nearest public phone was a kilometre away, and the only free time we had to ring Australia was at night. With winter approaching, and the promise of snow to come, we didn’t see how we’d manage. I could always email Dad, but access to the one computer available to the 40 or so teachers was limited. To use the computer I had to walk down three flights of stairs from my office to Mr Fixit’s office, find him or someone else with access to the key cupboard, and then sign for the key. Then it was back up to the second floor to the computer room. Half the time the key wasn’t in the cupboard so it was another trek up the stairs to find the last person who had it. If I was lucky they were in their office but more often than not they had gone out, taking the key with them. Judging by the icons that had been desk topped, the main reason I could never find the key to the computer room was because the men used the computer to visit porn sites. Then, even if I located the key first go, access was either painfully slow or non-existent. The university shared servers with another university in Ankara and the connections were overused and limited. There was an internet café 20 minutes walk away from campus, which I could use, but it was filled with noisy primary school boys playing computer games. As with making phone calls, come winter, there would be too much snow to easily walk there.

Later that week, we saw a different side to Halil. Kim had been invited to come to a football match between the school’s teachers and those of another department. Birol came and picked us up in his trusty Murat, and drove across the Talas road to an indoor playing field on the other side of the military land. Kim had been invited to stand in as a substitute, but hadn’t really expected to have to play. However, he was quickly on the field after another teacher was injured. I wasn’t paying attention, so I didn’t see him being hit square in the family jewels by a misplaced shot. I was the only woman in the audience, and when he dropped unconscious to the ground, no one would tell me what happened.

Halil Bey was like a demon on the field. A slight man under his enormous suits, he looked faintly ridiculous in his long shorts, which came to a few inches below his knees. They flapped furiously as he chased and challenged the opposition for the ball, well after the others had given up. He always liked to give the impression he was tough, and while he failed at this elsewhere, on the football field he was. Afterwards I laughed so hard I was nearly in tears when Kim told me that in the change rooms, Halil Bey stripped off his shorts to reveal baggy, white underpants, the same length as his shorts.

The next night I held my first lesson with the doctors. We were meeting at the hospital, and when I got to the main entrance I was stopped by a security guard. There was a crowd of people trying to get in, and I wasn’t sure how I’d fare. Nervously I stammered.

“Merhaba, ben yabancı oğretmen Bu akşam dokuz kat’ta ben Ingilizce ders alıyorum.” He could probably tell I was foreign but at the word teacher he let me through and directed me to the lifts. Up on the ninth floor Hulusi was hovering in the corridor. We shook hands and exchanged greetings. After asking after each other’s health he led me through a number of doors at breakneck speed before ushering me into a doctor’s lounge.

“I am sorry Lisa, but Farıh Bey, he is our professor, he is still working and Cemali Bey must stay with him. Deniz Bey, you will meet him, he is with them too. Would you like some tea”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.” I noted that just as when I first met him in Halil Bey’s office Hulusi was wearing a suit and tie. As a concession to being off duty he took off his coat and went to find some cups. I was happy to see they had found a whiteboard for me to use, and thought to buy some markers. When Hulusi came back and we waited for the kettle to boil, I asked him about the people waiting outside the entrance.

“They are visitors. They want to see their relatives.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for them to visit?”

“Yes,” said Hulusi, “But they hope if they stay and ask many times the guard will let them in.”

“And will he?”

“No. They know if they do they will cause many problems.” I waited for him to say more, but as he didn’t I asked,

“So Hulusi, what kind of doctor are you?”

“I am endocrinologist.” On seeing my questioning look he continued. “You know, we look after people with diabetes. In Turkey many people have diabetes. It is a big problem.”

“Aah”, I said, “Too much baklava.” Hulusi and I were still laughing when Cemali joined us. As I stood in greeting he came and shook my hand saying,

“Lisa, welcome. Are you well? Sorry I am late. Farıh Bey is my professor and I want to become an associate professor. We are writing a paper and must finish this week. It is very important that I publish many papers.”

“That’s alright Cemali. Why do you have to publish many papers?”

“In Turkey you need to publish many papers so that you can be allowed to sit an exam. Once you pass this exam your peers decide if you can become an associate professor.”

“And is it important to become a professor one day?” I asked.

“If you are like Cemali” chipped in Hulusi, “It is important. He wants to become rich and have a private hospital like Farıh Bey.”

Even though Hulusi was older than Cemali, he treated Cemali like a respected older brother. I guessed, correctly as it turned out, it was because Cemali was a bit higher up the chain than Hulusi. When we were joined by Farıh Bey trailing a frazzled looking Deniz, Cemali jumped to attention and made the introductions. Once we were all seated I began the lesson by directing my questions to Farih Bey.

“Now, Farih Bey, I know from Hulusi and Cemali that you are all endocrinologists. I also know you speak English for your work but have trouble speaking English when you aren’t talking about medicine. When do you speak English informally?”

Farih Bey cleared his throat and began to talk. “We attend medical conferences overseas therefore there are many social times for example we are sitting in a bar drinking alcohol such it is good when we talk about medicine because we know all the words but when we want to talk about non-medical things in this case we don’t know the words consequently we can listen sometimes and answer questions however we cannot ask questions on the other hand we do not understand the answers when we can ask questions ...”

He went on in this vein for some time, giving me an opportunity to study him and the interaction between the other doctors. He was tall for a Turk, with wild light brown hair and slightly protruding eyes, which, combined with his enthusiastic hand gestures, made him look a bit like a person you’d avoid on the street. However, his high status was confirmed by the immaculate suit he wore, and highly polished shoes. I looked and saw they all had well polished shoes and was surprised. Despite the innumerable shoe shine men and boys in Turkey, Kayseri was covered in dust and I could never keep my shoes that clean.

Cemali with his plump dark skinned round face, and Deniz with paler skin and square features were paying close attention to Farih Bey. Hulusi managed to appear interested while intermittently closing his eyes. Worrying that I might follow suit I managed to interrupt Farih Bey and join his train of thought.

“So what you really need is small talk.”

They all seriously repeated the words ‘small talk’ and wrote them down in their note books. I began to ask questions and elicited enough topics to develop a course based around everyday, casual conversation. While they had a good grasp of English, the devil is in the detail, so they might be able to say the food in Turkey is delicious, but be unable to give listeners any clues as to what exactly makes it so. The topics they wanted to cover included home and family, culture and food, and how medicine is practised in Turkey. It seemed promising. Once the lesson concluded Cemali and Hulusi fought over who was to drive me home. Cemali won.

Towards the end of October, a cocktail reception was held to celebrate the beginning of the university term. It was a bit late given that the term started the previous month, but it was a chance to meet new people and we hoped to have a chat with our colleagues away from class. We went with Susan, Jason and Yuki, who quickly disappeared to talk to the people they knew. Only two teachers from our department attended. According to Servit, the husband of Donna, another American teaching at our school, most of the teachers from our department stayed away in accordance with Halil Bey’s views. Halil was a nationalist, he said, which in present terms meant he was anti-secular and against drinking and displays of immodesty. Therefore the length of his shorts was deliberate, as was the moustache. To keep in with him, without necessarily sharing his politics, teachers didn’t attend any university functions unless Halil did. They also made a big show of attending mosque services on Fridays. I didn’t like to ask how this form of nationalism fitted Atatürk’s vision, so I kept quiet. I’d always thought Atatürk best represented Turkish nationalism, wanting to put Turkey on the modern world stage without losing its identity. Halil’s old-fashioned notions, in particular his regular attendance at the mosque, seemed at odds with this.

The main focus of the night, apart from talking and drinking, was food. A long table was set out in the middle of the room, and at some secret signal everyone descended on it like a plague of locusts. Plates were crammed with stuffed capsicums, sucuk, pastırma, the Turkish version of pastrami, grilled liver, white cheese, green salad, yaprak sarma, and anything else that could fit. I contented myself with a modest serving, and then was amazed to learn that the selection was only the mezze, or entrée. Again, at another signal I missed, there was a stampede to another window, where plates piled high with döner and rice were snapped up.

A great majority of the guests were staff from the various medical faculties attached to the hospital on campus. A doctor we met, called Selçuk, told us that it was built on the site of the first hospital in the world to treat psychiatric patients with music therapy instead of burning them. The original hospital dated back to 1200 AD. Another doctor, also called Selçuk, introduced us to one of the musicians playing there, and told us the man’s brother wrote a song for the Eurovision Song contest two years ago. Although we’d only just met him that night, the first Selçuk promised to take us skiing on Mt. Erciyes during winter. He also invited us to his summerhouse in Trabzon, on the Black Sea coast. In future, in order to be clear about whom we were speaking, we decided to call him Selçuk III, as there were already two others at our school.

It was really interesting to see another side of life in Kayseri. Casually asking questions about the people around us, I learnt that generally, those who attended these sorts of receptions were more secular. Alcohol was abundant, and I have really never seen people drink so much, so quickly, and still remain coherent and standing.

The next day I was feeling a bit worse for wear, when one of the students in my reading class asked me how I had enjoyed the evening’s function.

“It was very enjoyable Gurkhan. I met some nice people and ate too much food,” I laughed. “How did you know I was there, anyway?”

“My friend Ali. He is your student in C7. He makes, takes, plays photographs.”

“Takes photographs,” I gently corrected.

“Thank you. He takes photographs for the university. He saw you.”

While we’d been talking the rest of the class had started to buzz with little knots of conversation. I was about to turn to our textbook when Hikmet, who always wore the same coat, piped up and asked,

“Did you drink wine, teacher?”

“Yes I did Hikmet.”

“Wine is bad teacher,” said big Hasan, his friend. I countered with,

“Have you drunk wine Hasan?”

“No teacher, wine is bad. I do not drink” Another student called out, “Not true, not true. You drink”. He then turned to me and said “Teacher, Hasan drinks!” with equal measures of censure and wondering admiration.

“Have you drunk, maybe rakı, Hasan?” I teased. At this the class cracked up and Hasan went a very bright red.

“Does Hasan like to drink rakı class?”

Serdar, an older boy, confirmed what the rest of the students were saying in Turkish. “Yes teacher, Hasan drinks rakı. He likes it too much.”

Hasan began to protest that he wasn’t a bad person for drinking rakı. I helped him out by asking, “Am I a bad person?” The class were vigorous in my defence. “I drink wine and I am not a bad person. You know this. So Hasan is correct. It isn’t bad to drink alcohol, just not too much,” I said with a smile.

At the end of the lesson I set some homework due the next Monday. Along with the usual moans and groans about having to study outside school hours, one of the students said that we wouldn’t be having lessons then. Knowing how sharp the students were, I wondered if they sensed I was a bit tired from the night before and were trying to take advantage of that. They went to extraordinary lengths to get out of having homework, so I wanted to know if they were telling the truth. I told them to have the work ready for Wednesday and went in search of a reliable source of information.

“Hi Sevgi, how are you?” I asked, standing at the door of her office.

“I am fine, Lisa, please, come in,” she replied. It was the first time we had done more than say hello in passing. “Would you like some tea?” she asked, before offering coffee when I hesitated.

“A coffee would be lovely. I don’t drink a lot of tea, even in Australia.”

“You normally drink tea with milk there, don’t you?”

“Yes, we do. I like Turkish tea, but if I drink too much, it turns my teeth brown.”

“Yes,” she acknowledge, “I have the same problem. Also I only like to drink tea if I eat a cake or something, and that makes me too fat.”

Feeling at ease we both laughed and I asked my question. “Yes,” answered Sevgi, and then asked “You know Tuesday is a holiday?” At my nod she continued, “Today the government declared Monday a holiday as well.” Tuesday, the 29^th of October is the anniversary of the day Turkey was declared a republic in 1923 and is always a public holiday, but I didn’t know about Monday.

“Sevgi, when . . ., when did you find out? When my students told me I didn’t know if I should believe them.” It turned out everyone had expected the Monday to be a holiday. Apparently it is usual for this to happen without much prior notice. It was a bit disappointing because it meant everyone had already made plans to go away, so we’d have to spend the weekend in Kayseri, alone. If we’d know in advance, we could have made arrangements. As it was, we’d be lucky to get bus tickets to Göreme, as all the buses would be booked up by homesick students visiting their families.

Dispirited at the news, I trudged over to the hospital. When I got to the ninth floor Cemali was waiting for me. We sat chatting on one of the couches until Hulusi joined us fifteen minutes later. Assuming I could start the lesson I was taken aback when they told me they wanted to cancel and not pay. It turned out that the day before, Deniz’s wife’s surgery had burnt down. Deniz was helping her sort things out and wouldn’t be coming tonight. Neither would Farih Bey because he was away at a congress. I stood my ground over our agreement. They could have given me twenty four hours notice but they didn’t. I left not knowing whether they’d pay me the next week or even agree to continue with our lessons. Right then I didn’t care, because if they didn’t pay me I wasn’t going to continue, and I made that clear.

The weather that weekend was awful, so we spent most of our time at home. It rained on Republic Day, so we watched the Kayseri celebrations on television. The officials looking really miserable, standing in the cold, dripping with rain, as a commemorative wreath was laid to the accompaniment of a band. It was a far cry from the celebrations we watched six years previously, in Kaş. Then, the small harbour area was the focus of parades, re-enactments of historical events and synchronised marching by school children. We sat at the edge of the square and watched as all the symbols of modernity rolled past, the fire trucks, the police cars and vans, the council bulldozers and trucks. All were washed and polished until they shone. A tier of seats was set up for officials and their families to view the display, and I remember wondering what Atatürk would have thought. Women sat on one side and men on the other, and nearly every woman was wearing a headscarf.

Kaş is a small village on the Mediterranean coast, and has become a mecca for disenchanted Istanbulis and other city dwellers seeking a more relaxed life away from the dirt and frantic pace of bigger cities. Set right by the water, steep, almost forbidding mountains restrict the growth of the town. As you look back up the tortuously winding road that provides access, you can see the sleeping giant formed by the rocks in the mountainside. Although the town has grown in the 12 years since I first went there, it is still a mix of holiday village and artists’ colony. The mix was evident the night of the Republic Day celebrations. The many restaurants serving the tourist trade had set up tables in the town square, and by the time we got there at about eight, they were packed. There were foreigners from the boats moored in the harbour, others from the package hotels on the eastern side, and Turkish tourists from the cheaper pensions to the west, where we stayed.

Music played continuously and the square was a sea of undulating bodies stepping back and forth to the rhythm of Turkish music. Behind the tables two men played the davul and the ney. The drum beat of the davul, accompanied by the thin, reedy wail of the ney makes an irresistible sound that drew many foreigners on to their feet to attempt the traditional dances. Two women, possibly German or Dutch, wanted to dance, but this style of music is reserved for men. Convincing them to return to their seats, a young Turkish man who may have been their guide, used great tact. While much is done to accommodate the desires of foreigners, there are certain traditions that do not change.

The night ended with a display of fireworks, set off just in front of where we were sitting. Our focus was more on the little boys, determined to get near the rockets, and the handlers equally determined efforts to keep them away. The display went off without any injuries, despite the boys’ best attempts.

It was in Kaş, too, we discovered that Burcu did have a boyfriend. Back in summer, she and Ebru spent one night in Olympos before joining us in Kaş. They were not impressed by the treehouse accommodation, claiming that the huts had no mosquito nets, no glass in the windows and inefficient locks. Over dinner the first night, she told us that Bora, her boyfriend, was coming at the end of the week. As a cover, she’d told her parents she was spending the whole two weeks with Ebru. She had met Bora in Bodrum the previous summer. Now he was based in Istanbul doing his 18 months military service. She was pretty sure he was the man she wanted to marry, but needed to spend time with him to be absolutely certain.

The week the four of us spent together was glorious, and Kim and I were really happy Burcu had found Bora. Unlike many Turkish men, he allowed her to remain an individual, rather than changing her to his image. We usually went our own way by day and met up on the terrace of our pension at night, and the two of them just glowed. Their week together wasn’t just about sex, it was about sharing the minutiae of life that can destroy a relationship. We knew that Burcu’s parents would never understand, so we edited our photos when we saw them.

After Republic day, the main topic of conversation among the students was the upcoming elections. They were very excited as it was the first time many of them were eligible to vote, and they took the matter very seriously. It was unclear just who would win, but Ecevit, the current prime minister, was definitely finished. He was in poor health and at over 60 years old, nearly dead as far as our teenage students were concerned. Turkey has a confusing multi-party system and every other day some party leader came to Kayseri to exhort their support. There were posters up everywhere advertising rallies in Cumhuriyet Meydan or one of the many indoor sports arenas. Many times I had to walk for miles to get the bus back from town, because the council kept closing off the main streets for one rally or another.

Nearly all the parties have three letter acronym names, like CHP, DYP, DHP, MHP, and I can never remember what they stand for, let alone know the party line. What I did know was that one party leader would either be jailed for acting against the constitution by heading a party that claims Islam as its political guide, or he would be allowed to run for prime minister. Another politician bought airtime through the three TV stations his family owned. The current government regularly punished him by shutting down his TV stations for up to five days. As the channel broadcasts football’s Champions League, it’s unlikely to win the current government any support. Despite this, the party leader was still allowed to run for office. A former prime minister is running again on the promise that if her party is elected, every Turkish citizen will get two keys, one for their own home, and one for their own car. Her previous stay in office was cut short by stories of Mafia connections and a mysterious Mercedes with lots of cash in the boot.

What became clear in discussions with the students is that the process of democracy is not that well developed. One day, out of curiosity, I asked my students who they thought would win.

“Teacher, they are all bad. It doesn’t matter who wins.”

“But don’t you want to choose? Isn’t it important to vote?”

“Yes, but we can’t vote.”

I was puzzled, because the week before they were telling me how necessary it was to vote and that they all wanted to. So I asked, “Why can’t you vote?” The response was, “Because we’re not there”. Trying to discuss politics with pre-intermediate English language students mightn’t have been the greatest idea but it was the first topic they had been really interested in. In order to tease out the answers I asked the most obvious questions, as simply as I could.

“Aren’t you old enough to vote?”

Many hands were raised and many voices called out, “Yes, I am.”

“Aren’t you registered to vote?” This brought blank looks so I tried again. “In my country, you must go to an office. You must give your name, before the election. Then you can vote. Haven’t you done this?”

“Yes teacher, I have.” As it seemed that most of them were old enough to vote and most of them were registered I was at a loss as to the reason for their insistence that they couldn’t vote. After further consultation amongst the students in Turkish, one boy was appointed spokesperson and slowly explained their problem. As he used the English he best understood, I wrote the English words he was talking about on the board.

“When you go to the office, it is in your memleket.”

“OK, when you go to register, it is in your birth place.”

“Yes, when you register, it is in your birth place,” repeated Ferhat.

“So you have all done this,” I confirmed.

“Yes teacher,” they chorused. Ferhat continued, “When you elect, election, seçim…” He gave up and looked at me for help so I wrote the word ‘vote’ on the board.

“Yes, yes, when you vote, you be in birthplace!”

Wanting to check what I understood, I said, “You mean, when the election comes, you must be in your birthplace, the place where you are registered, to vote?” The students were deafening in their affirmation, elated that I had understood them.

I was amazed by what they had told me. Most teenagers who go to university do so at an institution away from their hometowns. Working people go where there are jobs so I figured a huge number of people must be stationed away from home and thus excluded from voting. It’s obligatory to vote and you’re fined if you don’t, yet from what the students told me, there seems to be no absentee voting system. From following domestic news I also know that some people, particularly Kurds, but also people from remote villages in the East and South East parts of Turkey, don’t even show up on the census. Their parents don’t always register their births, and when the time comes to take the boys off for military service, an underage young brother might be presented as the person being sought. So who knows how accurate the election roles are and whether the outcome of the election really represents the will of the people.

Being a Thursday, I had five lessons to give in total, and then I had my private class with the doctors. The two afternoon reading classes could either be very good or very bad, which made for an even longer day. Pleased with the morning classes, I went with Elif, who I’d met during the speaking exams, to the yemekhane. We went to the larger dining room away from the student lunch places. At the door we gave our numbers to the man at the front desk for the charge to be deducted from our monthly salary. Each meal only cost about a dollar twenty and was usually pretty good. Once we got into the main room we looked for someone we knew at the crowded tables.

“Look,” said Elif, “There are seats with Fevziye and Perihan. We will join them.” As we wended through the crowded tables we exchanged greetings with people we knew and wished them “Afiyet olsun”, the Turkish for bon apetite.

As soon as we were seated the waiter brought around a large soup tureen and ladled out generous portions of lentil soup. Each table had a water jug and glasses and Perihan immediately filled two glasses for us while Fevziye pushed across the bread basket.

“No bread for me thanks,” I said, “I’m allergic to it”.

“I also will not have bread,” said Elif, “It is fattening.”

“You know Lisa, before, Elif was very fat. Oh she was so big!” laughed Perihan. I looked at Elif, who exuded a languid sensuality, with her slim hips and graceful arms. I didn’t believe she could ever have been fat.

“Yes, it was true. You know my husband Ramazan works on big cruise ships. He is away a lot and I get lonely. So I ate and I ate and I was so fat!” confirmed Elif. I smiled politely and hoped no one would comment on my weight. Even though the women here thought nothing of telling you that you had put on a few kilos I found it difficult to handle. It just seemed so rude, although I know their comments are meant to show their interest in you. I tried to engage Fevziye in chat but she was young and unmarried and had little to say.

After finishing our soup the next course appeared. It was a simple meal of köfte, rice and salad, but very fresh and tasty. Perihan asked,

“So Lisa, how do you like the food?”

“It’s very nice. The meat is very good.”

Perihan agreed and then rattled off the name of the university supplier. “You must be careful when you buy this kıyma, aahh, mince meat, you know. Some of the butchers add anything they like, it is very bad. Only buy where you can watch them and see what meat they use.” Other than commenting on the food there was little conversation. We all had to get back for the last two lessons and wanted to have a tea or coffee before starting. Although the dining hall provided a three course meal they didn’t serve hot drinks so we jumped into Elif’s car and went back to school.

My first afternoon class went quite well, so I was in a good mood when I said good afternoon to my last class of the day, B8. I looked at scruffy little Mehmet, Burak, Galıp, big Mehmet and Nuri and asked,

“Boys, where are your books?”

“Teacher, on the weekend I went to my hometown. It was wonderful. I forgot my book at my mother’s house,” said Nuri. Galıp’s story was similar, except he said he had left his textbook at his friend’s house. He had been studying it there, or so he said. The others all claimed forgetfulness as a reason with the exception of Burak.

“I didn’t bring my book because I don’t like learning English.”

“Well you all know the rules, so you all must leave the classroom. I will mark you absent for this lesson.” They grumbled at this but all got up quickly to go, except for Burak. He scowled at me and made no move to leave. I again told him to leave the classroom and he made his way slowly out of the room, muttering under his breath. Almost every week I had to send at least one student out, either for turning up late or for not bringing their books. A lot of the time they didn’t bring their books claiming they were too heavy, which made me laugh. They only had two textbooks for the whole course.

After an early meal I raced over to hospital to meet the doctors. They had agreed to pay for the cancellation and to pay me a month in advance, at the set rate, no matter who turned up. Farih Bey was absent again due to work, so I sat down with Cemali, Hulusi and Deniz. I had asked them to pretend they were running in the elections and to prepare notes with which to give a semi impromptu speech. They had all written out everything they wanted to say, even though that wasn’t the idea. Nonetheless they’d done some good work, and we were all really relaxed. Whenever their professor wasn’t present the three laughed and teased one another so we were able to have proper conversations, which is what they really wanted. Drawing from what I’d learnt about them when they talked about their home towns, I asked Cemali about his background.

“Yes, he is from Malatya,” said Hulusi.

“Oh yes Malatya, where the apricots are grown. I’ve been there”, I commented.

“Yes, Malatya, that is my home town. See, that is why I have dark skin,” said Cemali.

“I read in the paper that many of the people who live there will vote the way their ağa tells them to. Is this true?” I asked Cemali.

“Yes,” he said. You see the tribes, you call them, I think, they each work for an ağa. What is this word in English?”

“Agha.”

“Thank you. Agha. The agha owns all the land and his people work on that land. He owns the shops so he takes the money he pays them. If they want to work for him they vote for the person he chooses.”

“Really, even now in Turkey?” I asked.

“Yes Lisa, it is true. Turkey is like two countries. One side, the west is more like Europe, the other, it is backwards. Here we are in the middle.” Cemali started laughing as he added, “Deniz does not know this, he is from Istanbul.”

Deniz worked in Kayseri while his wife, also a doctor, lived with her parents in Istanbul. She couldn’t find a job with her husband, so he went to see her and their baby son every month. Hulusi was originally from Samsun on the Black Sea Coast. He married locally but still went to see his family during the two religious holidays each year, and every summer.

“Yes Lisa”, said Cemali, “Turkey is like many different countries”.

“If Kayseri were a country, what would you tell me about it?” I asked.

“It is famous for sucuk, you know, the spicy sausage, pastirma, the meat, and well ...”, Deniz faltered so I teased, “And what are the people famous for Deniz?”

“The people, well, you know, they bargain, they like money. They like things.”

“Yes”, Hulusi giggled, and then said something in Turkish. Seeing that I didn’t understand Cemali translated for me.

“If you borrow from a Kayseri person and you ask when will he bring it back he will say, when the snow melts on Mount Erciyes”. At this we all cracked up, well knowing that even in the fiercest of summers there is always a cap of snow left on the mountain. At the end of the class I arranged for one of them to pick me up starting the next week, as it was getting too dark for me to walk alone across the campus.

In the same week in early November, we got our phone connected, a new government with a very Muslim flavour was elected and Ramazan began. To get the phone connected, we waited six weeks for the whole university system to be upgraded and then visited the on campus telephone exchange. We personally witnessed our internal university line being plugged in by the head technician, before staying for a friendly chat and a cup of tea. Mr Fixit, Ibrahim, from our department, accompanied us there. Then, once he had received the name of a contact in Turkish Telecom from Halil, he took us to their grungy office in an inner suburb of Kayseri.

At the office everyone was really helpful and friendly. However, although we had our resident permits, they couldn’t connect our phone without seeing our passports. We explained that you couldn’t get the resident permits without having passports, and them being translated, notarised and photocopied, but it was still no go. So we stayed for tea, had a tour of the facilities and arranged to return the next day. I went on my own. Kim and I had already decided the process was complicated enough without registering the phone in his name. As it is, he repeatedly has to smile at the jokes levelled at him after people realise that he really is called Kim, which in Turkish means ‘who’.

When I arrived the Telecom director greeted me apologetically. He wanted, but couldn’t offer me tea, because it was the first day of Ramazan and no food or liquid could be consumed in daylight hours. As we chatted he instructed a younger man to find a phone number for me. Although the billing system is on computer, he flipped through a tatty-looking green ledger full of people’s names and telephone numbers written in by hand, and found a number with the owner’s name crossed out. Then he wrote my name down and proudly announced that our line was now working. As we also needed an internet connection, the director personally escorted me the two blocks to the internet office. When I got home later that afternoon we marvelled at our first dial tone and the next day sent our first email from home.

The weather on the Saturday of the election was fine and clear so Kim and I decided to go for a walk down one of the many boulevards leading off the main square. I don’t know the name of most of the main roads, but walking helps establish the important landmarks by which to identify places. We passed a series of early 20^th buildings, a public theatre, an army office, and a local school being used as a polling booth. There were no party faithful handing out forms, just a notice telling people to have their identity cards ready. People who had already voted were spilling down the stairs. All of them had dye on their little finger, to show they’d cast their vote. The dye looked really odd and for weeks after the election, everyone’s hand looked like they had slammed their finger in a car door.

Suddenly we heard a piercing voice call out “Kim!”, and we, along with most of the pedestrians whirled around. Coming towards us was Mr Fixit from school. After the obligatory greetings he asked us where we were going.

“Biz geziyoruz”, I replied, adding that the nice weather made us want to go for a wander. He invited us back to his apartment so we followed him through a maze of streets that brought us out on the road behind the one leading to the Otogar. His apartment block was shabby with peeling paint and damp stains down the stairwell. Inside the apartment was the same, but obviously clean and cared for. He introduced us to his wife, eight year old daughter Duygu and oversized four year old boy called Arda.

While we sat on the lounge and made small talk about Kayseri, the weather and the school, Arda kept up a rampage that would last for hours. Ibrahim didn’t say, but we guessed he had some behavioural problems. Ibrahim’s wife, whom he hadn’t introduced by name, brought out plates of homemade dolma, fresh bread, olives and salad. Ibrahim ate with us, but his wife and Duygu were fasting.

Ibrahim joked with us about the difficulties of Ramazan, and also explained why the students are so reluctant to be sent from the classroom. We assumed they’d be happy to have free time given their complaints about doing lessons, but it turns out they automatically fail if they miss more than 15% of the classes. Even if they’re sick and have a doctor’s certificate, they’re still marked absent. When I asked why, he indicated that doctor’s certificates can be bought, and many students have the right connections. He himself was our connections man, because after so long at the university he knew almost everyone worth knowing. He told us how he hoped his daughter Duygu would get into university. He wouldn’t have the money to send her to a dershane for extra coaching when she got to high school, so by helping people he might make the connections necessary to help her get a university place.

We spent the next few hours going through her English books and finally left about 4pm. It was very cold and like our apartment, the heating wasn’t due to be turned on for another few weeks. We took our leave and made our way home where we ate dinner and watched television wrapped in multiple layers and blankets, fending off the cold.

The people had chosen overwhelmingly for the AK Party to lead the country, and at our next lesson the doctors told me that ‘ak’ was an older word for the colour white, and used to symbolise a fresh, pure start. The Prime Minister elect was Abdullah Gül, a Kayseri boy, but everybody knew he would be replaced by Tayıp Erdoğan in a few months. This was the party with ties to Refah, the outlawed political party with overt ties to Islam. Erdoğan had a case pending in which he was charged with reading poetry critical of the regime, but he was expected to be cleared. Especially as once a person was elected to parliament they couldn’t be tried for former crimes. The AK Party’s stronghold was in the conservative rural areas, and in the shanty towns of bigger cities. They’d done a lot of work there, providing care for mothers and babies, and given assistance with food and housing. The city dwellers, particularly the Istanbulis, were horrified when they got in. I don’t know yet what kind of governance they’ll provide, but as they don’t exactly warm to the American government, and as it looks like America will invade Iraq, that can’t be a bad thing. At least the phone is connected, which has greatly eased our feeling of isolation, and made our parents worry less. No matter how many times we tell people how far we were from the border with Iraq, the news from America has made everyone overly fearful.

Even though things were looking up, we still had to get through Ramazan. Fasting is a personal statement, to acknowledge those who always have very little, and as a sacrifice to show faith. Unlike in Istanbul, in Kayseri there is enormous social pressure to participate, or to at least appear as if you are. A few restaurants gamely stayed open for lunch on the first few days, and then closed. At Migros, the shelves normally holding alcohol were replaced by hampers of food for people to buy and give to the poor. Not everyone can fast, such as new mothers and menstruating women, because they are considered unclean in a spiritual sense. Others should not fast, such as the very young and the ill, the elderly and travellers, as it can be detrimental to their health. Despite this you often heard sad stories of people ignoring their doctors’ warnings and dying as a consequence. The school canteen was closed, and with no one to give us a lift to the dining halls we brought in sandwiches. We ate these out of our desk drawers, slamming them shut whenever someone wanted to come in.

Sevgi invited us to her home to celebrate the iftar meal with her family. Iftar is the meal that breaks the day’s fasting, and the time it occurs is determined by the setting of the sun. For those who could read, the newspapers advertised the times everyday, and the McDonalds in town had the full set of times printed on the back of the fliers advertising their special Ramazan meals. For the illiterate, every television channel shows the firing of the cannons across the Bosphorus in Istanbul, and the call can be heard from every mosque. On trips into town I had seen poorer Kayserians queuing up outside the mosque down from Almer, or outside the council run marquee, waiting to receive a free meal.

On the day we went to her home, iftar fell at 4.37pm. Sevgi lives in Gültepe, or Rose Hill, but the area is flat as a pancake and there isn’t a hill or a rose in sight. It’s an area of town where the older one-storey houses are being razed to make way for apartment blocks. So far there is still some open space, filled with bleak parks that will one day be quite pretty, provided the plants in the gardens get a chance to grow above all the construction rubble and dust floating around. The afternoon we arrived it was deserted as everyone waited for the call from the mosque.

To get there we caught a bus into the outskirts of the city centre, to the Talas bus stop. From there we could either walk to her house in about 15 minutes, or wait for one of the dolmuş’ to take us. We opted for the latter and bitterly regretted it as the bus wasn’t heated and by the time we left we were frozen through. Had we walked we would have arrived by the time the dolmuş left.

Our driver was a young man, and judging by the décor he either had a loving mother or a new young wife. There was a handmade fringed edging around the roof vent, and bunches of plastic flowers tied to either corner of the windscreen. A carpet mat sat on the dashboard, along with a box of tissues in a crocheted cover, the driver’s mobile phone and a money box. The dolmuş was an older model with the front axle set higher than the back, making the whole vehicle slope upwards. He drove like a maniac, jamming his foot abruptly on the accelerator so that we lurched uncomfortably along. Every time we stopped everyone was flung to the front of the bus. Apart from a few tongue clicks, however, no one complained.

Spotting the mosque across from her building Sevgi had told us to look out for, we alighted and made our way to her block. There are three apartment blocks in her ‘city’, as these complexes are called, and we walked up the red carpet and called the lift. Once on the fifth floor we rang her bell. We waited, then rang again. There was no answer so I called her on the mobile.

“Hi Lisa, how are you?”

“Good Sevgi. Um, Sevgi’ we are outside your house and have rung the bell.”

“Oh, I didn’t hear it. Look, I’m coming to the door.” A brief silence followed and then, “Lisa I am looking out my door. I cannot see you.”

”Oh, we are on the fifth floor. Is that right?”

“No, no, come downstairs. I am on the fourth floor.” We walk down one flight and still there is no Sevgi. Before we could decide what to do she rang again and asked where we were.

“On the fourth floor,” I said.

“Are you in B Blok?,” Sevgi asked with a laugh.

We headed back outside and walked over to B Blok, the next one along. On the fourth floor Sevgi was waiting at the door and greeted us warmly. Hiding behind her was her four year old daughter Saba, while her eight year son Yusuf Burak was in the second sitting room watching television. As I took off my shoes and coat, I discovered that the tulumba we brought for sweets has leaked honey syrup all over my coat.

“Oh dear, Lisa.! Look, come into the kitchen. I’ll boil some water to wash it off.”

“That’s not necessary Sevgi. Hot water from the tap will be fine.”

“Today is Thursday. We get hot water here on Monday, Wednesday and Friday so you see, I must boil the hot water for you.”

“Really! You don’t get hot water every day?”

“No”, said Sevgi, “This isn’t a lux, how do you say . . . “

“Luxury” I chipped in.

“Yes, that’s right, this isn’t a luxury apartment. Still, it is better than in some apartments where they do not get hot water more than once a week.”

Esat, Sevgi’s husband was sitting at the table, eyeing the food. As he rose to greet us he said something to Sevgi. Laughing she turned and told us Esat wanted to eat so we had to hurry up and sit down.

“But Sevgi” I pointed out, “it’s not time yet”.

Esat understands more English than he can speak, and at my comment he launched into a lengthy explanation of iftar etiquette. Sevgi translated and it turned out that it’s not necessary to be exactly on time, as it doesn’t undermine the meaning of the fast. We started to eat and tried to make conversation with the children. They were a little shy of us at first but once they saw that we ate the same food as them and could speak a bit of Turkish they started to warm to us. Over dinner Esat asked us lots of questions about life and politics in Australia, and told us a lot about Turkey. After dinner, and about five cups of tea, we made a move to leave. Even though it was only half past eight we’d already been there about four hours and we didn’t want to over stay our welcome.

“Do you have another appointment to go to?” asked Sevgi.

“Um, no, but, well it’s getting late and well maybe you have things you need to do? What about Yusuf Burak, doesn’t he have school tomorrow”, I said falteringly.

“Not at all, please stay. You are very welcome here, it is so good and interesting to talk to you. You know things and you are like us. Anyway, Yusuf Burak does not start school until the afternoon.” There aren’t enough school buildings in Turkey, so the kids either go to a morning session or an afternoon session. Even so, primary classes can have as many as 70 kids in them, and from what I’ve heard, discipline is the main theme of the day. Students who do all their work and curry favour with the teacher do the best, so those who can afford to, send their children to private schools. Sevgi and Esat chose not to as a matter of principle, but had many complaints about the rote learning and lack of creativity in Yusuf Burak’s lessons. He was only nine but often had four or more hours of homework a day, because his teacher, like most of them, was unable to get through all the work in class due to the numbers of students. If he was unable to complete it all he often cried sick the next day, not wanting to draw negative attention from the teacher, whom he loved very much. Many of my students had told me that when they asked the teacher outside lessons to explain something, they were told off for not paying attention in class. Yet the poor teachers often had to spend the whole lesson marking the homework from the day before so it was a vicious cycle.

The next day I went to thank Sevgi for her hospitality.

“We had a lovely time last night. And it was very kind of Esat to drive us home.” We had finally left about two in the morning, and Esat insisted on driving us back.

“That is alright Lisa. Next time when you come you can stay.”

“That would be nice. You know, I know Ramazan is an important time but my students are driving me crazy. They won’t do their homework and they complain all the time.”

“Yes. I am getting angry too, replied Sevgi. “It says in the Koran that if it really is a problem to fast during Ramazan, because of work or study or other reasons, people can catch up fast days throughout the following year. When I was pregnant with Saba it was Ramazan so I will fast later to make up the days.” Then in a very unforgiving tone that surprised me, she said, “I have told my students that they are not to complain at this time. You either do Ramazan silently and happily or you don’t do it at all. It is not a competition.”

“How do you keep your classes under control Sevgi?”

“In particular now, I believe in having an iron fist in a silk glove.”

“Yes”, I sighed unhappily. “It makes it difficult though.”

“I think Lisa, you are not happy. Is something wrong?” she asked with concern. I told her that we were worried because we still didn’t have our contracts. We’d repeatedly harangued Halil to ring Ankara about them, and there’d even been some discussion about someone driving to Ankara to put our case to a politician, if we could find someone who knew one. As the elections had neared we had almost given up hope, convinced that in the lead up, no administrative work would be done. We also feared that the confusion of settling on a new government might also preclude any work.

Two days later our contracts turned up, having taken a month for one missing one signature to be added. Since I’d spoken with Sevgi I was feeling more optimistic, so I didn’t lose my temper when I learnt of the unnecessary delay. To celebrate, we went to one of the two cinemas the following Sunday. Arriving early we skulked outside and smoked a clandestine cigarette, cupping them in our hands and guiltily exhaling when no one was looking. Normally we’d have a tea and smoke a cigarette inside, but although the candy bar was open, no one was partaking in anything. The movie was American and we listened to the sound track while trying to improve our Turkish by reading the subtitles. With twenty minutes left to go there was a blackout and the picture ground to a halt. We were in total darkness for a few minutes before we heard a generator start up. We continued watching, straining to hear the dialogue over the chug of the generator. Then normal power was restored and we were able to watch and listen to the rest of the movie.

Afterwards we went for a meal, taking our seats about fifteen minutes before the sun went down. We were freezing after sitting in the cinema for two hours, with its concrete floors and no heating. The restaurant also had none and we were desperate for a warming cup of tea. Nice as the staff were, they wouldn’t serve us anything, not even tea, until the prayer from the mosque began. Baulking at custom we lit cigarettes and looked at the people seated around us. Every table was full, and exactly at 4.30pm, when the call came, everyone started to eat. Even though they had been waiting a long time for this moment, no one rushed at the food. Everyone began by eating a date, and some honey from the comb. Soup followed and was slowly eaten, as were the main course and dessert.

Two weeks into Ramazan the students were showing the effects of the fast. They were unable to concentrate on anything by two o’clock, and everything they’d learnt they forgot. A student had been killed on campus when she stepped off the pavement into the path of an oncoming car. It happened about 20 minutes before the iftar meal was due and neither she nor the driver was paying attention. In my reading class, matters came to a head with Burak. We were working on dictionary use, and I’d won the battle to make them bring their dictionaries to class.

“But teacher,” said one of the boys, “The dictionaries are very heavy, I have to carry it from the dormitory to school and return it back.”

“Murat, you are a big strong man,” I teased, “I carry my books and dictionary up and down the stairs all week. Am I stronger than you?”

The class had agreed to bring one dictionary per four students, and as we were doing group work it suited me. Burak’s English was terrific, but he hated being at the Preparatory school and showed it by distracting the slower students every lesson. I’d already sent him out four times before for not bringing his book, or repeatedly talking while I was teaching and for general rudeness, and I was running out of options. This particular day, he was being impossible, egging on Galıp and Kazım to greater heights of distraction. Kazım was an odd boy, a bit of a loner with marked nervous habits which brought him to my attention quite a lot, but he was bright and well meaning. Galıp was a sweet natured 18 year old who would always have to work hard to achieve anything. He often admired my jewellery and one day told me, “My teacher I will tell my grandchildren about you. I will never forget you.” I had no doubt he was sincere, but I doubted he’d remember me for the English I’d taught him.

Today, however, the three of them refused to settle down, and were chatting away quite animatedly and loudly in Turkish. At first I tried to humour them by commenting on their conversation. They were quite surprised that I knew Turkish, but as I told them,

“I’m a teacher Kazım. Even when I am not looking at you I know you are not talking about your classwork.” At this Burak scowled and muttered an aside so I warned him to pay attention to his work. He refused. I told him I didn’t want to hear one more word from him. As I walked away I heard him say “Dictionary” and turned to see him grinning at me while holding out his hand to Galıp.

“Burak, leave the classroom now,” I said.

“Why teacher, what have I done?” I gave no further explanations and repeated,

“Burak, leave now.”

“No.”

Despite further requests he refused to leave. Although he had a wiry physique he had mastered the art of physical intimidation a few of the boys used, so quickly instructing the students to continue their work I went in search of a male teacher. Burak’s lack of respect for me was because I was a woman, but I wasn’t too proud to ask for help if I couldn’t make him do what I wanted. Birol came back with me and took Burak out of the classroom. The students’ reaction was immediate.

“Teacher, why did you send him out?”

“Teacher he will say sorry.”

“Teacher don’t be angry!”

I instructed them to continue with their work and they did so reluctantly, their resentment of me obvious. Even those students who didn’t like Burak’s constant attempts to derail the class sulked in his defence.

After the lesson Birol came and told me what he’d learnt. Burak studied English at high school, and was now enrolled to do medicine. This was his father’s choice, and rather than knuckling down or talking to his father, Burak had deliberately done badly in the English proficiency exam to buy himself some time. If I marked him absent he would be expelled. He was terrified of his father’s reaction and was angry with me for making this happen. At Birol’s request I agreed to speak to Burak and give him one more chance.

In our next class one of the students was trying to butter me up, and said,

“I love you teacher. I will work hard for you.”

Burak said, “I don’t love you teacher.”

I laughed in response and said “That doesn’t matter Burak. A good student will do well because their teacher doesn’t like them. It proves the teacher wrong.” He frowned in response and the rest of the students were quite startled. They’d never met a teacher who didn’t give their favourites higher marks before!

Chapter 3: Beginnings

goreme1990 — Sat, 8 Nov 2008 16:59:00 GMT

Waiting for us at the Kayersi bus terminal were two new colleagues, Mustapha Özcan and Mustapha Durmuş. In order to distinguish them from other Mustapha’s, we immediately nicknamed Özcan, “Mustapha Egg” on account of his shape, and the other “Mustapha Panelvan” for the vehicle he drove. To get to the campus we sped quickly through the centre of town, and beyond to the empty plains at the base of Mount Erciyes. From them we learnt that apart from the campus, most of the land was owned by the army, and used for training elite paramilitary corps. The university hospital at the entrance serviced the greater Kayseri area, and the huge sinister structure we’d seen on our first visit was the new Rektörlük or Chancellors’ offices. It was funded by the government and had been under construction for ten years. Whenever the money ran out all work stopped, and no one really expected it to be finished. Another government funded project was a small amphitheatre built into the side of the crater lake. Also under construction was a 25m indoor swimming pool. With a stunning view of the mountain we couldn’t wait for it to be finished so we could get in for a swim. Given that the money came from one of the major banks as a private donation, there was a good chance we would.

The Mustafas drove us straight to Bılım Sitesi. Inside the apartment Mustapha Egg proudly gave us a tour.

“And see, here,” he said, “the Foundation has bought you this washing machine, an oven, cooker top, ironing board, iron and clothes drying line.” He pointed to the boxes and parcels lined up on and near the table. “In the box there are pots and pans and here is the cutlery.” With a flourish he opened the briefcase sitting on the dining room table, to reveal a stainless steel cutlery set adequate for a family of twelve, plus guests.

Mustapha beamed at our delight, and then asked us to sign a receipt for the items the school had provided.

“You see the other furniture comes from the university, so they are responsible. These things belong to the Foundation, but are for you. Now, are you married?” We replied cautiously, lying to save on explanations. “OK, then only one of you has to sign for these things. When you aren’t married, I mean when teachers live here who aren’t married, they both have to sign.”

As we happily looked at our new belongings, we noticed that apart from three saucepans, one frying pan, three storage bowls and a coffee jar, the kitchen was empty. Of course we were well supplied for cutlery and even had our own Swiss design potato peeler and garlic crusher brought over from Australia, but even if we had enough food, we had nothing to eat it off.

“No problem,” said Mustapha. “When you are ready we will go and buy things for you. The Foundation has given 100 million TL (about $100AUD), and I have found a shop that will give a receipt but no tax. It will be enough money I think. Are you ready to go?”

We set off with Mustapha to the shop he had mentioned. It was a home wares store, with everything we could possibly need, from rubbish bins to wine glasses. As we looked around we realised that $100 wouldn’t go far, and everything was overwhelmingly plastic, in horrible pastel colours. We picked out huge storage jars, a toilet paper bin and a flat plastic bowl for hand washing. Although not big drinkers of Turkish tea we had to have one of the double teapots and tea glasses, in case of guests. The shopkeeper pressed us to buy everything in sets of twelve, but we didn’t have seating for that many people, only the cutlery, so we desisted and chose sets of six. At last we were finished. While Mustapha began to tally up our things, I raced to the supermarket next door and bought some Nescafe, milk and sugar, in anticipation of our first cup drunk at home.

When I returned Mustapha was at the counter arguing with the owner. The day before his son had agreed to give a discount of 18%. This is the amount you pay for tax, and when they don’t charge the tax you don’t get a receipt. As the goods were being paid for by the Foundation we had to have a receipt. Despite a long argument the owner refused to uphold the bargain his son had made. Mustapha refused to pay the extra 20 million TL and stormed out to his car and removed all the plastic bags. We drove off and he assured us we would get the things we needed, we were not to worry because a solution would be found.

Back at our apartment Mustapha said he would ring Halil Bey, the director, and together they would solve the problem. Then he left. It was three o’clock and we had no crockery, no food, and no way of knowing when we would. There was a phone in the apartment but when I tried to use it the line was dead. In despair we used our mobile to ring a friend called Doğan, who said he would come over. Two years previously, he’d offered us jobs in the English Literature department at the same university. The day he showed us round we’d been really positive about accepting, but in the evening, back in Göreme, we felt it would be too isolated. Doğan had taken our rejection with good grace and when we had decided we did want to return and teach in Kayseri, he’d introduced us to Halil Bey via email, and helped us get our jobs.

Although an Associate Professor at what was then the sixth best government university, Doğan worked summers at a carpet shop in Göreme. He’d worked there since he was sixteen, and continued partly through a love of the art, but more likely I suspect, for the money. Teachers are highly respected in Turkey, but their salaries don’t reflect this. Although Kayseri born and bred, his ‘decision’ to work in his hometown was actually a debt he owed to the government. He’d won a scholarship to study in America, but the payback was that the government bonded him at a university of their choice. The period of service is worked out at two years for every one spent studying overseas, so the scholarship was more like a high interest loan.

Doğan turned up bearing coffee mugs, a wooden spoon and four glass plates stamped with the Coca Cola logo. He told us he’d spoken to Alison and she kindly supplied them. After coffee, Doğan offered to pick us up the next day to collect the boxes of clothes we’d sent over from Australia. When he left we rang Halil and asked what was going to happen about buying things for the house. He said Mustapha would pick us up in the morning and we could shop then. When we pointed out we had nothing to cook dinner with that night, he suggested we go to the Sabancı Centre. It was on campus he said, and easy to find.

By seven o’clock we were really hungry. It was just getting dark when we left, so we headed for the main campus road figuring we’d follow the signs until we found it. Unfortunately, the roads, like most of the campus, had been built with the future in mind, so as it got darker we found ourselves on wide, semi-paved, deserted streets, with no maps or signs. We had no idea where we were going and adding to our confusion, some of the streetlights only came on when there was movement, so our path was alternately light and dark. All the lights revealed were pine trees in various stages of growth, unlit buildings and absolutely no one from whom to ask the way.

After an hour of following endless loop roads we were angry and starving. We felt abandoned and I was close to tears. We ploughed on, this time heading for a distant building from which a faint light shone. As we drew near, we became lost in a maze of trees. Set at ground level were dim lights, so dim in fact, that previously unnoticed buildings suddenly leapt out, throwing us off course again. Finally, we saw a well-lit building and could see people up on the first floor. Our spirits jumped and we hurried to find the entrance. After following a path around all four sides of the building we found the front door and went up the stairs.

When we saw that the tables were covered in crisp white linen and the waiters dressed for silver service we were hesitant to enter. Despite the glaring neon lights the stage seemed set for a private function and we didn’t know if we would be welcome or not. Hunger won out, and we silently entered the room and then stopped, unsure of what to do next. A waiter approached and after he confirmed it was the Sabancı Centre we were seated at a table set for six. There were about forty tables, but only three or four at the far end of the room were occupied. Looking around for menus but finding none, we called the waiter over. No, there was no menu, but he would tell us what was available. He spoke so quickly that we couldn’t understand him. We asked him to repeat the list but it was hopeless, so we settled for chicken döner with salad and rice. After our meal we found our way home with relatively little trouble. With the roads not designed for walkers, we chose more direct paths that cut across lawns and through muddy quagmires. Our walk home was definitely dirtier but far quicker.

Promptly the next morning Mustapha Egg turned up and we set off in search of home wares again. We drove along the Sivas road leading to the outskirts of town to Beğendik, a large three level supermarket. Once there Mustapha led us downstairs and we started clawing through the things on display. Here the colour selection for our plastic needs was more to our taste, so we quickly chose things in strong primary colours. Then we set about selecting crockery. We wanted standard dinner plates, but in Turkey they are known as servis plates and are mainly used in restaurants as a type of placemat. Once your meal comes the servis plate is removed and your meal set before you. The usual Turkish dinner involves small selections of many different salads and meats. You help yourself to small amounts, refilling your pasta-sized plate as hunger demands. Not only were we baulking against tradition, we caused Mustapha some concern by insisting on glass plates.

“But plastic,” he said, “is much more practical. It lasts longer and doesn’t break.” We stood our ground and assured him that if we broke any we would replace them at our expense. We ended up with four dinner plates, four mugs, four blue glasses in two different patterns, a plastic drainer, toilet paper bin and four plastic storage containers. We found tea glasses but couldn’t find a cheap enough teapot. As there were a number of things we couldn’t get, and we didn’t have food, we asked Mustapha if there was somewhere else we could go shopping. There was about $30 left to spend of the Foundation’s money and we intended to get it over and done with in case anything else came up to stop us.

We drove back to the centre of town and were able to see the layout properly for the first time. Modern apartment blocks were set back from wide boulevards interspersed with impressive Selçuk architecture spiralling out from old castle walls sloppily restored with Besser bricks and concrete. Although it was obvious that at some stage someone had tried their hand at town planning, the castle and the main streets hid small lanes joined together in a chaotic jumble of mosques, medrese, (religious schools) and türbe (tombs). Compared to other Turkish towns, Kayseri was wealthy, as evidenced by the abundance of public gardens, parks and playgrounds, and a prominently placed Hilton hotel. Being a Saturday, the centre was crawling with people. We were keen to see what was on offer but Mustapha was in a hurry. He parked in a street lined with only two kinds of shops, ones selling birds and smaller pets, and shoe repairers. For a big man he moved fast, so we had to race to keep up with him as he led us to Migros, another supermarket. Along the way we battled through the crowds passing Hunat mosque, medrese and hamam, but there was no time to stop.

Migros is one of the supermarket chains in Turkey that most resembles those back home. The aisles are well laid out, everything is organised in a familiar fashion, and best of all, it is air-conditioned. We wandered the aisles, picking out a few more things for the house and food for dinner. In the fruit and vegetable sections we stopped, unable to identify certain things. Mustapha was amazed when I held up a yellow, slightly wizened ball-like item and asked what it was. “Nar” he said, “Don’t you know it?” When I shook my head no, he replied, “It is pomegranate. Haven’t you eaten it before?” I explained that I had read about them but that I had never seen one. He was pleased to be able to tell us something new, but still keen to hurry us along. He had a private lesson that afternoon and was in danger of being late. On the way to the cashiers we stumbled across a teapot and took it too. We didn’t know how to make Turkish tea but the smaller part at least would be handy for boiling water for coffee.

That night we made our first dinner, realising that the compact size of the kitchen made it impossible for more than one of us to be in it at the same time. We were pleased the gas stove was working, but I hate having a gas tube under the sink. Every other day when we lived in Istanbul a gas bottle exploded, injuring or killing people. There was also the dilemma of having to change it when it was empty. Our Turkish was OK but when we spoke over the phone we were never very successful. In Istanbul Kim used to go round to the gas shop in person, but here on campus, the gas shop was a taxi ride away. Hopefully, when the time came, we would have a friend we could call on to help us. We spent the rest of the weekend cleaning the apartment. Halil Bey had offered us the services of a cleaning man, but one look at him and his equipment told us the job would be better done on our own. Sunday the weather was lovely, so we carried all the furniture outside onto the grass and swept and scrubbed and cleaned until we were exhausted.

On Monday, we were ready to meet more of our colleagues and speak to Halil Bey about the things we needed done. He welcomed us warmly and ushered us quickly into his office and ordered tea.

“The campus is very nice Halil Bey, very quiet at night and lovely and open,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” added Kim, “but it is very dark at night.”

“Ah, alright, good, you found … alright … the Sabancı Centre. Sabancı is a very rich man, alright, a good man. He alright gave the alright Sabancı Centre alright to the university.” I already knew who Sabanci was, having seen his name in the paper when the government gave out metaphorical gold stars to wealthy Turks for paying their tax. It definitely isn’t a given in Turkey. I refrained from sharing this with Halil, and smiled wryly as Kim added,

“We had a lot of difficulty in finding the Sabancı Centre on Friday night.” Completely missing Kim’s point Halil asked,

“Are you alright, happy in your apartment, alright?”

“Yes, and thank you for the washing machine, it is very good to have it,” I beamed.

“Yes, of course, alright, it is necessary, alright, to have these things. But now, alright, it is alright.” As the tea hadn’t come, we let Halil continue, knowing we’d have to wait for its appearance before we could get down to business. In the meantime we sorted through his ‘alrights’ in an attempt to understand him.

With the tea came Mehtup, Halil Bey’s secretary. She gave us our tea, blinked both her eyes with their garish blue eye shadow in a gesture of friendliness and smiled at us before sashaying out of the room in fake leopard skin knee length boots and impossibly tight white jeans. Recovering from her presence we presented Halil Bey with our list of things to be done.

“Halil,” said Kim, forgetting to address him with the respectful title Bey, “we have some things we need to ask you. Mustapha Yiğit told us we had to give him 5 million TL for the gas tube. We don’t understand why, and will we get the money back?” Before Kim could continue with the rest of the things on the list, Halil began to speak.

“You must, alright, pay the money, alright, because it is an alright deposit for the tube. Alright? The tube alright, belongs to the school. When you go, we own the tube.”

“Yes, OK, but will we get the money back?” Kim asked again.

“When Mustapha gets a receipt from the gas company alright, the Foundation will give you the money,” he replied, hastily writing a note on a tiny piece of paper. “I will alright, ask him about this, alright, today.” He settled back and smiled at us as if everything had been taken care of and we could now move on to more pleasant topics.

“There are other things on our list,” Kim prompted, offering it to Halil. He took it and quickly read our notes.

“Ah, yes, alright, the telephone. At the moment alright, they are alright, renewing the lines in the university. Once this is done alright, we can arrange for you to have an alright telephone in your apartment.”

“Um, but Halil Bey,” I asked, “At the moment our university phone doesn’t work at all, and the only way we can ring our parents is by going to a public phone.” Exaggerating a bit to play on Turkish custom I added, “Our parents are old so we worry about them. We must look after them. How long will it take to fix the lines?”

“Hmmm, alright, I will find out”, he said, reaching for a phone book. He rang a number but received no reply. “The person alright I need to speak to, alright, is not there. I alright will ask them to alright ring me alright when they get back, alright. At this he paused slightly, but we weren’t sure whether he was asking for a response or simply giving us time for the information to sink in. Before we could say anything, he asked if we had any other problems.

“Well, in your emails you said that the university would refund our plane tickets. When will this happen?” Kim asked.

“Well, alright, as you know, we cannot, alright, refund your plane tickets, alright, until your contracts are signed. Once your contracts are signed we can refund the money.”

“Yes we know that Halil Bey,” I responded,” but when will our contracts be ready? Ankara has had the information for four months now.” Halil went through the six steps necessary to process foreign teacher contracts again, just as he had at our first meeting.

His use of the word alright increased so much that we barely understand what he was saying. It seemed to become worse whenever he had to tell us something he thought we might not like. He hastily rang the general secretary of the university who told us our paperwork was now in the second last department. We just had to wait.

“The other thing we wanted to ask about was our resident permits. We’re here on tourist visas and they’ll expire in a month,” said Kim.

“OK, these we can do. If you give me your passports and eight photos each, Ibrahim can arrange this.” As we didn’t have photos on us we arranged to bring them in the next day. Halil Bey seemed pleased and looked ready to finish the meeting. However there was one further thing we needed to ask.

“Halil, what will we be teaching,” Kim began.

“English.”

“Yes we know, but can you give us a bit more information?”

“Alright, you will be teaching reading and speaking. I think for reading you should teach B groups and maybe C groups for speaking.”

“Umm, Halil, what are B groups” Kim asked in a puzzled tone.

“They are the top groups. The best students who come from Anatolian Lisesi and Super High Schools,” Halil said proudly.

“Aren’t there any A groups?” I asked.

“No. When we had A groups these students thought they knew everything and didn’t work. So when we only have B and C groups they work harder.” We didn’t point out to him that this philosophy seemed somewhat flawed. “Yes, you will teach reading to B groups. It will be very good for them to hear native speakers.”

“How much English do the C groups know,” I queried.

“Sometimes none, but this will not be a problem.”

“But Halil Bey, we have very little Turkish, how will we understand them? How can we instruct them in the classroom,” I asked with some concern.

“This will not be a problem,” Halil Bey asserted, and the conversation was closed. “Now if you excuse me I have a meeting to go to. Is there anything else?” There were other things on our list we needed to discuss with him, but as he was leaving we decided to pursue them the following day.

“Yes, if it is possible we would like to see our offices, and also look at the text book for reading so we will be ready for classes next week.” Kim stated.

Pleased that Halil had noted down our concerns, we went with Ibrahim Şeker to look at our offices. Ibrahim, a short stocky man, was an administrative officer who had been at the university for over twenty years. Even though he knew no English he more than made up for that with his enthusiasm and warmth. Our offices were bare and basic, with standard issue desks, bookshelves and low tables. As we were already living and working together we’d requested separate offices. Being smokers, and due to the rigid division of the sexes, our coming had sparked some debate. People sharing an office here became friends and no one wanted to be split up. Kim was alone because his office mate was Halil Bey, who used the big director’s office, and I was sharing with a woman called Rüziye. Short and solid like most of the local women, she had spent the first eight years of her life in Australia and spoke very clear English. She taught in different faculties, teaching English for specific purposes, so I didn’t expect to see much of her.

As the week progressed we tried to get further information about our teaching duties but to little avail. Although the academic year had officially started, classes at the School of Foreign Languages hadn’t. At the beginning of the week there were few teaching staff on the premises, but we said hello to whomever we could in the hopes of making friends and getting more information. My floor mainly housed the younger, unmarried generation. There were a lot of young women, who in the first few weeks all seemed to blur into the one person. Fat or thin or in between, they all had immaculate hairstyles, thinly arched eyebrows and outfits that identified them as teachers. No one wore short skirts, and most of them wore high heels.

The few people I did get to know that first week seemed friendly and helpful. One man, called little Selçuk to distinguish him from big Selçuk who was away doing his military service, is a modern Turk. He is married and was born in Kayseri, and doesn’t believe in the strict division of the sexes. He told me that when they visit other families he and his wife won’t go again if they are made to sit in separate rooms. Another teacher two doors up, called Sevgi, is also from Kayseri. She is only about five feet tall with jet-black hair and sparkling eyes. Those first few days I got lots of invitations to stop in for tea and was looking forward to getting to know everyone. Although there is a canteen on the ground floor, and a tea room staffed by a woman called Zubadiye, most of the teachers had electric jugs and tea and cups in their rooms. Sevgi and her roommate Dilek told me that the tea lady soaked all the cups in bleach and didn’t always wash it all off. Besides, the tea she makes is only fresh in the morning so it tastes toxic by the afternoon and tends to strip the enamel off your teeth. The hot water always tastes slightly of tea as well, so I’ve decided order my coffee from the canteen when I’m not visiting.

Zubadiye also doubles as a cleaning lady, but because she can’t read she piles all the paperwork up any old way in order to clean up the desks. Sevgi’s request not to clean her desk is met with a look of consternation and subsequently ignored. She has to rearrange all the piles of homework each time after one of Zubidiye’s mammoth whirlwind cleaning sessions. There is a lot of laughter about this, but everyone agrees she is a good woman, and as she is so poor and her husband has no job, no one wants to complain in case she gets fired.

Back downstairs I caught up with Kim as we’d promised to go and have a coffee with Alison. Kim had been chatting to people on his floor and told me that Mustapha Egg worked as a VIP tour guide in the summer, and had offered to help us with airfares and accommodation for any trips we planned. Panelvan was a quiet man, and being asthmatic, didn’t smoke, unlike most of the men. He was married with two small children, he told Kim, but did a lot of private teaching to supplement the family income. I also met his office neighbour, Dursun, a very tall and mild-mannered man from the Black Sea. He was enthusiastic about meeting us and suggested we get together for a mangal, the Turkish version of a barbeque.

Once in Alison’s office we thanked her for the crockery.

“Don’t worry, I got the Coke plates free with something I bought years ago. Keep them. So, how are you getting on?” she said in a soft voice we had to strain to hear. We told her about getting lost on campus and the problems about getting set up.

“That’s so typical!” she burst out. “I told Halil Bey, you know, I told him what you would expect to have in the house. I even thought about asking some of the teachers to see what they could spare from their own homes, but you know, Turkish people have really strange ideas, you would have ended up with all sorts of useless things!” Her anger seemed a bit excessive, but it was nice to have someone to sympathise with us. Alison said she would invite us over for dinner once semester started so I’m not too worried about being lonely. As well, in the course of the conversation we found out there are lots of activities to do here, ranging from skiing, mountain climbing, playing football, going to the movies, and playing billiards.

In between getting to know the teachers we went and sat in on speaking exams. Halil had explained that all new students were assessed through a written English exam held the previous week, and then through an oral English exam to determine which stream they should be in. We were put into the hands of a teacher called Emil and I was looking forward to meeting some of my potential students. Emil spoke fabulous English with a marked American accent, drawling in a way that matched his somewhat distracted state. He told us he’d been educated at a Robert College High School. These were started by missionaries at the end of the 20^th century. When the republic was founded and a constitution written, proselytising was banned, but the missionaries were allowed to stay on to provide general education. These days Robert Colleges are elite private high schools that provide a top-notch education. Emil, it turned out, was the general coordinator of both B and C groups, but we were unable to find out much about the teaching structure from him. He was in the middle of writing a thesis for his PhD.

We were introduced to two other teachers we hadn’t met before, a tiny, friendly birdlike woman called Perihan and a statuesque brunette called Elif. Emil was teamed with a man called Mustapha, another one, whom we promptly nicknamed ET on account of his receding hairline and slightly thyrodic eyes. After brief introductions we split up and the speaking exams began. Expecting a room set up similarly to those I’d sat in during my university days, I was surprised to see a basic white room, with peeling paint, tatty net curtains and chairs with a writing square attached to one arm. They were all lined up in rows like a high school classroom. Before we started the exams, Emil directed some students to move most of the chairs to the back of the room, leaving one in front of the desk where the two teachers sat.

All the candidates were milling anxiously outside the room, and the volume level increased with the wait. The first student bounced into the room and into the seat in front of the examiners before nervously saying hello.

“Hello, how are you?” asked Emil in English, in a soft and rapid voice.

“Fine and you?” replied the student.

“Fine, can I see your ID please?” Emil continued.

“Pardon?” responded the student with a Turkish inflection, frowning worriedly.

“Your ID, your student card?” repeated Emil impatiently.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Your identity card,” said Emil, making a rectangular shape with his hands. After nervous knee jerks and desperate looks round the room, the student finally bounced back on to his feet and fished out his ID from his wallet.

“Thank you Murat. You can sit down. So, you’re in the Engineering Faculty?”

“Yes.”

“Well, can you tell me about yourself?” After a long pause the boy responded.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Can you tell me about yourself, where you’re from, your family . . .,” The boy was able to give basic information, but as the exams continued it became harder to focus on what the students were saying. Most were able to answer simple questions, but had to be prompted for more information. A very few had really good English and the rest were just so nervous it was impossible to judge their levels. Emil and ET assessed forty students in two hours, each student having about five minutes to prove their worth. By the end I was exhausted.

Afterwards, while having coffee with Emil in his office, I asked him a question that had been bothering me.

“Emil, some of the students look quite old. I thought the school was only for students entering first year.”

“Yes, that’s right,” he said, but offered nothing more.

“Well, if they’re first year students, some of them seemed a little bit old to just be starting university. Is the exam held so that they can enter this department?” I persisted.

“Yes, it is. But it is also a general proficiency exam.”

“A general proficiency exam for what?” I asked, still confused.

“Some of them just finished school last June. Before they can go to their faculties they have to do this exam. If they pass, they go to their faculties. If they don’t they do a year of preparatory English here. The others are students who have failed their year here,” he explained.

“How many times can they fail the exam? What’s the limit?”

“There is no limit. Some of them may have studied English here years ago. Some of them have already finished in their faculties but cannot graduate until they pass this exam.” Kim and I exchanged looks and then sat in silence for a while. Finally Kim asked,

“What’s the pass mark?” We were stunned to learn that they only needed to get 50% in every subject in order to graduate with a degree. Kim mused, “Even with such a low pass mark, they don’t pass?”

“Why,” I asked Emil, “do some students take so long to graduate? Don’t they need their degrees to get the better paying jobs?”

“Well of course they do”, he said. “But many of them get jobs with their fathers or friends of the family. If they don’t work they can live at home. For the boys, some of them don’t want to pass this exam. If they don’t pass they can’t graduate, and if they don’t graduate they can’t be made to do their military service. On the other hand, some of the older ones are desperate to pass. Maybe they want to get married and they want to finish their army time first. Others are getting too old to avoid the army, and if they don’t have a degree they’ll do 18 months in the army instead of the 8 months graduates do.”

Better informed but still slightly bewildered, Kim and I went downstairs to the lobby to wait for Doğan to come and take us to the post office. We were a bit early and while we were waiting Ibrahim came up to us and presented us with our ikamets. These little blue books are the resident permits issued to all foreigners living legally in the country. If you don’t have one you are forced to leave the country every three months and re-enter on a tourist visa, facing increasingly difficult questions as the number of entries in your passport mount up. After going to Cyprus twice to get the same document two years ago, but still ending up working illegally in Istanbul, we saw their delivery as a sign that our decision to come to Kayseri had been the right one.

Happy with the latest development, we chatted to Doğan as we drove down a wide street called Nato Caddesi, past the usual breezeblock apartments and dolmuş spewing black smoke. The PTT was in an ugly square building painted dirty lemon yellow, and well secured with bars on every window. Inside we walked through ill-lit corridors devoid of any decoration, asking passers-by for directions, until we found the right window. Doğan handed over the notice he’d received and waited while the man had a look at it. He seemed to be taking his time and we became a bit concerned when he called on another man to have a look at it too. A long conversation followed, and although we couldn’t follow what was being said, it was obvious there was a problem.

In order to safeguard our possessions we’d insured them with Australia Post back in Australia. Unfortunately, Turkish customs has a by-law dating back a considerable time that states all parcels over a certain value are liable for tax. The insurance value we’d put down was over that amount, so we had to pay the tax to get our parcels. Just what the tax was for, we never found out, but the inequity of it struck us at once.

“But this is outrageous,” said Kim, “These are our own things, for personal use. God, most of them came from Turkey in the first place! How can they tax us?”

“This is Turkey,” Doğan said with a wry shrug, “I will talk to the man some more and see what I can do.” His calm only served to fuel Kim’s anger, so while Doğan continued to speak with the official, saying the same things over and over, Kim continued to rage.

“This is so bloody typical. Tax the foreigners. This is what I hate about Turkey. We spend our money to come here, we spend more money to make sure we can settle in quickly and then they tell us we have to pay tax on our own stuff. It’s not on, it’s just not on!” Already resigned to paying the tax I decided we should see our boxes and make sure they hadn’t been tampered with. I turned to Kim and said,

“Let’s just go and check everything is there. Look, I know you’re angry but please don’t show it. You know that showing your anger doesn’t help, they just laugh at you and do what they want anyway. Come on, let’s just check our stuff.” We followed Doğan through more corridors and came to a room filled with parcels. In the middle of the room we saw our two enormous boxes, on the floor, open. Much to the chagrin of the official, we started sorting through our belongings. Doğan knew better than to stop us so he ran defence and kept the official at bay until we determined that nothing was missing.

All the while, Doğan kept up an impassioned monologue in our defence. We were foreign teachers, coming to Kayseri to make a life and help the people of Kayseri with their English. If we helped the people of Kayseri we were helping Turkey. The official was unmoved.

“Doğan, can you explain to him that in Australia when you insure things you have to say how much it will cost to replace them. It doesn’t mean they are worth that much. You just write a figure down that represents what they would cost you in time and money to replace. Most of them came from Turkey, they aren’t worth the replacement amount we wrote. We had to write it, it’s the system in our country.”

“Lisa, I know. I will try for you, but you know how it is. Here there are rules and this man is trying to help us but he is only a low official here. He wants to solve this problem but he can’t do much, he doesn’t have the authority.”

“Can you just try?” I pleaded. Even though I didn’t see how the man’s stony expression could be interpreted as helpful, I turned to him with a big smile. If getting angry and haranguing him didn’t work, maybe I could force him to help us with the power of my niceness. In the end we left the post office and headed back to the school. The official had rung another department and they had instructed us to write a fax stating that the goods were for personal use and a new assessment would be made. The next day we returned to the post office and paid the tax. They had reduced it by half but we still had to pay $45. It already cost us $500 to send the boxes so the extra amount really rankled. Nonetheless it was with some joy that we unpacked our things and enjoyed the sight of our apartment becoming more like a real home.

The next day we were once again ushered into Halil Bey’s office.

“Ah, Kim, come in. Lisa, sit down. Tea?”

“Yes please, açik.”

“You know Turkish,” he said, beaming at us. As usual, we chatted inconsequently until the tea came and then got down to business. We were learning fast that with our director, it was best to focus on problem solving, leading him through our lists, otherwise it would be weeks before we worked anything out.

“Halil Bey,” I asked, “When we spoke before, you explained that we would not get our salaries until our contracts were signed . . .”

“Yes, yes alright . . .” he started and then launched into the ins and outs of getting contract approval once more. When he at least finished I said,

“You also wrote in your emails, that the school would pay us an hourly rate until the contracts came?”

“Yes, yes, alright. The school will pay you an hourly rate of 5 million TL an hour. This is the pure rate, alright, I don’t know what it will be after tax.”

“Pure rate,” I asked, puzzled. Then it came to me. “Before tax you mean?” He nodded. “Can you find out how much money we will get in our salary, after tax I mean?” At this he picked up the phone and rang the accountant. Receiving no answer he buzzed Mehtup and instructed her to find him. While we waited he said that he could arrange some private teaching for us if we were interested. We said yes but could speak no more on the matter because a small, wiry man with a large moustache that outbalanced his face burst into the room. Halil Bey briefly introduced him as Muzaffer, and added that he was a good accountant but spoke no English. Nodding at us he spoke to Halil Bey in rapid fire Turkish, a ferocious scowl on his face. As he spoke, Halil wrote down figures on a tiny piece of paper and then turned to us.

“After the tax, alright, you will get 4 million TL an hour. You will work alright, 80 hours a month so you will, alright, get 500 million TL.” To confirm this he gave me the paper showing his calculations and told Muzaffer he could leave.

“When will we get our money Halil Bey?” I hated asking these sorts of questions. I didn’t want to sound distrustful, but after Istanbul I knew it was necessary. If you didn’t ask, no one would volunteer the information, and I had learnt that things were never done in ways I expected.

“You must understand, alright, that this money is not coming, alright, from the university. The alright money will come, alright, from the Foundation now, alright, and when your alright contracts come, the alright university, alright, will pay you.” I didn’t really care where the money was coming from, as long as it came. I was curious to know what the Foundation was or who it was, but decided to leave it for another time. It was simpler. He hadn’t quite finished on the topic though.

“This is because, alright, you are not, alright, here. Until … alright … you have the proper alright paperwork the alright government alright does not know alright, that you are here. We alright, we want you, alright, here, now alright. We know you will need the alright money, alright? So alright we make this alright arrangement, alright, for you.” I was amused, because the government that had issued our resident permits now we were here, was the same one that didn’t know we were already here, and working.

“Alright, thank you. But when will the money come, Halil Bey?”

“It will come alright, on the 15^th of alright, the month. Alright, everyone is paid alright on the 15^th of alright the month. It will be put into your alright bank account.”

“Aahhhh. We don’t have a bank account Halil Bey. If someone could maybe help us we will open one. Which bank should we use?”

“I don’t have the alright information about this alright, but we can learn about it.” With that he sat back at his desk and smiled. In the silence I looked at Kim, to see if he would take up the point but he just smiled too and left it to me. I prompted Halil,

“Um, could we learn about it . . . today? We start teaching next week and won’t have much time. It’s better if we organise it now,” I said, smiling so much I though my face would crack.

“Yes, alright, I will ask.” Picking up his phone he rang Muzaffer again. When Muzaffer reappeared he was on the offensive. He looked as if at any moment he would hit someone, and spoke in a high pitched, loud, aggressive tone. Surprisingly, he did tell us, through Halil Bey, that we would need two accounts, one for our money coming from the Foundation before our contracts were signed and one for afterwards when the Government was paying us.

“Can we do this soon?” I queried.

“Yes, alright, when … alright would you like to do this?” Keeping my frustration at bay I replied,

“Um, today. Now, would be good.”

“Now,” he repeated. “Alright …” In one of those moments we would become familiar with, he sat for a considerable time, saying nothing. Suddenly he said “OK” and picked up the phone. Within seconds, Ibrahim Şeker, who we’d decided to call Mr Fixit, appeared. A hurried conversation ensued accompanied by frequent glances at their watches. At last a decision was reached. Ibrahim would drive us to the bank but we had to hurry. They closed for lunch at midday and it was Friday.

On the short journey, Ibrahim smiled and talked non-stop. Fortunately for me, he could understand my Tarzancı Turkish, and helped me out with grammar and vocabulary when my memory failed. He queue-jumped shamelessly at the bank and helped us through the epic form filling. It was more complex than applying for a home loan in Australia! Afterwards he drove us back to the now deserted school. Everyone, it seemed, had either gone to the yemekhane, the personnel dining hall, or to the mosque. The Friday lunchtime prayers are the most important in the Muslim calendar and few of the men, following Halil Bey’s example, ever missed it.

Slightly overwhelmed by the events of the week, and still unsure of what we would be doing when the term started on the Monday, we went to Göreme for the weekend. We hadn’t yet ventured to learn the local bus system, but we did know to buy a ticket before trying to board a bus. We walked across campus, noting as we passed the amphitheatre that work had started on it again. The main bus stop was located opposite the hospital and near the mosque. There were a lot of people hanging around the emergency entrance and waiting in cars in the car park. The weather was nice so people visiting sick relatives were sitting on newspapers and rugs, eating lunch. Some seemed set for the duration and had small gas bottle burners on which they were busily preparing tea.

Armed with our tickets, we stared anxiously at the waiting buses. We couldn’t tell if there was a number system, and it was hard to take in all the destinations fast enough. After a string of buses had been and gone with none displaying signs for the Otogar, Kim spotted a bus marked Terminal. I hopped on, and asked the driver, “Do you go to the Otogar?” in rather jumbled Turkish, expecting a simple yes or no answer. “Does he go to the Otogar?” Kim asked anxiously after listening to the long convoluted answer. “No idea” I said grumpily. We got off the bus and stood around, worrying that we would miss the ten o’clock Göreme bus we were aiming for. As we were beginning to give up hope the little man sequestered in the ticket booth waved us over.

We boarded the bus he pointed to. It was a bit of a struggle to get a seat, as about 70 other people piled in after us. There were teenagers, ancient old men dressed in woolly caps and thick coats, young women and others who looked too old to be the mothers of the two or three children they herded with them. Some carried babies in pouches, smothered in blankets and a lot of the toddlers were red in the face and semiconscious beneath their many layers of clothes. It was late summer and we were boiling in our light clothes so I have no idea how they coped. The seating arrangements were endlessly complicated, with men and boys getting up to give their seats to women, and women shuffling and rearranging elderly mothers and fathers, and small children being passed from knee to knee. Generally, in Turkey, there is a rule that a man doesn’t sit with a woman unless she’s his wife, fiancée or relative. In Kayseri, the seating plans are made even more complex because women and children only sit on the seats at the front of the bus while men take the back seats. Even when there are empty seats up the back women never sit there.

In the ensuing crush we failed to get seats and were standing in the large open space in the middle, used to accommodate luggage and more people that you can imagine. Our anxiety increased, as every time the driver started to depart, more people boarded. There was no sense of urgency, with people waving to indicate they were getting on, and then sauntering off to buy a ticket. Others coming from the hospital entrance across the road also took their time. When we finally left we were dripping with sweat and were relieved to be next to a window which we managed to open after a huge struggle.

As soon as the bus left the campus and turned right on to Atatürk Bulvarı, the driver put his foot down and the breeze was a big relief. Flying down the road we passed the army bases on either side, before stopping abruptly at a red light on a large intersection crossed by train tracks. The traffic came from everywhere and I couldn’t divine any sort of order. At the corner a man sat cleaning shoes and a ragged beggar was knocking on people’s car windows. We took off again at breakneck speed and immediately noticed the absence of a breeze. Someone had closed the window despite the heat and rising smell of body odour and unwashed clothes. The opening and closing of windows on buses continually aroused controversy. Women who covered refused to allow even the slightest breeze to blow in, like the boys with their hair gelled and spiked to the max.

We stewed in silence and concentrated on getting our bearings. After the intersection we drove past an old, large cemetery, then the bus ducked down an underpass. Although it was narrow and there was no room to manoeuvre, the driver didn’t slow at all, so I kept my eyes shut until we came to a stop opposite the Hunat Mosque and medrese complex. From there we swung through Republic Square, hanging a right at another old Selçuk medrese. We passed Kayseri’s one and only really big department store, Almer, and continued on. After passing innumerable shops all selling furniture, we saw the Otogar sign up ahead and noticed the aptly named Terminal Hotel next door. The mystery of the bus signs was solved and we had a good laugh at the name of the hotel. It looked exactly the sort of place where people checked in, but no one ever left.

With our destination in sight, we couldn’t find a button to press to alert the driver to stop. We looked on the poles but there were none. Next we looked on the walls to no avail. Finally Kim spotted one button in the ceiling too far away to reach, and another over the exit door. In a panic we threw ourselves into the mass of bodies blocking our path. Being more adept at worming my way through, I got closest to the door first and stretched my arm as far as I could over the heads of the people standing there. Somehow I managed not to fall into the stairwell in the process. I’m only five foot two, so I can’t imagine how the local women, many of whom are even shorter, manage to get to the button without swan diving down the stairs.

The drama of our first local ride over, things got easier. We were on time for the bus and before we knew it the first of the two large plateaus marking the Cappadocian region came in sight. As we passed Fevzye’s new horse stables on the outskirts of Göreme, we worked out our plans for the weekend.

“Who do you want to visit Kim? Will we stop and say hello to the boys at Ikman first, or go straight to see Ibo,”

“Well, I want to see everyone, but you know if we don’t see Ibo and his mum and dad first and they find out, they might be a little offended”

Our association with the village was so well established that people no longer tried to interest us in pensions, entice us into their restaurants or invite us into their carpet shops for a cup of tea and an impromptu lesson in the history of carpets. However, we knew a lot of people, and those we hadn’t met knew of us. If we didn’t want to stop and say hello to everyone we knew, and drink innumerable cups of tea, these planning sessions were necessary. In the past, just walking the kilometre from Ibo’s pension to the post office had taken me four or five hours, and in the end I didn’t even get there.

On our last visit we’d only briefly said hello to different people, so after dropping in on the family, we went straight to see the Ikmans. The Ikman Gallery is one of the biggest carpet shops in the village and is set in an old han. The main entrance is at the side, and you walk into a small high walled courtyard built, like the rest of the building, from local Avanos sandstone. The golden colour of the surface makes a dramatic backdrop for the numerous kilims, cicems, sumaks and carpets hanging from the walls, and cradles made from old woven salt bags dangle above your head. There are five doors off the courtyard, leading to rooms used as offices and showrooms. The public rooms are stacked high with thousands of carpets, ranging from modern kilims woven on the premises to older kilims made by nomadic tribes. Many of the old pieces were originally dowry items. As more and more nomads move to the cities to escape the unrest and poverty of life on the borders with Iran and Iraq, there are less and less old pieces available. Naturally, their price reflects this. Ducking through any of the low doors is like entering a rabbit warren and finding Aladdin’s cave. The owner, Süleyman, carries on the tradition of his grandfather, and his four sons are expected to do the same. I first met him in 1990, and spent many hours with him drinking tea and gently bargaining for two pieces. Tall and solidly built, he has the ferocious Anatolian features common to people of the area.

We approach from the road, where a covered walkway runs the length of the building. Hanging from the top floor are colourful pieces, set to catch the eye and lure people inside. It is dim under the canopy, but we can see someone sitting reading a newspaper, surrounded by empty chairs and little stools shaped like camels. It was Serdar, the second son. The minute he recognised us he jumped up to greet us.

“Kim, Lisa. Welcome. We heard you had come back. How are you? Is it true, are you going to teach in Kayseri.”

“Hello Serdar”, I said, standing on my toes to kiss him on either cheek.

“Hi Serdar, yes we are back, and we will be living in Kayseri”, said Kim. “So, how is your family? How’s business? Is your father happy?”

“No, Kim,” laughed Serdar, “He’s never happy. Always not happy about money. Anyway, there aren’t many tourists. You know, with what is happening in Iraq everyone is afraid. I think the Americans will invade and it will be a very bad thing, and not only for Turkey.” Before we could talk more, the older son, Bilal, came out of one of the many rooms in the han.

“Ah, Kim! Lisa! Welcome!” Even taller than his brother, Bilal is my favourite. He is tall and dignified and more interested in politics than selling carpets. We began to chat but were interrupted by the approach of potential customers.

“I am sorry,” said Bilal, “I must go. They came last night and maybe today I can sell them the piece they were looking at.” Kim and I watched as they approached the tourists. Unlike his older brother, Serdar changes his personality to fit the customer. With the young ones he is young too, always laughing and making jokes. With older, single women he is the little boy lost, hinting that he might offer them more than just a carpet. With couples where the man is overly protective of his ‘woman’, I’ve seen Serdar do a great camp impersonation, flipping his wrists and mincing around in a Turkish interpretation of homosexuality. Bilal is more serious, but he too reads the expectations and preconceptions of the tourists who visit the shop with startling accuracy. Bilal went inside with the two men while we sat chatting with Serdar.

“Serdar, tell me, where is Hussein? When we came before we didn’t see him. Has something happened to him?” Whenever we’d arrived in Göreme in the early hours, we’d regularly been greeted by their night watchman, Hussein. A short, enormously round man, he was always delighted to see us. Usually exhausted from a ten-hour overnight bus trip from Istanbul we still exchanged news about our families and asked him to pass on our regards to the Ikmans. He would invite us to stop for tea but being keen to just put our bags down for a while, we would decline his offer. We promised to come back later and we always did.

“He has gone. He was no good.”

“You mean you fired him?”

“Yes, he fell asleep one night and things were taken. He could not stay.” Looking up at the carpets hanging from the outside walls of the han we realised how serious Hussein’s misdemeanour was. I don’t know how valuable the outside pieces are, but Serdar offered no further details. Instead, he offered us coffee. We spent the rest of the weekend walking in the valleys and relaxing in the Tabiat courtyard. The weather was good and we had company whenever we wanted it so we were feeling very mellow when we returned to Kayseri.

The first two weeks of teaching went by in a blur. When we turned up bright and early on the Monday it was only to find out that class numbers hadn’t been finalised so we would start the next day. The next day there was an hour long meeting all in Turkish. A short translation revealed that we would start on the Wednesday. Both of us are teaching 20 hours a week, taking eleven different classes. That means we have about 240 teenagers to get to know. Their faces and sometimes difficult names haven’t been exactly etched into my memory just yet. I have five Mehmet’s, six Murat’s, three Ali’s and innumerable Fatma’s, some of whom I can tell apart. They are all 17 to 19 years old, with a few older boys thrown in. So far they are either really sweet, and distinguish themselves by having perfect English or diabolical monsters who talk all the time, but not in English.

What has quickly become apparent is that while the department is part of the university, it is very much a school. The students are referred to as çocuklar, children, and often behave as such. The physical arrangement of the classrooms means that most activities must be teacher led, and our attempts to have the students think for themselves, have failed. They rote learn hundreds of facts for the university entrance exam and then promptly forget them. Getting them to actually speak is a challenge, as some of them shake when called upon, and others mumble or can’t complete the sentences. They seem to greatly fear making mistakes, and I come down really hard on the students who laugh at poor attempts. After all, if they don’t feel safe making mistakes in the classroom, how are they ever to improve?

While I was beginning to feel I had a routine for teaching even if I wasn’t sure of what I was doing, we were starting to feel a bit lonely. The teachers at the school are friendly, but no one seems to socialise outside school. It took five months when we lived in Istanbul before anyone suggested getting together. Even then it was fraught with problems, as though the normal things like going to the movies or out to dinner wouldn’t be nearly interesting enough for us. Here everyone has such large extended families they often have no need of people who aren’t related to them, as family takes up all their time. Sevgi has nineteen female cousins as well as the usual assortment of other relatives and told me that she felt guilty that she didn’t get to see them often enough.

One Saturday we decided to walk to Talas, and see if we could find little Selçuk or Doğan at home. Originally Talas was a separate village but now, with its streets paved with marble and crumbly breezeblock apartments, it is just another suburb of Kayseri. There are the usual chemists, supermarkets and shops, but very few tea houses. Without the old architecture you find in the town centre, it’s pretty bland. Having walked a few kilometres up the street we sat in a small park and rang them both. After getting no answer from either we sat on a bench smoking cigarettes and talked about what to do next.

Fairly confident we could find Doğan’s house from the one time he drove us past it, we wandered up a series of streets that zigzagged up a hill. There were no street signs, all the apartment blocks looked the same to us, and none had little shops at the base to help place them. I was feeling pretty despondent when Kim pointed out what looked to be Doğan’s car.

“Hey, great, he might be home.”

Walking around to the front of the building we checked the name plate and were ecstatic that we’d found the right one. There were no door bells at the front entrance, so we climbed to the third floor and rang the bell.

“Iyi günler,” I said to the headscarfed woman who greeted us. “Biz Erciyes Universite’den Ingilizce oğretmen. Burda Doğan Bey mi?”

“No,” she replied in English, “He is teaching today. How can I help you?”

When we explained who we were Serpil invited us in for tea. After shaking my hand she crossed her hands over her chest as Kim extended his hand to her. “I am sorry. I do not shake hands with men. It is the custom of my family.” A bit surprised by her conservatism, we shed our shoes and sat down on the couch she directed us to. Serpil, it turned our, had completed a Masters Degree in the US, and was now studying for her PHD in science. From the other room came the sounds of her two sons playing on a computer. “As I said, Doğan is teaching. Every Saturday he teaches a group of doctors at the university.”

“Oh, private lessons”, commented Kim.

“No this is through ERSEM.” Seeing our incomprehension she explained that ERSEM was a school set up within the university to provide reasonably priced English lessons for personnel throughout the university.

We spent an hour in her home, and it was heavy going. Serpil was polite but distant, and despite an offer to have us over to dinner, we didn’t feel all that welcome. When we left we wandered aimlessly around Talas for another hour but in the end went home to get warm. We were surprised not to hear from Doğan about our unexpected visit, and were beginning to feel that we’d never make headway with people.

Chapter 2: Acquaintances Old & New

goreme1990 — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 16:57:00 GMT

In early August, 2002, we arrived at Istanbul Airport. When we got off the plane and out into the open we just stood for a while, breathing in the summer air. The airport hadn’t changed but we had. Old hands, we knew if we just waited long enough, someone would come along and see us on our way. Past the waiting taxis and the armed guards we saw the bus to take us to the ferry.

“Where are you going? Sultanahmet?”

“No, Bakırköy.”

“OK, this bus,” said the driver while taking our bags and stowing them on board. We’d packed as lightly as we could but weighed down with presents they were no easy burden. At a sign from the driver we boarded and were soon winding through the grounds of the airport, then on through the exit, with peeling paint and boom gates more for show than security. Once outside the boundaries the well ordered and signed roads gave way to peak hour Istanbul. The city covers a relatively small area, but the population is so enormous that at seven o’clock in the morning the roads are packed. Carriageways with three marked lanes are transformed into five lanes of drivers desperate to get to work. Accidents are frequent but minor, as every one dives into the smallest gaps, trying to avoid other cars and wandering street vendors.

From the bus window I could see them calling out their wares, the prayer beads, mobile phone covers, sewing kits for the wife, and any items that were the latest fad and had been bought cheaply in bulk. Afternoons favour those returning to loved ones, with men hawking flowers, fake perfumes or pillows shaped as hearts with “I love you” written on them in Turkish. I like being an observer because these guys can be really persistent, but more importantly for me, they slow the traffic down. When there was a clear stretch our driver, like everyone else, decided he was a race car driver and accelerated to dangerous speeds, oblivious of the consequences. This time we didn’t see any major accidents but always, at any time, somewhere in Istanbul somebody will lose their life in a car accident. It is fate, my Turkish friends say, laughing when I suggest seatbelts and speed limits.

We were heading to Göztepe, a suburb on the Asian side of Istanbul, to stay with friends we had made during our last visit. We could have taken a taxi all the way, but we preferred the gentler method of crossing the Mamara by sea bus rather than sitting for an hour or more in a taxi fighting traffic. Once at Bostancı we struggled out to the taxi stand with all our bags. Immediately we were mobbed, with the more observant drivers speaking in English.

“Taxi, you want taxi?”

“Where you go?”

“Come, come,” said another, more persistent driver, trying to take our bags. Heads down, looking at no one, we plodded through the straggly rose gardens. Ignoring the etiquette of getting in to the taxi at the head of the stand, we got into a taxi driven by an older man. They drove more carefully and paid attention to you when you said you know where you were going.

Two years before, making the same trip, we’d got lost. In Turkish the driver had asked where we were going. We gave the street name and he took off. As we neared more familiar streets he asked if we knew the address. I showed him the address and again he asked if we knew where we were going. Yes, we knew everything, the name of the apartment building, the number in the street and the street name. However, that wasn’t what the driver meant. Directions go by bus routes, the nearest restaurant, pastry shop, hospital or petrol station. We spent a fair amount of time circling faintly recognisable landmarks, stymied by one-way streets we knew from walking, before we found the apartment block. Second time around it was easy, and before we knew it we were pulling up outside the cake shop at the base of our friend’s apartment. While Kim paid the driver I looked up and there was Sabriye, Burcu’s mother, waving madly from their fifth floor balcony.

By the time we reached the building entrance she was waiting to help us carry our bags up to their apartment. Tiny and like a little bird always hopping around and chatting and smiling and laughing, Sabriye grabbed Kim’s suitcase despite his protests, and bounded up the stairs. Somewhat more slowly, we plodded after her.

Burcu had been a student of Kim’s when we taught in Istanbul a few years earlier and her family had welcomed us into their home many times. Following a now well established pattern, we stood outside and put our bags down inside the front door. Then we took off our shoes before stepping across the threshold. Sabriye welcomed us with the traditional words “Hoş geldiniz”, meaning you are most welcome and then she swept us up, kissing us on both cheeks and nearly smothering me with a hug. Two pairs of slippers were waiting for us to wear and breakfast was ready on the balcony. We sat at the little round table, under the drying washing, next to their carnivorous budgerigar and caught up on all the news.

Breakfast on the plane had only been a few hours before, but eating is an integral part of socialising in Turkey. We enjoyed the ritual even if we weren’t hungry. On the table there were black and green olives, white goat’s cheese and twisted stretchy cheese from Şanliurfa, strawberry jam, apricot jam that Sabriye made from fruit grown in her brother’s garden, chocolate spread, white bread and rye bread she bought specially for me. As a treat she had cooked sausages and eggs. The sausage is a special Turkish sausage known as sucuk and is very spicy and fatty. After eating our fill, we had coffee and cigarettes and caught up with the news. We knew almost everything about each other’s families, and we each had photos to share. Sabriye filled us in on the doings of her husband Ibrahim, her daughter Burcu and their son Akyut.

After breakfast we caught the bus to Kadiköy. Burcu lives on a main road well serviced by government transport, but we preferred to take the dolmuş. The name comes from the word meaning stuffed and not surprisingly, they begin their journey when they are full. Judging by the dimensions, nutrition in Turkey has obviously improved, as the older dolmuş have minimal headroom and two-person seats only children can comfortably share. Despite the discomfort they run frequently, cost little, and take you almost to the doorstep of wherever you want to go. After five minutes of bucking and grinding to the pace of the gear changes I got a seat. Feminism hasn’t reached the men on dolmuş yet and I’m glad. It means I almost always get a seat while poor Kim has to stand, half bent over, wedged against the door trying not to fall out every time it opens. The streets were busy with cars, trucks and buses as well as street vendors. There were men everywhere pushing barrows piled high with shiny black eggplants, or ribbons of hot green peppers. What they sell is seasonal, so the selections and colours change year round.

Everyone competes for the minimal road space and we frequently screamed to a halt, when barrowmen were unable to manoeuvre quickly enough. Our driver was in a filthy mood and would jump up in his seat and threaten whoever got in his way. Finally we got out of Göztepe and zoomed down the hill and crossed a canal. All along the canal are low, crumbly gecekondu houses whose backyards overlook a sludge of water carrying assorted refuse. It was high summer and the smell was unbearable. Outside the houses the women hang their washing and the children play among the bricks and dirt scattered on the ground. Everyone on the dolmuş madly closed the windows and held their breath until we passed.

Once near the water’s edge we flung ourselves out of the dolmuş and walked through the traffic towards the ferry. Kadiköy, like most of modern Istanbul, is not beautiful. The architecture is only distinguished by how awful the concrete breezeblock apartments are, and the profusion of signs competing to advertise the many businesses at street level and above.

For me though, it has a certain charm. A huge wide boulevard along the waterfront doubles as a market place and lunch spot. On our right were the old metal kiosks selling daily papers, specialty magazines on motor sports, sailing and fishing, as well as porn rags pegged up high under the awnings. That way you can buy your daily paper, cigarettes or chocolates without being tainted. To the left was a walkway with concrete tubs of roses and rubbish. There are rubbish bins along the concourse but everyone throws their rubbish into the gardens. At the end of the each day council workers come along and clean it up.

Being summer, the walkway was under construction again, as were many of the streets in Istanbul. Every summer the roads that were dug up the year before are dug again, re-laid and repaved. All this industry doesn’t mean the surfaces are smooth, so walking is hard on your shoes and not to be undertaken without great care.

We’d just missed a ferry so decided to wander until the next one. We passed an outdoor cafe with little round tables and foot high stools under stunted trees. It was too early for lunch so there weren’t many people there. Behind the café the animal sellers were offering mixed breed ‘pedigree’ puppies, whining cats and pigeons of all sizes. Seeing a crowd at one stall we pushed our way in to see what the excitement was about. In the middle of the circle, chained to a tree was a little monkey. Children were reaching out to pet it and shrieking back in alarm when it made to bite them. Everyone wanted to play with it but the monkey just screamed and rattled its chain and scared off any potential owners. At US$1000 it would probably be homeless for a long time.

Going back towards the ferry we were approached by a gypsy girl. Istanbul is full of gypsies, dark skinned people who make their living going through the rubbish for cardboard and bottles to sell, or selling flowers on the street or trying to scam passers-by. We managed to escape easily this time but not so a Turkish man and his girlfriend. A gypsy girl had darted up to him and before he could stop her, put a packet of chewing gum in his pocket. When he tried to give it back to her she began to berate him, asking for “just a little money”. He refused and tried to thrust the packet back in her hands. As the day was warm he had put his bulky jacket loosely over his arm and the gypsy took the opportunity to grab it from him. The man had stopped laughing now but she refused to give it back unless he paid her. When he made to chase her, another gypsy girl came up and grabbed him by the pant leg. He tried to get away but she lay stretched full out on the ground and hung on to him for grim death. He was screaming at them both but they just laughed. The man’s girlfriend stood some distance away the whole time, tightly clutching her handbag and looking worried. Things were at an impasse so we decided to continue our stroll. Like everyone else, we knew better than to intervene.

To the right of the wharf we noticed that a large fence had been erected to ensure pedestrian safety, and in front of it the fish sellers were calling out the day’s catch. Some were just selling fresh fish, artistically displayed on round wooden trays, the scales glinting like silver in the sunlight. Others sold fish sandwiches for a dollar. They are fried on boats tied to the fence and passed over to the hungry customers who sit on small stools scattered on the walkway to eat them. If fish isn’t to your fancy there are bufes lining the waterfront, little cafes selling toasted sandwiches, plain pastries or dürüm, meat or chicken döner kebab served with salad and rolled in flat bread. On summer afternoons these were often the coolest places to sit, and if you were lucky you could get a table right on the water and enjoy the breeze while watching the ferries come and go.

When the gates at the wharf opened we pushed through the crowd along with everyone trying to get an outside seat on the shady side of the ferry. As we slowly chugged out into the bay, the seagulls began to gather. They followed us out past the glorious 19^th century Haydarpaşa railway station and out into the open sea where the Marmara meets the Bosphorus. Through the morning haze of heat and pollution we could see the Justice Tower at Topkapi Palace and the domes and minarets of both the Aya Sofya and Sultanahmet Mosque. As if they had his timetable, the seagulls flew closer to the ferry as the refreshments man came along our side of the ferry. Neatly dressed in black trousers and white dress shirt, he made his way slowly past legs resting up on the rails, calling his wares.

“Çay, kahve, fanta, kola, su!” They only ever speak in Turkish but we knew well by now the litany of “Tea, coffee, fanta, cola, water!” Following closely behind was the simit seller. At his cries of, “Taze simit! Fresh simit!” the seagulls began to go crazy. They wheeled and dived closer and closer to the ferry, keeping pace while flying level with the passengers holding out pieces of simit. You can see the mad beady bloodshot eyes of the birds as they prepare to catch and fight for what is thrown to them. The gulls seemed to like simits almost as much as the Turks. However the sport of simit throwing on the ferries is mainly restricted to summer. In winter with rough waves and sometimes freezing temperatures, only the brave or nicotine deprived sit outside, usually smoking several cigarettes and drinking a tea on a journey that only lasts about ten minutes.

At Eminönü we plunged into the throngs of people headed to the shopping district that sprawled up the hill to the Grand Bazaar. In between the harbour and the more famous bazaar is an area called Tartakale, for which we were heading. Unlike the bazaar, it is a local shopping area, crowded with shops and street sellers offering everything imaginable. When we lived in Istanbul we had often come here to buy clothes and household goods, as well as to stock up on our supplies of tobacco.

Cigarettes are cheap in Turkey. It is grown in two places, in the Black Sea region and in the East. The government agency Tekel produces cigarettes for sale legally, while the harsh orange strands from the East are sold by men on the street. They roll you a sample to encourage you to buy. The taste at first is woody and slightly bitter, but we never managed to finish the half kilo we once bought as the bitterness takes over and threatens to choke you. Today we had come to see if there was any ‘imported’, in fact, smuggled rolling tobacco available, so we headed up the narrow streets, past the stores selling Armani, Nike and Adidas copies, leading to the narrow lane where the tobacco men usually are.

Eminönü and Tartakale are always packed wall-to-wall with people. Once you get used to going in the same direction as about 10,000 others it is fun. Along the way we dodged the men and boys hawking spirograph sets, tea strainers, lighters, smuggled cigarettes, tiger balm of dubious origins, cheap watches and perfumes and sundry other necessary and useless items. The goods are displayed right in the middle of the narrow streets, on tables made from a range of objects such as cardboard boxes to the more sophisticated mobile display units converted from old, grand baby prams. As well as these guys you have to dodge men carrying impossibly heavy boxes on their backs and the slow stream of cars fighting to get through. At any moment police whistles can be heard, causing the hawkers to pack up as quickly as possible and flee through the heaving throng.

The tobacco men are situated in a tiny, almost hidden laneway that we call Porn Alley. Smuggled tobacco is sold alongside pornography, perfumes, condoms, vitamins and elaborately displayed packets of Viagra. Usually I am the only woman there, and have to maintain a blank stare somewhere above the top of the men’s heads. I once spent a confusing day in Eminönü where it seemed like the whole male population was winking at me. Afterwards I was warned by Turkish friends that the Russian women, known locally as Natashas, would mingle with the crowd trying to catch men’s eyes. If she winked at a man it meant she was ready to do business. That day I had been wearing a beret and somehow that signalled to the men I was Russian. I still don’t understand why, but at least I know not to look the men in the eye. In porn alley it’s not too difficult to avoid catching anyone’s eye, as the men are normally bent over, intently flicking through cardboard boxes full of pornographic CD’s.

There are only ever three stands selling the tobacco we like, and as we look up the laneway we’re pleased to see that the men we have dealt with before are still there. Although theirs is a precarious business, they’ve always been very professional and helpful. They even offered a delivery service. All you had to do was deposit the money into their bank account and the tobacco would be put on a bus to where you were and they would ring to tell you when to be at the bus terminal to take delivery. In the past, we came about once a month and bought as many packets of tobacco as we could. They only ever have two of three packs on display, so we’d often wait while one of the runners went to get the 20 or 30 packets they had stashed away in a safe place.

From time to time the police would sweep through and confiscate goods. On one occasion we had our money ready to pay for the contents of the bulging black bag the seller held, when we heard the police whistles. Everyone, including us, took off down the lane and ducked into adjoining streets. We charged off, trying to keep our footing on the uneven potholed concrete, while keeping track of where our tobacco was. Finally we came to a halt and huddled in a doorway. Once the exchange was done we headed for the ferry wharf, looking back from time to time to check we weren’t being followed.

Another time I had gone there alone. A Turkish woman probably wouldn’t venture to Porn Alley at all, especially not alone, but being a foreign woman you can do things like that. At times you are treated like a token man, while at others, you fall back on the naturally protective nature Turks have towards women. Unfortunately I went on a Friday, the most important prayer day for Muslim men. When I got to the stall someone was there, but he was alone. Everyone else had gone to the mosque. After negotiating the price and the amounts, he left me to get the goods. There I was, sitting behind a display packed with condoms, Viagra and other items, blisteringly conscious that I was the only woman there. The ten minutes I waited took forever to pass. I sat still, staring at the dirty, crumbling walls above me, feeling the stares of the passing men as strongly as if they were touching me.

As we walked towards the tobacco sellers, we wondered if they would remember us. It had been more than a year since we had been in the country. Although Turkey has a huge population you can sometimes meet someone in one city only once, for a short time, and then run into them somewhere else, months later. To your embarrassment they remember you, your name and nationality, while you struggle to at least be able to place their face, their name long forgotten. This time round our Turkish had improved enough to do more than just negotiate the price, so I asked,

“Hello, do you remember us?”

“Yes”, said one. “You’re from Australia. We used to see you often.”

“Yes, we went back to Australia for a year.”

“What are you doing now? Are you on holiday here?”

“No, we’re here to work. We’re going to teach English in Kayseri.”

“In Kayseri? We are from Kayseri!’ he said excitedly, pointing to the men and boys not only at his stand but at the others selling tobacco further down the lane. Once we got over the shock we bought as much tobacco as they had to sell and went back to Kadiköy.

That night we went to dinner with Burcu. At 27, she had settled down from the ever energetic, bubbly individual we had known when Kim taught her, to a hard working, highly responsible career woman. Like many Turkish university graduates, she wasn’t working in her chosen field. She had qualified as a pharmacist, but got a job working in the administrative department of a large, foreign owned pharmaceutical company. After the economic crisis in February 2001 that had seen the lira de-value almost by half overnight, she, unlike many others, had kept her job. Other friends who had been lucky to keep their positions had been forced to take a 50% cut in their pays. There is no industrial relations commission operating in a country that struggles with soaring inflation. Burcu was one of the lucky ones.

The weather that night was beautiful. It was warm and very humid in Göztepe, but down in Kadiköy you feel the cool breezes that come off the sea. We parked on one of the streets leading to the site of the Tuesday markets, and wandered past the statue of a bull at Beş Yol, an intersection of five streets. From there it was a short walk up the hill. In summer there are plenty of outdoor restaurants to choose from, but our favourite was one serving all you can eat buffet meals for about $4. The owner remembered us from previous occasions and we chatted while another table was squeezed into the small roped-off outside area. Although the place was packed and we were only three, we had five chairs. You never put your bag on the ground in Istanbul, and women always get an extra chair on which to lay their coats and various belongings.

All the restaurants on the street specialised in home cooking, each one serving the same variety of food. You can help yourself to yaprak sarma, vine leaves rolled around rice cooked in oil and spices, dolma, green capsicums stuffed with ground meat and rice, Russian salad, sigara borek, thin pastry rolled in the shape of a cigarette and filled with white cheese, barbunya, a red bean and tomato salad that tastes like heaven but makes you fart for days, mixed salad, and a cornucopia of other delights. The food is displayed on sloped shelves in the brightly lit shop fronts that serve as restaurants.

After helping ourselves to food, we sat down and caught up on the past year.

“How is work going Burcu? Is that woman you told us about last year still working with you? You know, the one who told you that you would be beautiful if you just changed your smile, your laugh and your hair?” I teased. Burcu was not obviously beautiful, but her sunny caring personality and fierce intelligence made her very attractive, even though she failed to notice the admiring looks she got whenever we went out together.

“No,” Burcu laughed, “she is working in another section. Now I work with two really nice girls, but our manager, he is not very good.”

“Why, what does he do?” Kim asked.

“He does nothing. We work and work on the figures, you know I told you we have to do big reports every month. The big manager from France comes over every month and gets very angry if things are not right. Our boss, Mehmet, he is a nice man, but he does no work. We will be working hard all week and he will give us a report on Thursday and say we must finish it for the next day!”

“Why does he give it to you?” I asked, “Doesn’t he have time to finish it himself.”

“No!” Burcu said indignantly. “He has the report all week, maybe since the week before, and then he decides he doesn’t want to do it. If we are late there is a big problem but if he wants to visit his friends, or get his haircut he comes when he wants!”

“How old is he?”

“Not very old,” she replied, “but his brain is old.”

“You mean he is old Turkey,” I suggested.

“Yes. He is friends with the next manager so that is how he got the job.” We talked some more about old and new Turkey, the way people get jobs through their connections rather than through their qualifications. Then Burcu asked,

“So, you are still going to teach in Kayseri?”

“Yes, we are. We’re looking forward to it.”

“Ugh, I don’t know why. I don’t like Kayseri. I don’t like the people. If I wear this,” she said, pointing to her short-sleeved T-shirt, “they stare at me like I am a bad person.”

“But Burcu,” I said, “If you respect their choices, like if they want to wear a headscarf they can. They can’t stop you from choosing to be different.”

“No, you don’t understand. I am Turkish and they treat me like I am bad. The way they look at me, they talk to me like I am a nothing person. They don’t respect me and I don’t like them.”

We left the conversation there, and went on to talk about mutual friends. I didn’t see why Burcu was so angry about it. Surely if women want to wear a headscarf, the choice is personal. If a woman wants to wear a headscarf herself, why would she judge others who don’t?

“So Burcu, what are you doing for summer, are you going on a holiday?” I asked. We’d emailed about the possibility of going somewhere together. Kim and I had a month before we had to start teaching and were keen to get in some swimming before settling down in waterless central Anatolia.

“Well, if I can get a break I want to go somewhere in a few weeks,” Burcu said.

“Well, we want to go to Kaş, maybe for a week. Why don’t we go together?”

“I’m not sure if I can get time off. If I can I want to go with Ebru, but we want to go to Olympos.”

We talked about Ebru, Burcu’s friend from university. Ebru came from Gaziantep and had married, much against her parent’s wishes. True to their predictions the marriage had failed after two years and Ebru was back living with her parents and running a small pharmacy on the outskirts of town. She wanted to leave and live in Istanbul to escape the gossip of the neighbours. She was small and dark with a terrific sense of humour, so we were pleased at the prospect of seeing her again.

“Why do you want to go there?” I was puzzled. Olympos was very popular with young Australians and New Zealanders because you could sleep in tree houses, spending your days on the beach and your nights in the bar. From all reports the music blared 24 hours a day and the scene was less than restful.

“My work friends have been and they said it was lots of fun. Some of them went and stayed in tree houses in the last Bayram holiday.” It didn’t appeal to us and we said so. As the conversation progressed we sensed there was more to Burcu’s vagueness than her desire to bow to Ebru’s wishes. Privately we concluded Burcu probably had a boyfriend she wasn’t telling us about, and wanted to go on holidays with him. Until people are married it’s not unusual to socialise with them without their partner. Many times in the past we’d been surprised to learn that quite close friends had been seeing someone seriously for months, without saying a word. I don’t know why women hide the fact, but the reasons men did was often a topic of conversation. A lot of men don’t go out with their girlfriend in mixed groups as they want to keep their girlfriend ‘safe’. They believe that some men will deliberately steal a man’s girlfriend, not because he is attracted to her, but to prove himself more of a man.

We left it that we would be in touch and make plans after we had finished our business in Kayseri. Like everyone in Turkey, we had a mobile phone. We would message Burcu when we arrived safely in Kayseri and make plans from there. First up though, we were going to Göreme to catch up with all our friends. It was an overnight trip from Istanbul, and after Burcu waved us off at Harem we settled down to watch the video and eat the sandwiches we’d brought along. Even though the buses stop every two hours or so we preferred to do what most of the Turks do, and packed our own food. The food at the bus stops is often overpriced and not the best, so we’d use the stops as an opportunity to stretch our legs and have a glass of tea.

In the dawn light, we passed the town of Avanos, famous for pottery made from clay taken from the banks of the Kızılırmak, the red river that flows from the north to the south of Turkey. We slowed down on the road winding through the main valley to Göreme, passing Çavuşın and its small ramshackle onyx factories, and the turn off to Zelve Valley. Despite the passing of time, since I had first come to Göreme 12 years ago, little had changed. The bus station had been relocated from a dusty field on the outskirts of the village near the road to the Göreme Open Air Museum to the town centre, when a previous mayor had decided to make it more commercial. Now, on arrival you are faced with a row of bus company offices. In a small gulch behind them, seats have been tiered up the opposite slope to form an open-air theatre. The central courtyard holds a few tables and chairs that are rarely used, and the whole area is flanked with shops and restaurants. The aim had been to develop the bus station as a thriving centre of commerce but the peeling concrete and strangely desolate air of the place means that most people only ever notice it when they are looking for a toilet.

The canal, running the length of the main road, was, as ever, devoid of water. Rumour has it that the town of Avanos refuses to let water from the river flow through to Göreme, but as with many things, we never found out the truth of this. It remains empty and is a favourite place for chickens to peck. The trees on either side have grown, so that in summer the harsh light is now diffused through a canopy of leaves. Carpet shops and restaurants line the street, most still owned by the original people. Like any street, anywhere though, a few have changed hands over the years, sold to foreigners, sold back to Turks or gone broke.

The tiny fruit and vegetable stall where I used to receive a gift of a peach every morning in my first summer has become a permanent plastic and wooden structure opposite the main mosque. Others, travelling traders, also set up displays from their trucks in time for the noonday prayer, particularly on Fridays, selling farm tools, old copper, and staples such as rice, lentils and red beans loose by the kilo. Here and there around the town new toilets have been built, and the number of pensions has greatly increased. However, the routine of the week is still dictated by the local markets on Wednesdays, the Avanos markets on Fridays, good for fruit and vegetables, and the enormous markets in nearby Nevşehir, on Mondays.

When petrol prices rose every day during the Gulf War and Turks were poorer than they are now, Nevşehir, 20 minutes away by dolmuş, was the place to get all the things you couldn’t find in Göreme. Although Kayseri was larger and offered more choice it is 100 kilometres away and the bus fare was too high for most people back then. Ibo and I often went to the Monday market in Nevşehir, as much for a change of scenery as anything else. All the people from the surrounding villages would congregate there, buying and selling and browsing. The women would haggle over the price of fabric lengths for sheeting while the men would gather in the many tea gardens and swap news.

It was also the only place I could get money. My food and board were free and the $5 a week I was paid just about covered my shampoo. At that time there was no ATM in Göreme so access to my bank account involved a series of complicated phone calls to Australia via Istanbul and America. After my first visit the staff in the Nevşehir bank greeted me like a family member, offering me a seat and bringing me tea. While I waited for the procedures to be carried out, I watched the queues of men coming in to do their banking. They all carried large stacks of money, some four or five inches thick, either wrapped in a piece of newspaper, or slightly more hidden in black plastic bags. The tellers laughed at me when I asked was it safe, amazed that I thought it dangerous. Money continues to be handled in the same way today, so whenever you are in a banking district you can easily tell who has some.

Just as I wanted to know about the men, they wanted to know about me. It was not unusual to have four of five people leaning over the counter with me, watching as I filled out the endless forms. Many of them even asked the tellers who I was, where I was from, and how much money I was getting. At first it angered me, but as I realised this curiosity was not intended to offend, I easily slipped into the same habits. My questions about the other customers and the money they carried were always answered. Some were farmers paying bills or depositing money they had collected for their harvests, while others were traders. With the advent of ATM’s, faxes and email to Turkey, some of the idiosyncrasies of banking have gone. However, the eagerness of the people to know all about you hasn’t lessened.

Despite the early hour of our latest arrival in Göreme, Kim and I were immediately spotted by Kara Mehmet when we stepped off the bus. Mehmet’s dark skin earned him the title ‘black’ Mehmet, and he drove one of the dolmuş between Nevşehir and Göreme. He greeted us effusively, and we exchanged news about our respective towns and families. As we chatted, another friend, Ibrahim Mızrak, emerged from his office. We had met him on previous occasions, and always bought our bus tickets from him. In his mid-twenties, his looks gave away his Anatolian origins. He was an ambitious man who spoke fluent English, with a young wife and an 18-month-old child.

“Kim, Lisa, how are you? You have been away too long.”

“Hi Ibrahim! Yes, we just returned last month. We are going to be teaching English in Kayseri,” Kim told him.

“Really, that is wonderful!”

“Yes, after Istanbul we decided we’d be happier closer to Göreme. How’s business?”

“Ah, you know,” he said, making a wavering gesture with his hand to indicate it was up and down. “After the bombing in America, everyone is afraid to travel, especially to Turkey. We are not the Middle East but not enough people know that.”

“Yes,” I replied wryly, “About the first thing people in Australia ask me when they learn I’m going to live in Turkey is, ‘Do you have to wear a headscarf’.” Ibrahim made the ‘tchk’ sound accompanied by an upward nod of the head that Turkish people use to say ‘no’, or as in this case, to express displeasure and approbation.

“Come in, come inside. It is hot today. Have some tea,” he urged. Kim and I looked at each other and decided we could make the time. Inside we looked at the new additions to his office, a flag of Korea and a map of Syria.

“Is Kent going to Syria now?” I asked. Kent was the company Ibrahim worked for and was the local Kayseri bus company.

“No, that is my plan. You see, many Australians want to go to Syria. It is a long way from here and they change buses too many times. I went last month. I spent a month there. My father worked there twenty years ago and I wanted to see the places he told me about. Also, if I want to send tourists there I need to know what they will find.” He went on to tell us of his plans. He’d already bought four or five rundown properties in the village. Unlike other villages in the area Göreme hadn’t developed as quickly, but Ibrahim figured that just like in Ürgüp and Avanos, foreigners would come, wanting better accommodation and maybe houses to buy. He was prepared to wait.

After bidding him farewell, we walked along the canal, through the tables and chairs belonging to the two teahouses. This route let us use the camouflage of the trees and reach our destination without being stopped again. Opposite the tea houses was a carpet gallery where we were known to the whole family, and we had already decided to visit them later. We cut across the canal at the mosque and hurried around the corner to Nature Pension. Ibo was standing outside the pension drinking a cup of coffee. He grinned with delight at seeing us, looking very little changed from when I had first met him all those years before, and we kissed and hugged each other in greeting. His huge black Belgian wolfhound Ateş had smelt us and came out crying in his peculiar high pitched tone at the excitement of seeing us.

Looking through the entrance we could see that the pension was the same as it always was, quiet, white and restful. The courtyard was a riot of colour from the geraniums and other plants, and old carpets and saddlebags hung on the walls. To the right of the entrance is the oldest part of the buildings that make up the pension. They were built by Ibo’s grandfather. Originally used to mill wheat and bulgar these arch rooms were converted to be rented to tourists when large commercial mills were built on the outskirts of the village. Above them is the family home, with a terrace running atop the length. On summer nights the family brings the television outside and sits on carpets and cushions eating fruit in the cool night air. Next to their home are two storeys of cave rooms used as dormitory rooms by tourists in summer. In winter Ibo lives in the top cave and the bottom one is used for storing fruit, grapes and yufka, a round, unleavened bread that keeps through the winter months. Up behind the high walls juts the minaret of the mosque. Ibo’s grandfather helped to build it and died placing the last stone.

In the year we’d been away a lot had happened. Ibo’s father had been ill with heart problems, but after an operation was fitter than before. His mother continued to hound Ibo to change his ways, but had mellowed since his divorce. Just like his marriage, news of his divorce came as a surprise. We only learnt of his marriage a few years after it took place, and still met mutual friends who didn’t even know Ibo had been married. Despite being such a small village, men are easily able to hide their marital status because the women stay close to home while the men wander more widely. Some men hid their marital status to engage in liaisons with tourists, but Ibo said little about it because his was not a happy marriage.

It came about at the instigation of his sister Şukran who lives in France, and comes back with her family for a few months each summer. In that particular year she wanted to see Ibo married. He resisted marriage for many years after having a long-term relationship with a foreigner, and he didn’t want to marry a Turkish girl. His father offered to turn over some of the family property to him if he did marry. This would enable Ibo to apply for credit from the government to improve the pension. Without any assets of his own he had no chance of getting enough money any other way. His father’s offer, combined with his desire not to let his sister down, saw him bow to considerable family pressure and marry within twenty days of the conversation coming up. Ibo only really had to show up on the day, as the two families, from choosing the bride to organising the wedding, arranged everything.

The girl came from a poor family in Kayseri, and the nışanlanma, when they met to formalise the engagement, was short and pre-emptory. The request was made, the dowry discussed, and permission was granted. Such marriages are not uncommon, as love doesn’t necessarily enter into things. Marriage is about reproduction, carrying on the family name, and if possible, improving one’s economic situation. His short-lived marriage had been tempestuous and stormy. His wife had expected an industrious, ambitious husband. All Ibo ever wanted was to be rescued from the monotony of village life and the daily grind of tourism in a country that had suffered for more than ten years from civil war, wars in neighbouring countries, earthquakes and most recently, the impact of September 11. The one positive result from the union was a little girl called Nigar, a bright little imp of a girl who the family were trying to keep with them. She, unfortunately, was very scared of her mother, and refused to see or talk about her. Over the years of our acquaintance she had gone from being a quiet shy little thing to a rather mischievous, active child, always following Ibo around and forever asking, “Why?”

We sat drinking coffee in the sun, and caught up on all we had missed. Little Hicran was a mother now, with two round, solemn little boys named Selim and Yavuz. Selim had screamed with terror the first time he met me, as he had been a very sick baby and I reminded him of the nurse at the hospital who gave him all too frequent injections. They lived in Nevşehir where her husband Mehmet worked as a supervisor in a factory that processed jams and pekmez, a health drink and breakfast spread made from grapes. They came to visit each weekend, helping her parents in their twenty gardens, and with food preparations for winter.

The older brother we rarely saw and didn’t ask about. As a teenager he had been in a fight that resulted in the stabbing death of another man and his own incarceration in jail for ten years. The experience had left him deeply marked and he no longer wanted to be part of his family. It saddened them all but it was easier that way, as by all accounts he drank heavily and was very volatile and hard to predict. The few times we ever saw him he came without his wife and children, said very little and quietly disappeared.

We also never talked about Ali anymore. About a month after the last time we saw him, a driver from out of town had sideswiped him while driving along the museum road. Ali had been riding his old motorcycle and was killed instantly. The driver suffered only a broken arm and served no jail time. Apparently he was rich and paid a sum of money to the family and no more was said. Although Ali was older than Ibo, they had been friends for many years, and Ali always tried to help Ibo make the right choices in his life. As Ibo’s abı, he was like an older brother or uncle to him. Ibo took his death a year ago very hard. There are few if any health services to help people deal with their grief, and if you are poor, there is nothing. Until the intensity of the loss lessens, people just don’t talk about how they feel.

Despite our tiredness from the overnight bus trip, we decided to take a walk before catching up on our sleep. Setting off through the valleys that Saturday morning, for the first time in a year, Ateş growled with delight and ran off to fetch a rock. He likes to root around in the dust and grapple for the largest rock he can fit in his mouth. He then carries it for as many hours as we walk, only relinquishing it for us to throw for him. From the time he was a puppy, Ibo could spit on Ateş’ rock then throw it as far as possible. Ateş set off in hot pursuit, running down impossibly vertical paths and leaping off cliffs in pursuit, and always brought back the same rock.

First we went up the steep path to the narrow spit of rock above the village that affords a great view of the valley. It is a popular sunset viewing point and lovers’ lane after dark. We followed the narrow trails that cut across the peaks and slopes of the tufa. No matter how many times I walk the valleys, there is always something new to see, and the silence peculiar to the valley. When the call of the erzan invites all Muslims to come and pray at the mosque, you hear the first speaker click and then the call to prayer begin. One by one the other six mosques in Göreme join in. As the prayers float across the sky, from a distance you can hear the calls from Uçhısar and Ortahısar, villages a few kilometres away. The sky is a great expanse of blue, sometimes hazy with heat, at other times brushed with white clouds that look as though they have been painted on solely to lure tourists to appreciate the picture perfect view.

Deeper in the valleys sandy paths cut through the gardens owned by locals. There are apple, apricot and plum trees, the latter bursting with the tiny green unripened fruit known as erik, a popular but bitter tasting summer snack. Two types of cherries grow, the sweet eating cherries called kiraz and the sour cherries called vişne that are made into a fruit drink. In other fields rows of shiny bright red tomatoes tempt you, next to the green peppers and tiny white bell peppers that generate a fierce heat. The majority of gardens are reserved for growing grapes, the best of which are sold to local vineyards and those further afield. Ibo’s father Mihtat usually manages to harvest a few tonnes every year, which helps supplement his monthly pension of about AUD$300. Along with the other vegetables he grows his family are always able to eat, but they still rarely if ever have meat.

We stop regularly to note the changes and the conditions of the fruit. Ibo always picks something for us to munch on, a handful of wizened apples, some juicy white mulberries or small sour red berries. Ateş waits impatiently before bounding off again. Despite the dryness of the climate, there are hidden underground streams that Ateş always finds. As we wend further down narrower and more overgrown paths he loves to push against us to urge us on, leaving a watery trail on our pant legs.

We end our walk by heading back through the village and out the other side. Up towards the ridge enclosing the main valley, Mihtat has another garden. As we walk carefully past the grapevines, eggplants and tomatoes, we hear the yapping of a dog. At the edge of the field there is a narrow dry creek bed. A homemade wooden ladder leans against the wall. Mihtat comes out of an opening in the rocks high above us to invite us inside. Despite the operation he looks really well, the only signs of age are his now greying hair and more lines on his smiling face.

We let Ateş bound up the ladder first and then follow more cautiously. It leads to a path no wider than my foot, up to a smooth white boulder forming a terrace. I enter at Mihtat’s bidding, and once my eyes adjust to the cave interior I can see that the yapping comes from a mongrel Kangal puppy. Standing half a foot high, and still unable to move quickly without tumbling, he is Gümüş, Mihtat’s new guard dog.

The four of us settle comfortably on the short mattresses spread on the floor against the walls, while Mihtat prepares tea. In one alcove he has fashioned a basin with crockery stored in the ledge carved from the rock. In another he has a large plastic bottle of water to use for tea and washing up, as well as gardening tools and spare clothing. An old piece of lace has been tacked against the window opening, and every flat surface has been neatly lined with carefully folded coloured paper. All the furnishings are left over from the pension, yet the cave has a definite sense of order and style. There are many such caves dotting the landscape. All were carved out hundreds of years before and as the law stands, they may be cleaned but not altered. The soft cream of the tufa discolours over many years due to smoke and cleaning simply involves chipping away at the rock surface.

After chatting about the harvest for a while, the talk turns to tourists. “I want,” says Mihtat, “to build a teahouse here. I have water, down near the fields. Lots of tourists get lost here. I see them. Some of them speak German so we can talk and I always offer them tea. Most important is to have a toilet.”

“Are there many tourists this year,” I ask.

“Some, but I am busy in my gardens. I don’t see them all.”

Each time we meet we talk about the crops, the weather and the tourists. Life is much simpler here, and also much harder. It is a romantic place in which tourists dream of spending their lives, but for Turks, spring is the time of hard preparation for the harder work of the summer harvests. In turn, autumn is the season to get ready for the long cold winters when snow blankets the ground and there is very little to do but rest and prepare for the same routine once the snow melts.

We slept early that day and the next morning went to Kayseri. Although classes didn’t start for another month, we wanted to go and meet Halil Yücel the director, and see where we would be living for the next year. We’d spoken a few times on the phone to make the arrangements, but neither of us quite knew what to expect. When we stepped off the bus in Kayseri we were struck by the dry yellow heat and dusty plains. It was in stark contrast to the colour and bustle of Istanbul and even Göreme was greener. The area of Kayseri has a population of about 500,000 people, but that includes all the small villages and kasabağ, settlements bigger than villages that do not classify as towns, within the district. It has a long trading history, having once been on the Silk Road, and today it is known for commerce. None of that was obvious when we stepped off the bus. The otogar is old, built in the seventies in a mix of browns and concrete colours, and is most unwelcoming. Groups of poorly dressed villagers stared at us while bus touts tried to steer us onto other buses. Fighting our way to the carpark we stopped a man and asked the way to the university. Luckily the bus stop was straight across the road, and we didn’t have to wait too long.

On the bus, we quickly learnt that we had to buy a ticket before boarding. A lot of mime and laughter went on before we understood, but at the first ticket kiosk we came to, another passenger accompanied Kim off the bus and helped him buy us tickets. The streets were lined with breezeblock apartments and a few stunted trees, and led to Cumhuriyet Meydan, or Republic Square. Squares of the same name appear in most Turkish towns, but this one was huge and was the point where six or seven streets came together. The traffic moved in seeming chaos and I nearly screamed when I saw an old man on a rickety bicycle careen straight across several lanes of traffic waiting to take off in multiple directions. When I peeked again I saw there were numerous suicidal elderly bicycle riders cutting through the traffic at whim.

We all made it through safely and the bus picked up speed, charging down a wide, well marked street. Heading out of town, we passed lonely looking soldiers guarding acres of burnt yellow grass on the right, and others guarding lush green gardens on the left. Over in the distance Mt Erciyes towered above everything, its snow capped peak clearly visible in the heat haze. After what seemed like forever, with the bus stopping every fifty metres to let someone on or off, we saw the signs to the university. The bus screeched to make a left hand turn and drove onto campus. At a stark brick building with lots of little glass windows we ground to a halt. Out on the pavement we realised the building we stopped in front of was a hospital, and we looked in vain for signs telling us where to go next.

The problem for a foreigner is that you’re used to signs, written instructions telling you what to do and where to go. Turkey is a traditionally oral culture, and still has high levels of illiteracy. So outside the more Westernised towns, fear or embarrassment of speaking in Turkish gets you nowhere. We asked a man wearing a suit “Nerede Yabancı Diller Yüksekökülü?”, but he looked at us blankly. Slumping our shoulders we prepared to ask another person where the School of Foreign Languages was, but the first man had approached a woman in hospital whites and asked her. By the time we had our instructions, “Walk. Straight. Walk”, accompanied by helpful hand gestures, quite a crowd had gathered. The men were slim with fierce Anatolian noses and the women were rotund with gleaming eyes. Some were brave enough to ask a few questions so filled in with the facts that we were from Australia, married, going to be teaching English and yes we loved Turkey because the people were friendly and yes we loved the food, we took our leave.

The marble pavements surrounding the hospital and the paved roads gave way abruptly to uneven cobblestones and as yet unfinished dirt paths. There were trees about, small pines about three feet high which gave no real shade. According to the signs that stood higher than the trees, these ‘forests’ were the result of donations from banks or wealthy individuals. As we looked further out over the campus we could see buildings isolated in acres of flat brown land, here and there ringed by miniature forests of the future. Way in the distance on a slight hill was a massive fascist like structure that made for an eerie sight.

As we drew closer to the building we had been directed towards we could see the sign declaring we were in the right place. Once inside the lobby however, we were again at a loss. There was no directory in sight, and no one around. Wandering along the corridor to the left we found a deserted canteen and backtracking lead us to a series of closed doors. Slightly confused as we thought Halil would be looking out for us, it took us a while to decide to ring him. On doing so, we found out he wasn’t on the campus, but would make a phone call to have someone come and look after us. So we sat on the few chairs available and had a cigarette while waiting. After about fifteen minutes we heard the sound of running feet. Coming towards us was a man in his early thirties, with almost no hair, dressed in a stylish light-weight suit and shirt, but no tie.

“G’day”, he said, “How’re you going? I’m Birol. You must be Kim and Lisa. Halil Bey is busy but I can show you around”. We were shocked to hear the Australian twang in his accent. Birol had grown up in Australia, and when he was 15 his family decided to come back to Turkey to live. He took us upstairs to see who was around. Being summer, he said, even though the teachers were meant to be at the school, most of them were at their summer houses or doing private teaching or other work. On the first floor he knocked at an office door. A woman’s voice, quite soft, answered.

“Alison, this is Kim and Lisa. They’re the Australian teachers who’re going to be working here this year.” Alison was Scottish. Thin and humming with nervous energy, she had flaming orange hair, and a strong Scottish burr. We sat and had coffee while she told us her history. She’d come to Turkey 15 years ago as a tourist, and met a Turkish man and married him. He was from Kayseri but they’d spent many years in Istanbul where they’d run their own dershane, a cram school for students trying to pass the university entrance exam. It had been a huge money maker but really hard work so she got a job back in Kayseri while her husband set up a factory manufacturing metal knee replacements in partnership with his brother. She was really friendly and I was pleased to know there was someone who could take me to the hairdresser, out shopping, or even to the doctor if necessary. Feeling really good to have another foreigner around who was more than willing to show us the ropes, we left her office promising to return later for lunch.

Downstairs in the lobby, a blonde student hovering by the offices came up and spoke to Birol. He introduced her as Seda, one of his former students. She was very shy and very pretty, and wanted to come with us to see our apartment. Birol didn’t seem to mind, so we said yes. We got into his car. It was white and old and a Turkish model called a Murat. We always laughed about the name because Murat was a common man’s name, like John was in Australia.

“Sorry about the car”, said Birol. “I want to get a new one but I have to sell this first”. We shrugged because it didn’t matter to us. “I can’t sell it that easily, because the best way would be to sell it to one of the other teachers, but I can’t do that”. When we asked why, he explained that the car wasn’t in great shape and he couldn’t in all conscience sell it to someone he knew. On the other hand he wasn’t keen to sell it to a stranger because then he wouldn’t get the price he wanted. Despite his apologies it went alright. Sitting in the back with Seda I noticed that as usual, there weren’t any seatbelts. It is mostly men who drive, and when I am with Kim I am always relegated to the back seat with the other women and any children with us. It always makes for a nervous ride and I can only hope the driver will go slowly. That was the advantage of Birol’s car being old. The road to the apartment complex was paved, but had enormous potholes in it. An unwary driver would be left face down in a two metre hole if they didn’t go slowly.

Set some way from the school but about 200 metres from the Talas road, our new home was in a townhouse complex. There were six apartments to a block, three up, thee down, and each block was joined to the next forming two rows flanking a central pathway. We were given the choice of an end apartment or one tucked between two others. Knowing that it could get to -30 degrees Celsius in winter we opted for the sheltered one. The apartment layout was simple, a compact kitchen to the left of the front door, and a lovely blue and white bathroom off that. The dining area and lounge room flowed off the kitchen, and next to that was the bedroom with enormous built-in wardrobes. The furniture was standard university issue, a two-seater couch and armchair, coffee table, a dining setting for four, TV and stand, a double bed, and bedside tables. Although the room looked comfortable there was barely room to squeeze by on either side of the bed.

Apparently our neighbours consisted of the top students who were given a studio apartment rent free for the year, and teachers completing post-graduate degrees. We met another Mustapha, a kind of kapıcı or doorman who would look after our needs.

“Um, Birol?”, I asked. “Yes, Lisa.”

“The apartment is very nice, but there is no washing machine.”

A rapid fire conversation ensued between Birol and Mustapha, but the answer was, “No, there isn’t”.

“Is there a laundry near here?”

Not bothering to ask Mustapha, Birol replied by saying he would find out. On the short walk back to the car he pointed out what looked like a huge crater on the other side of the apartments. Apparently the plan was for it to be a lake, but the funds came from the government and they’d dried up. Looking at the proposed depth we joked that Kayseri could have its own Loch Ness monster

On the way back to the school Birol tried to coax Seda into practising her English with me. She told me little about herself, choosing instead to ask me questions. Was I married, did I have children? Did I like Turkey and had I tasted sucuk, the spicy Turkish sausage famous in Kayseri? Much the same as with the people at the hospital, Seda was very curious. I tried to encourage her to tell me about herself, but she couldn’t. Instead she gave me a Migros supermarket card and had me promise that I would call her so she could take me shopping.

Back in the carpark Birol made it clear to Seda that we were going to lunch and she was not invited. He seemed uneasy so I said,

“It’s OK Birol. This happens all the time. People always want to know everything they can about us. We’re foreign.”

“Yes,” he replied, “You’ll get a lot of that. Round here people will want to know you because you are foreign. It’s a status symbol.” His words were quite bitter so I didn’t pursue the topic.

“Do you want to have lunch now?” he asked. When we said yes he excused himself and went inside to get Alison.

Back at the entrance to the university, opposite the hospital, was a large mosque. Behind it was a complex with various shops, cafes and restaurants. Only one was open, frequented by students Birol called baby doctors. They were all medical students wearing white coats with stethoscopes proudly draped around their necks. The food was simple, just chicken döner with salad, but the system for purchasing it was new. You bought a token from the cashier and gave it to the service staff. The colour of your token determined what you ate. Finding a table outside under the shade of the awning, we were joined by a big, burly man called Ahmet, the assistant director at the school. He was friendly enough, but at his arrival he and Alison and Birol engaged in a conversation full of private jokes about Halil. Tired from all the exchanges, we listened in only half-heartedly.

Glancing out at the empty campus I was startled out of my trance by a man riding past on a donkey. What really caught my attention though was the bright yellow umbrella he was holding up.

“Alison, who’s that?”

“Oh him. That’s just the donkey man.”

“What’s he doing on campus.”

“I don’t know. I think he lives on the other side. We see him a lot.”

I watched him trot past in his black wool suit complete with waistcoat. He didn’t seem affected by the temperature but the dry heat and the glare of the sun was beginning to get to me. I was nearly falling asleep when something Ahmet said caught my attention. I asked him to repeat it.

“Oh, it’s just a joke really, but we call Halil Bey the ağa.” Seeing my blank look, Birol chipped in with, “You know, a pasha?”

“Oh, an agha. Why?”

“Well, you’ll see, he’s the director and in charge of everything,” said Ahmet.

“Yeah,” agreed Birol, and then added, “but some people call him Mr Alright.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.” The three of them just laughed together and told us to wait and see.

Back at the school Birol left us at the door of the director’s office. We entered only to be confronted by a bottle blonde, thin woman in her mid twenties endowed with a rather unusual fashion sense. She was Mehtup, we were to understand, Halil Bey’s secretary. From the first, every meeting with her never failed to unnerve us. Today she was wearing skin-tight white Capri pants, spike heeled boots and enough makeup to sink a ship. Due to her overly thin eyebrows and emphatic eye makeup, she looked permanently startled. Still, she was very friendly as she knocked and opened the door to the main office. Right at the other end was Halil Bey. In his mid forties he was dressed in an oversized green suit the colour of old fashioned and decidedly unfashionable school uniforms. He smiled ecstatically at seeing us, and looked a bit manic with his shining eyes, bristling moustache and hairstyle which looked like someone had put a bowl upside down on his head and then cut. At his suggestion we sat down, in low chairs placed in front of his very large desk. From where we sat we had a great view of the portrait of Atatürk behind him.

“Alright, how are you, alright? I am alright very pleased to meet you.”

“Yes, we are pleased to meet you,” said Kim.

“So alright, how do you find Kayseri? Is it alright?”

“We haven’t seen much, but we like it.”

“Yes”, I said, “And the apartment is very nice.”

“Ah good, alright, you have seen the apartment. Would you like tea?”

“Yes please. That would be nice.” He buzzed Mehtup on his intercom and we continued our conversation.

”Halil Bey, the apartment is very nice . . .” I began.

“Yes, alright the university was founded in 1978 but still alright we are still building. There are alright many alright rich people in Kayseri alright and they like to give buildings. This building is alright it was alright a donation too”. Halil Bey sat back and beamed at us.

“Yes, they are lovely apartments. But there is no washing machine. When we emailed you and asked you said that the apartments came fully furnished.”

“When we said, alright, ‘fully furnished’, alright, we meant what the university provides, alright? Bılım Sitesi, where your apartment is, alright, was given by donation. A rich . . . alright . . businessman from Kayseri, a different one, gave 20 washing machines, alright, so there are only 20 and … alright … there isn’t one, alright, in your apartment. Alright?” he asked, as if to end the conversation.

Trying to follow his particular brand of English, scattered as it was with the word alright in every sentence, was hard going. I persisted because it wasn’t alright, but try as we might, Halil Bey would not promise to obtain a washing machine for us. After all our detailed emails with a hundred questions about the conditions at the university, I was upset. However there were still other things to establish, like our contracts, so I drank my tea and smiled politely while Kim tried to get some answers about that.

“Alright, your contracts. As I … alright … told you … alright … already in my, alright, emails, alright, there are alright, six, alright, steps necessary to process foreign teacher contracts. First your … alright … contract goes to the school board, alright? Alright the board said alright, the board approved the contracts, alright? and then it was … alright … approved by the university board. Now, alright, they have been sent to the Higher Education Council, that is alright YÖK, and alright when they say alright, your contracts are alright, they will be sent to … alright … the Ministries of Internal Affairs and then alright Foreign Affairs and finally alright to the Ministry of Finance. When everyone alright has given alright permission, the documents will be sent back alright to the university with your, alright, contracts. When they are all alright … alright? … you will sign the contracts.”

Throughout this speech I could not look Kim in the eye. Now I understood why they called him Mr Alright. It was a nightmare of a speech impediment, you never knew when it was a cue to pay special attention or just part of his speaking style. Still, we could follow the gist of it and the outcome of everything was that we would just have to be patient and wait.

We left after arranging to move into the apartment in a month’s time, so we’d have a few weeks to settle in before teaching started. Birol was waiting to take us back to the otogar and his greeting to us, “Everything alright?” had us in hysterics.

Back in Göreme that night, to celebrate our return to Turkey, we decided to go out to dinner. Göreme has many restaurants geared to the tourist trade, and having eaten at most of them we now restrict ourselves to only one or two. Too many times we’d been served substandard food Turks would reject, or had to point out charges for dishes we didn’t order. Our favourite restaurant, the Orient, has been running for more than 15 years. We were well known there, and like a lot of things in Turkey, it is who you know rather than what you know that results in a good life.

The Orient is the result of a partnership between two men, one Turkish and one French Canadian. Refiye is the Turkish half. A Göremeli, a local, he lives in a recently completed multi-generational house he designed himself. The oldest member of his family is his 97 year old grandfather, a tiny wizened old man you see making his way very slowly through the village five times a day, going to and from the mosque. Richard, the French Canadian, has been in Turkey for nearly twenty years. Together they have formed an establishment that is in all the guidebooks and brings the richer Turks down from Ankara on the weekends and ensures them a steady business.

The minute we stepped down from the road and walked to the entrance Richard spotted us.

“Kim, Lisa, how are you?” he said sweeping me up in a hug. “When did you get back?”

“Richard, merhaba, how are you? You look well. We got back a month ago.” Kim replied while we all shook hands and exchanged kisses on either cheek.

“So, are you going to stay?”

“Yes,” I chipped in. “We’re going to teach at Erciyes University, in Kayseri.”

Richard fired question after question at us. “That is wonderful. Have you got an apartment? Are they looking after you? How are your students?” We answered as best we could and then Richard sat us down at a table.

While Richard went back to the kitchen we looked around the restaurant to see what had changed since we had last dined here. The restaurant was built from the honey gold sandstone quarried out near Avanos, and on the walls were displayed old wheat threshing boards, coffee pots and small kilims.

“I see Richard has decided to display all his wines now,” Kim said. Swivelling around I saw that a huge sideboard had been placed along the far wall and it was stacked with wine.

“I wonder how many of them are French?” I commented, at which we both laughed. As we were laughing, Refiye came in. While we were exchanging greetings, Richard joined us again.

“I have a beautiful new wine, I brought it back from France. You must try it. You will like it”.

“Now Richard,” said Kim, “You know that Australian wine is better.”

“Australian wine! Poh poh poh!” he exclaimed as he often does, before going off in French, probably about what Philistines we were. We favoured full-bodied South Australian reds while Richard insists no wine is superior to French wine. Refiye winked at us in delight, because every time we go there we have the same conversation.

Richard retreated to the kitchen in mock disgust, having taken our orders. Throughout the meal other locals came and chatted for a while. Many of them are men we only ever see at the Orient, and the conversation is always the same as the last time we met. Tourism, the EU and world politics, particularly concerning what America is planning to do in Iraq.

Leaving Kim in hot debate I went out to the toilets. Even though it can be chilly at night, once outside the door I always stop and look out over the darkened kitchen gardens and up to the sky. Noise seems to be suspended here, the distant sounds of music and the occasional car muted by the majesty of the Indian blue sky. On nights when the moon is full it is as though you are transported into another time.

We ate and drank and talked until the early hours, before walking back to the pension under a clear, star studded sky. Over the next few weeks we took advantage of the weather and went to Kaş where we swam and lazed and ate. A series of phone calls with Alison brought the happy news that we would after all, be getting a washing machine. We were really pleased, as we knew from experience that however small the apartment, it was much easier than renting an empty flat and then furnishing it ourselves. Here, when people vacate a flat they take everything with them and I do mean everything. An empty flat comes without carpets, curtains, oven, water heater or any light fittings! Pleasantly surprised we packed up our bags and returned to make a new home in Kayseri.

Photos: Goreme 1990

goreme1990 — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 11:53:00 GMT

Goreme 1990

Chapter 1: Prelude

goreme1990 — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 11:44:00 GMT

The first time I went to Turkey it was by chance, but each time I return it has been by design. In 1990 I went on a grand adventure to Europe. I was 23 before I saved up enough money to go, and like many before me I headed to London. I lived for five months in a crazy ex-pat house with 23 other people from New Zealand and Australia. It was pretty crowded but I was lucky because I had my own room in the space under the stairs. It was only large enough for a mattress and a bedside table but it was mine alone. It was there that I befriended a girl from Melbourne and travelled through Ireland with her. A few months after our return, she went to Greece. I’d just finished a disastrous affair with an Irishman and decided to follow her. A few days after I arrived on Rhodos she took off for Turkey. I followed again, only to find out on the day I arrived in Istanbul that she was heading back to London. The Gulf War had broken out a few days earlier. I could see the naval ships anchored in the Sea of Marmara from the rooftop of my hotel, but I stayed.

That first night, I sat in the dormitory room of the hostel, and pondered my next move. I didn’t have long to wonder, as my roommates crowded in and dragged me off to the showers. It was a particularly hot July, and water supplies were running short. The hostel only received a water delivery once a day, and, as I quickly learnt, getting into the shower took some doing. In the queue I met three English students. Jonathon, Melissa and Dan had just finished their degrees and were having a last hurrah before settling down to the serious business of finding jobs. We talked about the Gulf and Thatcher, and our plans for Istanbul. By the time it was our turn to shower we were firm friends and decided to meet later on the terrace, before going out to explore.

Up on the terrace I watched while Melissa and Dan played backgammon. She was small with dark hair and vibrant eyes, and Dan was clearly in love with her. He was tall and wiry, but too shy to let her know. They played every day, and Dan delighted in the fact the score stood at 95 games to 80, in Melissa’s favour. I ate a quick meal and then we went out to see what the city had to offer. Sultanahmet was then full of seedy, run down pensions, hotels and hostels, but we didn’t care. The breeze flowing up from the Sea of Marmara was cool and refreshing and life awaited. We passed the Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofya, determining to visit them the next day. All of us wanted to go to see Topkapi Palace, but for the moment, the nightlife was exciting enough.

There were people everywhere. Some going home late from work, while others, tourists and Turks, were coming out of the many restaurants on Divan Yolu, and yet others were selling food and knickknacks on the street. There were young boys and men carrying trays of pumpkin and sunflower seeds, pushing glass cabinets on pram wheels selling rice and chickpeas or kebabs and sandwiches. The park off Divan Yolu was full of tourists and groups of young Turkish men, sitting on benches, surrounded by the hulls of seeds that they spat out as they ate. Suddenly Melissa wanted to see the water, so we followed the tramline down to the waterfront.

Here we saw more people engaged in buying and selling. There were men hawking t-shirts, loose tobacco, sandals, tea strainers, pens, and batteries. The list was endless and the noise clamorous. Over the top of all the different cries we heard the ferry whistles blowing to announce their departure. What seemed like hundreds of people would detach from the crowds and hurl themselves through the gates in a desperate attempt to board. It was about 10 pm by now, and all of us just wanted to sit down somewhere and rest from the constant assault on our senses. We drifted with the crowd until we came to the old wooden Galata Bridge. Underneath we spied small teahouses and bars. Led once more by Melissa, we ended up in one of them.

The bar, such as it was, consisted of a tiny, wood lined room brightly lit with harsh neon lights. The ceiling was of normal height but with the tiny stools and tables it seemed grand and lofty. At first we were a bit apprehensive, as it was packed solely with men, all of whom turned to consider us for a long moment as we stood hesitantly in the doorway, before going back to their own conversations. All they served was beer, so we entered into the spirit and ordered. After a drink we were more relaxed and better used to the gentle up and down movement of the floor as the current underneath us swept against the bridge. Melissa’s ability to make new friends was boundless, and I quickly found myself in conversation with a giant of a man at the next table. In fact, all the occupants next to us were enormous. They understood no English and our Turkish didn’t extend much beyond ‘Thank you’ and ‘How much?’, but through hand gestures we managed to find out that they were professional wrestlers. We laughed at their descriptions of their bouts and kept drinking the beer that they bought us. By this stage we were accepted as just another group of drinkers and left alone by the other patrons.

Hours passed and suddenly both Melissa and I were desperate to go to the toilet. The smiling proprietor led us to a door off the main room. When opened, it revealed another, much smaller wood lined room with a tiny hand basin attached to one wall. We looked inside but at first could see no toilet. The night, bizarre enough until then, became even stranger when we located it. We had all seen and used the porcelain squat toilets at the hostel, but we were not prepared for the hole, cut out of the floor, that served in this bar as a toilet. My need was greater than my reluctance. As I enjoyed the relief I was horrified to realise I was pissing straight into the Golden Horn, and that there was a large water rat sitting on the beams supporting the bridge. It was too late to stop. All I could do was warn Melissa. After all, the rat hadn’t moved throughout my turn so I figured it must be used to it.

We staggered back up the hill to our rooms sometime before dawn. Our plan to be up bright and early to go sightseeing was ruined, but we met again on the terrace and set off to see the Aya Sofya. It was early afternoon and the queues were discouragingly long, so we went to the Blue Mosque instead. I’d like to say that I was inspired and awed by the architecture and history of Istanbul, but on this first visit I saw very little of it. The vibrancy and dynamism of the city that never seemed to stop took up all my time. One day Jonathon and I went to the Book Bazaar and got lost. A tiny rotund man appeared, and in rapid fire English he led us there, feeding us with pieces of simit. These round, sourdough circles of bread sprinkled with sesame seeds are sold everywhere in Turkey, year round. Unfortunately I have a wheat allergy, so I mimed eating the bread while carefully hiding it in my pocket for disposal later on. Another day we all got lost in the Grand Bazaar but had a wonderful time marvelling at the carpets and copper and multitude of things to buy. We tasted Turkish Delight in the Spice Bazaar and black mussels from a street vendor one memorable night, when we drank Black Sea cognac at a dollar a bottle. I can’t remember what we talked about, but in the morning our ferocious hangovers made it clear why the cognac was so cheap.

For tourists on a short visit Istanbul more than lives up to its promise. The city draws you in, teases and beguiles you. Everybody is your friend and time is liquid. It also overwhelms you. After a week I decided to head inland to Cappadocia. It took a gruelling 20-hour trip involving hitchhiking, walking, train stations, police, misunderstandings and buses. When I opened my eyes at six in the morning, there was a huge plateau on my left, banked by the cone shaped rock formations known as fairy chimneys. The early morning sun lit their sides, radiating the pink and golden colours of the rocks. We had arrived, at last, in Göreme.

Jonathon and I had set off from Sultanahmet the day before, planning to hitch the whole way. He was from the upper classes and dressed and spoke like a caricature of the English from one of the books I read as a child. His aloofness had at first repelled me but his bright sun blonde hair and skin, tanned buttery gold, attracted me, so we became uneasy companions. He was trying to slum it over the holidays but his accent gave him away. I can only guess my imagined Colonial past drew him to me.

Other travellers with guidebooks had told us to take a local bus to the outskirts of the city, to an intersection known as a good place to catch a ride. The bus crawled through the traffic, taking over an hour to reach our destination. We got off and stood at the side of a busy highway, flanked by ramshackle huts. This Istanbul was not the Istanbul tourists go to see. Here the poorest people, many of them Kurds fleeing the upheaval in the south and along the borders, come to seek their fortune, or a minimum of survival. The houses are known as gecekondu, makeshift accommodation erected overnight to take advantage of the law that allows them to remain standing if they are completed in the period between dusk and dawn. Made from scavenged pieces of wood, plastic sheeting and flattened olive oil cans, they have over the years developed into shanty towns, with no water, no schools and nothing in the way of infrastructure.

We didn’t have to wait long before someone stopped. We hopped in only to be dropped off at a bus stop a kilometre further along the road. Buses were cheap and no one, it seemed, needed to hitchhike. After a few more frustrating attempts, when our progress was about six kilometres an hour, we decided only to flag down trucks, guessing they might take us further. Our luck was in, and we clambered up into the cabin of a truck heading southeast. At first I was standoffish, not wanting to get too friendly with the two men in the cabin. This proved impossible, as Saleh, one of the men, happily chatted to us in Turkish, telling us of his life in a small village and rise to being the owner of a fleet of seven trucks. He had a small wiry build, with thick dark eyebrows above a hawk-like nose, and high sharp cheek bones. He wasn’t that much taller than me and I soon fell into conversation with him. Using a form of Tarzanci English, ‘me Pip, he Jonathon’, and my tiny pocket dictionary, we learnt that Saleh was heading to Ankara and would make sure we got there.

The truck crawled along through the fine yellow dust that blew across the road. After a few hours of not getting anywhere, we stopped for lunch. When we set out at nine that morning we expected to be far along our journey by then, but were only at a truck stop a few kilometres outside of Izmit at two o’clock. Still, it was an experience, so we followed Saleh into the restaurant and looked at the food on offer. There were white beans in a tomato-based sauce, wide fat green beans in the same sauce with small pieces of meat hiding among them, and a stew-like meat dish. I chose the latter and accepted the offer of a beer. In my jeans and long sleeved T-shirt I was dying from the heat, and easily drank another beer after the meal. Even though it was high summer I’d heeded advice about dress codes and found it led to great respect from, and absolutely no trouble with the locals. When we hopped back in the truck I regretted having those drinks, but we both felt we had to, because Saleh was being so nice to us and it made him happy.

Not long after, we arrived at Izmit and were dropped off at the bus station. Somewhat confused, we followed Saleh to the ticket offices and waited while he asked about the prices. I was becoming uneasy, because I’d thought we’d just drive straight to Ankara and then take our leave. In order to allow Jonathon to question Saleh about his intentions, I said I was going to the toilet. Saleh came with me, and was waiting outside when I emerged. He refused to let me pay the small amount charged, and then led us off to a shady spot to drink tea. Again using the dictionary, we finally found out that the truck was going in a different direction, so we were all going by bus. This caused a real problem, because we had told Saleh, when he asked, that we didn’t have any money for a bus. We thought we could hitchhike and that’s what we wanted to do.

He insisted on paying, which made me feel awful, and wouldn’t let us go off alone. Jonathon resigned himself to waiting for the bus, and just going along with Saleh. I have never been a patient person and felt I would go crazy from all the waiting. The dictionary was no longer an inspiration for further conversation, so I could either sit in silence and drink more tea with Saleh, or go for a walk. When I got up to look around, Saleh came with me. Where was I going, he wanted to know. Was I hungry, did I want food? As I couldn’t be by myself I convinced Jonathon to come and sit in the now less ferocious sun and play some backgammon. We’d got into the habit of playing up to 30 games a day, and I wanted to advance my lead. Seeing that I had a male escort, Saleh stayed inside the bus station while we went out to find a place to sit. All the benches were taken so we sat on the edge of the curb where the buses pulled in, and started to play.

Little by little, we were surrounded by an enormous crowd of male onlookers. Directly in my line of sight was an older, fat man, groping in his pocket to fiddle with his genitals while fingering his worry beads. I didn’t understand why everyone was watching us, but I wished they’d go away. All of a sudden Saleh appeared. He was extremely agitated, flapping his hands in a negative gesture and saying something over and over again. We couldn’t ignore him, so we packed up the board and followed him back inside. After he calmed down a bit I understood that my being a woman and playing backgammon had caused the crowd to gather. Shrugging it off I decided to try to discover when our bus would come. Saleh smashed his hands together, over and over, until we realised that our bus had been in an accident and would be delayed. As we’d already been hanging around for several hours, we pressed him as to alternative means of transport.

Without another word he turned away and walked off. We scurried across the asphalt to find him getting into a taxi. Not knowing where we were going and feeling too weary to ask, I sat quietly in the back. When we pulled up at a train station my hopes rose, only to be dashed again. The next train wouldn’t arrive until much later, when I had hoped to be in Göreme. Nonetheless people were waiting patiently on the platform. Large family groups sat on newspapers spread on the ground, drinking tea and eating tomatoes, peppers and hunks of fresh bread. Judging from the waist high grass growing on the tracks and the flocks of sheep grazing, I doubted whether trains actually stopped there.

Back we went to the bus station and at last boarded a bus. I dozed on and off, opening my eyes from time to time, only to see bright lights and small shops in towns that began to look like one another. When we arrived at the old bus station in Ankara I was fervently looking forward to saying goodbye to Saleh, and getting on with my trip. He was the nicest, most helpful man you could meet, but I felt restricted and inhibited by his constantly chaperoning me wherever I went. I also didn’t like not knowing what was happening to me, or where he was taking us and why. So when he offered us tea and settled in for what looked like a long wait, I could take no more. Brusquely informing Jonathon of my intention, I stalked off in search of someone who spoke English.

Despite the time, at three o’clock in the morning the bus station was up and running. Any number of young men were willing to help me and by the time I returned, I was escorted by a group of about twenty five men, all prepared to protect my honour. It was mortifying, there was Saleh, with his sweet open face, being accused of all manner of nasty things. I could only feebly point at him and say in Turkish, ‘He is my friend, he is a good man’, to try to defend him. I had just wanted to know why he was waiting, and whether he intended to accompany us all the way. Instead I had a group of hotheads convinced that this man held evil intentions towards me. This unexpected turn in events had me worried. I am not a good liar, and we had lied about not having money. Unless I could calm things down I was scared the situation would get out of control.

Meanwhile, Jonathon told me he had taken some tablets earlier in the day to stay awake. He shrugged off my concerns, told me he felt fine and that I was overreacting. Looking at him, standing there in his crumpled linen suit, looking like someone out of an old Hollywood movie, I began to feel an intense dislike for him. Before I could say anything, my worst nightmare seemed about to be realised. A tall, overweight policeman entered the fray. The noise level immediately subsided and he towered over Saleh as he subjected him to a rigorous cross-examination that left him looking terrified. My overactive imagination had led me to believe that Saleh had a reason other than just being hospitable in waiting with us. I was wrong. He lived in a small village outside Ankara and would have to wait until five am for his bus. Apologising as best I could, I let myself be led away by the policeman, hoping Saleh would forgive me.

Certain we would be in trouble, I was amazed when the policeman led us to a bus marked Göreme and urged us to board. In poor Turkish I managed to stammer,

“Money? What about money for the tickets?”

“No money” he insisted, “Go! Go!”

“But why,” I wanted to know. He drew in his stomach and stood up straight. Hand to his heart, he loudly proclaimed in English, “Me Turk!”

Once on the bus, I thought for a while about the way things had turned out. Here we were, foreigners in a country of people who were not rich, and yet those we met had cared for us in a way unknown back home. Even though I hated the way I was always being looked after, as if being a woman I wasn’t capable of looking after myself, I was deeply touched by their friendliness and concern. This extended to the bus assistant, who put me in the charge of a group of women. At each toilet stop they took me to the bathroom, waited outside my cubicle, paid the fee and then delivered me safely back to Jonathon. Just as I was drifting off, basking in this feeling of well being, I was jolted violently to awareness by a hand on my breast, playing with my nipple. It happened so quickly that in the seconds it took to shake Jonathon awake I already began to think it must have been a dream. However the feeling of those fingers remained, and I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

Jonathon’s summer hiatus was over, and it was with little regret that I waved him off at the Göreme bus station. I had found a job in a pension owned by a local family, and decided to stay. The owner, Ibrahim, was in his early thirties and was single. Like Saleh, he wasn’t very tall and had the strong wiry build that I came to learn was common to the peoples of central Anatolia. He always dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt, never short, and spent a lot of time sitting quietly and enjoying life. After an initial fear that he was looking for more than a worker, we established an easy relationship. In the mornings we would prepare breakfasts together, and I would tell the guests about the walks to take and tours to do. Afterwards, on the days she wasn’t working in their many gardens, his mother Haviş would come down to the courtyard and together we would sweep away the leaves and dust, change the beds and clean the bathrooms. Dressed in the typical village outfit consisting of loose highly patterned pants, multilayered tops and a headscarf, Haviş spoke no English, but in the lilting Göremeli singsong she would direct my work and gently urge me to do better. She worked incredibly hard but always had a ready smile, showing off the few teeth she had left. Although she was only in her 40s, like most of the village women, she looked about 60, weathered by working in the fields most of the year.

His father Mihtat came home for tea in the late afternoons, and told me about the ten years he spent in Germany as a guestworker. He was burlier in build than his son, and I never saw him without the same hand knitted sleeveless vest worn over his long sleeve check shirt, with the sleeves carefully rolled to his elbows. Talking with him forced me to dredge up the German I had learnt at school, but over time we developed a hybrid Turkish-German that worked quite well.

Most of the time I was free to come and go as I pleased, provided I took Hicran, Haviş’ youngest daughter, with me. I could see from her delicate build what her mother must have looked like as a young girl, with thick brown hair and big, expressive brown eyes. She was 11, meaning she was in her eleventh year, and was fascinated by me. In the afternoons she would come to my room and delicately pick through my scarce belongings. She only had a couple of dresses worn with layers of under garments, so my backpack was a positive cornucopia of delights. She helped me with my Turkish, and in exchange I would give her the items she most coveted. In the evenings I would hear her calling, “Pip, Pip! Come!” and would go upstairs to eat with the family. They rarely ate meat, it was too expensive, but we feasted on pickled tomatoes hot enough to blow your head off, thick hearty lentil soup, and potatoes roasted in the oven that doubled as the heating system as the days grew colder.

After the guests had scattered into the landscape, I spent the mornings visiting with the women and the afternoons visiting with the men. Being such a small village everyone knew everyone, and no business was private. I drank tea in the houses of the people relocated by the government from their ancestral cave dwellings. Away from the centre, located behind the post office and the bus station, these houses were square and made of brick. All showed signs of adaptation, as none had originally been built with the high walled gardens that allowed the women to work out of sight, nor adequate heating. Talk centred on marriage and children, and nothing was hidden. I knew the names of the girls forced by pregnancy to marry quickly, of the women whose husbands had left them for another when they couldn’t bear children, and those who were beaten. All of us were busy with handiwork, the women crocheting complex and detailed edgings for their scarves or larger edgings for curtains. I struggled to complete a jumper for my brother, with everyone inspecting my progress and helping me through any difficulties.

In the afternoons and some evenings, Ibo, as Ibrahim was known, and I would walk the museum road to Ali’s place. Ali was an old friend of his, and owned a cave house on land designated as a national park, so he couldn’t open as a teahouse as he wanted. Instead it served as an unofficial meeting place. The men drank tea and chatted about money, farming and tourism. I was always included in these conversations and had no difficulty switching from being with the women to being with the men. Despite their hard lives and lack of opportunity they weren’t envious of me. They judged me by my nature, found me pleasing, and accepted me.

At least once a week we went horse riding. Ibo had another friend, Fevzye, a man in his late thirties who looked ancient. Some years earlier he had supplied a small foil of marijuana to a tourist who got caught with it on a bus. It was traced back to Fevzye and he spent four years in prison. If that was what had caused the premature lines on his face and the pain there, it had obviously been a very hard time. A silent, dignified man, he sometimes suffered from depression but was always welcoming.

The horses he ran were a rough lot. Most had been mistreated by their previous owners and were very unpredictable to ride. Those rides, though, were thrilling. We walked up and down the valleys, following paths no wider than a man’s foot, sliding down steep banks and stopping whenever we saw a tree bearing walnuts. The Turks eat them when they’re green, and I learnt how to hold two in my hand and crack them open to find the sweet flesh. My regular mount was a fussy gelding that hated being crowded and had an obsessive terror of small pieces of paper. Quite often I would find myself on the ground after he panicked and bucked as a small scrap blew by. But when we came to the flat I felt like I could fly, galloping through the surreal landscape of fairy chimneys and sculpted rock.

When I didn’t eat with the family we would go to Ali’s place. It was there that I first heard Pink Floyd in a way that forever changed my appreciation of that music. The entry to his house was through a curved corridor, carved from tufa, the soft rock that hardens on exposure to air specific to Cappadocia. One night, as we entered, golden lights were playing on the walls, and the words of “The Dark Side of the Moon” came floating through the air towards me. Coming out onto the veranda carved from a wall of rock, a full moon hung in the sky in front of me. It looked close enough to touch and larger than any moon I had seen before. It threw a grey light over the troglodyte dwellings opposite, making them look like part of a lunar landscape. On other nights the music was Turkish. Ali knew many local musicians and I would sit for hours listening to plaintive folk songs sung with great emotion, accompanied by the notes from a saz or ud.

One day, sitting at a table in the pension courtyard, writing in my diary in the early autumn sun, I felt conscious, for the first time in my life, of feeling happy. Not ecstatic, but calm, and somehow complete. This feeling and the inner landscape of both the country, and the people I discovered in the village of Göreme during that three month stay, have kept calling me back. At the time, lack of money and fear of the situation in Kuwait drove me back to Australia. I was determined to return but it took six years before I did, this time travelling through the country with my partner. Everything I had missed was the same, so we spent the next three years plotting and slaving, before embarking on a life in Istanbul. A deceitful school director and a rather serious economic crisis saw our return to Australia after another year but we had been well and truly bitten. This time, we knew where we wanted to go, and so returned to Kayseri, a central Anatolian city on the edge of the most fabulous place in the world.