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 19th 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.
