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 20th 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 15th of alright, the month. Alright, everyone is paid alright on the 15th 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.
