Something for the Weekend, Sir?

Hairdressing, like undertaking, is a steady trade which never goes out of fashion. Having sampled a few establishments in the village, we have settled on a high street barbershop run by a delightful father and son combo. Our number two cut requires only a few minutes with a hair trimmer. However, this cannot be said of the average young Turk. Generally blessed with abundant tresses, even the humblest waiter vainly adorns his head with elaborate, gravity defying sculptures held aloft by a vat of gel. Armpits though, are not always so well groomed.

Our genteel Bodrum barber is a far cry from Liam’s first skirmish with a Turkish coiffeur. The fun began on the final full day of our gloriously romantic honeymoon in splendid Kaş. I persuaded Liam to join me in the exotic pleasure of a Turkish shave, an indulgence I have enjoyed many times on previous visits to Asia Minor.

The barbershop boys saw us coming, and we were mobbed by eager young bucks queuing up to service us. The routine began innocently enough – an efficient double shave with a cut throat razor followed by ear and nose fuzz skilfully dispatched with a flaming cotton bud soaked in petrol. I thought it unusual to find that we were stripped of our tops for the neck and shoulder rub. My young man asked if I would prefer a full body massage in the little room at the back of the shop. I naïvely accepted thinking nothing untoward could occur in a busy barbershop on a main thoroughfare.

He led me into the room and lay me face down on the padded table. His expert hands kneaded and pounded my torso into rapturous submission, and my mind wandered into semi-trance. The spell was rudely broken by a tug of my shorts, which were unceremoniously whipped off in a single movement. I had gone commando that day which rather startled my young masseur but which only added to his vigour. His pummelling went into overdrive. I opened my eyes fleetingly to find him standing to my side inches from my face, shirtless, scarlet-faced, sweating like a dray horse and obviously aroused. For the remainder of the rubdown, I kept my eyes firmly shut and my arms religiously tucked to my side for fear of displaying the slightest encouragement. It was my honeymoon, after all.

Meanwhile, Liam was relishing an upper body rub. However, he became alarmed when the crimper's fingers started to walk south towards the small of Liam’s back, playfully plucking the waistband of his shorts and continuing their passage into the abyss. Liam grabbed the boy’s wrist firmly giving a whole new meaning to the word hayır.

It is not hard to imagine what raced through Liam’s mind as he endured the grunting, murmuring and bed squeaking that emanated from the back room. Shortly afterwards, my tellak and I emerged into the light, me shaking uncontrollably, he drenched in sweat. We concluded our business with a quasi-post-coital cigarette.

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Ex-Pat Glossary

Expatriates, like everyone else, come in all shapes and sizes - the mean and the mannered, the classless and the classy, the awful and the joyful. The abbreviated epithet expat simply doesn't adequately express the myriad folk who have chosen to live here In Turkey. To add a little descriptive colour to my posts, I've devised some new words to depict the numerous variants of the species.

• Emigreys: retirees serving out their twilight years in the sun, most of whom seem to be just a little to the right of Genghis Khan and who bought a jerry built white box in Turkey because it was cheaper than Spain (well, it was at the time). Everyday emigrey life operates within a parallel universe of neo colonial separateness preoccupied with visa hops to the Isles of Greece, pork sausages, property prices and Blighty bashing.
• VOMITs (Victims of Men in Turkey): vintage desperate ex-housewives with a few lira to spare who shamelessly chase younger Turkish men. Predictably, such relationships rarely last once the money runs out. Thank you to Sara for this one.
• Semigreys: those too young to retire in the conventional sense, who are living the vida loca on the proceeds of property sales. Plunging interest rates present quite a fiscal test to those trying to maintain a hedonistic lifestyle on dwindling assets while waiting for the pensions to kick in, assuming there will be a pension to kick in given the parlous position of the public purse.
• Vetpats: veterans who have been living in Turkey for many years. Usually better informed than their peers with a less asinine view of the world, vetpats have taken the trouble to learn Turkish and are better integrated into the wider community. Some have even acquired Turkish citizenship and are fortunate to have found gainful employment on the right side of the Law.
• Sexpats: discrete grey men of means who are serviced by young Turkish men in return for a stipend.
• Hedonistas: those who enjoy a carefree existence of total self indulgence liberated from the binding ties of responsibility or the worries of tomorrow.
• The Ignorati: a collective term for those who live in utter ignorance of the history and culture of their foster land, shout loudly in English and see the world at large through the narrow-minded pages of the Daily Mail (or The Daily Bigot as I like to call it).

These terms are not mutually exclusive. It's perfectly possible for an emigrey to also be a vetpat VOMIT and a fully paid up member of the ignoble ignorati, and many are.
I have received several suggestions from readers to add to the Pansy ex-pat lexicon.

• Thank you Greg for 'emigays' to describe well to do old queens spending up their life savings because you can't take it with you and no children to fret about (That'll be us then).
• Thank you Tom for the deliciously naughty 'cowpats' for those I really can't abide and would flee to the next town to avoid.
• Thank you Carole for the 'MADs' (My Ahmet's Different) for those delusional VOMITs who think that their Turkish man is somehow different from the rest because 'he really loves me'. Who are they trying to kid?

More please...

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Gone to the Dogs

I love dogs. We always had dogs at home. Petra, Pepe, Rocky and the rest were all emotionally interwoven into the rich tapestry of my family life. When they died, I cried. I even wept when my hamster, Goliath, performed a fatal somersault off the top of the freezer though I confess my pain was short lived and Goliath was quickly replaced by Samson.

After we migrated we were taken by surprise by the volume of stray and feral dogs sniffing aimlessly around the streets. Liam’s often waylaid by a wet snout playfully jammed into his groin and we are often tempted to take Rover home, hose him down and feed him up. I’m not at all surprised that animal welfare is an expat preoccupation. The recent story of an animal-lover leading her pack to a Bulgarian Promised Land like a modern day Moses is but an extreme example of the canine devotion that seems to dominate the humdrum lives of many.

Animal welfare is a noble cause but so too is the care and protection of children. It distresses me to hear and read so little about the plight of the thousands of children in our foster land who lead brutal and miserable lives, trapped within abusive families, rented out by the hour or thrown onto the streets to fend for themselves. Take a look at the following articles if you can bear to know more.

Istanbul home to 30,000 street children
Rise in sexual abuse of minors
Child Labour

It’s easy to think that the problem is overwhelming and nothing can be done, an all too comfortable mind-set that is underpinned by the apparent dearth of children’s charities and non-governmental organisations working within Turkey. However, it is possible make a difference no matter how small. Why not sponsor a child in Turkey or make a contribution to Unicef?

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It's OK to be Different

Quentin Crisp once famously said “men deprived of the company of women turn to boys. And men deprived of the company of boys turn to animals”. He surely had in mind English public schools, Welsh sheep farmers and American convicts but not Turkey where sexual ambiguity is an art form. I have been visiting the shores of Anatolia for 15 years or so and I think the entire country must be encased in lead since my gaydar malfunctions as soon as I enter Turkish airspace. This leaves me in a continuous state of utter confusion as I’m thrown off balance by the intensive, penetrating stares and contradictory playful signals from the swarthy men around me.

During the summer months whole caravans of young men with spring loaded libidos and the any port in a storm mentality begin their annual migration to the coast looking for casual work and casual sex. I know that in societies where there is strong gender separation and girls are expected to protect their virtue, access to sexual shenanigans is limited to a hand shandy from the boy next door. But, some of these poor fellas are like coiled springs. The frustration is palpable.

And why give it away when there is a little profit to be made? Even the nicest people join the gay for pay brigade because doing it for cash rather than for pleasure is the best way to avoid guilt by association. You see, these men do not consider themselves to be gay. The thought of it would disgust them. And, in the conventional sense, few are. It seems that a familiar fumble with the boys is tolerated if absolute discretion is exercised. It is certainly not an obstacle to marriage. And so, come the end of the season, the boys return to their villages to overwinter, marry their cousins and breed. When spring is in the air they re-join the exodus back to the coast to pick up where they left off. It’s all done without a moment’s thought.

Turkey is a man’s world. Female sexual liberation is but a distant dream. Perhaps this is why so many young Turkish women look po-faced and miserable. And, what about Lesbianism? Let’s just not go there. A sly grope between men might be overlooked but drinking from the furry cup is way beyond the Pale.

What really intrigues me is the sizeable number of older married Turks who get their jollies in hamams and the like. Perhaps, an instant and uncomplicated dalliance reminiscent of a distant youth is a welcome distraction from the never ending drudgery of domestic convention. Or, perchance, there is some truth in the old Ottoman adage that women are for procreation and men are for recreation.

There is, of course, a fundamental distinction between sex and sexuality though lazy thinkers often confuse the two. A world of difference exists between a quickie with a passing stranger and the profound desire to form a romantic and emotional bond with a member of the same gender. This is where the grief starts. Turkey provides a challenge to the free-spirited wishing to live unconventionally. Stifling social conformity redolent of fifties Britain means that it takes a very brave (or desperate) person indeed to break free. The penalty ranges from exile to death, literally. Honour killings are more common than people realise. Consequently, openly gay Turks in visible same sex relationships are as rare as ginger imams. And I don’t think it’s anything to do with class or education. In London, I know two Turkish men, both gay but from opposite ends of the social spectrum – one from an urban, middle class educated family, the other from an Eastern village community. Both felt compelled to leave the land of their birth to live a free and open life. Both lie to their families.

Soon after we arrived, we heard the tragic story of a waiter who, by all accounts, was a kind and gentle soul and a little bit fey. He had done his duty by marrying, siring children and sending most of his meagre earnings home to support them. One early morning he was walking home through pretty, sleepy Yalıkavak having finished his shift. He was set on by three teenagers who robbed and murdered him. It’s a terrifying tale and, of course, queer bashing can happen anywhere. However, what makes this case unusual is that he was raped first.

The political establishment hardly helps. In the spring of 2009 the Turkish minister responsible for children’s services called homosexuality a disease that could be cured. To be fair it caused quite a stir in the press and in the Government. Her comments were contradicted by the Minister for Health and there was a small demonstration in Istanbul – very Stonewall. At the time it made us review our decision to relocate ro Turkey. But we came anyway.

Added to this, the current Government and the main opposition party have recently made it very clear that they have no intention of introducing legislation to protect the LGBT community or to recognise same sex unions. Part of the problem, I think, is the absence of a liberal tradition within the Turkish body politic. In the West liberalism has a moderating influence on those populist politicians, both left and right who play to the gallery and appeal to the fears of the ignorant.

I am not saying dear old Blighty represents some sort of nirvana of equality. It doesn’t. Only recently during the last British general election, Tory candidate for Sutton and Cheam, Philippa Stroud claimed that the demon of homosexuality could be overcome through the power of prayer. Ms Stroud would do better to fall to her knees and pray for something worthwhile, like a cure for cancer or world peace.

I must add that my obvious union with Liam has never attracted bad publicity from any Turk. I assume, as non-Moslem foreigners, we are infidels and Hell-bound anyway so it hardly matters what we do. Ironically, the only disapproving glances we receive are from some of the expats. It is more lazy thinking to assume that Turkey, as a Moslem country, is incurably afflicted by the same fixed biblical attitudes of many of its Arab neighbours. Turkey is not Saudi Arabia. I tend to compare my newly adopted country with Eastern Europe, nations on their own journey to modernity. Being gay in the Baltic republics or Bulgaria is hardly a walk in the park either but this is slowly changing. Think Spain following Franco’s death or Ireland after Catholicism lost its iron grip. Turkey is a magical land graced by a rich culture, gorgeous people and a love of family which I truly honour. A respect for difference will not destroy that. It’s ok to be queer. It won’t bring down the house though it might bring in a little more style.

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Their Daily Bread

The momentous political upheavals in North Africa and the Middle East have prompted a number of concerned messages and calls from friends in Blighty thinking that the winds of change may blow next towards Turkey. After all Turkey does have an unenviable history of military coups. They needn’t worry. Whatever I may think of the current Government, my host country is a functioning democracy, not the personal fiefdom of some murderous dictator, mad mullah or medieval monarch. However, Turkey does share the same demographic time-bomb with her Arab neighbours. Half of the population is under 30 and with too few jobs to go round the Devil might make work for idle hands. Young people across the Middle East are fighting for their daily bread as much as for political freedom. Turkey mitigates the risk with strong economic growth, conscription to keep the restless boys onside, a rudimentary social security system to dodge destitution and European Union ambitions to export spring-loaded surplus labour. Lonely ladies of Europe be afraid.

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Perking the Pansies Bound and Ungagged

I love writing Perking the Pansies. It keeps me off the streets and on the straight and narrow (to coin an ironic phrase). I’m truly grateful for all the kind words of encouragement I receive from readers across the globe. I don’t always have the time to respond to each one but I am cheered by them. Thank you.

Alongside the blog I’ve been writing a literary version of Perking the Pansies with added drama and spice, warts and all. It's altogether a more daring exposé of everyday expat life in Turkey and the events that shaped our world. With a lot of luck and a fair wind it may one day get published. I don’t expect to make my fortune but it would be gratifying to see someone lounging and laughing round a shimmering infinity pool, G&T in one hand, Perking the Pansies in the other.

It’s five years since Liam and I first met. Our rollercoaster life is simply the best as Tina Turner famously sang. In tribute to Liam I’m releasing a small snippet of the book which describes the manner of our meeting. It's still a work in progress but I hope you like it.

Chapter_Five.pdf Download this file

It's a PDF file. If you don't have a reader you can get one here.

Perking the Pansies has attracted quite a bit of media interest so I decided to launch my own website as I try to launch my career as a freelance writer. You can find it here.

Are We Mad?

Just imagine the absurdity of two openly gay, recently ‘married’ middle aged, middle class men escaping the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country even one that is secular and practises a moderate and state-controlled form of Islam.

Turkey is a country familiar to many Brits: the beer swigging tattooed tourist seeking cheap fun in the sun with chips on the side and those of a more scholarly hue that wonder at the unparalleled scale and depth of Anatolian culture and history. Türkiye means ‘land of the strong’ an old Turkic/Arabic compound; Anatolia translates as ‘sunrise’ from ancient Greek. Both poetic epitaphs are fitting depictions of a place blessed with striking physical beauty, shaped by the brutal force of nature and fought over, won and lost by conquistadors across all of recorded time. Turkey is a true crossroad of civilisations, the evidence of which lies casually underfoot.

I decided to chronicle our exploits with the mad, the sad, the bad and the glad in a blog for the whole world to ignore. Since most Turkish travelogues we have read tend to be worthy, insipid or both, I decided I would try and stir things up with something a little less reverential and lot more controversial.

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