Thank the Madonna for Virgin Mobile

We foolishly mislaid our Turkish mobile phone a few weeks ago and replaced it with a little second hand number. It looked quite nice in the display cabinet but this turned out to be just an illusion. The bloody thing started to fall apart the minute we got it home, and after a few days it became impossible to see the screen after dark. Like the rest of the World, Turks have begun an enduring love affair with mobile telephony though it’s difficult to imagine how most people can afford it since even a modest phone costs the average weekly wage. There are three main phone operators in Turkey - Turkcell (by far the biggest), AVEA and good old British Vodafone. I thought it quite reasonable to expect a little healthy competition. Not a bit of it. As far as I can see the whole market works as a cartel. So, on our last trip to London we bought a new phone. It cost a fiver. Thank the Madonna for Virgin Mobile.

It turns out you can’t just buy a phone willy-nilly and swap the SIM card over. Oh, no. All phones must be registered with the State. Apparently it's an anti-terrorist measure. It probably facilitates phone tapping which I read is surprisingly commonplace. Off we trotted to the main Turkcell shop in Bodrum to discharge our legal obligations. We were processed by a cheery young woman with forearms hairier than mine. She sorted us out in no time with a registration form in triplicate with two official stamps on each copy and countless photocopies of my British passport and Turkish residency permit. There are now enough copies of my official identity in circulation to supply the Israeli Secret Service for years.

The phone we bought in Britain was blocked by Virgin Mobile. We visited a back street phone shop in search of solution. I was ushered into a tiny antechamber to negotiate the transaction with a seedy looking gangster type in cheap jeans surrounded by untidy piles of disassembled hand sets and spare parts. For a small consideration, the swarthy chap entered the magic sequence of numbers. I felt like I had just visited my drug dealer. The phone for a fiver now works like a dream.

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Communal Crapping

Following our so so weekend in Izmir we headed home. We took a detour to to Selçuk, a handsome provincial town, host to a fine museum and spitting distance from the wonder that is Ephesus: world heritage site nominee and arguably one of the most impressive open air museums anywhere. And, since we were in the vicinity anyway, it would have been rude not have a look around the imposing ruins. Ephesus (or Efes to give the place its Turkish name which is also happens to be the name of Turkey’s favourite ale), was one of the most sophisticated cities of antiquity, adorned with grand civic buildings, marble-clad pavements, street lighting and home to the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Sadly, just one lonely, forlorn re-assembled pillar remains of Artemis’ once vast shrine rising up precariously from a mosquito-infested bog. What a lunatic hadn’t destroyed by torching the place, the Christians had finished off. The rest of the city is a magnificent affair and in impressively good shape after decades of excavation and partial reconstruction. We had decided to drop in at just the right time of the year. As Turkey’s second most visited attraction (after Sultanahmet – the old city - in Istanbul), Ephesus is best avoided at the height of summer when the unforgiving sun and the rag-tag of camera-toting tourists conspire to make the place Hell on Earth.

The city was of immense significance to the early Christian Church. St Paul wrote his epistles to the Ephesians (to damn them for their debauched ways I suppose, having never read them) and the Virgin Mary is reputed to have lived out her dotage nearby. It can be reasonable argued that Christianity as an organised religion was born in Ephesus.

We hired a guide but soon wished we hadn’t. A serious academic type, he droned on about the fine and upstanding Ephesians: civilised, cultured, always kind to their slaves. We fancied the alternative history, the salacious version, where the same fine and upstanding Ephesians visited the hungry whores via the secret tunnel connecting the great library to the brothel. After the sombre tour, we paid off the guide and re-roamed the ruins unescorted. Something not to be missed is the public latrine. The Romans were particularly fond of communal crapping, artfully combining conversation with evacuation.

Having had our fill, we returned to the car and journeyed back south but were unable to resist another detour, this time to Priene. Built on a natural escarpment high above the Meander River flood plain, Priene is the most complete Hellenistic site in Turkey. Whereas Ephesus overawes with its monumental scale, Priene seduces with its intimacy and superb aspect. We loitered a while as the sun began to set over the Ege bathing the ruins in a soft warm light.

Homeward bound, it was time to top up the tank, so we pulled into a service station. Such establishments in Turkey are a joy, belonging to a gentler age, with staff on hand to fill your tank and sponge down your dusty windows. In fact, it wasn’t that long ago when a friendly chap with a cheesy smile and handlebar moustache would fill your car as a lit fag dangled from his gob.

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Cappuccinos and Rent Boys

After our horrendous first day driving through Izmir in the rush hour we decided on an early night. Fully rested, the next day things seemed more promising. Our hotel was equidistant between the city centre proper and a trendy, Sohoesque district called Alsancak. No one would describe Izmir as beautiful. Much of it was burned to the ground in 1922 during the Greco-Turkish War, and the city was hastily and unsympathetically rebuilt with block upon block of mediocre concrete box architecture that surely wouldn’t withstand even the slightest tremor. However, the place does have a certain appeal and Alsancak, in particular, has a real buzz, all trendy shops and pavement cafés.


I fancied a trip to the Roman agora, the largest market place ever excavated from the period. We rambled through the modern pazar and delighted in confounding the hawkers by responding to their catcalls in German, French, Spanish, and a little Turkish, anything but English. We found the agora remains on the wrong side of the tracks and gazed through the railings. Having been spoilt by the glory of Ephesus, I’m afraid an enormous hole on the ground with a few old stones randomly scattered about looking like London after the Blitz really didn’t impress. We didn’t bother going in.

Alsancak is where the few gay bars are to be found. We had done our internet research and went in pursuit of the shameful twilight world of Turkish deviants. It was hopeless. We found only one dismal little dive bar down some dark alley. It was a tawdry, dirty, virtually empty and pounded by ear-splitting techno. The drinks were absurdly expensive and even the ‘free’ bar snacks came at a price with a specially prepared bill of their own. The apathetic bar staff were so bored they poured alcohol on the bar and set it alight for a laugh. Taking a leak was a surreal experience as the entrance to the toilet was guarded by a head scarfed granny in pantaloons demanding a lira to spend a penny. The few punters were predatory, rough rent boys in cheap shell suits looking for punters of their own. As they began to circle us like a pack of hyenas, we knew it was time to leave. We sprinted to the entrance fully expecting it to be locked. Thankfully, it wasn’t. That was Izmir.

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My Shattered Chassis

As retired hedonistas my partner and I fancied a bit of wanton decadence and set our sights on Izmir. After all, it is Turkey’s third largest metropolis with a laid back, laissez faire reputation.

Driving is not for the faint hearted, best only tried by the foolish or the suicidal. Though much improved in recent years, roads can still be perilous with lunar potholes, boulder-sized loose chippings and chassis-shattering unmarked concrete speed bumps. All these hazards, however, pale into insignificance when compared to the insane driving of the locals. The basic rules of the unofficial Turkish Highway Code are straightforward enough – drive fast, jump lights, never indicate, overtake on blind bends, tailgate dangerously and sound the car horn loudly and often. It is also the ‘law’ to ignore pedestrian crossings (purely for street decoration and EU compliance inspectors), bounce a new born baby on your lap when weaving in and out of the traffic and yell down the mobile phone that has been surgically grafted to your ear. The rules are observed religiously. Obligingly, local municipalities even provide traffic lights that count down to green to encourage boy racers to champ at the bit to be first out of the traps. We quickly learned that unsuspecting foreigners must keep their wits about them to preserve life and limb.

Despite our genuine fear of death or permanent disability, we left for Izmir at first light, driving due east to Milas, the next sizeable town from Bodrum. From the outskirts, Milas has little to commend it; a nondescript minor provincial town of concrete awfulness. We swung north inland. Ascending into the hills (well, mountains by British standards) we swept past Lake Bafa, a stunning expanse of calm, mirrored water that reflects the cradling highlands. It reminded me of the Italian lakes. The winter rains have had a remarkable effect on the landscape, transforming the tinderbox hue of pale green and ochre to a lush iridescence.

We descended to the bountiful basin made fertile by the rich silt deposited by the snaking Meander River over innumerable centuries. We hurried through shabby jobbing agro-villages, slowly swerving around family laden tractors and head-scarfed grannies on dawdling donkeys. Onwards towards Izmir, we left the Third World behind and hit the 21st century toll motorway near Aydin which came as something of an unforeseen relief. Neat, newly constructed and four lanes wide, it wouldn’t look out of place in Germany. Descending towards the coast, Izmir’s urban sprawl stretched out impressively before us.

Driving through Izmir was the most traumatic driving experience of our lives. The city is dissected by crumbling dual carriageways and getting off the bloody things is nigh on impossible. We spent hours driving from one side of the city to the other, then back again, trying to find the right exit, any exit. Eventually, after an unscheduled two hour excursion we found the seafront boulevard where our hotel was located.

We tried to park outside a café in the only available space as far as the eye could see. The owner was having none of it and began gesticulating aggressively to move us on. We’ve heard that it is not unusual for business owners to trash any unsolicited car parked outside their premises, so we thought we best not risk it. Off we drove on yet another distressing circuit of the city centre. Then, miracle upon miracles, we were delivered a space right outside the hotel entrance. The moral of this story? Get the bus.

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Internet Censorship, China Style

I’m constantly amazed at the power of the internet as a means of communication. This is liberating for most but subversive to some. I’ve read that the Turkish Government plans to compel all internet users to access the web through state controlled portals. The Government claims this will protect children from inappropriate sites. Others declare this is an attack on personal freedom because their internet usage can be monitored. Paranoia is fuelled by the Government’s reluctance to open up the list of banned sites to independent scrutiny.

No one would disagree that children should be protected. However, I have always thought this to be the job of parents. Relatively few Turkish children have direct and unrestricted access to computers. They are just beyond the reach of most. A more effective and less draconian strategy would be to offer parental control software free of charge or provide simple advice about how this can be managed through search engine restrictions.

A genuine attempt by the State to protect the young or insidious censorship, China-style? The proof of the pudding, as they say…

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Eurovision Song-Fest Fever

Forget the crisis in Syria, the civil war in Libya, Bin Liner’s death or the impending draconian clampdown on internet freedom in Turkey. It’s Eurovision Song Contest night and Europe’s having a party. Various angst-ridden bleached blond divas, euro pretty-boys in tight pants mincing around the stage and ruritanians in pantomime drag have been bussed in to Düsseldorf for the annual kitsch camp-fest. What started as a genuine attempt to heal the wounds of a war-torn Europe has degenerated into a financially crippling travelling circus of political intrigue and regional love-ins that now requires an ECB bailout to stage.

Turkey was knocked out in the semis. Who are the Azeri Turks going to vote for now? Will it be the usual Balkan back-slapping bonhomie from people who only a few years ago were at each other’s throats? Who’ll pick up the Greek vote now Cyprus is out? Was Dana International’s unceremonious ejection because the Israelis are beastly to the Palestinians or due to the fact that she’s gone rather broad at the beam and sang a crap song? Will anyone vote for the UK? I doubt it even with Duncan James’ newly acquired disco tits out on display. These are questions of profound global significance.

There will be Eurovision parties the length and breadth of Blighty, staged by queens for queens. Soho will be a ghost town and we will be glued to the set doing our bit for the boys.

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Perking the Pansies - The Book

A few months ago I happened across someone called Jo Parfitt purely by chance. Jo is an accomplished and successful author, mentor, journalist and publisher with 26 books and hundreds of articles under her belt. Jo specialises in publishing books by ex-pats who write about their lives or have something original to say about living abroad. I thought that Perking the Pansies had the potential to be something more than a blog and set about writing a book version. I sent Jo a sample of my work.She thought I had an interesting idea with a different angle. Since then Jo has been helping me to knock the book into shape. Her critique has always been fair and honest but gentle and encouraging. Jo has been my muse and my mentor. I listened. Her advice and guidance has been freely offered with a carry on, you’re nearly there message. I think Jo now thinks I have got there. She has offered me a publishing contract. I couldn’t have got there without her.

Now I’ve got to finish the book so no summer loving for me this year. I doubt I’ll make it out of the front door. Liam will mop my sweated brow and keep me fed and watered. He is my other muse and is much less kind than Jo. I’ve promised the manuscript by September and, if I deliver, Jo will publish Perking the Pansies by Christmas. So what’s Santa bringing you this year?

Check out Jo’s website.

Fancy a sneak preview of the book?

 Chapter_5_Extract.pdf Download this file
 

 Chapter_6_Extract.pdf Download this file

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So You Think You Can Write a Pop Song?

Liam has become quite fixated with the house to add to a long list of small obsessions that have emerged following our emigration. He spent hours WD40ing the marble patio. It came up lovely. He’s now threatening to re-grout the kitchen and bathroom floors. We’ve found a whole website dedicated to the wonders of WD40 – 1001 things to do with it. In between spending time on his knees, Liam’s been setting some lyrics to music. The words in question were penned by our nephew and my namesake, Jack. The prose is very deep, very torch song – all lost love, bitterness, angst and misery. It’s entitled the Promise. It escapes me what a 14 year old adolescent could possibly know about mislaid love. I put it down to the comprehensive system. Classically trained Liam can’t do hooks and struggled with the composition. He’s developed a deeper appreciation of the well-crafted three minute pop song.

This is the result. Not a pop song perhaps, but beautiful nonetheless.

 

The_Promise.mp3 Listen on Posterous

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My Golden Horn

We took an all too brief trip to Istanbul to celebrate our anniversary. We did the usual whistle-stop tour of Sultanahmet (the old city). Haghia Sophia still leaves me in speechless awe every time I gaze up towards the magnificent dome that seems to float effortlessly above. Onwards to the curvaceous Blue Mosque built a millennium later. Better outside than in, the seductive silhouette of mosque and minarets defines the famous city skyline. Domed out, we rested outside in the lovingly tended park and endured the call to prayer in thunderous surround sound.

We spent the evening in Beyoğlu, the increasingly hip shopping and entertainment district that looks proudly down on the old city from across the Golden Horn. We expensively dined along Istiklal Caddesi, the broad pedestrianised boulevard that runs like a spine through the area. After settling the extortionate hesap, we ventured out into the night in search of a minority interest inn to quench our thirsts and assess the locals. Unsurprisingly, the Byzantine gay scene is infinitely superior to any other in Turkey. We supped in a couple of minor league joints before ending the night in the appropriately named Tekyön (One Way), a large pulsating dance bar. It might have been London or Paris, except the disco tits on display were attached to young carefree Turks rather than cute Columbians. Discouragingly, you know you’re getting old when, like policemen, the competition is getting ever younger. We left the boys to their play and headed back to our hotel for a cocoa.

Our second day in Istanbul was spent meandering through the piazzas and pavilions of the splendid Topkapı Palace, epicentre of the imperial Ottoman court for 400 years. The unheralded highlight was chancing upon relics of the Prophet (yes, The Prophet). We gazed incredulously upon bits of His beard, tooth, sword, bow, a heap of soil used for ritual ablution and a clay impression of His foot - all allegedly genuine. Slightly less credible are the rod of Moses (of the plagues of Egypt fame), King David's skull, Abraham's cookware, and Joseph's turban (though sadly not his coat of many colours). We were most disappointed not to see the Ark of the Covenant and a charred twig from the Burning Bush. Naturally we remained suitably deferential to avoid stoning by the Faithful. I suppose it’s no less fantastic than the implausible holy artefacts revered by the old ladies of Christendom.

In the extensive grounds we encountered the phenomenon known as Islamic Chic. Gaggles of giggling girls wandering about their Ottoman heritage adorned in exquisitely tailored dark hued, figure-hugging maxi coats garnished with sumptuous silk scarves of vivid primary colours. The head coverings, moulded at the forehead into a shallow peek as if hiding a baseball cap beneath, framed their painted faces. Modest and modern, I suspect the look is more a sign of wealth and status than of piety. We finished the day with a flourish by ambling around the excellent archeological museum.

Ol' Constantinople is simply sublime and just gets better each time I visit. We travelled home that evening wanting more and vowing to return.

See the full gallery on Posterous

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Asia in a Minor Key

A real challenge to able-bodied emigreys is to find a gainful occupation that doesn’t involve propping up the bar in some sad, insular expat dive to Blighty-bash and complain ad nauseum of all things local. I have my blog but what of Liam? An early decision was to order a Roland keyboard from Istanbul. A creative renaissance ensued. Liam spends endless hours tickling the ivories and fiddling with his knobs. Well, if you can't beat 'em then join 'em, so I have embarked on a set of suitably pretentious lyrics for him to compose around - more Shakespeare's Sister than Shakespeare, methinks. The lyrics are evolving into a compendium cryptically entitled Asia in a Minor Key.

The title lyric, an ode to the emigrey forlorn, goes like this

Land of my fathers, don’t you want your son?

Shall I run from you, my kin undone?

To the land of sunrise and chattering minarets

Bizarre bazaars and monkish pirouettes

 

Chase my dream across dusty hills

Past olive groves and neglected mills

To find myself in the arms of strangers

To talk in silence and delight in dangers

Erase the pain of past misdeeds

Follow my road to wherever it leads

Land of my father I have done all I can

To find the love of an Ottoman

Asia in a minor key

A game of chance

Last chance for me

Land of my fathers; don’t you want your son?

I ran from you, my kin undone

To the land of sunrise and chattering minarets

But shall my dream stay unrequited yet?

 

Pompous twaddle or what? I guess Liam thinks so. While his Steps to Sibelius musical palate may be a broad church, classically trained Liam struggles with hooks and the art of a well-crafted three minute pop song eludes him. In any case, his real dream is to complete the requiem he began to write a decade or so ago and to write a score for a film. This is now.

Liam has been experimenting with his keyboard by writing some short pieces as part of his score for a soundtrack. It's very much a work in progress but you fancy a listen, please click below.

Sylvie.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Catherine.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Elphame_Wood.mp3 Listen on Posterous

More of Liam's work on my website

Imagine Two Historic Nations

Imagine two historic nations once united under Rome, fiercely independent and suspicious of a new pan-European empire formed by a Treaty in Rome. Imagine two historic nations anchored to the edge of Europe but chained to it economically. Imagine two historic nations with a political and cultural heritage so immense that they have transformed the world. Imagine two historic nations finally emerging from the long shadow of empire destroyed by world war and trying to forge a modern role. There are more similarities between Britain and Turkey than many realise.

Of course there are major differences too. The liberal traditions that define a mature nation have only shallow roots in Turkey. Nevertheless, my foster home is changing, and changing fast. Solid economic growth is establishing a burgeoning bourgeoisie who will alter Turkey forever. Socially and geographically mobile, well-educated consumers who want the best opportunities for themselves and their children always effect change. There is a demographic difference too. Britain is a country with an ageing population that needs a steady stream of young immigrants to function. Conversely, fifty per-cent of Turkey’s population is under thirty with too few jobs to go around. I hear unconfirmed rumours along the corridors of power in Brussels that the EU may be forced to relax its stringent visa restrictions for Turks. Interesting. Lonely ladies of London be afraid, be very afraid.

Given the obvious connections between our pasts and our futures, we Brits really ought to do more to celebrate our ties with Turkey. Sure, bargain bucket resorts are all very well and vital to the Turkish economy. Double egg and chips with a side order of lascivious expat gossip can be a delicious (if emotionally calorific) tit-bit. There is, however, so much more to discover than is found on the pages of a Thomas Cook brochure. Let's start an On the Ege campaign to persuade more of our compatriots to step off the sun-kissed beaches and out of the homogeneous Brit-bars. Let's sober up and go exploring like the wandering Brits of our glorious past. 

I happen to live in Bodrum on the same street as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World (a happy co-incidence). The magnificent Mausoleum of Halicarnassus (Bodrum that was) was constructed to inter the remains of King Mausolus in 350 BC (hence the origin of the word mausoleum). Apparently, the building survived virtually intact for seventeen centuries before it was felled by an earthquake in the middle ages. What remained was plundered by the Knights of St John to build the imposing crusader castle that now dominates the town. That’s the medieval Christians for you. No respect for ancient history. It seems those naughty knights weren’t the only pilferers of antiquities judging by the age-old dressed stones and fragments of an Ionian capital that litter our garden. This is just a tiny example of the wonders around us, a place where history lies casually underfoot. Now you don’t get that in Bognor.

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Parlez Vous Francais?

The Perking the Pansies Showcase can now be translated in Chinese, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Russian and Spanish. Now something like 90% of the planet can read my trivial drivel. Mind you it's done by Google so who knows how meaningful the translations will be. I haven't been able to make the showcase available in Turkish which is ironic considering I live in and write about Turkey.

Yankee Pranks

A Pansy flasher on my Perking the Pansies hit map from Washington DC brought back happy memories of journeys across the pond. Over dinner I led Liam on a jolly romp down memory lane. He kindly indulged my remembrance. I’ve been to the States four times – to New York, Boston, LA and my first visit was to the District of Columbia at the tender age of 20. I had dallied with a travelling Yank who worked for the Federal Government and was attending a conference in London. He invited me to stay so I did. I had tired of my dull, dead end job as chief cashier and pound counter for Habitat in Chelsea and had in mind to do as millions of others had done before me and seek my fortune in the land of opportunity. I saved my pennies, quit my job, booked a one way ticket on Freddy Laker’s Skytrain to New York and off I went. I flew out of the Big Apple and down to DC.

Me, yes really

My Yank got a shock when I called. It seemed his invitation hadn't been entirely genuine but he was good enough to let me stay for a few weeks in return for occasional sexual favours. Springtime in Washington is very agreeable and a riot of cherry blossom. The federal heart of the city is laid out in imperial style and built in monumental neo-classical majesty as befits the capital of the most powerful nation in history. The grand design is best appreciated from the top of the Monument, the world’s tallest true obelisk. Rameses the Great must have turned in his tomb. I did the obligatory tour of the White House and the Capitol and strolled along the Mall popping in and out of the various museums along the way. It struck me how everything was described in the definite article –The White House, The Monument, The Capitol as if no others exist. It’s a sign of a confident young nation with a touch of teenage arrogance.

Gay life in Washington was a world away from recession-ravaged buttoned up Britain with its grubby backstreet gay bars. It's taken London 30 years to catch up. I loved it and it loved me. I was young and handsome with cheekbones that could slice cheese. My hosts lapped me up and I let them. I wowed the randy scamps in Rascals, a popular watering hole and pick up joint for federal employees near Dupont Circle. They just loved my accent, along with my uncut assets.

Is it still there I wonder?

Alas, I sensed I was overstaying  my welcome and my reluctant landlord feared I would claim squatters rights. My low-key patriotism also annoyed him. He rather expected me to be enamoured with all things American. I really liked what I saw but I had learned patriotism from my soldier father’s knee and have never been able to shake it off. After a few weeks living the American dream I pined for the old country and flew home on BA.

To this day I remain quietly patriotic, though not nationalistic. To be proud of where you are from is fine but to think you’re a cut above is not. This is a message some emigreys hereabouts would do well to hear. I wonder though, if I had settled Stateside, what would have become of me?

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The Wedding

 We watched the royal nuptials with friends surrounded by homespun bunting, Union flags lovingly coloured in felt tip pens and attached to straws, and photocopied mini-flags on cocktail sticks. We feasted on a celebratory spread of British fare with a Turkish twist – spicy Cornish pasties for the fellas, scones for the ladies, fairy cakes for the pansies. Intellectually I’m a republican but emotionally I’m a true blue royalist. It’s a contradiction I manage to fudge with typically British pragmatism.

We had a joyous time stuffing our faces, sipping Pimms, waving our patriotic pennants and whooping at the hotchpotch of heavenly and hideous frocks. Princess Bea’s head dress could pick up intelligent life on other planets and Anne wrapped herself in her granny’s tablecloth that she’d run up on a Singer. Her Maj, of course, is above fashion. Harry looked dapper in his uniform. He’s the best of the bunch even though he’s a ginger. I’ve forgiven his faux pas with Nazi party attire some years ago. I put it down to youthful exuberance and stupidity. The Windsor-Mountbattens aren’t blessed with much up top. The Abbey looked magnificent and the majestic pageant was delivered to perfection in a way only the British know how. It gladdened my heart to see Elton John and his Civil Partner, David Furnish, in attendance. The final nail in the coffin of bigotry? Well, perhaps.

I’ve heard it said that the whole jamboree was a waste of time and money in these days of austerity and the terrible events occurring around the globe. What’s wrong with forgetting the woes of the world just for one day and enjoying the fairytale moment? I hope the dysfunctional Firm have learned the Diana lesson and gorgeous Kate will be allowed to flourish in a thoroughly modern way.

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