Yabancı
A foreigner in Turkey
Ellis Flipse
Published by Ellis Flipse at Smashwords.
Copyright 2011 Ellis Flipse
http://www.ellisflipse.com
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-Prologue –
With amazement and joy I look at the Turkish lifestyle through the glasses of a modern western woman. I live in Çandır, a village on the southwest coast of Turkey. Not a day goes past without something going on that is of interest. How a small community can be so vibrant is a riddle to me.
Things that are perfectly normal here, like love of one’s neighbour, care for family, and a warm way of associating with everybody, were reasons to leave everything behind to start a new life here in this wonderful village.
The absolutely different ways of spending your time, the sense of humour, and the acceptance of life as it presents itself, make me walk around in wonder, learning, and full of amazement.
My Turkish friend, Fazile Zahir, made me trust in putting my observations onto paper. With the help of family and many friends it became this book.
All the stories in this book are my experiences, if there are untruths or mistakes in it, then they are due to my limited understanding of the Turkish language. This can create many misunderstandings which I have experienced all too often. To protect the privacy of people the names have been changed. In some stories I had to change some details to make it more readable.
This book was published in Dutch by publishing house ‘van Dorp Educatief’. The translating I did myself, and I can only hope that my clumsy English puts a smile on your face and that you forgive me for mistakes.
- Finally -
Everywhere I look I see people pacing around nervously. They are all standing impatiently waiting and pushing to get their suitcases off of the carousel. Good manners are hard to find. It is as though everybody is afraid of being late. Late for what?
The tour buses will undoubtedly not leave without their customers. The hotels are open twenty-four hours a day and everywhere you look you see taxis waiting in line. Relax! This is your vacation.
Once outside they walk up to one of the many ladies in brightly coloured outfits from the tour companies. The tour guides look at their clipboards and direct them patiently to the correct buses. I see the tourists drag their heavy suitcases with high expectations toward the buses. They look up at the blue sky happily and, as promised, the sun is shining.
I sit on my suitcase with a cigarette and take all this in. Today I do not feel connected with these people and watch their behaviour in amazement. I suppose I may act the same when I arrive at unfamiliar destinations.
Around me I see the familiar palm trees and oleander bushes at Dalaman International Airport in Turkey. Even the air I breathe smells familiar. Yet, everything is different today. Without doubt, this is the most crucial day of my life. I must carry on and cannot turn back. It is a feeling that is unreal and glorious at the same time. Never before have I experienced this feeling of freedom. I taste it, play with it, and realize that it is very intense.
I have been here many times before but this time, I am not going back to Holland. I have quit my job, put my stuff in storage, and deposited my money in a Turkish bank. I have said goodbye to everybody and I have left. For years I have looked forward to this moment, and finally I am here. The rest of my life is like an ocean of time in front of me without all of the stress, impossible rules, intolerance, and the many other reasons I no longer wish to live in Holland. It will not be easy but it does not need to be. I feel strong and want to deal with the challenge.
Three years ago I made the decision to leave Holland. Real estate prices in Turkey were low and I was able to buy a thousand square meters of land with the intention of building a house on it later. From the moment I made that decision, my life was influenced by the knowledge that I was leaving. I took Turkish lessons and worked hard to get the financial side of my life in order. Luckily, the real estate market was so overheated in Holland that, when I sold my house, I had some money coming.
My wish is to end up in the village of Çandır which is not far from Dalyan. During the fall and throughout the coming winter I will stay in a pension owned by friends. Dalyan is a nice quiet village situated on the south-west coast of Turkey. This former fishing village sits on the eastern side of the Dalyan River which connects Köyceĝiz Lake to the Mediterranean Sea. Everything on the west side of the river is called Çandır.
The river meanders through vast reed beds towards the beach. All of this is surrounded by mountains. The area possesses a unique natural environment with overwhelming flora and fauna. Add to this the wonderful climate, and you could not ask for a better location.
As soon as I try to work my way through the crowd, I see Kerim’s familiar face coming up as he walks over the footbridge. His face cracks open into a warm smile as soon as he sees me. Kerim and his wife, Yaprak, own the pension in Dalyan where I have spent all my vacations for the last ten years. With his arm around my shoulder, we walk toward the car.
Finally, I am home...
- Dirty Teeth -
Here in Turkey a notary must sign all legal documents otherwise they are basically useless. Rental contracts, transferring a car into somebody else’s name, etcetera. I am buying some land in a place that is not open for foreign ownership. To overcome this difficulty, my intention is to put the title in the name of my best friend and biggest supporter, Kerim. I had put many things into writing in order to prevent things from going wrong in the future. Therefore Kerim phoned the notary to make an appointment for me.
While in Holland I had visited an attorney who specialized in Turkish law to prepare all the necessary paperwork. I only have to get them stamped by a Turkish notary. When Kerim and I arrive at the notary office it is about 35 degrees Celsius, and I am starting to sweat as soon as we are halfway up the three steps that lead to the notary’s office. Kerim casually directs me into a chair as soon as we are inside the office. He does all the talking.
I am sitting there in a dull colourless office in front of a long counter. Behind the counter there are equally colourless ladies all busy at antique typewriters amid big piles of paper. The Turkish florescent lighting makes the scene complete. A notary in Holland gives a much more luxurious impression but I have to admit that their fees are also extremely expensive.
In a corner an old fan snores quietly without much noticeable effect. The notary himself is a small man with blackened teeth from smoking, and he has an indifferent look on his face. All in all, it makes for a very unpleasant scene. I cannot say that I feel comfortable with this situation and hope everything goes well. This scene reminds me of one I saw on television. A man is standing in an office sweating heavily opposite a customs employee who is sizing him up to determine just how much money he can take him for.
‘He is asking 1500 euro,’ I hear Kerim say.
‘Isn't that a lot of money?’ I say.
‘That’s ridiculous! Let’s go, I want to make some phone calls first,’ says Kerim.
When we return to the Pension I take a refreshing dive into the river. About ten minutes later Kerim comes out of his office.
‘I phoned a few friends and found a notary who is much more reasonable. He charges only 175 euro and has made an appointment for us tomorrow,’ says Kerim.
‘What! How can there be such a big difference?’ I say.
‘Well,’ he says somewhat embarrassed, ‘as soon as they see a foreign name they think that you are rich and the price gets multiplied by five. A friend who is an attorney phoned for me and has arranged for you to pay the usual fee.’
This completely amazes me but I consider myself lucky for the help of Kerim. Some of these Turks can be real villains. The next day my amazement grows as I realize we are walking up the familiar stairs to the same notary’s office. Kerim plants me in the uncomfortable chair and, without even a blink of his eye, the same notary welcomes us.
With an arrogant voice the notary orders Kerim to go and get some photocopies made. Mmmm, evidently the customer is not king in this place. Apparently this peremptory behaviour is acceptable if you think you are wealthy or important enough. So Kerim runs out of the room to make the requested copies as a copier is not part of this office's inventory.
As I wait for further problems to arise, with my toes curled from annoyance, I am soaked in sweat, and am sitting on a very uncomfortable chair. Mr. Dirty Teeth retires into his own pigsty to read a newspaper and smoke a cigarette. Slowly he disappears in a cloud of blue smoke behind the glass in the door.
Kerim returns to the office, hands the copies to one of the colourless ladies, and falls into the chair next to me with drops of sweat dripping down his neck. All of this is very difficult for him. Kerim, like many Turks, feels very uncomfortable in the presence of higher placed people. One of the ladies starts to type fiercely. They translate my passport and she re-types all the contracts.
We are sitting and waiting here for over an hour, and we do not even get as much as a cup of tea offered to us. Even at the weekly market you are always offered a cup of Turkish tea from most of the vendors.
‘What are we waiting for?’ I ask Kerim.
‘We are waiting for an interpreter which is compulsory in the case of foreigners.’
This is the first thing that actually makes sense because everyone should know exactly what it is he or she signs. Unfortunately, only certified translators are allowed to witness signatures, and we have had to wait more than an hour for his arrival. It appears that he is a schoolmaster and he could not come before his school day was finished.
He speaks very poor English and asks me, with the help of his arms and legs, if I am married and if I want to stay in Turkey for good among other personal questions. The contracts are not even mentioned so I lose one more illusion but, who cares? He has to make a living as well, doesn't he?
My frumpy blouse sticks very inelegantly to my back. How do these people do it? I see nobody with as much as a small stain of sweat on their shirt. I will be so happy when this body of mine gets accustomed to this type of weather.
They invite us to enter Mr. Dirty Teeth's pigsty to sign all the documents. Afterwards, with a big smile on his face, he says goodbye and shows us to the person where we can pay the bill. Pffffff what a hard life he lives. The idea alone that I could have been fooled into giving this creep 1500 euro for this work...?
Everything is now arranged according to my needs, but I hope I will not ever need his services again.
- Bags Full of Money -
The documents concerning Kerim and I are in good order. Putting the plot into Kerim’s name is very simple. He goes to the Tapu office, which is something like a real estate registry office, the old owner transfers his deed to Kerim and the registry office issues Kerim a new deed of ownership and that’s all.
No money has exchanged hands but the land is now in Kerim’s name and I have all the rights to it by contract. If I do not pay there is absolutely nothing anyone can do about it. So you can understand how the enmity between families can go on for generations.
A large portion of the payment goes under the counter, a normal bank transfer is not the way the seller wants it. My money sits in an account at IS Bank, a Turkish Bank in Holland. They have assured me that the money would be available to me in Turkey. I enter the IS Bank office in Turkey, in good spirits, convinced that I can get to my money. Patiently I wait my turn in a line that seemingly does not exist for the other customers. In my simple Turkish I try to explain what I want. With the help of the people present, a nice man behind the counter finally understands what I want of him. He obviously has no idea what to do so he goes to see the big boss. This is an important looking man in a suit who sits in an office with a glass front behind an enormous desk doing absolutely nothing.
He explains what has to be done and the friendly employee is back in no time. The bank employee starts to work on the paperwork, somewhat worried about doing this unusually large transaction correctly. The whole thing draws a lot of attention. I can hear the people talking about me as if I was not there at all.
‘She has bought land in Çandır’
‘Oh really, where? From who?’
Explanation follows, phrases of surprise, and a whole discussion about the price. It is too much or just the right price?
‘Is she German?’
‘No, she is Dutch.’
Quietly amused, I sit in a corner and wait. By now all the employees are bent over the computer monitor. Everybody wants to see how this works. After a lot of sweating and heavy breathing, three hours of waiting, and the transaction is finally completed.
I ask the man if he can deliver the whole amount in cash. Yes, this can be done, but the cash needs to be ordered. Three days later the money will be there.
After three days I arrive at the bank together with Kerim. In Turkish lira the amount goes into billions, with the biggest note being twenty million. Two big blue shopping bags full of money are waiting for us and they ask whether we want to count the money or not. Ha-ha, no thank you, we trust it will be fine.
We drag the big bags of money across Dalyan to the land seller’s bank where he is waiting for us at the entrance. He is not interested in counting the cash either, saying he trusts us. He takes the money and, with a firm handshake, the transaction is over.
No one would have ever imagined that we were carrying so much cash, because we had laughed loudly all the way through the streets of Dalyan on our way to the bank.
- Oil Drum or Heater -
Looking around at the fifteen square meter room I stand in, I see a washing machine, a dishwasher, an enormous sink, and a fireplace that is no longer used. There are five plastic chairs sitting around a dining table with a very ugly plastic tablecloth spread across it. An old bed that was being used as a couch is decorated with a few old cushions. There are no curtains on the windows and there is the well-known fluorescent light on the ceiling.
This is the kitchen in the pension where I have spent many vacations over the years and, along with one of the guest rooms, it will be my home during this coming winter. The pension is a beautiful place with gardens directly on the Dalyan River. The last of this season’s guests have left this week and over the last few days Yaprak and Kerim have been busy making the garden and the guest rooms ready for the coming winter in preparation for the next tourist season. All except for this one room that I am being allowed to use. Yaprak and Kerim will return to their house a few streets further down after the long summer in the pension. That is why I can use the kitchen and one of the rooms with shower and toilet.
Finally, here I am! Everyone has left and I now have the place to myself. First I remove some of the plastic chairs as I do not feel like looking at empty chairs all winter. I have gone to the market where I bought a nice new table cloth and some odds and ends like an oil lamp and some new candles. I have placed the few books and CD's that I have with me on the fireplace mantel and next to it, on a small table, my mini stereo. The room is looking better as well as completely different to me already. A little later, as I sit at the table drinking a cup of coffee, I am enjoying the privacy and the soothing view over the river.
It is at that moment that I see a hole in the wall and it takes several minutes before I realize that a flue pipe from a wood-stove heater will need to fit into it. Of course, now I realize that I will need to buy some sort of wood-stove heater to keep warm. Even though the winters here are mild, they are not so mild that I can do completely without having heat of some sort.
I jump on my bicycle and peddle to the centre of town to one of the many shops where they sell these types of wood-stove heaters. The choice is enormous - they have brown, brown, and even more brown ones. The shapes they come in are either square, round, or rectangular. The rectangular ones are not so much for heating but more for cooking as they have a ring on top and a small oven. I think that the round ones look like the best for what I need. This little wood-stove heater looks like an enameled oil drum with a cast iron lid. The whole thing sits on elegantly square legs with a hole in the back where the flue connects. Inside is a metal ash bucket with a hole in the bottom where they have put a rough grill. All in all, it resembles a rather luxurious looking oil drum.
The salesman does his absolute best to sell me one of these odd looking little wood-stove heaters. He takes great pride in showing me that there is an air damper that you can open and close with an ingenious little push and pull button on a metal rod. Proudly, he steps back to give me the chance to express my admiration of this special heater. I start to laugh at all of this and he looks at me very suspiciously. So I quickly choose the round one in brown, of course, because I don’t want him to think I am insulting him.
‘Which pipes do you want?’ he asks.
I look at him in surprise for a moment and have no idea what he is talking about. Then I realize that I need something to vent the smoke from the heater. He takes me to a big metal crate with different lengths of pipe stacked inside. Some are bent like elbows and others are straight. There is T and H shaped ones and, of course, they are all brown and all are the same diameter.
‘I really do not have any idea,’ I tell him.
‘No problem,’ as he selects several different ones and tosses them into a pile next to the heater.
‘You do deliver, don’t you?’ I ask him as I look worriedly at the heavy metal heater.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘And when we do, I can also figure out the flue pipes for you. Where do you live?’
He writes down the directions and I pay the bill for the wood-stove heater and assorted pipes. He promises that he will be there to install it in about an hour. The heater might be simple, but I have never bought a heater for as little as only 40 euro before.
Quickly I get some other shopping done and peddle back to my new home to await the delivery man. An hour and a half later a pick-up truck with my little heater arrives at the pension gate. The truck is unable to enter the pension grounds, so the poor guy has to drag the heavy little heater another thirty meters to it's destination in my new place all by himself. I am not allowed to help in any way he insists. He puts the monstrosity in place and happily puzzles about where to start to assemble and connect the flue pipes. When finished, he puts an H shaped piece at the very top outside to keep the wind from creating any problems with the draw of the flue and walks away with a “see you”. I was so delighted I made sure that he had a well-earned tip in his pocket. Satisfied, I look around in the pension kitchen that is to be my home for the winter, thinking that everything is going to be just fine.
- Yabancı –
I am standing in front of the police station in Ortaca looking at a heavily-armed policeman. He is staring straight ahead with a severe expression as though his look will deter anyone with thoughts of robbing the police station. Just the thought of this gives me a case of the giggles.
I ask him where I have to go in order to get foreign residency papers. He points out some marble stairs, which I climb to the second floor. There a friendly man, who sees that I am a yabancı or foreigner, comes out of an office and introduces himself as Osman. I follow him into his office and take a seat in an uncomfortable chair. Quite friendly, he asks me if I would like a cup of tea, but I kindly decline. I am too nervous for tea at this moment, and I would more than likely knock it over. I explain to him that I have come to apply for my foreign residency.
Then it starts.
In great detail he explains to me that it varies for each foreigner as they have adopted different procedures based on the law of the country from which you have come. This seems very clever, I think to myself, this way they do not have to make their own rules and it seems to be a fair enough system. Of course, unfortunately for me, Holland is the most expensive country for Turks to immigrate to and, therefore, Turkey is equally as expensive for me to gain my residence within. He shows me a table in a book to convince me that he did not make this all up and to avoid having me get angry about the high costs I will have to pay. Turks immigrating to Germany find residency quite cheap so, reciprocally, the residency fees in Turkey for a German are much cheaper.
With a great deal of enthusiasm, Osman starts typing the application on a very old computer. I wait quietly while he works under the peering eyes of an Ataturk portrait on the wall looking down on me. Ataturk, known as the father of Turkey. I wonder whether or not these Ataturk portraits are compulsory? You always see paintings and posters of Ataturk in offices and businesses everywhere you go in Turkey.
The desk he sits at does not contain much of anything, not even a picture of home or a family portrait. Pens are stacked in a drab-looking pen holder and his paperwork is stacked neatly in piles.
Looking up at me, Osman takes a deep breath and begins the arduous task of explaining to me what it is that he has been writing down. His English is as poor as my limited Turkish is, but by showing me the applications of some other foreigners, he is finally able to make it clear what all his writing is about.
This is what he now tells me that I will need:
• Proof of income, or bank statement, showing that I have enough savings in the bank to prove that I can take care of myself.
• Proof of my Turkish address in the form of a rental contract or proof of ownership of a house.
• A passport that will not expire during the length of the residency I am applying for. I will need colour copies of it and eight colour passport photos.
Now that I understand the requirements, I leave to go take care of the necessary paperwork and to get the Turkish lira for the application fees. 'Hope to see you soon. And don't worry: you need not make an appointment when you return.' With a smile and a firm handshake, he sees me to the door and says goodbye.
In good spirits, I say 'bye bye' to the armed man on the curb as I pass him and walk back to the bus stop.
Within the next two days I have collected the necessary papers, photos, and withdrawn the lira for the fees and return to the police station.
Osman again is very helpful and types out the application on his old antique computer. It is such a relief that I do not have to attempt doing this all by myself. Again, as I sit waiting, I am under the ever-watchful Ataturk peering at me from the wall until Osman is finished and the paperwork is ready.
Osman then takes his coat from a hook in the corner and signals me to come with him. We walk up the street and arrive, after going through a labyrinth of little streets, at the Turkish Post Office. Alone, I know I would never have found this place. We quickly move to the front of the cue without waiting because they seem to know him and signal us to come forward to be helped immediately. I think I would have been there forever if everybody was continually invited to the front of the line. I am told to pay a few lira to the postal cashier, even though I have no idea exactly what it is that I am paying for.
We then leave the PTT, continuing our walk, and arrive at the tax office. I am told that I must have a tax number and stand there patiently, feeling quite stupid, while Osman does all the talking. I receive what appears like some sort of business card with my name and a number on it, and am ushered off to a different counter where I guess that the man behind the counter will most likely take my money for the residency permit. But no, that would be way too easy, we must first go to a bank and get the current euro exchange rate in writing. Osman sighs, takes a deep breath and we head off towards the bank. This bank is a state-owned bank where mainly poor Turks apparently have their accounts. I was feeling very uncomfortable there as we waited for an hour while poorly dressed Turks with lots of missing teeth sat staring at me. I feel completely out of place and will be very happy when we are finished and can leave.
Finally, our turn with the teller arrives and a rather sour-looking lady writes down the exchange rate on a piece of paper and quizzically mumbles: ‘Could they have not phoned for this?’ Yeah, my thought exactly…
Osman rushes us back to the tax office looking worriedly at his watch knowing it will be lunch break soon and they can sometimes take hours preparing the papers. I suspect he wants to be finished with it before they go on lunch break.
‘Thank you for providing the exchange rate, but you must go to the big boss upstairs first,’ says the man behind the counter.
Upstairs sits a very important-looking man in a suit, doing absolutely nothing, behind an apparently ill-used desk. He looks at the papers, signs them, and then he points out a room next to his where a friendly lady writes my name and the amount of money in very neat letters on an enormous cash ledger. Then, back down the stairs to where we started, to the man who also writes my name and the amount in a similar cash ledger. He also hands me the bill, now in Turkish lira instead of euro, with help from the current exchange rate figures we had gotten for him.
‘Yes, we are done!’ We now go to the cashier where the money is counted carefully and I am given a receipt. Of course, once again, everything is written down in yet another large cash ledger.
Wow, it is finally done! We can go back to the police station. Can you imagine, if I had to accomplish this with just directions in Turkish? It would be almost impossible unless you are able to speak fluent Turkish yourself.
Back in Osman's office, he takes my passport so it can be sent to Ankara, along with the application. He hands me a note that I can carry with me to explain to the gendarme why I have no passport, should I be asked for one.
So, extremely tired, but very happy for Osman’s help, I head back to Dalyan to wait the five weeks it will take to recieve the outcome of my foreign residency application.
- Rain –
Slowly I am getting into some type of routine in which I do very little. I walk around Dalyan, explore all the side streets, and cook funny dishes because I am not accustomed to all the ingredients here. The shelves in the supermarkets are as good as empty and familiar articles disappear from the shops as soon as the last tourists leave after the season. The locals in Dalyan do not buy very much, so the store stock is brought back to items like washing powder, cleaning materials, flour, sugar, beans, and more of these basic articles.
The weekly market is not any different. There is a kind of lettuce that is from the family of endives and they have white cabbage, but these are so extremely large that I will never eat an entire one alone. And, of course, they have the basic potatoes, onions, and carrots. I need all of my creativity to make myself something simple, but tasty. To think of what you want to eat and then go out and buy the ingredients is not the case any longer. Now you must go shopping to buy what is there and then later think of what you can do with it. It is hard to get accustomed to this and it is a challenge.
The pension has a bookshelf where customers can leave their books behind or swap them for a different one. I read these books in the evenings and the fun part is that there are many books on this shelf that I would never choose to read otherwise. Many of them are not that bad at all and I get to know new authors.
Apparently I am going through a phase of de-stressing and I sleep more and more. I go to sleep no later than ten in the evening and I do not wake up until nine in the morning. I have given in to it completely and expect that, eventually, I will need less sleep.
I am not lonely, but very much alone. I expected this to be hard but, actually, it is not and I am having a great time. There are no more alarm clocks in the morning and I can do what I feel like doing.
Today all of that is different and I am sick of it! There has been rain and more rain for many days on end now. As soon as I go outside of the kitchen area to get to the toilet in my pension room, some ten meters away, I am soaked. It goes something like this:
I put on the waders and my raincoat and walk the ten meters to the toilet where I remove the waders and raincoat so that I can use the toilet. Then I put the waders and raincoat back on again and return to the kitchen where I take the waders and raincoat off again.
I do not have a raincoat that can handle this sort of rain and my wet clothing never gets dry any longer. Next to the heater stands a rack of damp clothing hanging to dry, but the kitchen is just too small for this. In front of the door are laying wet newspapers because the rain comes through the gap underneath it.
I am sick of this and the walls are closing in on me!
I have no television, I know all my CD’s by heart now, and I have been reading a book a day. Kerim always asks me to come over to his house, which is very sweet of him, but I would not know what to do there. Everybody sits around the television eating funny nuts and talking. I sit there like a dead duck and am bored out of my skull. The conversation in Turkish goes so fast that I do not understand what they are talking about. The television programmes are still in cheesy talk show style and, on top of this, they heat the room up to thirty degrees Celsius, which for most Turks is a quite comfortable temperature, but for me, is oppressively hot.
Looking out of my window, I can see the nearly horizontal lightning exploding over the river. Rain is pounding on the roof and it is leaking down the chimney. Time for more newspapers. There is no one to spill my guts out to and out of pure frustration I bought a lot of wine, and I will drink it all tonight. I do not know if I will be able to consume it all, but I will do my best.
Without too much difficulty, I manage to go through a reasonable amount of wine. The trouble is that, after a certain amount of wine, I cannot read any longer and there is nothing else to do here. I play sad music and let the tears run freely as the rain is pounding against the windows. I mumble, moan, and cry, and feel very miserable. Later, when I am hardly able to pour anymore wine into my glass, I pulled on my waders. Well, maybe not pulled on, but more like partially put on.
With my feet half way inside of my waders, I stumble the ten meters to my bedroom and hit the bed like a brick.
When I wake up the next morning, I feel far from good. My head is pounding and my sense of balance has taken the day off. Relieved, but ill from alcohol, I stumble to the window, carefully I open the curtain, and peek outside.
The weather has gotten better - now for me.
- A Real House –
I am having a difficult conversation with Kerim as he tries to explain why I am not allowed to build on the land that I bought. The village of Çandır was under the administration of the Dalyan Town Council when I had bought the plot of land, now that has been changed and it is under the administration of the Koyceĝiz Town Council, which is a very different story. I do not understand what makes it so different, but I am willing to take his word for it. Many Turkish villages have no development plan as the government is in the process of verifying titles and mapping all the villages to facilitate an overall plan being released. The village of Çandır is next to the famous excavation site of the ancient city of Kaunos, which makes everything far more complicated. Many different government agencies have a say in the matter since it is in an ecologically and historically protected area.
In addition, it seems that some hotshot altered the drawings to make his plot look bigger and better, lending to increased confusion. My piece of land does not match the drawings in Muĝla (the government seat of this province) any longer and the Muĝla office is the one that approves building permissions. In a country where corruption in government is found more often than not, everything is possible as long as you have the right connections, or the money to grease a few palms.
The whole system is confusing to me and I do not always understand the intricacies of doing business this shady way. According to Kerim, this process will only take a few months and I certainly do hope so.
It is time for me to look for a temporary house and to get my belongings in Holland shipped to Turkey. I cannot stay here at Kerim’s pension when the tourists begin to arrive for the summer season. Staying in the pension is not a problem according to Kerim, but the lack of privacy and with my different way of life taken into consideration, I have decided it is better that I find a place of my own.
I am standing in the first floor of a big house in Dalyan not far from the pension. There is a living room, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen.
‘It has a lot of space for the low rent they are asking,’ says Kerim.
I will need every bit of this space for all of my belongings that will arrive later from Holland. There is not much for rent in Dalyan and often, what is available, is priced much too high. It is also the custom here to rent houses fully furnished and that is exactly what I do not want. It is a reassuring thought that Kerim’s pension is just around the corner and that I can always go there, should there be any kind of problem.
I have made my decision and tell Kerim that I am going to rent the house. It has a lot of space and with no garden to worry about it is an ideal temporary solution. In the days that follow, I am very busy buying those things I need that are not coming in my household shipment from Holland. Two beds, a sofa, and some cheap curtains are necessary because it seems that everyone in the neighbourhood is always peeking through my windows and this yabancı is getting extremely annoyed by their lack of respect for my privacy. I also create a bookshelf from discarded planks and building bricks.
No longer do I have to put on my shoes to go to the toilet or to the bedroom like I did at Kerim's Pension. There are now curtains in the windows and normal lamps in the rooms.
To be able to walk from room to room is a real treat. Three months of living in the kitchen at the pension is really enough to make me sincerely appreciate this temporary rental. At the pension the most thrilling activity was watching the spin cycle of the washing machine, but the garden right along the river I will surely miss. Moving has been easy, just a few suitcases and the wood-stove heater is all that I can call mine.
It is time to go back to Holland to make the arrangements for shipping my goods.
- Cold Sweat –
In a fright I have stepped off of my bike. I am standing with sweaty hands at a busy crossing in my hometown of Middelburg, in the Netherlands. I push the bicycle over to a bench to sit and analyze quietly what might be wrong with me. I have been bicycling here since my tenth birthday, more than thirty years ago, often past this same well-known busy crossing. Why should it now give me feelings of panic? It takes me a few minutes to recognize what is happening. Living in Turkey I have grown accustomed to the way the Turks drive. On the streets in Turkey you have to anticipate every possible move that another driver could make and be prepared to react. Turks simply do not follow the traffic regulations, or are completely unaware that there are any to begin with. They are blasting through each other, often entering roundabouts going the wrong direction. Even bicyclists take the part of the road closest to their destination to avoid peddling any more than absolutely necessary. Small 125cc scooters all shoot about in every direction. It is an ongoing exercise in self-preservation.
The crossing in Middelburg, however, is far busier than any crossing in Dalyan. It is impossible to keep an eye on everybody or even anticipate what they might do. The fun part is that you do not have to! Everybody follows the rules here and you only have to pay attention to your own traffic lane.
As soon as I realize this, I have the courage to go back into traffic and continue to peddle to my favorite bookstore. It is unbelievable how quickly one adapts to new living surroundings as I have after spending only four months living in Turkey.
A little later I am sitting on a stool at my favorite bookstore finding it hard to make a selection from all the gorgeous fantasy books lining the shelves. After three quarters of an hour I have made my choice and spent far too much money on books.
Relaxed, I saunter through the shopping street and marvel at the number of beautiful shops filled with enormous stocks of nice, but totally unnecessary, want-to-have type of items. My next stop is the drug store. When I arrive at the drug store I fall silent at what I see. There is about ten meters on the aisle containing shampoos and hair conditioners of different varieties smiling at me. 'Has it always been like this?' I wonder while I realize that I would need to become at least one hundred and thirty years old to try them all.
The whole scene comes across as completely ridiculous. The shops in Dalyan offer three brands at the most but, I have to admit that, for me, it is quite enough.
Still impressed, I walk further down the aisle and pass two meters of toothpaste, and yes! Liquorices! I find nothing wrong with the three meters of plastic containers filled with all different kinds of licorice. Greedily, I take a plastic bag and dig in hungrily. Of course I have to test them before I buy them, and soon my mouth is so full I have to find a quiet corner and look interestedly at crèmes while chewing the licorice before I can go to the cash register.
Exhausted from all these impressions and the throngs of people, I peddle back to my friend’s house with renewed self-confidence. A warm meal with bacon and a proper wine, which is way over my budget, awaits me. First I will enjoy a luxurious shower with more than enough hot water and water pressure in a house with a central heating system. I do have warm water in Turkey but it is so overly hot during the summer from the solar system unit which heats it, that the cold water tap, due to pressure, fails to cool it down. In the winter the water is not nearly as hot and the tap set to warm alone is enough. Unfortunately, the pressure is so low that it is not easy to even get wet. But, on the good side, it is cost-free.
A few hours later as I lean back on thick cushions with a glass of nice French wine, with my feet nearly in the open fire, I realize that I have left a lot of luxury behind in Holland. But, luckily, the winter in Turkey is much shorter and I do not need these modern luxuries as much as they do in Holland with its two distinct seasons... 'Winter and August,' as my brother used to say.
- Another Thing –
You will not believe the number of memberships and subscriptions you have accumulated until you go through your bank statements from the last two years. I really did not know that I spent so much money on memberships, magazines, and other incidentals. Now is a good time to get rid of them.
Most magazines respond quite well to being cancelled; a short mail with the reason I am cancelling the subscription and they reply by mail with a date of cancellation and a thank you. At the sports club, familiar as they are with my plans, they accept a written note of cancellation to their administrative office. There were also a few charities that I only had to cancel the automatic withdrawal order at the bank and that was it.
To stop insurance is normally difficult, but when you are leaving the country it is generally accepted as being a valid enough reason to end the contract. Doing so was easy to accomplish through the insurance agent.
A mobile phone contract? Forget it! You just cannot get rid of it. In good spirits, I went to the cellular telephone store to find out how to end my contract. Unfortunately, you always wait forever before anyone will help you, but they do take their time assisting everybody, so I did not see it as a problem. When it was finally my turn, the employee hammered a bit on his computer and told me everything was taken care of... Brilliant!
But, to my amazement, the bills kept arriving after I had already moved to Turkey. I did not see the pile of bills until the first time I returned to Holland and found bills, threats, and even a letter from a debt-collection agency.
Inquiries at the cellular company told me that it was unknown to them that I had ended the contract, but if I would be nice enough to pay the bill and make new arrangements to end the contract, everything would be finalized. I am not planning on doing any such thing, so I am wracking my brain for a better resolution.
I was definitely in need of a ruse.
Trying my luck, I phoned the debt-collection agency. A friendly man answered and got the dossier for my phone service.
‘Yes, I have it in front of me, what is the problem?’ he asks.
So I tell him that I am a friend of the girl with the phone contract and that I am the one handling her mail for her. I explain that the lady involved is living in Turkey and will not be returning. I went on to explain that everything was arranged at the telephone shop before, but now they were acting like they knew nothing about it. I assure him that the lady is not going to pay and that it would be wise to not incur any more costs because the money would be hard to collect.
He says he is extremely grateful for my phone call about the account and he assures me that the matter is now resolved.
Ha-ha.... it worked!
- Dorcas –
As soon as there is no longer any reason for me to return to Holland, I intend to look for a dog. Since I enjoy walking, it seems to me the perfect friend. It will also be nice to have a pal around the house to talk to.
Enough of orphaned mutts, a long time ago I learned not to go looking actively for anything. If I determine up front how the dog I want should look, then I will undoubtedly come home with a dog that has that look, but possesses the wrong character. I am just going to have to wait for a suitable dog to cross my path and hope it will be the right one for me. During this period I am alert to my surroundings so as to prevent the likelihood of missing my chance of finding just the right dog.
I knew I would have to wait to find a dog, because finding somebody to dog sit your dog is nearly impossible in Turkey - and I knew I still needed to travel back to Holland before finally settling in Turkey. I have not had the time yet to build up a social network and having to rely on Turks with a new dog is really not an option. Of course they are willing to look after your animal, but it would not be what I call dog sitting. The dog will most likely be chained to a tree all day and then, possibly, be moved into a barn for the night. Sure, the dog will get food, but that is not what I worry about. I see a dog as a friend and always treat it as such. My conscience would not bear it if the dog had to spend a week tied at the end of a chain. I will train him not to do his business on the premises, but I can just see him being very unhappy doing his business after trying to hold it for an impossible amount of time. Walking a dog is unknown to the Turks. These kind of things, for a softy like me, are almost unbearable.
I am bicycling through Dalyan with some groceries on my way home when I spot a pup on one of the side streets. He looks up at me from a plastic trash bag which he is sitting in up to his shoulders. Somehow, this little thing catches my attention, so I hit the brakes and swing a hard right turn onto the street. I have seen many wandering dogs in and around Dalyan and not one has managed to draw my attention. Most dogs here are overly humble which is something I do not like in a dog.
A mostly black-coloured pup, with floppy ears and long thin legs, looks at me boldly with his bright-eyes.
Yes, I'm captivated.
Before I realize it, I have stepped from the bike and am knelt down cuddling this cute little fellow. He is wearing a collar around his neck which probably means that he belongs to somebody. I don’t want anyone to have to grieve over their dog disappearing, and this is not the way I want to get a dog. So, with this little animal on my arm, I try knocking on some nearby doors.
‘No, I don’t know whose dog that is, try over there,’ most of the neighbouring houses respond.
Twice I hear: ‘What do you care, if you like it, then why not just take it?’
A little boy on the street finally tells me the dog belongs to the hotel owner on the corner. With lead in my shoes and the pup in my arms, I walk to the door of the hotel to inquire of the owner.
‘Hello,’ says a man.
‘Uhm, yes, is this your dog?’ I mumble.
‘Yes, it is my dog,’ he says, while looking at me strangely.
I take a deep breath and then bravely say: ‘I would like to have this dog.’
Where upon he smiles and says: ‘Sure, no problem, let me go get his lead.’
I cannot believe what I am hearing, but my heart jumps when he says I can have his little dog. As soon as the man returns with the dogs lead, he explains that he really has no time to care for the small guy. During the last rainy period he had found this puppy almost completely drowned at the side of the road. Ah! I think how sweet of him to take this poor thing in and I thank him exuberantly before leaving with the dog. I am thrilled as I put my new little friend in the basket attached to the front of my bike.
‘Off to the veterinarian, pretty boy,’ I say to the contents of my basket as I peddle off to the veterinarian’s office.
He gives the poor thing an enormous amount of shots and fills out a medical passport for him detailing the injections he has been given. Quickly, I peddle home through the cold February weather with my new little friend riding in the basket.
Upon arriving, I light the wood-stove heater and place a big shallow plastic washing tub filled with a soft blanket next to it. Somewhat shyly, he crawls into the tub and spends the rest of the day looking at me with suspicious eyes, as though he is expecting me to throw him out at any moment.
For the first few days, my new little friend does nothing else but eat and sleep next to the heater, plus having his daily walks with me. It seems as though he can hardly believe his luck. I name him Dorcas because of his long legs. The name Dorcas means gazelle in Aramaic.
After a few day’s I hear a knock at the front door. I open the door to see the landlord, who has come down from upstairs, standing in front of me saying:
‘Is it true that there is a dog in the house?’
‘Yes, that is true.’
It is evidently time for trouble because he is not happy having a dog in his rental house at all. Kerim, who did the negotiating for the rent, told him I did not have a dog and, Mehmet, the landlord, will not tolerate a dog being in the house.
Hmm, yes, I did not have a dog when I rented the house, but I was unaware that it would be any problem. Kerim never told me that there were no dogs allowed.
In his limited English he explained that the previous tenants had to leave because of their dog. His kids were so scared of the dog that they would not walk outside any longer.
Two cups of coffee and a string of misunderstandings later, I convinced Mehmet that my dog would be completely different. He would not bother the children and definitely would not bark all the time. I persuaded him to give my dog a week and then we could talk again, at the end of the week.
But he kept lingering in his chair, indicating that he was, apparently, not done with discussing the problem. Soon I find out what the rest of the problem is when he says that he is willing to build Dorcas a doghouse so he can stay outside because he feels that it is really filthy to keep a dog inside of a house.
Oh boy, here we go again.
This time it takes me quite a while to understand exactly what Mehmet’s opinion about the dog being in the house is really about. It is that Mehmet thinks he will shit inside of the house. So, I explain how these things work with my dog and that he does not do that because I take him for daily walks in order for him to take care of that. In the mean time, I am hoping and praying that Dorcas behaves himself because he has not been completely housebroken yet. He could definitely ruin my credibility in a split second. Luckily enough, he is laying in his tub peeking suspiciously at him, when Mehmet finally mumbles; 'All right, I will see how it goes...'
Like most Turkish people, you find their emotions show in their behaviour immediately. Mehmet and his wife would no longer say hello to me and the granny who lives in the miniature house on the property could not look me in the eye any longer.
So, Dorcas and I do everything in our power to make sure that no one can find a single reason to remark poorly about our behaviour. I vacuum, clean, and scrub the floors excessively until I have no skin left on my fingers to convince them how clean I keep the place. Finally, after two weeks, the redeeming words arrive. Mehmet tells me that he has no more complaints about the dog and that his kids think Dorcas is cute. That same evening I raise a toast to Dorcas on the happy outcome. The next morning even granny says good morning with a big smile on her face.
-The Shipping Agent -
Six weeks after my moving company in Holland shipped my household belongings to Turkey, the redeeming phone call comes with the good news. The sea container has arrived in Izmir and they want to know if I would be so kind as to come to the office of the shipping agent in Izmir to claim it.
Kerim and I leave for Izmir in good spirits to find, against all odds, that the shipping agent has a beautiful office with a pleasant and luxurious atmosphere. In my point of view, this can only mean that either the company is a rip-off or it is doing extremely good business. We are politely welcomed by an assistant and asked to take a seat in an office with a comfortable seating area in front of an enormous empty desk. We are offered a nice cup of tea and wait to see what will come next. I can see that Kerim has difficulty with the situation again, as he nervously moves back and forth in his chair. He feels responsible, even though there is no need for it, as far as I am concerned. I feel that his help with the translation is more than enough, but to his way of thinking, women always need help.