I love Turkey
From being young I was always intrigued with the East. Probably because of Aladin and his magic lamp, and later Lawrence of Arabia, which I thought was simply magical. Fortunately Lawrence was as enigmatically fascinating as the actor who portrayed him, Peter O'toole, a fine figure of a man, and I loved him also in Camelot, as in life Lawrence in death strove to save others, he swerved to miss two young boys on bicycles and fell from his motorcycle and never regained consciousness. His life story portrayed in the film is breathtaking, how he managed to manouvre people with his intuition and understanding of culture. I would not like to compare my experiences to that of Mr. Lawrence, but it always lingers in the back of my brain.
I was going on holiday to Bodrum in Turkey with my 16 year old daughter. This was, our first holiday abroad in the year 2000. It was a good year for Turkish holidays, you could buy three fake T shirts for a tenner in the bazar, and spend three whole pounds on a three course dinner, the interest rate was favourable on money transfers into lira, and for a couple of hundred quid we could live like Queens for two weeks self catering in Bodrum. I picked a hotel on the outer suburbs. Like fools we booked a taxi down to the market quite regularly, and on about the second to last day of our holidays, we realised it was only a stroll down the road, however the local taxi rank had been faithfully taking us the scenic route all around the houses for two weeks, now wasn't that really kind of them, to show us in the comfort of their mercedes their home town in full detail.
When we arrived, we were as white as snow. This is a tell tale sign to all that you have, just got off the plane, and are green. Green for go, green for greenstick, green for nieve. We experienced a barrage of hard sell everytime we opened our appartment door, sometimes when we didn't open it, it drifted up through the window on the incense breeze from the kebab shop down the street. On the days that we did walk into the town, we were constantly hassled to come in to every establishment. And the hard sell was to put it blunt, male attention. I have never been so beautiful nor wanted in my entire life, as when I had my purse in my hand and walked in those hard sell streets. They were pretty blatent, getting you to have a free drink, or , too try their lemon hand rinse, or to drink their free tea, which they would eventually ask for payment for. At first it was quaint, but, as it happened more and more, it became tiresome. My daughter was, to the Turkish men, an angel that they fell in love with and offered marriage three times a day. But I would be biased and say, that she looked just like me but better, when I was her age, and at her age, being in Turkey would have been just a dream to me. I did used to dream of it, even covered my face with a few tea towel to get the mystic effect. I could have been the sultans favourite in a Harem in the Dessert, robbed in the night by a dark prince. But in my dreams I would slay him with my inteligence, and a few fancy moves with my veils. But it doesn't always work out like that in real life, real life is not a film..sometimes you have to act and act quickly..not mess about.
The staff in the hotel were fabulous, although we did begin to think we were in a serial..that was always playing, on the same station. The boy on reception, Ali, also carried our bags to our room, and waited for a tip. He also served us our drinks in the bar, served us our breakfast, dinner and tea, cleaned the pool. I expected him to appear as a maid, but it really did make my day, when the fantastic ultra sexy Turkish Dancer on the Turkish Night also turned out to be Ali ! and what a perfomance that was. Men make good women in Turkey.
He had a bet with his mates, this Ali. He bet that, I was older than 40. He bet because I told him I was the mother of my daughter, and they could not believe it. At that time, I was forty one years old, and didn't have a single wrinkle. I had to produce my passport which was in their safe, as his colleagues would not believe it. He was so jubilant that he won, he started to drink alcohol at work. I had won a bottle or raki out of this bet, and so had he, he toddled off to the local shop and purchased it, opened it and began to knock it back. To our horror the next time I looked he was a crumpled heap on the floor behind the bar, his work colleagues just pulled him, and I saw his feet slipping behind a curtain into the store room..as if he was just a bag of laundry. I will never remove that image of his size nine flip flops sliding across the mosaic Turkish tiles, excessively under the influence of alcohol.
Next morning he served us breakfast in the guise of Roy Orborson. My daughter was relieved to see him alive and asked why he was wearing sunglasses. Ali didn't say anything, he just lifted the spectacles and his eyes were like black pits of tar. Unfortunately we had to laugh, as we both have a cruel sense of humour. Then we concerned ourselves with the local tv program, which is the Turkish equivalent of Coronation Street. A member of staff asked us if we liked this program, and he didn't know we understood Turkish. We smiled in unison, knowing that these serials don't require you to understand the language, body language and expression of angst and happiness relay the story universally, without the need for verbal interpretation. Try it..it works..
On one of our walks in the bazzar, I made the mistake of being 'drawn in' to one of the carpet shops..You can imagine the heady smells of summer, the heat, the men leering at you, and trying to get you to buy things that you didn't really want. The different sounds of mystic woodwind music, the tea boys running up the narrow markets with their apple tea and cinnamon biscuits. The glorious perfumed breeze from the Azures, it all smelled like patchuli.
For a moment I allowed myself to be swayed, and I walked down some steps with my lovely daughter, walked down..down hearing the inviting voice of the Turkish man like hamlyn mice we followed ..slam. The doors behind us slammed shut, and two other men were there. It was dark, and our eyes not accustumed to this light, along with my heart beat began to struggle. In that moment a dreadful fear filled my gut. I had not seen the film Midnight Express at that point, which is an iconic film about drug smuggling in the late seventies, and I am glad that I had not, for I would have been hysterical with that double door slamming shut, closing out the sun, closing in the territory, invading my control and my lovely daughter with me.
For sure, I did not relay any of this to my surroundings. I was calm though inside I was afraid. I was glad now , that I was a dissapointment to my country. I was glad, that, I had not worn clothes that were revealing,nor my daughter. In this situation, and although I feel that is is my right to wear shorts, to wear my arms bare, to wear a neckline to where I ever please, I was glad that I was dressed modestly and covered. Do they not realise what, slamming a door and there is, no other exit does to women in a foreign country ? Do they not think what enters the mind of women ? We were..imprisoned in their shop. We were caught in a trap, for something, anything to unfold. I didn't feel it appropriate to turn and bang on the door, with the bouncers stood there. I thought it best, to play this game
So, I let him show me his carpets. I looked at his wonderful carpets with this theme in my mind of escape. I was not going to buy a carpet, but I had not to display dis interest in his wares or disrespect his skill of selling . I had to, put all my English views of women and their rights in the world to one side, and not make a stand. I could tell in his face, in his hard sell eyes he was smiling like at any point that could take a very different course. .and I had to hope that my daughter did not pick up on any of the fear that was looming in my body, and that was the flight momentum. It kicked in when those huge twin doors slammed behind me. The longest hard sell in Bodrum, but I think my in built politeness and my understanding of the culture pushed me out the door, without a carpet. .. and still intact. This is not a good way to sell. I thanked him for his kindness, and for showing us his beautiful carpets, we declined the apple tea with him and the other two men and he opened the doors back into the sunshine. Which I found bizare in Bodrum bazzar, out of the darkness into the gold and red of Turkey. I love this country, I love to wake up and hear the mullahs calling to prayer..I thought there was some guy sat up in a turret singing his heart out, and was sort of sad to be told that they are recordings. I bought a Koran whilst here, in the market to read, which is a good read running on the same lines as the Bible. Tradition, respect it. or fall foul along the wayside.
