So you want to be a Turk?

 It had been four years since my sorry butt had graced the well worn seat of a Turkish airlines flight and delivered me into the country that I found myself residing in. Just like the landing of the Turkish airline flight, the four years had been bumpy! However, now I found myself extremely contented and happily married and fully settled in Turkey. There was one slight problem though, even though I considered this country as now my home – it wasn’t! To confirm that it wasn’t, year on year I would have to stroll along to the main police station and have a stamp firmly impressed into a little blue book called a “Yabancilara Mahsus Ikimet Tezkeresi” which indicated I was a foreigner and only residing in the promised land.  The stamp in the book didn’t come cheap, and still doesn’t. There was only one way around it, I would have to become a Turk!

Arriving home from the police station after another stamp in the “Ikemet” and handing over a fist full of Lira, I opened my laptop. “ How do I apply to become a Turkish citizen” Google threw back the answer via the Turkish citizenship website!

*S/he should be at the age of consent according to his/her national law (if s/he is not a citizen of any country, Turkish law is taken into consideration which requires 18 years old as the age of consent

No problem there – I was on my way!

*S/he should reside in Turkey for the last five years and should have the intention of settling in Turkey (This condition may not be applicable to those who are married to a Turkish national or those with Turkish origin)

I was married to a Turkish woman – This was citizenship thing was easy!

*S/he should be in good health

Ok, I had recently had an sorry episode of being booted up the posterior in a football match, which in turn caused a cut in the back passage. This engaged me in the embarrassing situation of having to go to the local hospital emergency department with a panty pad down the back of my shorts! –  I surmised that the Citizenship office wouldn’t want an inspection in my “rusty sheriff's badge” area, so won’t mention that to them, I thought!

*S/he should have an adequate command of  Turkish

I can order a kebab in Turkish, adequate for me!

*S/he should have enough financial resources to support himself/herself and his/her family in Turkey

I was on the phone immediately to home “Dad can you transfer some money into my account “

*The applicant must own a Sezun Aksu CD and swear allegiance to the King known as Ibrahim Tatlises. 

Ok I made that one up!

So with all those ticked off, I embraced my wife firmly and declared to her “ Darling I am going to be one of you!” She pushed me away abruptly “ You’re having a sex change?”  - oh the good old Turkish wit!

A few days later me and the good lady found ourselves standing in front of man at the “Vatandaşlık Müdürlüğü” better known as the Citizenship Bureau. Smilingly I informed the man “ I want to be a Turk”, unsmilingly he handed me a photocopied piece of paper along with a bellow of smoke from his cheap cigarette. On it was a catalogue as long as an obese families grocery shopping list!. All detailing every single document I required to complete the first stage on the long road of becoming “one of them”.

We sat in a local coffee shop eating pastry whilst scrutinizing the list in front of us! Bank statements, birth certificate, wedding certificate, medical certificate, social security information, a police check record, notice from the British consulate, some documents in autocratic speak, A401 document, B578 document, some document to prove what side of bed I got out on  – the list went on!.  Along with eight passport photos and all foreign documents to be translated into Turkish. The list finished with a note in black bold type : All forms must be duplicated three times and installed in a three clear plastic folder, supplied by yourself.

Looking forlornly at the lexicon of demands in front of me, my wife being a typical “roll up the sleeves and get it done” type of person, shrugged her shoulders and notified me to eat up, we have to get started. And get started we did!

The next two days were spent bombing around the streets of Antalya in search of  documents , certificates, and evidence of my being. Badgering official looking employees at every stage. Being sent there to be told “go there” and then informed “to return there” again with a few lira needed in payment at every junction.  Our days were industrious and we were rewarded with the majority of the items required. Eight passport photos from Mehmet, our local photographer, were quickly snapped and printed and if I do say so myself, quite dashing I looked.  Proving it’s not what you know but who, a full A1 health certificate was obtained without even having my bits held and being told “cough”. Supplied by a doctor, Father of one of my students whose medical examination of me extended to “Hi Mike – How are you?” My response of “ I am fine Cem bey” was good enough for him and the medical was over and the certificate duly issued.

On the third day, we returned to the Vatandaşlık Müdürlüğü, via the local stationary shop to get everything triplicated and to obtain the much needed clear plastic folders. Handing them over to the same man who had handed me the list not three days before, “ We have done everything required and in three folders” I proudly said. He then perused, investigated, scrutinized every line of every document, occasionally glancing up at me as I stood nervously . “We will be in touch” he officiously replied! – Stage one over.

The reality however was they didn’t get in touch, and after a month things had gone decidedly quiet. Coming back from work one day, technically something I was not legally allowed to do, I checked the postbox. A small note was sandwiched between the phone bill and a flyer for some new salon recently opened offering body care. I quickly unlocked the apartment door and passed the note to my wife who was up to her eyes in washing. She ran her eyes over it quickly “what day is it today?” she asked nervously. “20th May” I replied. “Ok”  she responded without taking her eyes away from the fast spinning washing machine “the police are coming tomorrow to talk to us about the citizenship application” . Stage two was about to start.

Now, I have never been a lover of the Police, not that I have ever had any personal dealing with them, except a rather weird sobriety test in New York once, which included me stood crossed legged on the side of a road while attempting to touch my nose. Holding nothing against these fine up standing  men and woman who protect us so bravely (cough), I just have never reacted well in front of anything or anyone official. Turkish police officers in my home were about as welcome as typhoid for me!

Both sitting anxiously and in silence we waited  expectantly for the visit.  It wasn’t long coming, 9.15am precisely the doorbell rang it’s annoying bird whistling chime. I pressed the front door release, waiting with the apartment door open as the chugging sound of the apartment block lift signaled they were on their way . Within seconds the lift door slid open and two men, dressed in jeans and jumpers, stood before me. “Oh sorry, I was waiting for someone else,?” I screeched with annoyance. “Michael bey?” one looked at me with non smiling eyes. “yes that’s me”. my reply came . “We are from the Antalya police we informed you we were coming”. I stood in shocked silence not expecting two men to be dressed like the Turkish equivalent of Starsky and Hutch before me, then noticing one of the plastic clear folders we had handed in at the Vatandaşlık Müdürlüğü . My wife broke the silence and quickly hurried them in with as much enthusiasm and smiles as she could muster whilst offering them our best house slippers.

Starsky and Hutch arrive for interrogation

“Please sit” my wife offered. One of them accepted her offer, one of them didn’t. Hutch, the standing one decided he didn’t want to be part of the questioning process and rudely took himself off around our apartment on an unguided tour. Starsky, sat, with his unshaven face inspecting me from top to bottom running his hand over his mouth before throwing me my first interrogatory “So Michael bey, you have been here now for four years so obviously you speak good Turkish”. “ So so, it could be better but I am learning slowly” I smilingly replied in the best Turkish I could assemble. The smile wasn’t returned and my answer was not registered with him as he started a verbal Kalashnikov like series of questions. It was the obscurity of the interrogatories that confounded me. “What are the names of your in-laws” being the first. It continued, “where and where was your Father-in-law born?”, “When is your wife’s sister’s birthday?” “ What star sign is your wife?” “Who took your wedding photos?” I answered them all as best as I could and as honestly as possible. Each question designed to confuse and discomfort me. All the time Starsky, sat back comfortably, seemingly enjoying my discomfort, even lighting a cigarette without feeling the need to ask. The next one was blunt and direct “Are you in a marriage to gain Turkish citizenship?” . I replied as I always do when under duress, with a one liner “Can I phone a friend?” I laughingly responded. “Why do you want to phone a friend don’t you know?”. His stern, surprised face confirming the joke went blowing in the wind along with his cigarette smoke. My wife, explained something to him in Turkish, what exactly I had no idea as my mind had been transfixed on Hutch who stood in the hallway, looking at a hung framed football shirt, signed by old team mates. “Which team is this?” he shouted down the hallway to the two stressed and one relaxed souls, who turned as one . I took it as a chance to escape my interrogator. I stood quickly and walked over to Hutch…Starsky followed two paces behind me.

“It’s my old team shirt” I announced proudly. Then continuing to explain how football had been part my profession for a small part of my life. With that the storm clouds of awkward questioning parted into the sunshine of three men all with a common love for football. We all sat,while my wife made tea and spent the next thirty minutes talking about teams, players, formations. “Do you know Iddaa Mike bey?” Hutch asked me. I did know Iddaa, it is the Turkish equivalent of the English football pools. Hearing that I knew but never played, Starsky reached into the inside pocket of his well worn real leather jacket and unfolded an Iddaa form with all the forthcoming matches. Matches, that were scrutinized by them and the interrogation started again with a whole new format. “ Will Bristol City beat Nottingham Forest?”. “Can Cardiff win at Ipswich?” with each one of my insights slowly based on me being a native of those teams country, Starsky and Hutch filled out their Iddaa forum with permutations of which teams would win and lose in the week ahead.

They finally left, with a firm handshake and wishing me luck on my citizenship adventure – Stage two was complete.

Again silence for a month or so. I was  starting to worry that my football predictions had not gone well with Starsky and Hutch resulting them in losing money on their bets. Then out of the blue came a brown envelope containing another request from Antalya’s Police department. This time ordering me to some obscure police station on the edge of the city to have my finger prints taken for public records. It wouldn’t be the first time I had had my finger prints taken. A trip to my local police station back home when I was ten my previous experience. Organized by the school, the trip was scripted as a “community project” – even at ten I understood it to be a warning of “if you are naughty…”. Even locking us in a cell for five minutes to get a feel for the place. The warning obviously had the desired affect and as stated earlier had never been in trouble. However, if anything this episode was less daunting than the previous one. My prints were taken, my height and weight recorded all by a very attractive police woman who used the opportunity to practice her English. I was in and out in an hour even being invited to the police canteen to drink coffee, which I accepted. Stage three was completed!

Months drifted by, not a word was forthcoming. No letters arrived, no notes in the postbox  It seemed the process had ground to a sudden halt. So long in fact that I had stopped thinking about it and was resigned to another massive payment for residence fees for another year, which was coming soon. Sat on the bus, day dreaming out the window on a beautiful late summer morning, the vibration on my phone indicated a message. A number I didn’t recognize, spam sms no doubt offering me a new phone package. Alas, it was a message from the Citizenship bureau requesting for me to visit them urgently. As luck would have it, I was passing there on the bus I was on, so stopped prematurely outside their offices. I marched up the stairs to be confronted by “Mr Smile” the guy who so long ago now had passed me the long list of requirements. His demeanor had not wavered. still sullen, officious and unsmiling. "Do you wish to change your name to a Turkish sounding one?” he barked to me. The decision had to be made there and then!. I declined and as explained here something I later wished I had done.   My decision in the adverse reply didn’t seem to be to Mr Smile’s liking, as he looked at me distainly before declaring “ You must be here on Friday 27th September at 11.30am”. Before I could ask why he continued “ You will have your Turkish speaking test”. My heart sank!

Whilst reading this, you may have gained the impression that yours truly has an excellent command of Turkish to be able to endure all this officialdom and questioning. Seven years on from the Citizenship experience my Turkish has improved but at that time I can only describe my Turkish as an oral disaster. I seemed to have had accumulated a nice collection of Turkish words in my head, with no grammar structure to make them understandable. Sentences such as “ Do you want a coffee” became “ coffee want you”. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t – most definitely in an oral Turkish test it wouldn’t. I checked the date on my phone Thursday 19th September, I had one week to learn Turkish.

It was impossible, never having being any good at test or exams, I knew that the task of building my Turkish to any level of acceptance was about as likely as discovering I had woken one morning and morphed into Recep tayip Erdogan, the Turkish Prime Minister. I contacted a friend, who had to endure the process a few years before. His, recollection of his Turkish exam was not appealing as he listed all the questions that he had been required to answer, finishing with quoting the Turkish national anthem word for word.  He did advice me though, to forget learning Turkish grammar per say, but input into my brain scripts as an actor would . Quoting all the questions he had been asked, I wrote them down, and for the next five days and nights practiced the precise answers in my small brained head. Like some demented entertainer, I stood in the mirror practicing the lines I would need to get me through this torturous ordeal – and hoping that the same questions , as asked to my friend would be the same for me. After five days, I had perfected them, my wife even helping me with the pronunciation.   Last day, The Turkish National anthem, for hour upon hour I read it, sang it, spoke it, whispered it and perused over every word, mostly having no idea what they meant. The day ended with me being able to recite just three lines of it- I was useless. I knew how Turks consider the National Anthem, it is treated as much as a national symbol as the stars and crescent moon imprinted on the Turkish flag. It was to be my failure I just knew it!

We patiently sat outside the room where my next interrogators had gathered. Surprisingly, myself  not being the only one going through this.  We watched a blonde haired Russian girl enter before us. Her husband comforting her as she knocked on the door. Five minutes later he was comforting her again as she returned to the waiting eyes outside, in tears! This was going to be worse than I thought. We waited and waited outside for our turn and just as the clock struck midday we were informed to enter. Excelling a long breath I knocked and entered with my wife by my side. She being instructed to sit behind me and me instructed to sit on a chair in front of a horseshoe shaped collection of five authoritative men. Four of them in various uniforms and one directly in front me with a dark suit and red tie. He introduced himself as the Head of Citizenship and then introduced the collective around him. None of who registered with me .

It started! Firstly asking my name and surprisingly my home phone number, both batted back to them with no problem. “ Do you like Turkey”, now this seemed such a futile question. Who in their right mind would answer “ Bloody Hell no way, the food is awful, the weather too hot and if I see another Mustafa Kemal photo I will scream”. I gave a short answer in the positive as not to whisked away in a straightjacket . It continued, and my friends advice of memorizing answers worked superbly. I felt calm, relaxed and held my own in the onslaught from these five men of high office. Then it came, the thing I had been dreading “ Do you know the words to the Turkish national anthem” the uniformed man on the left asked. I glanced at him, noting his uniform dictated that he was from the Jendarme. It was my biggest fear!. My mouth dried as I attempted the first line. “Korkma, sön……..”. I barely stuttered before my memory closed down. I apologised and asked to try again“Korkma, sön….Korkma, sönmez …Kork…..Korkma, sönmez bu ”. I just couldn’t do it and in my state of despair I could actually hear singing coming through the half opened window behind me. I tried again, but noticed that the collective gathering were speaking amongst themselves and looking at their watches. As one they all stood up and shook my hand and walked past me. It was then I realized the singing outside was the sound of the call to prayer from the city center mosque. The upshot being that my probers had to call time on my Turkish exam to attend Friday prayers. I had been saved by an act of God! – Stage four, the final stage was over!

With that all behind me it was just a case of sitting and waiting, and waiting and waiting. Five months to be precise. We had been assured that all was ok,however it transpired that the Government only issued ID cards twice a year and I had to wait my time. Arriving home one evening my wife showed me the letter from the Citizenship office informing me that I was now officially allowed to declare “ne mutlu turkum diyene” and that my Turkish ID card was awaiting for my collection. Next morning, me and my wife ran up the stairs at the Citizenship office. Stairs that we first climbed over a year before. Just like that time, we were met by Mr Smile, never changing, never smiling as he handed my ID card to me in exchanging for about ten signatures on separate forms. Later on inspection I realized that my name had been changed as explained here. It didn’t matter though, the trial and tribulation was over.

I was now a Turk!

Westy

“…..I have been all over the world and…”

The room was first class, clean, spacious and warm. Food, plentiful and gratifying. Staff, kindness and helpful personified. So sat in my hotel room overlooking the graceful and winding Yesilirmak river in Amasya, I felt compelled to share my judgment on this lovely family run hotel. So, what better place to avail the travelling world of my thoughts then the mecca for the world’s wayfarers , the website tripadvisor.com. On sending my post under the hotel’s name, I decided to check and see what others had experienced in this wonderful place. The first one on the list, not two weeks before me had written:

“ This hotel could best be described as an advertisement on how NOT to run a hotel. The food is mostly inedible and when I wanted to complain, the manager was never around and the staff’s English virtually zero. My stay in Amasya has been ruined because of this place"….definitely do not stay here”

I sat in wonderment of how someone just two weeks before me had viewed the same hotel in such total contrast to my own. The next posting on the list:

“ Here is a gem of a hotel, my stay in Amasya was enhanced staying here. I can not fault the staff and me and my husband, who is disabled, decided to eat in the hotel every evening as the food on offer was out of this world. First class hotel ”

So it continued, it seemed for every positive posting the laws of balance threw in one of discourse.  Of course, we all have different requirements, different standards of living and different attitudes to people and ultimately different opinions on what is classed as satisfactory and not. However the contrast in opinions based on this hotel was distinctly black and white!

Now, I have a passing interest in the hotel trade. My dear wife is a Front office manager in one of the multitude of five star resorts along the beautiful Antalya coastline. With this in mind, the contrasting reports on the Amasya hotel should not have taken me by surprise. In the summer months, not a week goes by when my poor wife is forced to answer an accusation by a guest who on return to their country had decided to seek compensation on some grievance experienced in her hotel. Interestingly, the majority of the complainants never raise an issue whilst undergoing their" “holiday from hell” but wait until their return home to vent their anger!

Take for example the summer of 2012. These are genuine complaints by guest received at her hotel, word for word.

“ We were informed by the brochure that the average daytime temperature in Antalya in July was 34.6 degrees. During the two weeks of our stay, on checking with the local meteorological office website, the average daytime temperature for the fourteen days was 39.7 degrees. Thus making it impossible for us to leave the air conditioned room”  - Franz Klein, Cologne

“ On squeezing the oranges in the breakfast hall using the machine provided we discovered the orange juice was not fresh!” – Olga Alexopoulo, St Petersburg  

“ Being a family run hotel me and my husband were amazed to see to see so many bikini clad woman, which made trips to the beach and pool uncomfortable for our children”  - Saif Hamad, Oman

“ I purchased a pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses from the boutique situated in your hotel for 25 lira (approx 18 dollars) on returning home I have since discovered that the said sunglasses were in fact fake and a cheap imitation “ – Wolfgang Richter, Munich

“ My family came to the ****** Hotel along with Sister’s family. On comparing my one bedroom suite  we discovered it was a lot smaller than my sister’s two bedroom suite”  - Amanda Thorp, Sutton

“On using the hairdryer in our room, it was set to such a high temperature that my daughter had to undergo expensive  hospital treatment for burns to her hair when we returned to Moldova” – Domanica Cemerton, Chisinau

Amusing I think you will agree, however it has to be pointed out that these are not some throwaway lines on a website that most people, if they are intelligent enough, take with a pinch of salt. These are taken from official complaints that the hotel had to deal with on a legal level. They are costly, time consuming and damaging!. A few months ago, I was talking about this issue with my wife’s boss, the hotel manager, over a coffee. A likable, highly intelligent and experienced man with over 25 years experience in the tourist industry. He explained that in his hotel/resort that the percentage of guest that complain works out at less than 4%. “Seems, such a small amount in a resort that has upwards of 1500 holiday makers a week staying in the Summer season” I offered to him. He agreed, however went on to tell me that this 4%, cost in the region of 80,000 US dollars a year in legal cost, translation cost, and time taken by hotel staff to deal with these crazy complaints – although was honest enough to explain that some guest had genuine cause to complain!

Continuing with the tripadvisor.com website, I decided to look up some other hotels that I had stayed at in recent years. Some hotels that had been excellent, some that had been adequate and some that had been not so great. However none that I had ever felt such a degree of discomfort as to ever publicly complain.  Smilingly, I was happy to see the the well worn phrase “ …..this is the worst hotel I have ever stayed in” plastered in criticism on various hotels. The prelude to this sentence is of course always “ I have stayed in hotels all over the world and…..”. I just love it when someone writes that! I visualize that the persons “all over the world” equates to once being forced into an overnight stay at a Travelodge of the M6 after their Ford Fiesta broke down on the way back from a Take That concert at the Manchester Arena! Their second “world travel adventure” probably being , Julie’s Hen night In Dublin and staying in a Bed and Breakfast run by a lovely Irish lady called Mrs Donelly!. Not so much Phileas Fogg but Phyllis Bog standard!


To balance the scales, one would love to see a website set up by Hoteliers the world over entitled guestadvisor.com. Great summaries of guest could be shared the world over baring entry into any hotel they step foot in! One can only imagine with joy at some of the entries:

GUEST NAME: Mikael Zblovaninch
COUNTRY of BIRTH: Bulgaria
HOTEL:  Black Eagle Hotel, Fethiye
DATE: 2.06.2012 – 16.06.2012
COMMENTS:

This tiresome individual stayed in our hotel during the dates above. Unfortunately it seemed that the gentleman has some type of allergy to water, thus it seems, making it unable for him to shower or wash during his stay with us. This allergy did not extend to all liquid post items though as proved by his ability to consume Vodka and cola from dawn to dusk. His inability to use the lavatory in the room still baffles us, unfortunately in his vodka induced slumber he seems to have  mistakenly understood that his bed was for urinating in – much to the discomfort of the chambermaids who had to endure changing urine soaked sheets day in and day out! I would not allow this man to stay in a Cattery let alone a hotel!

GUEST NAME: Trevor (our kid) McNally and family
COUNTRY of BIRTH: Liverpool, England
HOTEL:  Hotel California, Palma, Mallorca
DATE: 7.09.2012 – 21.09.2012
COMMENTS:

 Mr McNally, and his family, wife and seven children stayed with us recently. In all my years as a hotelier I have never witnessed such chaos caused by one family. I am writing this one week after their stay and have had to close the hotel to enable emergency redecoration of the premises. Taking the “all inclusive” concept to the maximum, the McNally family decided to attempt to drink the hotel dry of every alcoholic beverage held in our hotel. Unfortunately this included the children right down to seven year old “Kenny junior” who then on joining the child’s area removed the other guest children’s private property with menaces and at knifepoint!. The McNally family are a living and walking advert as to why contraceptional drugs should be induced at birth to some specimens of humankind!.

To counteract this seemingly need to voice and bemoan at the slightest thing that some guest seem obliged to do – usually with photographic evidence.,my wife’s hotel recently made a startling observation. It transpired that guest who had experienced a lack of respect or a problem checking in on arrival would in all likelihood hate everything about the hotel from that moment on.  Take for example a German guest that arrived last year. On arrival he was confronted with thirty other guest checking in and out at the same time. Forced to wait his turn, he unfortunately had to wait slightly longer than one would want to – 15 minutes to be precise! After 15 minutes his camera came out to take a photo of the queue in front of him, and from that moment on his Sony point and shoot never left his hand. The whole two weeks of this man’s Summer holiday, that had cost him and his wife over 2000 Euros, was spent on the hunt for any annoyance, hitch and disagreement he could discover.

On his return to his homeland he filed a court case against the hotel in a thirty – yes thirty, page document which included over one hundred indiscretions. From the minor “the “<” symbol of the volume button on the TV remote control had worn away to the major “there was a main sewer pipe running from the hotel beach into the sea where human excrement spewed into those swimming around”. All with photographic evidence. Of the hundred complaints he had raised only two were seen to be legitimate by the court. In fact, on inspection,the sewer that he had so carefully photographed transpired to be a water pipe that took spring water, good enough to consume, from the mountains behind the hotel into the sea and fully 700 meters away on a public beach!

The man had made one very big error though, in his wisdom he had decided to log every single complaint on a public travel website, similar to tripadvisor with all his photographic evidence. As I write this, the owners have counter filed a defamation and libel case against the man – and are expecting to win! Who can blame them and I for one hope they do.

How a German guest saw the hotel beach!

The reality!

The complaints do not always arrive by legal notice though. Sometimes they are instant and face to face with the hotel staff themselves. In the years my wife has worked in the hotel industry, she has been called every name that you could ever imagine. Along with being threatened with extreme violence. Then an occasion witnessed by my own eyes, had to stand patiently and unflinching as some vodka soaked Ukrainian woman screamed into her face “ I will make sure you are fired for this, you uneducated woman”.  This coming the day after my wife had had to witness the brains of a Russian woman splattered all over the tiled floor of the hotel swimming pool, who had decided that she would end her life by diving head first from five floors up! I better point out my wife is fully educated with a degree in tourism management and speaks four languages…and obviously has the patient of a saint!

Why do people make such an effort to seek out trouble and complain though?. I guess every person living on this planet wants to become stronger, more resourceful and if possible superior to others. People have varying ways of doing things, some people do it by making extraordinary achievements others do it by putting people down while a third group does it by complaining. Maybe in the hotel environment it is paradoxically a way to hide their own self worth. Witnessing others all around enjoying themselves, interacting with others fills them with a self pitying realization that they do not have the social and personal skills to simply enjoy . Their reaction is to fill that lack of self worth with their ability to complain. People can be divided into two main groups, the first are the ones who keep complaining and blaming the world for their mistakes while the second are the ones who take responsibility for anything that happens in their lives. Thankfully the majority of humankind are in the later!

So, if anyone reads this who is thinking of holidaying in the beautiful country of Turkey – or anywhere else comes to that. Before you show discontent at that waiter or waitress who has bought you the wrong drink in a “couldn’t care less” manor, keep this in your mind before showing your anger by complaining. The cost of your two weeks holiday is probably the equivalent of six months salary to that waiter or waitress! Before venting your anger at reception because your air condition is not cold enough, think that the poor receptionist maybe in the middle of an eighteen hour shift! Before, you decide to throw a complaint that room service has forgotten to remove your dirty towels, think that the woman maybe has been working for twelve hours and still has to find time to feed her children when she arrives home!

Just one last thing, for any German readers, do not take it to heart regarding the example of the German guest and his Sony. My wife happily tells me that the vast majority of German guest are polite, warm, friendly and respectful . They worse nationality for complaints is in fact closer to home and is.............well I will let you guess!

Happy Holidays

Westy

The bastardisation of Roald Dahl!

Teaching your wife to drive and explaining the football off-side rule are infamously two things a husband must never undertake. In return, the wife should at no point disclose the complexities of a “pre-wash” and why shoes are as much needed as water for female survival! As an expat , I am formed into a marriage with a woman from another language than my own English tongue. With this in mind, a few years ago I discovered another thing to throw on to the pile of “Thou shall not undertake” that of “thou shall not undertake any attempt to translate each other’s mother tongue!”.

Sat peacefully at home, very late one Friday evening, the phone rang, jolting us both from our slumber. Like everyone who receives a late night phone call the immediate contemplation is “who’s dead?”. I solemnly looked at my wife and slowly picked up the phone without taking my eyes from her! “ Is that Mike"?” a panicky accented voice enquired. Then on accepting my affirmative answer, explained that he was a friend of a friend who needed my help desperately. Apologizing for the lateness of the call, he explained how is daughter was studying English at some Turkish university and had been given a very important project to complete. The worriment being that she had procrastinated on the project and needed to complete it by the end of the weekend!. “what I need from you Mike bey is to translate a few pages from English into Turkish from a short story by a child author” he paused then quickly threw into the pot “…….by Sunday morning”. Now, even though the hour was late my mind was still fully operational. “I am so so sorry I am fully busy tomorrow and definitely will not…..” My sentence was cut “ I can pay you 200 Lira for your time” came the voice at the other end of the phone!. “…… here’s my email address, send it through to me” I greedily replied. With the promise of  it would be ready by Sunday morning, the deal was done. The man coming to my home at 7.30 to hand over lovely crisp Turkish bank notes in exchange for a few pages of translation from English to Turkish of a child story!

Closing the phone, I excitedly passed on the contents of the call to my wife, through the toilet door – where she had removed herself once she had satisfied herself that no one was dead!. As she came out she looked at me nervously and asked “are you really sure we can do this”?

Ok! Maybe I conveniently put it at the back of my mind that to be a fully qualified translator, you need at least a degree in the chosen translation language. Then further qualifications to furnish you with the skills to do the occupation admirably. With that all being well, maybe living a few years in the country of that tongue to build you up to a height that you are classified as a native speaker!. My wife spoke Turkish, I spoke English, so in my dimwitted brain we were well qualified for the task in hand!

We slept early as to wake early and do the job with as maximum speed possible thus leaving at least an afternoon free to relax ourselves and plan how to spend the 200 lira! My wife showered, as I excitedly opened up my e-mail, waiting for the correspondence with the translation.

It was there in bold at the top of the inbox SUBJECT: Roald Dahl. While waiting for the attachment to open in my word program, I was thinking Roald Dahl..must be Willy Wonka or that well know classic poem “IF”, mixing up my Dahls and Kiplings!. Then the word program opened emblazoned with the heading “ Mr Botibol”. Little did I know at that point that even years later the name Mr Botibal would still send shivers down my spine!. I glanced down to the bottom of the program page 1/20!. Twenty pages! – what happened to a few pages that I had been told!. This worked out at 10 lira a page! Even if we managed one page every thirty minutes it was going to take us all of ten hours without a break!. A deal is a deal though, so after breakfast we started on a literal journey that was only going to end in two ways – tears at best, divorce court at worst!

Being that the original language was English, we devised that I would furnish my wife with the sentence and explain what Dahl was attempting to conjecture and she would put it down in her Turkish mother tongue on her laptop. We started on the heading:

English : Mr Botibol

Turkish: Botibol Bey

A fine start! - that wasn't improved on!

The first few lines of the first paragraph were laboriously worked over in a game of linguistic tennis. Each word converted into something in which the recipient could understand what Mr Dahl was attempting to express! Then came:

“Mr Botibol threading his way cautiously between the tables and the people, walking on his toes in such a meek and self-effacing manner and clutching his hat before him with both hands, he thought how wretched it must be for any man to look as conspicuous and as odd as this Botibol”

Such an easy, descriptive long sentence!. Except when you are attempting to translate it in simple enough English for your wife to convert!. Now, one should point out here, my good wife is a perfectionist!. “If a job is worth…” is a proverb that could quite easily be made for her!. The adjective use of “meek” “wretched” and “self effacing” and finally “conspicuous”; the form needed “to thread” in Turkish; The verb “to clutch”  - All had to be probably expressed according to my wife and with just this one sentence, she perused her dictionary both online and in her hand! It was painful..one long sentence in 20 minutes!

Finally two hours after starting the first page was finished!. TWO HOURS – I calculated, at this rate we would need 40 hours of no sleep, non stop work to terminate this. “Look you need to be quicker “ I barked at her. She gave me one of those glaring looks that also can be translated without words – things were not going well!.

We labored on, stumbling, fumbling and muddling over each carefully crafted line. Mr Botibol crawling into everyone of our senses! Teasing us with every one of his traitfull characters. Words such as “enthusias” “accustomed” “quota” “exasperated”  sent us into a torturous spiral of  linguistic purgatory. Slowly both ready to snap, both throwing spite and bile at each other “ Come on this is NOT difficult” coming from me “ Never ever ever promise to take translation work again” coming from her. We were in a whirlpool of adjectives, correct verbal use, adverbs anything that Roald Dahl could throw at us.

The self inflicting torture continued hour after painful hour! “ I want to go to the toilet” my wife said pitifully after seven hours in. “NO you don’t have time we are only on page nine”!. She ignored me of course!. She took too long! “ Bloody Hell – hurry up will you, we are never going to finish for Christ sake” I hollered through the keyhole! She came out, keeping her cool through reddish cheeks, biting her bottom lip. “Ok Next sentence” she said calmly in the way a woman replies “Nothing” when asked “what is wrong”…She was biding her time I knew!

I glanced down at the next line which gunned out of my clenched lips..

“The trace of a smile, weak and infinitely sad, flickered around the corners of his mouth.”

“How can you trace a smile and mouths do not have corners?” she looked at me blankly!. She was correct of course! Unfortunately, it was the sentence that broke the camel’s glossary!. “ Of course it can, trace..you bloody know what trace is don’t you?. CORNER – the edge of the mouth, you know what a bloody corner is don’t you? YOU know what a mouth is don’t you?” I paused shocked at my outburst but continued anyway “ Are you dumb or something"?”…

I looked away, not baring to look at her, in full knowledge that I had not so much gone too far but had reached the edge and had fallen head first down it. I squeezed my hand around my mouth and shot a sideways glance at her. She sat, closed eyed, still. “ I am so sorry” I groveled. She opened her watery green eyes, fixed them on me, then stood up. Standing by the door she calmly articulated “ No problem, if that is what you think – I am dumb, so then you are intelligent enough to do it yourself, I am going to bed, you are on your own". The door slammed behind her!. I sat angered with myself for accepting this impossible work, angered at Roald bloody Dahl for writing this, angered at Mr bloody Botibol for this torture and of course angered at myself for the first time in our marriage distressing my wonderful wife!. The living room door opened again, ok my chance to fully apologies for my pathetic outburst. “ Askim..look I am so….” my words were finished as a pillow and blanket hit me squarely on the face!. I was spending the night with Mr Botibol!

Silently I sat. not even looking at my PC, I would explain to the gentleman tomorrow how sorry I was, we tried but failed miserably to translate it. Yes, I would admit failure but 200 lira was a miniscule price to be paid for the damage I had caused this day. The remaining ten pages would have to be handed back untouched, there was nothing more I could do. Unfurling the blanket and curling up into it, I lay and thought of the pain I had caused my wife and myself on this burdening project based on my greed for 200 lira. Even though not a religious man, I would pray on the bible to take this day back and be curled up in my marital bed with my spouse. “BIBLE” – the word shot back into my brain again!

The Bible could just be my saviour I thought!. Maybe closer to the truth was Martin Luthur, the 16th Century German Monk, who had in all his wisdom decided to translate the Bible from it’s original Latin text into his own Germanic mother tongue!. The controversy in doing so was that good old Martin, cut text out. altered it, threw away some chapters until it was fully to his liking and those all around. I would be Martin Luthor and Mr Botibol was about to become my Latin Bible!

With that, I attacked the final ten pages with a vigor. The work of one of the world’s greatest authors was customized, crucified,  reorganized and bastardised. Cutting it down into easy, mouthful chunks that myself and my limited Turkish could transform into workable pieces, and the text I struggled with then Google translator would become the tool of choice!  Sentences such as :

“Later, when he was resting in his chair in the other room, he was still enjoying it. He closed his eyes because he didn't want anything to break the spell”

Became:

“O yorgun ve oturdu” (he was tired so sat down)”

Great swaths of text lavishly scripted from Roald Dahl’s pen were swept away never to be enjoyed by the student that this translation would end up with.

Out with..

She had lived long enough in the city to discover that old men, if they
are dirty old men, do not bother about trying to pick up a girl as unattractive as herself. Only twice in her life had she been accosted in public and each time the man had been drunk. But this one wasn't drunk. He was nervous and he was peculiar-looking, but he wasn't drunk. Come to think of it, it was she who had started the conversation in the first place. "It would be lovely," she said. "It really would. When could I come?"

and in with

“bir kızla tanıştım ve onunla birlikte eve gitti” (He met a girl an she went home with him”

And so it continued through the night, cutting and pasting and crafting a story in a language that I could barely managed to ask “where is the toilet” in!

The semi-distant noise of the Mosque calling out for morning prayer told me that daybreak had come and with it just one more page to transform !. The page with the final crescendo. In this crescendo, the ilk some (well to me) Mr Botibol conducts an imaginary orchestra whilst playing Chopin on an old gramophone player. Accompanying him is a classical pianist who he has fallen in love with! The story builds up and up in tune with the music he is conducting in his mind. All into some type of pseudo sexual climatic ending! Beautifully scripted and breathtakingly exciting!. With each thrash of a drum and each vibration of a violin string the story and feeling inside Mr Botibol builds and builds! My scripted ending was not so intoxicating

“O bazı müzik ile oynanan ve kadın onu izledim çok heyecan vericiydi” ( He played with some music and was so exciting as the woman watched him)

It was over – I cared not one jot that the original 20 pages had been edited down to 14!. It was 7.00am I didn’t care how many pages this had taken. It had taken twenty one long, arduous, painful and destroying hours! I hurriedly printed it out. As the whirling of the printer spewed out the garbage of my translation I slowly opened the bedroom door. The woman I had abused and mistreated lay as always on her side with her arms hanging over the side of the bed. The pains of guilt returned and the realization that nothing I could do or say could take away my shameless words that had bialy exited from my mouth to this wonderful woman who slept before me.

In typical Turkish fashion the man arrived fifteen minutes later than his 7.30! Opening the door, he  expressed great thanks and was so full of apologies and sympathy for making us work so hard! I embarrassingly smiled as we swapped envelopes. Me receiving a small white one with 200 lira and himself a large brown one with probably the worst investment he had ever made, inside! I placed the white envelope by the side of the television placing an ornament over it to hide the disgrace it mirrored to me!

The day was spent without me sleeping, the coldness of the Antalya winter in no competition at the coldness between me and my wife, an iceness that would last days. Luckily though the ice was melted overtime with the warmth of our marriage. We slowly returned to normal and Mr Botibol was never mentioned again. Undisturbed the envelope stayed under the ornament for months. Like an unwanted smell it hung in the room, neither of us wanting to have any dealings with it. It vanished one day taken obviously by my wife – I have never inquired from her what she spent it on and never wish to know!

Six long years later I worried about that poor student who had to endure that disgraceful work of mine, attentively I enquired from a friend at what had happened to her. Thankfully, she is now an English teacher in Istanbul. The pains of guilt of my behavior that day to my wife still lingers and to see or make my wife sad in anyway now is thankfully beyond my capabilities. If I ever feel the steam of anger building all I have to do think of the bastardisation of Roald Dahl!

Roald Dahl enjoys a comforting cigarette whilst contemplating the  hideous torture that his creation  Mr Botibol  will  inflict on me!

P.S I Love you!

 

FAO: The UK Passport (renewal) Office LIVERPOOL!

My dear friends,

Thank you for another day of complete and utter wastage of my valuable time in talking to you to discover what is the current situation with the renewal of my UK passport. One month in, countless conversations and e-mails have been swapped but we still do not seem to be able to get to a point where you kindly dispatch the entitled passport to little old me.

However, I think I have discovered the problem! It’s either that I have lived outside of the UK now for eleven years and picked up a slight Turkish twang to my voice or I have kept my “awreet me ‘andsome” Somerset yokelisms and you can’t quite grasp what I am saying with your Scouse ears. So, to help you I will write it in a language you may understand using reference points from your “Fab Four”  - John, Paul George and the little troll looking one at the back! So,

“Hey Jude” or “Michelle” or shall I just say “Woman” . Let me explain my situation I just want a “ticket to ride” and “Get back to where I once belong”. I am not looking to start a “Revoluton” and not wanting to go “Back in the U.S.S.R”. I am not even a “Day Tripper” and don’t even want to take a “Ferry across the Mersey”… all I want to do is go home because “with a little help from my friends” I am attending a school reunion!

You see “when I was young, so much younger than today” I sent my passport away to you to be renewed. Now it seems we are on a “Long winding road” of phone calls and e-mails ! I apologies but that I had to “shout” to you today but as you have already popped down to “Penny Lane” and extracted 200 pounds from my bank account. I felt in “Misery” Fine you are right up in Scouse land “money can"t but you love”, can’t buy me a bloody passport either it seems!. So “please please me” and dispatch my passport or will I have to wait “when I am sixty four”! At the moment it feels this little saga has been going on “eight days a week”!

Bloody hell,Talk about “You’ll never walk alone” I am like that dodgy Ex-wife or your Sir Paul McCartney – i.e, Not a leg to stand on! Talking of wife's, “do you want to know a secret?” , well my wife is so full of “misery” over it “she’s leaving home” ! “Yesterday” I had to shout out the window “baby come back”! as “saw her standing there”! “All you need is love” huh? A renewed UK Passport wouldn’t go a friggin miss either!

So, “Help” me if you can I am feeling down!. “It’s all too much” just give me my bloody passport and “I’ll be on my way” if you don’t then “I’ll be back” . In the meanwhile I will just say every morning “Please Mr Postman” is there anything from the UK Passport office today”  - “That will be the day”!

So, “Let it be” and let’s “come together” and  “give peace a chance”

“all my loving”

Michael West

“P.S I love you”

I name this family..

A few years ago, in a fit of boredom, I decided to trace my family ancestry. Now, a task that I was sure was going to take me weeks, months, years even. Wanting to do the job and my bloodline justice, I set about downloading all the tools one would need for such a formidable task. Family tree maker, Genealogical programs  etc.  All of one day was spent finding the relevant government offices that I would need to contact, then setting up an excel file to input all the data. Family documents that I could procure at my parents were recovered and stored in a file that I bought specially for the task, even scanning them all into a photo dossier onto my well worn laptop. After a week of studious preparation I was ready to begin the project to end all projects.  First point of contact was my rarely spoken to cousin. “ Oh I did all that last year” she said smugly! I will email you it all! which she duly did!..Job completed in ten minutes!

Nothing much to report on my ancestry. It seems that the vast majority knew that some future ancestor would want to trace them all. So conveniently and kindly all were married, lived and died in the same parish in rural Somerset. All mostly with the “occupation listed as “farmer” with the odd “brick maker” interspersed between them. The only true touching moment was finding a photo on the British War Graves website of a Great Uncle who had died in the Somme at the time of the Great War.

After she had came home from her work, I recalled all this to my wife, who for those that do not know is Turkish. Her response startled me “ Who gave you the surname West?”. Of course I had no idea. “ I guess it is because we are from the West of England” was my only explanation. “Yes – but someone somewhere must have given your family this name”.  She was right of course, alas that information was way beyond the vast amount of genealogical web sites online!. Over dinner we continued the discussion and she informed me that her own family surname “Demir” had been chosen by her Great-grandfather way back in 1934!

It seems incredulous in this mostly modern Turkey that I reside in, that less than eighty years before, the good citizens of Turkey continued their daily existence with no recognizable family name whatsoever.  In Ottoman times, everyone in Turkey was identified by titles, nicknames, birthplace, and parentage. The male of the population were mostly known as “the son of (Father’s name). My own wife’s Grandfather was known as “Şeker Yasin” (Sweet Yasin) solely for his contant eating of a sweet produced in his beautiful village of Catalzeytin situated in the Black sea region of Northern Turkey.

It is worth remembering though, Turkey's population at this time was only a fraction of what it is now. There were far fewer people, and the desire and possibility for  travel was far less. Thus making it a lot easier to identify them by context: "Mehmet the Shepherd from Trabzon," Ahmet the Butcher from Zeytinkoy," "One-legged Ali from…," etc. Everybody was a person, not a name in a ledger. Doesn’t seem quite so bad when you consider these days when every possible official office has a record of you!

Then along came Mustafa Kemal the first president of the Turkish Republic, who in 1934, and in all his wisdom decided that all the families must adopt a Western style surname that would identify them for generations to come. Think about that for a second!. Imagine that your family have to come to an agreement on a name that will identify you and your future offspring until the end of time. Me and my good wife couldn’t even agree on what to call a goldfish that we were recently given. So to me, the fish was called Beckham and to her he was called Altintop! Thankfully the poor fish didn’t have time to show signs of schizophrenic  confusion. In true goldfish fashion he died a week later!

The task given to the Turks, must go down as one of the greatest social historic experiences in recent years anywhere in the world. One can only imagine with wonder at the conversations around Turkish dinner tables as they discussed what chosen name to call themselves. The rules of which name you could choose though were not so clear cut. Surnames that bore any relation to foreign cultures, nations, tribes, and religions were strongly forbidden. Thus meaning some ethnic families such as Greeks and Armenians, who had surnames already that had lasted them for generations were obliged to change them forthwith!   If the new law was designed to exclude the multiplication of names, it can also be argued the law was also fostered to strengthen the sense of “Turkishness” amongst the populous.

Duly charged with the task in hand, the Turks,  furnished themselves with every conceivable name possible. Some chose the simple and obvious, some chose the grand and prestigious, some chose the outrageous and some chose the bizarre. Some didn’t even bother choosing! Attending the naming office when asked “Ok what do you name your family?” – some replied back in the most simplist of ways possible “mmm..I don’t really know …Birşey” (something)! So the name “something” was duly given! There were those that maybe in a fit of discontent at this new law registered their new name as “Adıvar” (have a name (already) )  Some didn’t even have to choose. Mustafa Kemal was adorned with the name, that was to make him known throughout the World, Ataturk – Father of the Turks.

There is one area of thought that didn’t cross Ataturk’s mind, one would imagine. That  is how the names left a social and historical stamp of that time for future historians .  The jobs for example that some chose as surnames. “Demercı” (Blacksmith), çoban (shepherd) all possible occupations at the time are to be found . The recent years prior to 1934 had seen a seemingly never ending situation of conflict within the borders of the now Turkish Republic. Mirroring this, names such as “Savaş” (war) came into bearing. Chosen probably by men who had had the inhuman experience branded into their psyche. The surname “conk”is replicated often – after Conk Tepe (Conk Hill) scene of some of the bloodiest battles during the Gallipoli (Canakkele)  conflict. Added to this is also some proudly used “Conker” – the end suffix “er” representing a soldier from Conk Hill. ..The list is truly endless!

There were some that used their surname as an object of covert snobbery. The Turkish writer and humourist Aziz Nesin, who at the age of twenty one personally experienced the Surname law noted in later years:

“when the surname law was passed which directed every Turk to select a last name, people's secret feelings of inferiority surfaced: Some of the world's stingiest became known as "Eliachik" (Openhanded), the greatest cowards named themselves "Yurekli" (Stoutheart), and many of the laziest took the name ''Chalishkan" (Industrious ) . One of our teachers chose the surname of "Cheviker" (Dextrous) when he could barely sign his name to a letter.”

Then of course there are simply the beautiful. One could take a lifetime and never finish the list of Turkish names that when translated are simply warm and charming. If I peruse my Facebook friends list for example, I find -  “Adıgüzel” (beautiful Island), Yilmaz (Undaunted), Guven (Trust), Mutlu (Happy),  Göloğlu (son of the lake), Erdem (Virtue), Yildirim (lightening), Uğurlu (Fortunate), etc etc !.

Turkish names really do come into their own beautiful self when combined with their literal first names. Some time ago , I was fortunate to have a wonderful student. Wonderful as a student and also wonderful purely for her name alone; Melek Gökçen. Beautiful as it is in Turkish, however when you understand that her first name Melek translates as “Angel” and her surname as “of the skies” put them together and…..? Truly delightful I think you will agree!. For me, simply to be able to translate Turkish names is reason enough to go running to the nearest Turkish class.

Try this if your Turkish is not up to scratch. When travelling around, look up!. There before you on the sides and balconies of small Turkish business such as lawyers and dentist you will see the names of the occupants displayed. Take a dictionary and check the meaning of the occupants name in English – it will keep you amused and bewitched for hours believe me!

However, back to where I started  - my own English ancestors. Six years ago, I applied to take Turkish citizenship. Completing one of the many stages and interviews, some would say interrogations, I was offered the opportunity to change my name to one more in tune with my new Turkish identity. I refused!. I refused simply in a sense of pride and as to hold dear the name some long lost ancestor in the dawn of time had bestowed on us. Looking back, I regret my proud decision so very much. Now that I understand the Turkish language more then I did in those days, I realize that I passed away a great chance to avail myself with such a meaningful and more fitting name that corresponds with my character or more accurately, the way I see my character!. If given the time over again, I would have bequeathed  the name upon myself “ Multu çiftçioğlu”. I will allow your good selves to translate!

The good people at the Turkish Citizenship Department though seemed to have ideas of their own when it came to keeping my name! A few months later a big brown official letter arrived proudly acknowledging that I had been accepted into the Brotherhood of Turks and my Kimlik (ID card), that all Turks must have on their persons at all time, was awaiting for me to take. Proudly I hurried along to the Citizenships office to take my kimlik and with sweaty impatient hands received it from the officiating man behind the iron grill. My wife kissed me happily with as I perused my ID. Then the word struck me “VEST”!…Michael VEST!. The fools, after all the forms I had carefully filled out, after all the interviews I had undertaken under duress, they had managed to misspell my own surname!

Immediately I returned to the office and the stern man behind the grill that I had left just minutes ago. “ My name – look you have it wrong, it’s WEST not VEST”. Smilingly he replied that in the absence of the letter “W” in the Turkish alphabet that any name with that letter within it is replaced with a “V”!.. I was stuck with it!

So, now I sit and ponder! Maybe, just maybe a few hundred years from now some long distant relative will sit down and undertake the task that I did in ten minutes. That of tracing his family roots!. I can see it now, filled with stories of how their family name VEST came from a long distant Englishman who came to the shores of Turkey many moons ago. “What does VEST mean though” he or she will wonder in Turkish as they grab their dictionary or whatever they will be using in those distant times. “V – very – vestible – vessel, agh here it is VEST” then they look and read

“ UK (US undershirt) a type of underwear, often with no sleeves, that covers the upper part of the body, worn for extra warmth:”

They then turn triumphantly to all their future Vest relations. “I have discovered that our great ancestor was an English immigrant, named after a an undergarment worn by men of that time” he or she will say proudly, and one likes to think with a tear in their eye in remembrance of little old me . Then they will finish “ No doubt he was not that intelligent to have been making underwear, probably poor, maybe little or no education in fact nobody of any real interest at all” !

Such a sobering thought!

Westy

The ongoing tradition of Midnight Express!

This week I downloaded the Oscar winning film Argo, Yes I do know downloading films is immoral and technically stealing  However I once paid 20 pounds for me and a girlfriend to watch the painfully awful "blockbuster" Waterworld, so Hollywood was in my debt!

For those that do not know Argo, it tells the story of how six Americans were smuggled out of Iran after the 1979 Islamic revolution. The pretense "Based on a true story" is tagged at the beginning of the film, which always sets the alarm bells ringing. My suspicions were confirmed after watching the film. The tag line should have read " Based on a true story, where some people have been added, characters changed, the true story deviates at nearly every scene and the Americans will come out as heroes .” Remember the film U-571, the thrilling story where the Americans captured the enigma coding machine? - actually it was the British and the Polish forces!. Who can forget "Saving Private Ryan", where effectively it is presented that the D-Day landings in Normandy were a solely American affair. Well, Argo doesn't let you down and continues in that wonderful Hollywood tradition history of re-writing history.

Argo Trailer

As the six Americans go on the run around Tehran looking for a safe house to escape the hoards of Iranian revolutionaries, the film cuts to a CIA office in the Pentagon and the line " Brits turned them away" is thrown to the audience. With that line you can hear the popcorn eating, Pepsi swigging movie going public of the USA thinking as one " Those damn Brits after all we did for them in the Second World War"

The truth of course is very different, as back in 1979, British diplomats put their life's in immense danger assisting the six to a safe house in a British compound. As the CIA officer Antonio Mendez, who helped to mount the eventual rescue, recalls in his book, Argo: ‘The British were kind hosts, and offered them a house of their own, fed them a warm meal, even prepared cocktails.’ Slightly different then from “the Brits turned them away”!  Why should we care though, it's just a film! Well a film now, but the worrying fact is that in later years it is not beyond the realms of probability that it will be  considered by students as the definitive history of the events .

As the credits rolled I was amazed to observe that parts of the movie were filmed in Turkey. Amazed because if any country knows the dangers of falsifying true fact for Hollywood's financial gain then it is the beautiful country I reside in now!

Way back in 1978 another Oscar winning film was taking the world by storm. Midnight Express was another Hollywood “Based on a true story” epic that grossed 35 million dollars in the USA alone! The film based on the autobiographic  book of the same name, follows the story of Billy Hayes. Hayes, an American, was imprisoned in Turkey in 1970 whilst attempting to smuggle two kilos of hashish through Turkish customs. Sentenced firstly to four years his sentenced is then raised to thirty years on appeal by the Turkish prosecution department. After five years, whilst imprisoned on an island prison, Hayes escapes by boat and makes it to Greece!

The wording in the trailer speaks volumes

 

Any foreigner that resides in Turkey or any foreigner that has stepped foot on Turkish soil on holiday or business would no doubt have been teased “ Wouldn’t go to Turkey – I saw Midnight Express” usually followed with a snigger and a sharp intake of breath! The reason for this is that Midnight Express is not so much a film but a full blown cultural assignation of a whole nation!. Turks are depicted as violent, immoral, venal, psychopathic and debased. It's understandable to portray violent, dangerous criminals in such an unflattering light, but the film extended this negative ethos to the judiciary, the courts and civil servants and any Turk within the films grasp. Indeed, Midnight Express appeared to indict the entire Turkish nation as hopelessly corrupt, grotesque and “evil. Hollywood has long used certain ethnic group as “villains” – depending upon current events and political trends, Arabs, Mexicans, American-Indians, Germans and Japanese, among others, have fulfilled this role (usually by actors whose own ethnicity did not match the parts they played). However none had as much affect on a nation as Midnight Express had on the Turkish Republic.

Now, one would have to be hopelessly naïve to suggest that the Turkish judiciary system was perfect then or even now come to that or that the Turkish prison system is or was a bed of roses. Which prison service is?. However, the story “based on a true story” sets out , without any fear of libel, to eradicate any positive feeling the world may have had at that time. Although after the 1974 Turkish invasion or peace force, depending which side of the fence you face, the World did not look at Turkey favorably . In fact, in 1978 America issued an arms embargo on Turkey. With this in mind, maybe this is why the director Alan Parker and David Putnam the producer , held no qualms in showing Turkey in this grotesque way.

If the film crawled in 35 million dollars in the USA, I would consider that a drop in the ocean to the financial loss in tourism over the years due to the portrayal of  Turkey in the film. In 1980, the Turkish tourism industry reported a drop of 90% in American tourist visiting the Turkish republic. That’s a lot of dollars!. One can only guess at how many dollars have been lost by companies choosing to not invest in that “ evil” country ! The affect though is not just financial, Turkish citizens the world over were painted with the “Midnight” brush – not to be trusted and uneducated! The xenophobic nature of the film, shows Turks as inhospitable uncaring people who would cheat on their own Grandmother to gain an advantage. For those of us that has enjoyed Turkish hospitality it is a sad and disgusting insult!

However, what about the man at the center of all this, Billy Hayes.  Hayes, was just twenty two years old in 1970, a real live Billy the Kid. Young, naïve and immensely stupid. In those illiberal days of 1970, hashish was still seen as a highly dangerous drug and guaranteed to ruin societies if it was allowed to escalate. No more so than in Turkey, although a politically secular country it still held strong Islamic views . One can only question Hayes’s thought process to think he could smuggle two kilograms of drugs through Turkish customs and if caught to only gain a light sentence . He only needed to check his own country, where sentences of 15-20 years imprisonment were common back in the early 70’s for the very offence he committed.

After the films release then a new Billy emerged – Billy the Hero!. After the twisted morality of Midnight Express was screened, Hayes, the American drug smuggler. became a kind of “noble hero” held up having survived against the violence and corruption of the Turks or any society that didn’t fit into American foreign policy at the time . Harping back to Argo, is it just a coincidence that a film that portrays Iranians in such a negative way is released at a time when American / Iranian relations is at such a low ebb?.

After the release, Hayes became the darling of the talk shows, wheeled around the studios of the USA, on display as the man who went through hell and survived. The fact that he attempted to smuggle two kilograms of drugs was secondary to the tales of survival from that hideous place! Billy Hayes is not so much a person these days as a company. The estimated book sales of the original book run into the millions. Further added with the release last year of “Midnight return” As I type this Mr Hayes is in my own country, touring the WH Smiths and Waterstones churning out the endless tales, all based on lies. Incredibly, also touring the UK now is, I kidded you not, “ Midnight Express – The ballet”! The old adage “Crime doesn’t pay” obviously doesn’t extend to Mr Hayes, where crime and falsehoods pay well, very well!

The last Billy though, could well be named after the classic Keith Waterhouse book -  Billy Liar!. After the storm that Midnight Express caused had died down and probably after the cash from his book and film rights had started to wane, Hayes went on a campaign of “ I am disgusted at how the film portrayed Turkey”!. At this stage of his ongoing drama, he decided that he was in anguish at how the Turkish Republic and it’s citizens had been shown.  Full of remorse at how Parker’s movie had dehumanized Turks and a Turkey he now claimed he loved so much and how it was his wish to return and see the beautiful city of Istanbul again. Now, as Mr Hayes held the film rights wouldn’t it be slightly odd, if he never read the film script before a single shot was taken in Malta, where the film was shot, with Italian, Maltese and Greek actors with such awful Turkish that even Turks had trouble understanding them.

With this new direction of humility again Mr. Hayes sat his bottom on TV and radio talk shows across the Good ‘ol USA. Paid of course one would guess!  In a recent online interview (here) for National Geographic to promote his “The real Midnight Express” he was asked the question. “Do you have any regrets?”. The regret of before of his damage to the Turkish Republic seems to have disappeared and no mention is made of it at all. The remorse card obviously worked with Turkey, who invited Billy Hayes back to the Turkish republic in 2007 on a seven day visa. The Turks in doing this showed more restraint than most other nations on an individual that had caused so much racialist contamination on Turkey and it’s culture!. It’s with great irony that after Billy Hayes returned to the USA he directed a play entitled “ The cock and bull story”!

Hollywood films have a terrible and engaging power to influence and shape our minds even on those that regard ourselves as perceptive. Midnight Express made a lot of money for a lot of people and as with Billy Hayes it continues to do so. Ultimately that is all Hollywood really cares about. It feeds, the minds of the gullible in as a dramatic way possible. Doing so in a country that prides itself on fairness of mind and respect for others.  However as film-goers and consumers, we should realize that movies are highly biased and often designed to manipulate the audience. Movies like Midnight Express, especially those which are as well made and entertaining, can not only be harmful but most of all push us to hate nations and the people of those nations. As I guess is the case now with Argo and Iran and it’s people. Sad, very sad!

Westy

The department of disasters!

Saturday evening is my time!. My dear wife is on duty so I have the whole apartment to myself to put on my jogging pants and best warm sweater with my feet up. The remote control is mine. A nice scotch waits patiently in the bottle ready to be poured. A nice chili con carne has been already prepared the night before just waiting to be heated. Then I go into slob mode, eating crisp and dry pastries and the world is a wonderful place again after a long week. Bliss, perfect bliss!

There is sometimes a spanner in the works though. A spanner that goes by the name of TEDAŞ. To give it its full name translated, “The Turkish Electric Distribution Company.” I prefer to use the abbreviation TEDAS as to mean "The Electric Doesn't Always Satisfy!". So inept are they at “distributing” electric that If they ever made a film about the practices of TEDAS, then it would start with the words “ Carry on…… “! I am also sure that if I ever met the top man in charge at TEDAŞ, he would have a big read nose that would go “beep beep” when squeezed.

The Head of TEDAS takes another complaint

Now, please don”t get me wrong here and think I am being anti-Turkish public services. I can happily say that the phone company supply me with a decent and not expensive service. My internet provider serves me with an excellent service at a very reasonable price. My mobile phone company for the most part has never let me down. The water company serve…ok maybe let”s leave the water company for another time! However, TEDAŞ infamously supply the most expensive electric in Europe with arguably the worst service.

Take for example, a few weeks back. There I was on my “slob” night. A night where it was definitely a night to be home as a winter storm slammed against my window. I happily relaxed, feet up, happy as a porker in poo! The patient scotch had been poured and was now shaking hands with the chili that had been happily consumed a short time before. In short I was in a happy place! Evil minds at TEDAS  decided I was far too happy though and it was time to have some fun at my expense.

Manchester United were on the TV and on the attack, battling for another win as I sat on the edge of my seat. Then it happened! The instant sound of all the electrical appliances having their life support machine cut off and myself being confronted by instant blindness!. The first reaction is to wait, my optimist mind communicates “ok don’t panic it will come back after a minute”. I pull back the curtains behind me and check out the window. The whole neighborhood is in total darkness and with the moon obliterated by the storm clouds it was blacker than a miner’s armpit!

A minute passes, in total silence and in total darkness. Candles are needed. I used to have a sense of where the candles were kept in my home. However with every one of my wife”s cleanups they are moved to an even more obscure place. I need to call her and ask her where she has hidden them this time. With the house phone being connected to the now defunct electricity supply, I open my mobile phone and enjoy the light it dispenses but do not enjoy the fact it is now nearly empty of charge!. I locate my normally sane and sensible wife”s number and call:

Me: Askim, where is the candle?

Wife: What kindle?

Me: No, not kindle, candle!

Wife: When did you buy a kindle?

Me: NO!, Listen. not kindle, Candle, I don”t have a kindle! I need a Candle the electric has gone!

Wife: Whose kindle askim ya?

Me: No ones Kindle, candle!

Wife: Kindle , Kindle. what”s a kindle kindle?

Me:No. CANDLE NOT KINDLE!….. Oh Bloody hell..wait!

I quickly open the Turkish dictionary application on my phone and read

candle
(n) Mum

Me: Askim, listen carefully , where is the Mum?

Wife: Whose Mum askim?

Me: Our Mum, our candle.!!

Wife: Your Mum is in Engl……

Me: NOOOO, LISTEN. I beg you askim , The electric has gone and I need a candle, Turkish MUM!

Wife: Oh , sorry askim I understand now!

Me: Thank Christ for that!

Wife: You want to buy my Mum a kindle

Me: Askim, Listen please carefully before suicide becomes a feasible option!. I need a mum..understand.. M.U.M..MUM!

Wife: Askim, have you been drinking raki again?…I told you not to drink it again after you embarrassed us at Ahmet”s sunnet party..

Me: OH for fu……….

My cursed sentence is cut off and I am again thrown into Stevie Wonder land as the charge on my phone empties. I sit and now an even bigger problem is setting in. I have a condition that few actually know about . I suffer from DCS or Directionally Challenged Syndrome and have to guide my way round anywhere by using objects as markers!. When driving, for example, I use markers like “ I have to turn right at the red house with a thatched roof” – even if I have made the same journey every day for  years. If someone knocked down the red house one night I would be driving around for days like a lost pensioner on the M25!. Now, in total darkness, I know I am in the living room but where the door out is I have no idea. I am basically a blind ship without a rudder!  I am for all tense and purposes HMS Stevie Wonder!

“Wait it out Mike, wait it out” I say loudly to myself. I need light though, the darkness is freaking me. My laptop is in the bedroom but I have no sense how to locate the bedroom never mind the laptop and the light it will bestow on me! I give it a try though. I gingerly stand staring into dark and utter oblivion, forgetting the tray that was on my lap with the remnants of the chili. The remnants are now smashing below me on what I suspect is the wife”s new oak coffee table!. My first step forward confirms my suspicion as a sharp injection of broken porcelain spikes into my toe sending painful shockwaves up my foot and is followed by a piercing scream. I fall forward.  The aforementioned coffee table breaking my swift descent, well breaking my stomach’s fall as my head lands on the carpet beyond it! 

Stunned, I lay there in a pool from my now emptied whisky glass that is being soaked up into the white stainless carpet. It’s the wetness around my foot that distresses me though, I place my other foot next to my now throbbing toe, it’s wet, it’s sticky, it’s warmish…it’s blood!

I am now in a total daze, totally lost and bewildered in my own environment, totally in darkness and laying there in a disfigured form. I am now convinced that when TEDAS supplied the wiring in our apartment they have installed hidden cameras with night sight vision. Convinced that somewhere in a TEDAS office in Antalya some guy called Cem or Mustafa is shouting “ Hey, lads, come and look what I have just made this English bloke do”

The worriment I am in though is about to get worse. I need the toilet!. Chili con carne and Bells whiskey, my stomach has decided is not to it’s liking and wants to eject it as soon as possible. The toilet, how do I get to it!. Now, my mind is racing in panic as my stomach screams “ you jerk, you have just done the culinary equivalent of putting diesel into a petroleum engine..get it out now!”

I roll my stomach of the coffee table and it lands with a thud, not appreciated by my stomach which responds by gurgling like a bucket of hot tar. I feel around me, the square hard shape forming in my hands tells me that is the leg from the coffee table. My stomach is now cramping with pain . I need the toilet and quick. A plan is formed!. Remembering a documentary about fireman going into a smoke filled home. They used a rope as a guide and tied it to the back of the fire engine!. The coffee table leg will be my fire engine!. I need rope, cotton, fishing line in fact anything I can tie to the coffee table leg. I remove my sweater and remembering my boy scout days expertly tie one arm of the sweater around the leg. I guide my hands along the now outstretched jumper all the way to the other arm, sliding my now begging posterior along the floor. My stomach lets out a roar as and my bowels have put up a “coming soon” poster on the outside! Things are getting desperate now, my outstretched sweater is not enough! I remove my jogging pants and attach one leg of them to the now outstretched arm of my jumper. It works perfectly as I slide my hands along the jeans to the end, and my bottom even further outwards along the floor. The darkness is so disorientating , however with my hands now at the end of my jeans, that are in turn attached to an arm of my jumper  which in turn is tied to a coffee table leg, I feel further outwards. My bowels yelling “are we there yet idiot?”.. I slide in an arch around the room, my backside now numb, but wait! what is this?..it’s hard, it’s wood, I tap on it..yes, it’s the door. I pull it towards me, stupidly forgetting my head is in its path as it slams into my nose!

No time to worry about my nose and the blood that is now trickling down my face as my bowels are pleading for the eject button!. I slide into what I guess is the hallway but have come to the end of my lifeline of sweater and jogging pants. I have to let go of my lifeline and propel myself and my bottom forward. Sweat is now rolling down my face mixing in with the blood from my nose. I am like a man in a desert crawling along the sand in search of salvation. Something is hard in front of me, I knock on it another door, oh thank God the bathroom door. I push it hard, only to be rained on by ornaments followed by a pot plant given by my mother in law that strikes my face at speed. It all suggests that I come across the hallway side cupboard. Good news though, the cupboard is a marker and I know that the toilet door is to the left of it. I slide my now, numb and pleading posterior leftwards and reach out. The floor is cold and hard. The tiled floor of the bathroom! I have made it. Skimming my vertical body along the floor, my whole body numb now and my bowels screeching in pain. My throbbing blood dripping head touches something hard, I glide my hands upwards. It’s the toilet, I have made it.

Within a split second, I am perched on top of it and my bowels are emptying faster then the speed of light. I relax , my backside numb but in gentle relief. In total and utter blackness I am content, TEDAS tried but they couldn’t defeat me!. It seemed as a mark of respectful defeat TEDAS decided to turn the electrical supply back on. “At last” I whispered to myself as I sat facing the toilet with its seat open. My eyes blinking furiously in the now blinding light!. TEDAS had not finished though, they were toying with me and after three seconds of perfect light they turned off the supply once again. Now, in horror films, they always use lightening as a form of light to show you of the horror that lays before you, and that is what TEDAS had done to me. As the electric went again, my mind raced, why is the toilet in front of me? What is in front of the toilet?. What am I sat on? What has my bowels been emptied into?. The answer came as I felt below me, feeling more cloth and material…I was sat on the washing basket!

In the dark such an easy mistake

I can hear and feel Cem or whoever in an office now looking at their screen with all of TEDAS crowded round, howling at my predicament. I cared no more, my will for survival had finished. The exertion of the last hour had drained me of every ounce of strength that lay inside me. My nose, my toe, my dignity were in pain. Once again TEDAS had lifted me from my calm happy existence and dropped me literally in the poo!. I fell back down to the tiles and crawled aimlessly to anywhere I could find comfort and liberation from this fall from electrical grace!

THE NEXT MORNING

The early morning call from the sparrow like birds outside awaken me from my enforced TEDAS sleep. My eyes open languidly. I am staring at an upside down plant pot that has discarded it’s load within eye distance. With mind slowly focusing on the previous evenings events I raise my now aching strained body vertically. I am in the hallway surrounded by the trinkets that the hallways cupboard had rained on me the night before. Like a man, walking into the aftermath of a storm I stand and see myself in the hallway mirror, a canal of congealed blood engrained in pot plant soil running from my nostril to my chin. The memories of the night before come flooding back as I slumber to the living room. It’s carnage!. Cloths, broken porcelain, broken glass, dry food and a trail of blood litter all around. A murder scene basically with it’s body still alive and now in total panic because my wife will be home at 9.30am. I check my watch 6.50am!!..A wife also with a condition – OCD – Obsessive Cleaning Disorder! 

The next few hours are a blur, as I scrub. sweep. clean,polish, wash, tidy anything that the previous nights TEDAS storm had thrown at me. Like a murderer cleaning all evidence from the scene of his crime. 9.15am, I peruse all around me, it’s looking ok..I think I have done it, ok the blood was a problem but bleach is a wonderful thing. As long as my wife hasn’t obtained infra-red vision in the last 24 hours I think I will be ok. I dive for the shower, skidding on the now polished clean tiles!. Quickly scrubbing the blood and sweat and soil  from my distressed and TEDAS abused body!

9.29am – Drying off in the bedroom that was unlocatable the night before, I hear the sound of the lift outside the front door jerking to a halt. My heart is beating as the sound of locks being released by keys confirms my suspicions. She is home! The door opens as I step out into the now spotless hallway, a towel hiding my modesty as a nonchantly dry my hair with another whilst greeting her. “Askim, I missed you ya” she hugs me . I smile and  reply likewise. She starts to lecture me about drinking raki and calling her when she is busy at work!. I let it pass!. I follow her into the living room, heart racing in the hope she doesn’t spot anything.

Nothing –she lays her keys on the coffee table as I fall onto the sofa in nervous fear!. “MIKE”…she says in a loud voice. I wait for what she has discovered, the games up. I know it as she turns to me looks all around and delivers “You cleaned up also, thank you askim, you are wonderful”. “well, I didn’t want you coming home to a messy home” I reply with a loving smile.  She hugs me again and ask if I can make her coffee whilst she showers . “no problem, go askim”. She exits through the door that had tortured my nose the night before. I sit, smiling hands in my face laughing inside at the craziness of the night before , the manic cleaning operation that had happened in the early morning, it had worked! I was in the clear! My wife was home, the sun was shinning, the home was cleaned and the electricity was working – the world was back to being a happy place!

I stood and went to the kitchen , filled the kettle with water, slipped the on button into position, still smiling . As I turned to go through the door a sound that can only be akin to wailing woman in distress and pain burst from the bathroom!

“ASKIM..YOU HAVE DONE A SHEET IN THE WASHING BASKET!”

Westy