Sunday 31 March 2013

Turkish ingenuity

Back in  England we expect rainwater to drain to the sides of the roads, down through drain holes and into the sewers below. 

Of course we do. The roads are deliberately constructed with a camber - a convex curvature in the tar-mac maintaining height at the road centre. 

Science part over.

In Istanbul, the roads are nice and flat. 

Of course they are.

During the rainy season large puddles form across the roads. Steeper local streets turn in to white water rapids, stairways into cascading waterfalls, and main junctions become urban, traffic-heavy lakes.

Most of the time this is simply a nuisance. If you've chosen the wrong pair of shoes you might find yourself sitting in soggy socks for a large part of the day. 

For these guys working outside of our office one morning, it's a genuine hassle.



They were trying to do repair work on subterranean telephone systems and, to avoid working under a soaking wet waterfall from another nasty road-lake, they collected mud from nearby plant pots and constructed a miniature, inverted dam around their man-hole, keeping the potentially dangerous water at bay.

Of course they did.

Tuesday 26 March 2013

Musical Metro

"Bing bong" sings the ticket machine as you swipe your card.
"Bah-da Bah-daa", it's neighbour replies.
"Bong bing!", cries out a third.
"Da-dah", the first retorts.
"Boop boop", "Do do doo", the other machines join the choir and together their mad symphony fills the metro station tunnel.

But what do the lyrics actually mean? I have no idea. There's no apparent pattern, no code. Does each card prompt a different noise?

Most of the noises mean that your card is accepted, so let's just assume that this is a cheerful song, one from the heart of the musical metro station welcoming you through it's ticket machine vocals.

Tuesday 19 March 2013

"is that all?"

Of all the complexities I have experienced while attempting to learn the Turkish language, the arrangement of sentences, the suffixes, suffixes and suffixes, it is the word "başka" that always trips me up.

I don't know why, but I keep forgetting that başka means "anything else?" And not, "is that all?".So I regularly experience an awkward few seconds of silence at checkout counters having responded "evet, yes" to that tricky başka question. The checkout assistant/shopowner and I stare at each other like bemused chess-players waiting for the opponents move.


I sometimes end the silence by saying back "baska?" (which, surely, is very rude) but this actually tends to resolve the matter as they piece the puzzle together and realise that I'm just a stupid foreigner. Then they wish me goodnight in perfect English.


Show-offs.

Thursday 14 March 2013

Chatty fast food

A phone call:

'Hello?"
'Hello sir, I am calling from Yemek Sepeti,'
...
'OK?'
'Sir, do you have any other question for us, sir?'
'"Other"? What? No. No I don't. You called me.'

Yemek Sepeti; apparently they like to call just for a chat.

Wednesday 13 March 2013

Congratulations, Taramasalata!! (Galatasaray)

So Galatasaray beat Schalke last night, then.

Or maybe it stayed 2-2, putting them through on aggregate. Or possibly ended 3-3 or 4-4.

All I know is that Galatasaray made it through to the Quarter finals. 

I guessed this, partly because as I went to grab some bread from the shop next door the shop-owner, for once, didn't notice me and therefore grunted at me entirely in Turkish, his gaze fixed determinedly on the tiny TV monitor in his shop. It didn't matter, I know numbers and "goodnight" in Turkish anyway. The tiny score on the tiny screen was 2-2 as I left.

But I know the result thanks to the informative car-horns which rang out throughout the night, taking me back to 2008 in Shoreditch, North London when Turkey (surprise, surprise) inexplicably made it through to the semi-finals of the European Championships, somehow getting past a superior Croatia. 

Up and down Kingsland Road, a twenty-something strong convoy of Turk-packed cars drove, blaring music, waving flags, beeping horns etc...I believe it's called celebrating, something we English football fans are not so used to.

We loved it. Living in North London (and when England don't qualify) you have to make Turkey your honorary team for the tournament, even if only to get cheaper kebabs from the local takeaways. And the kebabs suddenly get even cheaper when you come in cheering on "Tur-Kee-Yeah!" as your neighbours have laboriously taught you, and mentioning names like Nihat and Semih, which you have learnt entirely for the purpose of cheap/free doner meat and chips.

So last night, as Galatasaray fans celebrated their famous win (or draw, I still haven't looked the final score up) last night, rather than being kept awake by the noise I found myself feeling more at home than ever.


(I like that Google tries to correct "Galatasaray" to "Taramasalata". Nice try, Google)




Tuesday 12 March 2013

Running from Asia to Europe

I was stupid enough to sign up for the Istanbul marathon in November with only a couple of months to train. 

I made the maps in the images so that my friends could know where to stand and hand me mars bars/bananas, just in case any of them got up in time to cheer me on.

And below, in my longest entry yet, are the general thoughts running through my head on my first, and probably last, ever marathon.

0km : Oh God it's freezing!! Why didn't someone tell me it would be this cold! This is Turkey! I can barely feel my feet! Just start the race, please!
1km : Wow (view over Istanbul from the bridge)
2km: Will these fat people get out of the way!? How did they get in front of me in the first place!? 
3km: Ah, good; I can feel my feet again.
4km: Wow, people are already dropping out!?
5km: Is that...is that "Gangnam Style" they're playing? Oh no, that's gonna be stuck in my head now.
7km: Hey, that's my flat!
10km: So...where are the toilets then? I was told they'd be everywhere.
11km: WHERE are the toilets...there are just too many people around to just go in the trees.
12km: Sod it, I'm going in the trees.
13km: Ahhhhhh...
14km: Oh, this is so much better with an empty bladder.
15km: Well, this is surprisingly boring.
16km: Apples!? Whose idea was it to give out apples!? Where are the Snickers and Mars bars!  Or even bananas! Do I really have to nibble on this!?
17km: op! op! op! Gangnam style - oh no, not that song!
18km: Genius! Whoever thought to hand out apples! What a huge energy boost! Where's the next apple stall?
19km: God this is boring.
20km: op! op! op! - NO! stop it.
21km: Half way! Great! Although...this is only half way, and my legs are starting to ache.
22km: Oh wow, there's the race leader. Kenyan. Of course. But wait...if he's running the other way, and the next turn is about 5km away...he must 10km ahead of me. Urgh.
23km: And there goes 2nd place, 3rd place, 4th, 5th...I might just count all the people running the other way to keep me occupied...6th, 7th...
24km: ...416th, 417th, oh forget it!
25km: Right, maths time. 2 hours and six minutes at 25km. So to predict  my final time, I'll divide that by 5 is which is about 25 minutes? Times 8 is 180 minutes? What's that in hours? Oh and it's not 40k, it's 42...oh my god I've forgotten how to do maths! 
26km: Come on, where is that turning. And where is all the support. And what is the 8 times table!?
27km: Yes! The last turn! Now all along the sea-front to the finish and...oh #"*#^*"!!!!!! The wind! The wind is right in my face! This last 20km is gonna be hard...or is it 15km? Oh no, my maths!
28km: Op! Gangnam style! ArgH!!!
29km: Yeah, ok, my legs are hurting now. 
30km: My feet! They are swelling up so much! It's like someone is pumping them up with every step, they're gonna burst out of my shoes.
31km: My knees! The knee caps feel like they're on fire!
32km: Right. So I have already run further than I've ever run in my life, my legs are really aching, and I still have 10km to go! This is crazy!
34km: Yes, another over-take...although I shouldn't feel so good, that 80 year-old has spent this long in front of me.
35km: Woah, wobbly legs. Nearly toppled there.. Must concentrate on running now (Oh, NOW I think of that).
36km: I can't feel my feet. Again! But everything else is aching! Why are my arms aching? And my neck, and back, even my hair follicles are aching!
37km: 5km left! Come on Dan, you've done this in less than 19 minutes before, you can almost sprint this. Come on Dan, you've got this now. Almost there, almost there, just run it home. Come on. It's all good now.
38km: OH god it's so far!!! What was I thinking running faster. 
39km: Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry. 
40km: No! Not cramp again. I WILL not walk. I WILL stretch it out and carry on running, and I will not cry!
41km: Yes! Finally turning away from the wind, thank Go...what...noo! Up hill all the way until the finish line!
42km: Cramp! again not now! I can crawl to the finish line from here! But I MUST run it, despite these people laughing at me stretching with only 200m to go.



42.2km: Thank. God. For. That. Never. Again. 

My friends all met me at the last meeting point. No surprises there.

Saturday 9 March 2013

Pavement's Revenge (2)

Now it probably seems like I have some kind of vendetta against Turkish pavement, but I swear it is out to get me.

Early last year, in a cold winter period, I went for a run in the snow. As I approached Zincirlikuyu, this evil patch of paving, hiding under the snow, grabbed my foot and threw me to the floor. (The photo on the left was taken a few days later, once the snow had cleared)

I stood up and found that my arm wasn't moving properly, as it had popped out of it's socket. 

Fortunately, I was by a cab rank, and a helpful taxi driver took me to the nearest hospital. I say "helpful", he then proceeded to follow me in to the hospital to chase me for the 3 lira I had left out of his fare* (I'd chosen not to take much money out with me, as I was running).

What followed was a farcical debacle where I was left alone for a couple of hours waiting for the doctor, who strolled in and informed me - using his years of medical training and knowledge - that I had dislocated my shoulder. The next couple of hours was spent waiting for the hospital to communicate with my insurance company. 

Meanwhile, I tried to exhibit a shining example of British reservedness, but instead found screaming at just about anybody in the building, demanding they "just put my f****** arm back, now!!" 

Eventually I was wheeled to the operating theatre for the reduction procedure. The last thing I remembered before being knocked out was the surgeon connecting me to the wrong drip, before correcting his mistake and sending me to sleep.

I went back to the scene of the crime a few weeks later, arm in sling, and there it was, the despicable, violent patch of pavement, neatly relaid and smoothed out.

Sitting there, grinning at me, pretending nothing had happened.

I hate it.

(* not a standard representation of all Turkish cab drivers)

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Bad Brother



My little sister came to visit for a few days with her friend but I needed to go flat-hunting so on one of their visit days I left them alone for a few hours…in a dilapidated building…in Talatpaşa.

 

Ok, look, it’s not as bad as it sounds.

 

There was a streetart festival and several of the buildings in one street were covered in fantastic pieces graffiti.


 

The gecekondu (slum) area is due to be regenerated (i.e. demolished and re-built), producing an interesting argument as the government insist that the key reason for regenerating is to provide safer homes which will survive a large earthquake, and that they will provide housing for those who live here.The festival aimed to provide a political message about the likelihood of the gentrification of the area driving the locals away. 

 

For one day this street was alive with music, dancers, tourists, photographers and art-lovers.


 

Still, I made my sister promise not to tell our parents.

 





(Photographs courtesy of “mini Carter”, the arty geek)

Thursday 7 March 2013

Escher's fantasy

Nobody ever seems to use the step-machine in the gym here. I wonder why...

Almond?

"Alman?" Asks the nice lady at the bakery stall on the platform at Levent Metro.
 

"Almond? Hayır, teşekkürler, no thankyou, just that one cake thingy, lutfen", I reply, showing off my impressive Turkish vocabulary, with particular attention to one's p's and q's.
 

"Hayir; sen? Alman?"
 

"Oh, Allemand, like German? Duetschland?" - I'm just throwing my international linguistic skills around now, "No, ben english. Ingiltere." (I'd like to thank my ten Turkish lessons.)

I have fair hair so get asked this question quite a lot, but for some reason I'm always greeted with expressions of disappointment upon revealing my Englishness.


Or are they simply in awe at my mesmerising foreign language knowledge?

Yok.

Tuesday 5 March 2013

Hovering kisses


I need to work out what greeting Turkish men are going for; I can’t be doing with all of these hovering kisses.

You raise your hand to welcome a stranger and they reach out to wrap their hands around yours in a powerful handshake, staring directly into your eyes.

You extend your arm to shake a client’s hand and they pull you in for a friendly hug.

You hug your friend to say hello, then you suddenly find your arms are linked as they stroll down the street with you attached.

You attempt to link arms with an old acquaintance and they kiss you on both cheeks.

You stretch out your arms to hug an old Turkish friend and, as you attempt to go for the cheek-kiss, they grab you around the neck and tap their head against yours at the temple, then again on the other side of your head; a traditional political greeting.

You attempt the traditional political greeting with a British colleague at the airport and head-butt them in the face.

Ok, this one only almost happened. Everything else definitely happened.

Sunday 3 March 2013

Systematic Istiklal

People on Istiklal Caddesi behave like cars on the road when it's busy. I like how the majority instinctively gravitate to the right when it starts to get over-crowded.

But where are the fast and slow lanes? 

There are none, just a steady flow of the masses streaming down the right hand side of the road, intercepted by the few crazy people who attempt to zip in and out of the crowds to save a little bit of time, just like on the roads.


There's no indicating either.

Saturday 2 March 2013

Cash Machine Suspense

There is no sound greater than the whirring of a foreign cash machine counting notes.

Even if you have lived abroad for several months, your bank may inconsiderately decide that there has been suspicious activity on your card, i.e. shopping for groceries in Istanbul. 

Every time I go to a cash machine I hold my breath after typing my pin, anxious that this could be the time it gets blocked...again. There are a few seconds where my (financial) life flashes before my eyes; I picture myself roaming the streets of Cihangir, scraping pieces of fish left out for the cats off the floor with my useless credit cards.

Then the machine starts to whir, I breath a sigh of relief, and start thinking about what bar to go to.