or,
Things I Cannot Afford Because I Am in College
Cause:
- Monthly income: roughly 500 YTL (Turkish New Lira) - equivalent: $300
- Irresponsible spending habits, including but not limited to a spontaneous flight to Istanbul
Primary Result:
- Running out of money before the end of the month
- Shopping list:
Light Bulbs
Toilet paper
Napkins
Hand soap
Dishwashing soap
Laundry Detergent
Tampons
Food
Snack food
Secondary Result:
- Three (out of nine) functioning light bulbs.
This means that when I arrive home after work, I must decide which rooms I want lit, and move the light bulbs accordingly. In the dark.
- Four girls, one week, zero toilet paper.
We are now using napkins and, courtesy of the Russians, what I think may be crepe paper. Like the kind you string up around the house on birthdays.
- Candle lit bathroom.
The bathroom is not occupied often enough to warrant a light bulb. Therefore, we go in the dark. And hope there's enough napkins.
- Four girls, five days, one travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer.
You really don't want to think about this one for too long.
- Dish Rationing.
"Does this look dirty to you?" "Nah. Maybe a little greasy. Not dirty, per se..." "K. I'm gonna use it again."
- "Sniff tested" clothing.
Doesn't smell? Doesn't have any visible stains? Then who cares if it hasn't been washed in a month!
- ... Unnecessary-to-describe grossness.
- Four nights in a row of defrosted mantı (Turkish ravioli).
Also a dependence on potato-based meals that would make our Irish ancestors proud.
- Elevated levels of bitchiness due to hunger.
Update on the Russians:
In true Cold War fashion, we've outlasted them. Valentina left this morning, Marina left a few days ago. Alex and I have reconciled to the idea that we are each far too lazy to move all of our things. So we will continue to share a room, despite the two empty bedrooms.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
A True Story
A usual Friday sees Alex and I leaving work early, usually around 1-2 pm, and either catching a ride with Ozlem, a student/friend who we enjoy spending time with and who has been kind enough to volunteer her vehicular servitude. Last Friday I caught a ride with Ozlem to Tunali Caddesi (street), while Alex went home and showered before meeting me there. I wandered up and down the street a bit before sitting down in Kuğulu Park, a pretty little park with a pond and ducks large enough to eat four year olds. Whole.
I've discovered that if I'm quiet, I get glances but not stares. I don't fit the Turkish archetype- I don't have enough of a fashion sense, for one, and I don't have large, fascinating eyes. As a general rule, Turks have dark hair and eyes every color imaginable- sky blue, turquoise, dark green, amber, navy blue- it can be almost unsettling, especially with the wide variety of skin tones. Anyhow, so although I don't look particularly Turkish, I don't really stand out. Until I open my mouth. But I was bored, and had nothing to do until Alex got to the park- and she was taking public transportation, which can be extremely unreliable. And slow. So I called Sarah- a close friend from home- and endured the staring. You can almost hear the wheels grinding as they try to dredge up long-forgotten high school/college English lessons and translate what I'm babbling about. Most people looked away after a few minutes, once they realized I was (intentionally) speaking very quickly and they couldn't keep up. A few yards away, taking obnoxiously touristy photos, was a couple- obviously foreign, although judging by appearance alone they could have been Turkish: dark skin, dark hair, on the shorter side. The woman was dressed a bit differently, wearing a brightly pattern tunic under her sweater and a matching loose head scarf, and I chuckled a bit as I noticed that she removed the scarf for every photo. Once I started talking on the phone, the woman looked over intently- realized I was speaking in English- and didn't look away.
As I tucked my phone into my jeans pocket, she made her way over to me.
"Foreigner?" she asked brightly. Her male companion listened from their bench, in the background.
"Yeah- American." I smiled. It's not usually a problem.
"Ohhh, really? That's very good. Very good. Are you here on holiday?" she reminded me of a small bird, moving and speaking quickly, but without making one feel rushed.
I explained, briefly, that I was a student in Boston, but working here for six months before returning to my studies- the co-op program in a nutshell. I told her I taught English at a university.
"Ahh, teaching English! Very important!" she went on to complain about how so few people speak English in Turkey, and it's been a real challenge for her- her cousin (the male companion), spoke fluent Turkish, but she couldn't speak a word.
"Really?" I asked. "So where are you from?"
"Oh, we are from Afghanistan." she chirped. "We are heart doctors."
"Wow- um- really? That's interesting," I stammered. "Uh, so why are you visiting Turkey? On holiday?"
"Oh, no," she shook her head. "We are here for a... to study angiography, at Umut hospital. We are learning to use an angiogram."
I learned, over the next hour, that Dr. Masooda was born in a village outside Kabul, and had always known she wanted to be a doctor or a teacher- to help people. She and her cousin were here at a workshop for angiograms because their hospital in Kabul had just received the first angiogram in the history of Afghanistan. She showed me Afghani money, and told me about her home. She loved Americans, and placed huge importance on the English language- "the international language," as she explained. She was frustrated the even in the medical and academic arena, the Turkish people dislike English on principle and show a great deal of obstinacy on the subject. I talked about my job, and how long I would be here, and my future goals- working in diplomacy, which excited her and Dr. Namat, her cousin, very much. I talked about studying Arabic, and Dr. Namat told me about how he learned Arabic in Pakistan. He could speak fluent Pashto (the main Afghani language), as well as English, Turkish, Arabic, and several other Afghani dialects, and he's always wanted to learn French. We talked about family, and laughed about the everyday absurdities one encounters as a foreigner in Turkey. In short, I got to know them.
It was getting dark, though, and they had to return to their hostels. We took photos together, each proud of meeting the other. Then Dr. Namat pulled out his cell phone- and asked if I'd like to get together again. Masooda chipped in, bribing me with offers of Afghani food, which I had never tried, and told me to bring Alex. I accepted, of course, and typed in my name and phone number. I've come to realize that no other culture can handle my name- I become "Kathy" to the French, and now "Karry" to the Afghanis, despite entering "K-a-t-i-e" into Namat's phone. But there are worse things to be called. They told me they wanted to get together on Monday -(talking talking talking)- no wait, on Sunday. I agreed, and promised to meet them in the same park at 10:00 Sunday morning.
Alex met up with me soon after, and I told her over dessert about my Afghani encounter, and that we were invited to meet them and their friends from the hospital on Sunday. She was as thrilled as I was, and we chattered excitedly about the cool possibilities of knowing people in Afghanistan- a possible future workplace for each of us.
Saturday morning we met up with an American friend at a cafe, and bartered our fabulous companionship for the delivery of two pints of sour cream. Alex is a sour cream fanatic, and Turkey hasn't yet discovered it- so this was a great deal. We talked, which is code for Alex and I took turns dominating the conversation, until I recieved a phone call from an unfamiliar number.
"Hello?"
"Kerry! This is Dr. Namat. Are you fine?" (They don't ask how I am, they ask if I am fine. Don't know why.)
"Hi Namat. Uh yes, yes I am fine. How are you?"
"I am fine! Are you in the park?"
"Uhm, no...?" I pause and check my phone. It's 11:30 AM- on Saturday. Not Sunday.
"Will you be in the park soon?" It's at this point that I realized that Pashto to Turkish to English, each with its corresponding word for "Saturday," isn't the most reliable form of communication. I didn't try to explain why I wasn't there on time, I just apologized, grabbed Alex and headed over. With two pint of sour cream in a plastic bag in her purse.
We went with Namat to Masooda's hostel, and then went with the two of them to their hospital for lunch. Yes, hospital food. Not as bad as expected. Then we visited their brother (they're cousins, but they both referred to Dr. Atikullah as their brother... another mistranslation. I hope.) and spoke to him about the future of Afghanistan and the importance of the angiogram they were to recieve. He's the Diplomatic Health Attache from Afghanistan to Turkey, and is newlywed to a Turkish woman- but has lived in the area for over a decade. After leaving there, we went on a walking tour of Ankara, lasting a few hours and ending the the Metro station, where Alex and I tried to make our exit. Not wanting to be impolite, as they clearly planned on keeping us around longer, Alex tried to explain that we needed to go home because she had a headache.
She explained this to two Afghani doctors.
Needless to say, other than making them a hover a bit closer, it was unsuccessful. They had promised to cook us dinner, and Afghani hospitality, we quickly learned, isn't so much an offer as an obligation. We eventually headed to Dr. Atikullah's home via public transit, which took us 45 minutes outside of Ankara... to a mountainside. We made conversation with Atikullah while Masooda and Namat made dinner, which they finished around 8 pm- by which time Alex and I were starved. I mean, barely-contained two-year-old hissy-fit famished. Almost-chewing-on-the-leather-chairs famished. It was not good times.
We ate at about 10 pm. After smelling the delicious, homemade Afghani and Turkish foods for over two hours. We ate on a spread on the floor, rice and a spinach-esque dip, pita bread and chicken and homemade yogurt (yes, homemade.) The center was a huge vegetable spread- carrots and cucumbers, lemons and tomatoes. I went for a cucumber slice, to be stopped as they poured salt over the whole thing. Cucumbers and carrots are actually quite good with salt- who knew? I wasn't daring enough to try the lemons, although Atikullah enjoyed them, biting into a round slice whole, as if it was a cookie. Salted.
After dinner we were shown a photo slideshow of Afghani villagers and their goats, at which point (after 11 pm), we were forced to take drastic measures to escape their hospitality. One faked phone call from a Russian and six million apologetic excuses later, we were out the door. They were disappointed, as they had assumed we'd spend the night. When we'd met them less than 24 hours before. But we were invited back as soon as we could make it, for more food and company.
And goat photos.
I've discovered that if I'm quiet, I get glances but not stares. I don't fit the Turkish archetype- I don't have enough of a fashion sense, for one, and I don't have large, fascinating eyes. As a general rule, Turks have dark hair and eyes every color imaginable- sky blue, turquoise, dark green, amber, navy blue- it can be almost unsettling, especially with the wide variety of skin tones. Anyhow, so although I don't look particularly Turkish, I don't really stand out. Until I open my mouth. But I was bored, and had nothing to do until Alex got to the park- and she was taking public transportation, which can be extremely unreliable. And slow. So I called Sarah- a close friend from home- and endured the staring. You can almost hear the wheels grinding as they try to dredge up long-forgotten high school/college English lessons and translate what I'm babbling about. Most people looked away after a few minutes, once they realized I was (intentionally) speaking very quickly and they couldn't keep up. A few yards away, taking obnoxiously touristy photos, was a couple- obviously foreign, although judging by appearance alone they could have been Turkish: dark skin, dark hair, on the shorter side. The woman was dressed a bit differently, wearing a brightly pattern tunic under her sweater and a matching loose head scarf, and I chuckled a bit as I noticed that she removed the scarf for every photo. Once I started talking on the phone, the woman looked over intently- realized I was speaking in English- and didn't look away.
As I tucked my phone into my jeans pocket, she made her way over to me.
"Foreigner?" she asked brightly. Her male companion listened from their bench, in the background.
"Yeah- American." I smiled. It's not usually a problem.
"Ohhh, really? That's very good. Very good. Are you here on holiday?" she reminded me of a small bird, moving and speaking quickly, but without making one feel rushed.
I explained, briefly, that I was a student in Boston, but working here for six months before returning to my studies- the co-op program in a nutshell. I told her I taught English at a university.
"Ahh, teaching English! Very important!" she went on to complain about how so few people speak English in Turkey, and it's been a real challenge for her- her cousin (the male companion), spoke fluent Turkish, but she couldn't speak a word.
"Really?" I asked. "So where are you from?"
"Oh, we are from Afghanistan." she chirped. "We are heart doctors."
"Wow- um- really? That's interesting," I stammered. "Uh, so why are you visiting Turkey? On holiday?"
"Oh, no," she shook her head. "We are here for a... to study angiography, at Umut hospital. We are learning to use an angiogram."
I learned, over the next hour, that Dr. Masooda was born in a village outside Kabul, and had always known she wanted to be a doctor or a teacher- to help people. She and her cousin were here at a workshop for angiograms because their hospital in Kabul had just received the first angiogram in the history of Afghanistan. She showed me Afghani money, and told me about her home. She loved Americans, and placed huge importance on the English language- "the international language," as she explained. She was frustrated the even in the medical and academic arena, the Turkish people dislike English on principle and show a great deal of obstinacy on the subject. I talked about my job, and how long I would be here, and my future goals- working in diplomacy, which excited her and Dr. Namat, her cousin, very much. I talked about studying Arabic, and Dr. Namat told me about how he learned Arabic in Pakistan. He could speak fluent Pashto (the main Afghani language), as well as English, Turkish, Arabic, and several other Afghani dialects, and he's always wanted to learn French. We talked about family, and laughed about the everyday absurdities one encounters as a foreigner in Turkey. In short, I got to know them.
It was getting dark, though, and they had to return to their hostels. We took photos together, each proud of meeting the other. Then Dr. Namat pulled out his cell phone- and asked if I'd like to get together again. Masooda chipped in, bribing me with offers of Afghani food, which I had never tried, and told me to bring Alex. I accepted, of course, and typed in my name and phone number. I've come to realize that no other culture can handle my name- I become "Kathy" to the French, and now "Karry" to the Afghanis, despite entering "K-a-t-i-e" into Namat's phone. But there are worse things to be called. They told me they wanted to get together on Monday -(talking talking talking)- no wait, on Sunday. I agreed, and promised to meet them in the same park at 10:00 Sunday morning.
Alex met up with me soon after, and I told her over dessert about my Afghani encounter, and that we were invited to meet them and their friends from the hospital on Sunday. She was as thrilled as I was, and we chattered excitedly about the cool possibilities of knowing people in Afghanistan- a possible future workplace for each of us.
Saturday morning we met up with an American friend at a cafe, and bartered our fabulous companionship for the delivery of two pints of sour cream. Alex is a sour cream fanatic, and Turkey hasn't yet discovered it- so this was a great deal. We talked, which is code for Alex and I took turns dominating the conversation, until I recieved a phone call from an unfamiliar number.
"Hello?"
"Kerry! This is Dr. Namat. Are you fine?" (They don't ask how I am, they ask if I am fine. Don't know why.)
"Hi Namat. Uh yes, yes I am fine. How are you?"
"I am fine! Are you in the park?"
"Uhm, no...?" I pause and check my phone. It's 11:30 AM- on Saturday. Not Sunday.
"Will you be in the park soon?" It's at this point that I realized that Pashto to Turkish to English, each with its corresponding word for "Saturday," isn't the most reliable form of communication. I didn't try to explain why I wasn't there on time, I just apologized, grabbed Alex and headed over. With two pint of sour cream in a plastic bag in her purse.
We went with Namat to Masooda's hostel, and then went with the two of them to their hospital for lunch. Yes, hospital food. Not as bad as expected. Then we visited their brother (they're cousins, but they both referred to Dr. Atikullah as their brother... another mistranslation. I hope.) and spoke to him about the future of Afghanistan and the importance of the angiogram they were to recieve. He's the Diplomatic Health Attache from Afghanistan to Turkey, and is newlywed to a Turkish woman- but has lived in the area for over a decade. After leaving there, we went on a walking tour of Ankara, lasting a few hours and ending the the Metro station, where Alex and I tried to make our exit. Not wanting to be impolite, as they clearly planned on keeping us around longer, Alex tried to explain that we needed to go home because she had a headache.
She explained this to two Afghani doctors.
Needless to say, other than making them a hover a bit closer, it was unsuccessful. They had promised to cook us dinner, and Afghani hospitality, we quickly learned, isn't so much an offer as an obligation. We eventually headed to Dr. Atikullah's home via public transit, which took us 45 minutes outside of Ankara... to a mountainside. We made conversation with Atikullah while Masooda and Namat made dinner, which they finished around 8 pm- by which time Alex and I were starved. I mean, barely-contained two-year-old hissy-fit famished. Almost-chewing-on-the-leather-chairs famished. It was not good times.
We ate at about 10 pm. After smelling the delicious, homemade Afghani and Turkish foods for over two hours. We ate on a spread on the floor, rice and a spinach-esque dip, pita bread and chicken and homemade yogurt (yes, homemade.) The center was a huge vegetable spread- carrots and cucumbers, lemons and tomatoes. I went for a cucumber slice, to be stopped as they poured salt over the whole thing. Cucumbers and carrots are actually quite good with salt- who knew? I wasn't daring enough to try the lemons, although Atikullah enjoyed them, biting into a round slice whole, as if it was a cookie. Salted.
After dinner we were shown a photo slideshow of Afghani villagers and their goats, at which point (after 11 pm), we were forced to take drastic measures to escape their hospitality. One faked phone call from a Russian and six million apologetic excuses later, we were out the door. They were disappointed, as they had assumed we'd spend the night. When we'd met them less than 24 hours before. But we were invited back as soon as we could make it, for more food and company.
And goat photos.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Istanbul (Not Constantinople)
The Turkish Top 20:
Things to remember when one takes a day trip to another continent
-Directions should be kept in the front pocket, not the back pocket, where they fall out.
-Do not give food to the stray cats that live in the train station, they get clingy.
-When buying roundtrip train tickets in a foreign language, remember the word for tomorrow. Do not confuse it with the word for yesterday. This rule may be suspended if you have a camera ready to capture the ticketer's expression.
-Kittens are the only animals that can sleep comfortably while intertangled in a cramped space, i.e. tiny upright train seats. Do not attempt, unless of course you truly enjoy not being able to turn your head to the left for the next 24 hours.
-Train, bus, and ferry stations, even in cities that are thousands of years old, are still pretty sketch.
-When faced with a decision between Nescafe and Starbucks, chose Starbucks. Endure the eyerolling of natives, because at least you know that whatever's in that cup was once related to a coffee bean.
-Just because a road looks like it should have a sidewalk on the map does not mean it does. Nor does it mean it is finished, and not, say, a forty foot under construction highway overpass with no railing.
-Expect detours and confusion.
-Do not expect logic, in any form, under any circumstances.
-If you plan to try the local delicacies, do not watch them being prepared. "Kokoreç" doesn't sound all that intimidating, despite its similarities to the English word "cockroach." Until you see them cleaning and roasting sheep intestine.
-Like an Escher painting or your grandfather's angry rants, it is possible to follow a route that is uphill both ways. I haven't figured out the physics, but I'm still certain we did it.
-When in doubt, follow the herd. Unless it's a herd of lemmings. Never follow lemmings.
-When security lets someone bring two unsearched shoulder bags and box theoretically containing a nargile (hookah) into the stadium, but takes your pocket lighter, you might not want to count on them for actual security.
-Football (soccer) stadiums are built to fit 50,000 raging lunatic fans, all of whom would die if someone even thought about screaming "fire."
-Drunken, celebratory football hooligans fall into the same category as lemmings.
-Do not give money to the stray children that live by the stadium, they get clingy.
-When in need of a guide, simply make eye contact with an underage local.* This is close enough to flirting and more than adequate encouragement for them to bop over and try to communicate. But good luck trying to ditch them after reaching the train station. (*Note: Only valid when used with underage males. DO NOT ATTEMPT otherwise.)
-Speaking in loud, rapid-fire English on the train will earn you dirty looks and dirtier come-ons from drunken middle-aged Turkish men.
-Try to stay out of the aisle as police officers come to escort away said drunken middle-aged Turkish men.
-When the train breaks down at 7:00 AM and you're supposed to be at work at 8:30, sleep through it to avoid homicidal interactions with train operators.
-When the train doesn't arrive at your destination until two hours later than it should have and you are forced to go immediately to work, unshowered and cranky, coffee is a completely reasonable first priority.
In other news, one of the Russians is leaving us in roughly a week. Not the Moldovan, whose name I finally learned via a sneaky, I-can't-spell-your-name-please-type-it-in-my-phone-with-you-phone-number scheme, (Valentina), but Marina- the one who speaks at least a little English. Not that she's been using it, as of recently our interactions have been limited to cutting each other in the shower line in the morning and blaming the language barrier... think Space Race, but less high-tech and more hygienic... but she's still capable of communicating. Valentina can't speak a word. Still. And I don't have the mental capacity to take on Russian. It's going to be an interesting few months.
Alex, Marina, and I
Things to remember when one takes a day trip to another continent
-Directions should be kept in the front pocket, not the back pocket, where they fall out.
-Do not give food to the stray cats that live in the train station, they get clingy.
-When buying roundtrip train tickets in a foreign language, remember the word for tomorrow. Do not confuse it with the word for yesterday. This rule may be suspended if you have a camera ready to capture the ticketer's expression.
-Kittens are the only animals that can sleep comfortably while intertangled in a cramped space, i.e. tiny upright train seats. Do not attempt, unless of course you truly enjoy not being able to turn your head to the left for the next 24 hours.
-Train, bus, and ferry stations, even in cities that are thousands of years old, are still pretty sketch.
-When faced with a decision between Nescafe and Starbucks, chose Starbucks. Endure the eyerolling of natives, because at least you know that whatever's in that cup was once related to a coffee bean.
-Just because a road looks like it should have a sidewalk on the map does not mean it does. Nor does it mean it is finished, and not, say, a forty foot under construction highway overpass with no railing.
-Expect detours and confusion.
-Do not expect logic, in any form, under any circumstances.
-If you plan to try the local delicacies, do not watch them being prepared. "Kokoreç" doesn't sound all that intimidating, despite its similarities to the English word "cockroach." Until you see them cleaning and roasting sheep intestine.
-Like an Escher painting or your grandfather's angry rants, it is possible to follow a route that is uphill both ways. I haven't figured out the physics, but I'm still certain we did it.
-When in doubt, follow the herd. Unless it's a herd of lemmings. Never follow lemmings.
-When security lets someone bring two unsearched shoulder bags and box theoretically containing a nargile (hookah) into the stadium, but takes your pocket lighter, you might not want to count on them for actual security.
-Football (soccer) stadiums are built to fit 50,000 raging lunatic fans, all of whom would die if someone even thought about screaming "fire."
-Drunken, celebratory football hooligans fall into the same category as lemmings.
-Do not give money to the stray children that live by the stadium, they get clingy.
-When in need of a guide, simply make eye contact with an underage local.* This is close enough to flirting and more than adequate encouragement for them to bop over and try to communicate. But good luck trying to ditch them after reaching the train station. (*Note: Only valid when used with underage males. DO NOT ATTEMPT otherwise.)
-Speaking in loud, rapid-fire English on the train will earn you dirty looks and dirtier come-ons from drunken middle-aged Turkish men.
-Try to stay out of the aisle as police officers come to escort away said drunken middle-aged Turkish men.
-When the train breaks down at 7:00 AM and you're supposed to be at work at 8:30, sleep through it to avoid homicidal interactions with train operators.
-When the train doesn't arrive at your destination until two hours later than it should have and you are forced to go immediately to work, unshowered and cranky, coffee is a completely reasonable first priority.
In other news, one of the Russians is leaving us in roughly a week. Not the Moldovan, whose name I finally learned via a sneaky, I-can't-spell-your-name-please-type-it-in-my-phone-with-you-phone-number scheme, (Valentina), but Marina- the one who speaks at least a little English. Not that she's been using it, as of recently our interactions have been limited to cutting each other in the shower line in the morning and blaming the language barrier... think Space Race, but less high-tech and more hygienic... but she's still capable of communicating. Valentina can't speak a word. Still. And I don't have the mental capacity to take on Russian. It's going to be an interesting few months.
Alex, Marina, and I
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
