YabancıA foreigner in Turkey

Ellis Flipse

Published by Ellis Flipse at Smashwords.Copyright 2011 Ellis Flipse

http://www.ellisflipse.comhttp://www.boekengek.com

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-Prologue –

With amazement and joy I look at the Turkish lifestyle through the glasses of a modern western woman. I live in Çandır, a village on the southwest coast of Turkey. Not a day goes past without something going on that is of interest. How a small community can be so vibrant is a riddle to me.

Things that are perfectly normal here, like love of one’s neighbour, care for family, and a warm way of associating with everybody, were reasons to leave everything behind to start a new life here in this wonderful village.

The absolutely different ways of spending your time, the sense of humour, and the acceptance of life as it presents itself, make me walk around in wonder, learning, and full of amazement.

My Turkish friend, Fazile Zahir, made me trust in putting my observations onto paper. With the help of family and many friends it became this book.

All the stories in this book are my experiences, if there are untruths or mistakes in it, then they are due to my limited understanding of the Turkish language. This can create many misunderstandings which I have experienced all too often. To protect the privacy of people the names have been changed. In some stories I had to change some details to make it more readable.

This book was published in Dutch by publishing house ‘van Dorp Educatief’. The translating I did myself, and I can only hope that my clumsy English puts a smile on your face and that you forgive me for mistakes.

- Finally -

Everywhere I look I see people pacing around nervously. They are all standing impatiently waiting and pushing to get their suitcases off of the carousel. Good manners are hard to find. It is as though everybody is afraid of being late. Late for what?

The tour buses will undoubtedly not leave without their customers. The hotels are open twenty-four hours a day and everywhere you look you see taxis waiting in line. Relax! This is your vacation.

Once outside they walk up to one of the many ladies in brightly coloured outfits from the tour companies. The tour guides look at their clipboards and direct them patiently to the correct buses. I see the tourists drag their heavy suitcases with high expectations

toward the buses. They look up at the blue sky happily and, as promised, the sun is shining.

I sit on my suitcase with a cigarette and take all this in. Today I do not feel connected with these people and watch their behaviour in amazement. I suppose I may act the same when I arrive at unfamiliar destinations.

Around me I see the familiar palm trees and oleander bushes at Dalaman International Airport in Turkey. Even the air I breathe smells familiar. Yet, everything is different today. Without doubt, this is the most crucial day of my life. I must carry on and cannot turn back. It is a feeling that is unreal and glorious at the same time. Never before have I experienced this feeling of freedom. I taste it, play with it, and realize that it is very intense.

I have been here many times before but this time, I am not going back to Holland. I have quit my job, put my stuff in storage, and deposited my money in a Turkish bank. I have said goodbye to everybody and I have left. For years I have looked forward to this moment, and finally I am here. The rest of my life is like an ocean of time in front of me without all of the stress, impossible rules, intolerance, and the many other reasons I no longer wish to live in Holland. It will not be easy but it does not need to be. I feel strong and want to deal with the challenge.

Three years ago I made the decision to leave Holland. Real estate prices in Turkey were low and I was able to buy a thousand square meters of land with the intention of building a house on it later. From the moment I made that decision, my life was influenced by the knowledge that I was leaving. I took Turkish lessons and worked hard to get the financial side of my life in order. Luckily, the real estate market was so overheated in Holland that, when I sold my house, I had some money coming.

My wish is to end up in the village of Çandır which is not far from Dalyan. During the fall and throughout the coming winter I will stay in a pension owned by friends. Dalyan is a nice quiet village situated on the south-west coast of Turkey. This former fishing village sits on the eastern side of the Dalyan River which connects Köyceĝiz Lake to the Mediterranean Sea. Everything on the west side of the river is called Çandır.

The river meanders through vast reed beds towards the beach. All of this is surrounded by mountains. The area possesses a unique natural environment with overwhelming flora and fauna. Add to this the wonderful climate, and you could not ask for a better location.

As soon as I try to work my way through the crowd, I see Kerim’s familiar face coming up as he walks over the footbridge. His face cracks open into a warm smile as soon as he sees me. Kerim and his wife, Yaprak, own the pension in Dalyan where I have spent all my vacations for the last ten years. With his arm around my shoulder, we walk toward the car.

Finally, I am home...

- Dirty Teeth -

Here in Turkey a notary must sign all legal documents otherwise they are basically useless. Rental contracts, transferring a car into somebody else’s name, etcetera. I am buying some land in a place that is not open for foreign ownership. To overcome this difficulty, my intention is to put the title in the name of my best friend and biggest supporter, Kerim. I had put many things into writing in order to prevent things from going wrong in the future. Therefore Kerim phoned the notary to make an appointment for me.

While in Holland I had visited an attorney who specialized in Turkish law to prepare all the necessary paperwork. I only have to get them stamped by a Turkish notary. When Kerim and I arrive at the notary office it is about 35 degrees Celsius, and I am starting to sweat as soon as we are halfway up the three steps that lead to the notary’s office. Kerim casually directs me into a chair as soon as we are inside the office. He does all the talking.

I am sitting there in a dull colourless office in front of a long counter. Behind the counter there are equally colourless ladies all busy at antique typewriters amid big piles of

paper. The Turkish florescent lighting makes the scene complete. A notary in Holland gives a much more luxurious impression but I have to admit that their fees are also extremely expensive.

In a corner an old fan snores quietly without much noticeable effect. The notary himself is a small man with blackened teeth from smoking, and he has an indifferent look on his face. All in all, it makes for a very unpleasant scene. I cannot say that I feel comfortable with this situation and hope everything goes well. This scene reminds me of one I saw on television. A man is standing in an office sweating heavily opposite a customs employee who is sizing him up to determine just how much money he can take him for.

‘He is asking 1500 euro,’ I hear Kerim say.‘Isn't that a lot of money?’ I say.‘That’s ridiculous! Let’s go, I want to make some phone calls first,’ says Kerim.When we return to the Pension I take a refreshing dive into the river. About ten minutes

later Kerim comes out of his office.‘I phoned a few friends and found a notary who is much more reasonable. He charges

only 175 euro and has made an appointment for us tomorrow,’ says Kerim.‘What! How can there be such a big difference?’ I say.‘Well,’ he says somewhat embarrassed, ‘as soon as they see a foreign name they think

that you are rich and the price gets multiplied by five. A friend who is an attorney phoned for me and has arranged for you to pay the usual fee.’

This completely amazes me but I consider myself lucky for the help of Kerim. Some of these Turks can be real villains. The next day my amazement grows as I realize we are walking up the familiar stairs to the same notary’s office. Kerim plants me in the uncomfortable chair and, without even a blink of his eye, the same notary welcomes us.

With an arrogant voice the notary orders Kerim to go and get some photocopies made. Mmmm, evidently the customer is not king in this place. Apparently this peremptory behaviour is acceptable if you think you are wealthy or important enough. So Kerim runs out of the room to make the requested copies as a copier is not part of this office's inventory.

As I wait for further problems to arise, with my toes curled from annoyance, I am soaked in sweat, and am sitting on a very uncomfortable chair. Mr. Dirty Teeth retires into his own pigsty to read a newspaper and smoke a cigarette. Slowly he disappears in a cloud of blue smoke behind the glass in the door.

Kerim returns to the office, hands the copies to one of the colourless ladies, and falls into the chair next to me with drops of sweat dripping down his neck. All of this is very difficult for him. Kerim, like many Turks, feels very uncomfortable in the presence of higher placed people. One of the ladies starts to type fiercely. They translate my passport and she re-types all the contracts.

We are sitting and waiting here for over an hour, and we do not even get as much as a cup of tea offered to us. Even at the weekly market you are always offered a cup of Turkish tea from most of the vendors.

‘What are we waiting for?’ I ask Kerim.‘We are waiting for an interpreter which is compulsory in the case of foreigners.’This is the first thing that actually makes sense because everyone should know exactly

what it is he or she signs. Unfortunately, only certified translators are allowed to witness signatures, and we have had to wait more than an hour for his arrival. It appears that he is a schoolmaster and he could not come before his school day was finished.

He speaks very poor English and asks me, with the help of his arms and legs, if I am married and if I want to stay in Turkey for good among other personal questions. The contracts are not even mentioned so I lose one more illusion but, who cares? He has to make a living as well, doesn't he?

My frumpy blouse sticks very inelegantly to my back. How do these people do it? I see nobody with as much as a small stain of sweat on their shirt. I will be so happy when this body of mine gets accustomed to this type of weather.

They invite us to enter Mr. Dirty Teeth's pigsty to sign all the documents. Afterwards, with a big smile on his face, he says goodbye and shows us to the person where we can pay the bill. Pffffff what a hard life he lives. The idea alone that I could have been fooled into giving this creep 1500 euro for this work...?

Everything is now arranged according to my needs, but I hope I will not ever need his services again.

- Bags Full of Money -

The documents concerning Kerim and I are in good order. Putting the plot into Kerim’s name is very simple. He goes to the Tapu office, which is something like a real estate registry office, the old owner transfers his deed to Kerim and the registry office issues Kerim a new deed of ownership and that’s all.

No money has exchanged hands but the land is now in Kerim’s name and I have all the rights to it by contract. If I do not pay there is absolutely nothing anyone can do about it. So you can understand how the enmity between families can go on for generations.

A large portion of the payment goes under the counter, a normal bank transfer is not the way the seller wants it. My money sits in an account at IS Bank, a Turkish Bank in Holland. They have assured me that the money would be available to me in Turkey. I enter the IS Bank office in Turkey, in good spirits, convinced that I can get to my money. Patiently I wait my turn in a line that seemingly does not exist for the other customers. In my simple Turkish I try to explain what I want. With the help of the people present, a nice man behind the counter finally understands what I want of him. He obviously has no idea what to do so he goes to see the big boss. This is an important looking man in a suit who sits in an office with a glass front behind an enormous desk doing absolutely nothing.

He explains what has to be done and the friendly employee is back in no time. The bank employee starts to work on the paperwork, somewhat worried about doing this unusually large transaction correctly. The whole thing draws a lot of attention. I can hear the people talking about me as if I was not there at all.

‘She has bought land in Çandır’‘Oh really, where? From who?’Explanation follows, phrases of surprise, and a whole discussion about the price. It is

too much or just the right price?‘Is she German?’‘No, she is Dutch.’Quietly amused, I sit in a corner and wait. By now all the employees are bent over the

computer monitor. Everybody wants to see how this works. After a lot of sweating and heavy breathing, three hours of waiting, and the transaction is finally completed.

I ask the man if he can deliver the whole amount in cash. Yes, this can be done, but the cash needs to be ordered. Three days later the money will be there.

After three days I arrive at the bank together with Kerim. In Turkish lira the amount goes into billions, with the biggest note being twenty million. Two big blue shopping bags full of money are waiting for us and they ask whether we want to count the money or not. Ha-ha, no thank you, we trust it will be fine.

We drag the big bags of money across Dalyan to the land seller’s bank where he is waiting for us at the entrance. He is not interested in counting the cash either, saying he trusts us. He takes the money and, with a firm handshake, the transaction is over.

No one would have ever imagined that we were carrying so much cash, because we had laughed loudly all the way through the streets of Dalyan on our way to the bank.

- Oil Drum or Heater -

Looking around at the fifteen square meter room I stand in, I see a washing machine, a dishwasher, an enormous sink, and a fireplace that is no longer used. There are five plastic chairs sitting around a dining table with a very ugly plastic tablecloth spread across it. An old bed that was being used as a couch is decorated with a few old cushions. There are no curtains on the windows and there is the well-known fluorescent light on the ceiling.

This is the kitchen in the pension where I have spent many vacations over the years and, along with one of the guest rooms, it will be my home during this coming winter. The pension is a beautiful place with gardens directly on the Dalyan River. The last of this season’s guests have left this week and over the last few days Yaprak and Kerim have been busy making the garden and the guest rooms ready for the coming winter in preparation for the next tourist season. All except for this one room that I am being allowed to use. Yaprak and Kerim will return to their house a few streets further down after the long summer in the pension. That is why I can use the kitchen and one of the rooms with shower and toilet.

Finally, here I am! Everyone has left and I now have the place to myself. First I remove some of the plastic chairs as I do not feel like looking at empty chairs all winter. I have gone to the market where I bought a nice new table cloth and some odds and ends like an oil lamp and some new candles. I have placed the few books and CD's that I have with me on the fireplace mantel and next to it, on a small table, my mini stereo. The room is looking better as well as completely different to me already. A little later, as I sit at the table drinking a cup of coffee, I am enjoying the privacy and the soothing view over the river.

It is at that moment that I see a hole in the wall and it takes several minutes before I realize that a flue pipe from a wood-stove heater will need to fit into it. Of course, now I realize that I will need to buy some sort of wood-stove heater to keep warm. Even though the winters here are mild, they are not so mild that I can do completely without having heat of some sort.

I jump on my bicycle and peddle to the centre of town to one of the many shops where they sell these types of wood-stove heaters. The choice is enormous - they have brown, brown, and even more brown ones. The shapes they come in are either square, round, or rectangular. The rectangular ones are not so much for heating but more for cooking as they have a ring on top and a small oven. I think that the round ones look like the best for what I need. This little wood-stove heater looks like an enameled oil drum with a cast iron lid. The whole thing sits on elegantly square legs with a hole in the back where the flue connects. Inside is a metal ash bucket with a hole in the bottom where they have put a rough grill. All in all, it resembles a rather luxurious looking oil drum.

The salesman does his absolute best to sell me one of these odd looking little wood-stove heaters. He takes great pride in showing me that there is an air damper that you can open and close with an ingenious little push and pull button on a metal rod. Proudly, he steps back to give me the chance to express my admiration of this special heater. I start to laugh at all of this and he looks at me very suspiciously. So I quickly choose the round one in brown, of course, because I don’t want him to think I am insulting him.

‘Which pipes do you want?’ he asks.I look at him in surprise for a moment and have no idea what he is talking about. Then I

realize that I need something to vent the smoke from the heater. He takes me to a big metal crate with different lengths of pipe stacked inside. Some are bent like elbows and others are straight. There is T and H shaped ones and, of course, they are all brown and all are the same diameter.

‘I really do not have any idea,’ I tell him.

‘No problem,’ as he selects several different ones and tosses them into a pile next to the heater.

‘You do deliver, don’t you?’ I ask him as I look worriedly at the heavy metal heater.‘Of course,’ he says. ‘And when we do, I can also figure out the flue pipes for you.

Where do you live?’He writes down the directions and I pay the bill for the wood-stove heater and assorted

pipes. He promises that he will be there to install it in about an hour. The heater might be simple, but I have never bought a heater for as little as only 40 euro before.

Quickly I get some other shopping done and peddle back to my new home to await the delivery man. An hour and a half later a pick-up truck with my little heater arrives at the pension gate. The truck is unable to enter the pension grounds, so the poor guy has to drag the heavy little heater another thirty meters to it's destination in my new place all by himself. I am not allowed to help in any way he insists. He puts the monstrosity in place and happily puzzles about where to start to assemble and connect the flue pipes. When finished, he puts an H shaped piece at the very top outside to keep the wind from creating any problems with the draw of the flue and walks away with a “see you”. I was so delighted I made sure that he had a well-earned tip in his pocket. Satisfied, I look around in the pension kitchen that is to be my home for the winter, thinking that everything is going to be just fine.

- Yabancı –

I am standing in front of the police station in Ortaca looking at a heavily-armed policeman. He is staring straight ahead with a severe expression as though his look will deter anyone with thoughts of robbing the police station. Just the thought of this gives me a case of the giggles.

I ask him where I have to go in order to get foreign residency papers. He points out some marble stairs, which I climb to the second floor. There a friendly man, who sees that I am a yabancı or foreigner, comes out of an office and introduces himself as Osman. I follow him into his office and take a seat in an uncomfortable chair. Quite friendly, he asks me if I would like a cup of tea, but I kindly decline. I am too nervous for tea at this moment, and I would more than likely knock it over. I explain to him that I have come to apply for my foreign residency.

Then it starts.In great detail he explains to me that it varies for each foreigner as they have adopted

different procedures based on the law of the country from which you have come. This seems very clever, I think to myself, this way they do not have to make their own rules and it seems to be a fair enough system. Of course, unfortunately for me, Holland is the most expensive country for Turks to immigrate to and, therefore, Turkey is equally as expensive for me to gain my residence within. He shows me a table in a book to convince me that he did not make this all up and to avoid having me get angry about the high costs I will have to pay. Turks immigrating to Germany find residency quite cheap so, reciprocally, the residency fees in Turkey for a German are much cheaper.

With a great deal of enthusiasm, Osman starts typing the application on a very old computer. I wait quietly while he works under the peering eyes of an Ataturk portrait on the wall looking down on me. Ataturk, known as the father of Turkey. I wonder whether or not these Ataturk portraits are compulsory? You always see paintings and posters of Ataturk in offices and businesses everywhere you go in Turkey.

The desk he sits at does not contain much of anything, not even a picture of home or a family portrait. Pens are stacked in a drab-looking pen holder and his paperwork is stacked neatly in piles.

Looking up at me, Osman takes a deep breath and begins the arduous task of explaining to me what it is that he has been writing down. His English is as poor as my limited Turkish

is, but by showing me the applications of some other foreigners, he is finally able to make it clear what all his writing is about.

This is what he now tells me that I will need:

• Proof of income, or bank statement, showing that I have enough savings in the bank to prove that I can take care of myself.

• Proof of my Turkish address in the form of a rental contract or proof of ownership of a house.

• A passport that will not expire during the length of the residency I am applying for. I will need colour copies of it and eight colour passport photos.

Now that I understand the requirements, I leave to go take care of the necessary paperwork and to get the Turkish lira for the application fees. 'Hope to see you soon. And don't worry: you need not make an appointment when you return.' With a smile and a firm handshake, he sees me to the door and says goodbye.

In good spirits, I say 'bye bye' to the armed man on the curb as I pass him and walk back to the bus stop.

Within the next two days I have collected the necessary papers, photos, and withdrawn the lira for the fees and return to the police station.

Osman again is very helpful and types out the application on his old antique computer. It is such a relief that I do not have to attempt doing this all by myself. Again, as I sit waiting, I am under the ever-watchful Ataturk peering at me from the wall until Osman is finished and the paperwork is ready.

Osman then takes his coat from a hook in the corner and signals me to come with him. We walk up the street and arrive, after going through a labyrinth of little streets, at the Turkish Post Office. Alone, I know I would never have found this place. We quickly move to the front of the cue without waiting because they seem to know him and signal us to come forward to be helped immediately. I think I would have been there forever if everybody was continually invited to the front of the line. I am told to pay a few lira to the postal cashier, even though I have no idea exactly what it is that I am paying for.

We then leave the PTT, continuing our walk, and arrive at the tax office. I am told that I must have a tax number and stand there patiently, feeling quite stupid, while Osman does all the talking. I receive what appears like some sort of business card with my name and a number on it, and am ushered off to a different counter where I guess that the man behind the counter will most likely take my money for the residency permit. But no, that would be way too easy, we must first go to a bank and get the current euro exchange rate in writing. Osman sighs, takes a deep breath and we head off towards the bank. This bank is a state-owned bank where mainly poor Turks apparently have their accounts. I was feeling very uncomfortable there as we waited for an hour while poorly dressed Turks with lots of missing teeth sat staring at me. I feel completely out of place and will be very happy when we are finished and can leave.

Finally, our turn with the teller arrives and a rather sour-looking lady writes down the exchange rate on a piece of paper and quizzically mumbles: ‘Could they have not phoned for this?’ Yeah, my thought exactly…

Osman rushes us back to the tax office looking worriedly at his watch knowing it will be lunch break soon and they can sometimes take hours preparing the papers. I suspect he wants to be finished with it before they go on lunch break.

‘Thank you for providing the exchange rate, but you must go to the big boss upstairs first,’ says the man behind the counter.

Upstairs sits a very important-looking man in a suit, doing absolutely nothing, behind an apparently ill-used desk. He looks at the papers, signs them, and then he points out a room next to his where a friendly lady writes my name and the amount of money in very neat letters on an enormous cash ledger. Then, back down the stairs to where we started, to

the man who also writes my name and the amount in a similar cash ledger. He also hands me the bill, now in Turkish lira instead of euro, with help from the current exchange rate figures we had gotten for him.

‘Yes, we are done!’ We now go to the cashier where the money is counted carefully and I am given a receipt. Of course, once again, everything is written down in yet another large cash ledger.

Wow, it is finally done! We can go back to the police station. Can you imagine, if I had to accomplish this with just directions in Turkish? It would be almost impossible unless you are able to speak fluent Turkish yourself.

Back in Osman's office, he takes my passport so it can be sent to Ankara, along with the application. He hands me a note that I can carry with me to explain to the gendarme why I have no passport, should I be asked for one.

So, extremely tired, but very happy for Osman’s help, I head back to Dalyan to wait the five weeks it will take to recieve the outcome of my foreign residency application.

- Rain –

Slowly I am getting into some type of routine in which I do very little. I walk around Dalyan, explore all the side streets, and cook funny dishes because I am not accustomed to all the ingredients here. The shelves in the supermarkets are as good as empty and familiar articles disappear from the shops as soon as the last tourists leave after the season. The locals in Dalyan do not buy very much, so the store stock is brought back to items like washing powder, cleaning materials, flour, sugar, beans, and more of these basic articles.

The weekly market is not any different. There is a kind of lettuce that is from the family of endives and they have white cabbage, but these are so extremely large that I will never eat an entire one alone. And, of course, they have the basic potatoes, onions, and carrots. I need all of my creativity to make myself something simple, but tasty. To think of what you want to eat and then go out and buy the ingredients is not the case any longer. Now you must go shopping to buy what is there and then later think of what you can do with it. It is hard to get accustomed to this and it is a challenge.

The pension has a bookshelf where customers can leave their books behind or swap them for a different one. I read these books in the evenings and the fun part is that there are many books on this shelf that I would never choose to read otherwise. Many of them are not that bad at all and I get to know new authors.

Apparently I am going through a phase of de-stressing and I sleep more and more. I go to sleep no later than ten in the evening and I do not wake up until nine in the morning. I have given in to it completely and expect that, eventually, I will need less sleep.

I am not lonely, but very much alone. I expected this to be hard but, actually, it is not and I am having a great time. There are no more alarm clocks in the morning and I can do what I feel like doing.

Today all of that is different and I am sick of it! There has been rain and more rain for many days on end now. As soon as I go outside of the kitchen area to get to the toilet in my pension room, some ten meters away, I am soaked. It goes something like this:

I put on the waders and my raincoat and walk the ten meters to the toilet where I remove the waders and raincoat so that I can use the toilet. Then I put the waders and raincoat back on again and return to the kitchen where I take the waders and raincoat off again.

I do not have a raincoat that can handle this sort of rain and my wet clothing never gets dry any longer. Next to the heater stands a rack of damp clothing hanging to dry, but the kitchen is just too small for this. In front of the door are laying wet newspapers because the rain comes through the gap underneath it.

I am sick of this and the walls are closing in on me!

I have no television, I know all my CD’s by heart now, and I have been reading a book a day. Kerim always asks me to come over to his house, which is very sweet of him, but I would not know what to do there. Everybody sits around the television eating funny nuts and talking. I sit there like a dead duck and am bored out of my skull. The conversation in Turkish goes so fast that I do not understand what they are talking about. The television programmes are still in cheesy talk show style and, on top of this, they heat the room up to thirty degrees Celsius, which for most Turks is a quite comfortable temperature, but for me, is oppressively hot.

Looking out of my window, I can see the nearly horizontal lightning exploding over the river. Rain is pounding on the roof and it is leaking down the chimney. Time for more newspapers. There is no one to spill my guts out to and out of pure frustration I bought a lot of wine, and I will drink it all tonight. I do not know if I will be able to consume it all, but I will do my best.

Without too much difficulty, I manage to go through a reasonable amount of wine. The trouble is that, after a certain amount of wine, I cannot read any longer and there is nothing else to do here. I play sad music and let the tears run freely as the rain is pounding against the windows. I mumble, moan, and cry, and feel very miserable. Later, when I am hardly able to pour anymore wine into my glass, I pulled on my waders. Well, maybe not pulled on, but more like partially put on.

With my feet half way inside of my waders, I stumble the ten meters to my bedroom and hit the bed like a brick.

When I wake up the next morning, I feel far from good. My head is pounding and my sense of balance has taken the day off. Relieved, but ill from alcohol, I stumble to the window, carefully I open the curtain, and peek outside.

The weather has gotten better - now for me.

- A Real House –

I am having a difficult conversation with Kerim as he tries to explain why I am not allowed to build on the land that I bought. The village of Çandır was under the administration of the Dalyan Town Council when I had bought the plot of land, now that has been changed and it is under the administration of the Koyceĝiz Town Council, which is a very different story. I do not understand what makes it so different, but I am willing to take his word for it. Many Turkish villages have no development plan as the government is in the process of verifying titles and mapping all the villages to facilitate an overall plan being released. The village of Çandır is next to the famous excavation site of the ancient city of Kaunos, which makes everything far more complicated. Many different government agencies have a say in the matter since it is in an ecologically and historically protected area.

In addition, it seems that some hotshot altered the drawings to make his plot look bigger and better, lending to increased confusion. My piece of land does not match the drawings in Muĝla (the government seat of this province) any longer and the Muĝla office is the one that approves building permissions. In a country where corruption in government is found more often than not, everything is possible as long as you have the right connections, or the money to grease a few palms.

The whole system is confusing to me and I do not always understand the intricacies of doing business this shady way. According to Kerim, this process will only take a few months and I certainly do hope so.

It is time for me to look for a temporary house and to get my belongings in Holland shipped to Turkey. I cannot stay here at Kerim’s pension when the tourists begin to arrive for the summer season. Staying in the pension is not a problem according to Kerim, but the

lack of privacy and with my different way of life taken into consideration, I have decided it is better that I find a place of my own.

I am standing in the first floor of a big house in Dalyan not far from the pension. There is a living room, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen.

‘It has a lot of space for the low rent they are asking,’ says Kerim.I will need every bit of this space for all of my belongings that will arrive later from

Holland. There is not much for rent in Dalyan and often, what is available, is priced much too high. It is also the custom here to rent houses fully furnished and that is exactly what I do not want. It is a reassuring thought that Kerim’s pension is just around the corner and that I can always go there, should there be any kind of problem.

I have made my decision and tell Kerim that I am going to rent the house. It has a lot of space and with no garden to worry about it is an ideal temporary solution. In the days that follow, I am very busy buying those things I need that are not coming in my household shipment from Holland. Two beds, a sofa, and some cheap curtains are necessary because it seems that everyone in the neighbourhood is always peeking through my windows and this yabancı is getting extremely annoyed by their lack of respect for my privacy. I also create a bookshelf from discarded planks and building bricks.

No longer do I have to put on my shoes to go to the toilet or to the bedroom like I did at Kerim's Pension. There are now curtains in the windows and normal lamps in the rooms.

To be able to walk from room to room is a real treat. Three months of living in the kitchen at the pension is really enough to make me sincerely appreciate this temporary rental. At the pension the most thrilling activity was watching the spin cycle of the washing machine, but the garden right along the river I will surely miss. Moving has been easy, just a few suitcases and the wood-stove heater is all that I can call mine.

It is time to go back to Holland to make the arrangements for shipping my goods.

- Cold Sweat –

In a fright I have stepped off of my bike. I am standing with sweaty hands at a busy crossing in my hometown of Middelburg, in the Netherlands. I push the bicycle over to a bench to sit and analyze quietly what might be wrong with me. I have been bicycling here since my tenth birthday, more than thirty years ago, often past this same well-known busy crossing. Why should it now give me feelings of panic? It takes me a few minutes to recognize what is happening. Living in Turkey I have grown accustomed to the way the Turks drive. On the streets in Turkey you have to anticipate every possible move that another driver could make and be prepared to react. Turks simply do not follow the traffic regulations, or are completely unaware that there are any to begin with. They are blasting through each other, often entering roundabouts going the wrong direction. Even bicyclists take the part of the road closest to their destination to avoid peddling any more than absolutely necessary. Small 125cc scooters all shoot about in every direction. It is an ongoing exercise in self-preservation.

The crossing in Middelburg, however, is far busier than any crossing in Dalyan. It is impossible to keep an eye on everybody or even anticipate what they might do. The fun part is that you do not have to! Everybody follows the rules here and you only have to pay attention to your own traffic lane.

As soon as I realize this, I have the courage to go back into traffic and continue to peddle to my favorite bookstore. It is unbelievable how quickly one adapts to new living surroundings as I have after spending only four months living in Turkey.

A little later I am sitting on a stool at my favorite bookstore finding it hard to make a selection from all the gorgeous fantasy books lining the shelves. After three quarters of an hour I have made my choice and spent far too much money on books.

Relaxed, I saunter through the shopping street and marvel at the number of beautiful shops filled with enormous stocks of nice, but totally unnecessary, want-to-have type of

items. My next stop is the drug store. When I arrive at the drug store I fall silent at what I see. There is about ten meters on the aisle containing shampoos and hair conditioners of different varieties smiling at me. 'Has it always been like this?' I wonder while I realize that I would need to become at least one hundred and thirty years old to try them all.

The whole scene comes across as completely ridiculous. The shops in Dalyan offer three brands at the most but, I have to admit that, for me, it is quite enough.

Still impressed, I walk further down the aisle and pass two meters of toothpaste, and yes! Liquorices! I find nothing wrong with the three meters of plastic containers filled with all different kinds of licorice. Greedily, I take a plastic bag and dig in hungrily. Of course I have to test them before I buy them, and soon my mouth is so full I have to find a quiet corner and look interestedly at crèmes while chewing the licorice before I can go to the cash register.

Exhausted from all these impressions and the throngs of people, I peddle back to my friend’s house with renewed self-confidence. A warm meal with bacon and a proper wine, which is way over my budget, awaits me. First I will enjoy a luxurious shower with more than enough hot water and water pressure in a house with a central heating system. I do have warm water in Turkey but it is so overly hot during the summer from the solar system unit which heats it, that the cold water tap, due to pressure, fails to cool it down. In the winter the water is not nearly as hot and the tap set to warm alone is enough. Unfortunately, the pressure is so low that it is not easy to even get wet. But, on the good side, it is cost-free.

A few hours later as I lean back on thick cushions with a glass of nice French wine, with my feet nearly in the open fire, I realize that I have left a lot of luxury behind in Holland. But, luckily, the winter in Turkey is much shorter and I do not need these modern luxuries as much as they do in Holland with its two distinct seasons... 'Winter and August,' as my brother used to say.

- Another Thing –

You will not believe the number of memberships and subscriptions you have accumulated until you go through your bank statements from the last two years. I really did not know that I spent so much money on memberships, magazines, and other incidentals. Now is a good time to get rid of them.

Most magazines respond quite well to being cancelled; a short mail with the reason I am cancelling the subscription and they reply by mail with a date of cancellation and a thank you. At the sports club, familiar as they are with my plans, they accept a written note of cancellation to their administrative office. There were also a few charities that I only had to cancel the automatic withdrawal order at the bank and that was it.

To stop insurance is normally difficult, but when you are leaving the country it is generally accepted as being a valid enough reason to end the contract. Doing so was easy to accomplish through the insurance agent.

A mobile phone contract? Forget it! You just cannot get rid of it. In good spirits, I went to the cellular telephone store to find out how to end my contract. Unfortunately, you always wait forever before anyone will help you, but they do take their time assisting everybody, so I did not see it as a problem. When it was finally my turn, the employee hammered a bit on his computer and told me everything was taken care of... Brilliant!

But, to my amazement, the bills kept arriving after I had already moved to Turkey. I did not see the pile of bills until the first time I returned to Holland and found bills, threats, and even a letter from a debt-collection agency.

Inquiries at the cellular company told me that it was unknown to them that I had ended the contract, but if I would be nice enough to pay the bill and make new arrangements to end the contract, everything would be finalized. I am not planning on doing any such thing, so I am wracking my brain for a better resolution.

I was definitely in need of a ruse.

Trying my luck, I phoned the debt-collection agency. A friendly man answered and got the dossier for my phone service.

‘Yes, I have it in front of me, what is the problem?’ he asks.So I tell him that I am a friend of the girl with the phone contract and that I am the one

handling her mail for her. I explain that the lady involved is living in Turkey and will not be returning. I went on to explain that everything was arranged at the telephone shop before, but now they were acting like they knew nothing about it. I assure him that the lady is not going to pay and that it would be wise to not incur any more costs because the money would be hard to collect.

He says he is extremely grateful for my phone call about the account and he assures me that the matter is now resolved.

Ha-ha.... it worked!

- Dorcas –

As soon as there is no longer any reason for me to return to Holland, I intend to look for a dog. Since I enjoy walking, it seems to me the perfect friend. It will also be nice to have a pal around the house to talk to.

Enough of orphaned mutts, a long time ago I learned not to go looking actively for anything. If I determine up front how the dog I want should look, then I will undoubtedly come home with a dog that has that look, but possesses the wrong character. I am just going to have to wait for a suitable dog to cross my path and hope it will be the right one for me. During this period I am alert to my surroundings so as to prevent the likelihood of missing my chance of finding just the right dog.

I knew I would have to wait to find a dog, because finding somebody to dog sit your dog is nearly impossible in Turkey - and I knew I still needed to travel back to Holland before finally settling in Turkey. I have not had the time yet to build up a social network and having to rely on Turks with a new dog is really not an option. Of course they are willing to look after your animal, but it would not be what I call dog sitting. The dog will most likely be chained to a tree all day and then, possibly, be moved into a barn for the night. Sure, the dog will get food, but that is not what I worry about. I see a dog as a friend and always treat it as such. My conscience would not bear it if the dog had to spend a week tied at the end of a chain. I will train him not to do his business on the premises, but I can just see him being very unhappy doing his business after trying to hold it for an impossible amount of time. Walking a dog is unknown to the Turks. These kind of things, for a softy like me, are almost unbearable.

I am bicycling through Dalyan with some groceries on my way home when I spot a pup on one of the side streets. He looks up at me from a plastic trash bag which he is sitting in up to his shoulders. Somehow, this little thing catches my attention, so I hit the brakes and swing a hard right turn onto the street. I have seen many wandering dogs in and around Dalyan and not one has managed to draw my attention. Most dogs here are overly humble which is something I do not like in a dog.

A mostly black-coloured pup, with floppy ears and long thin legs, looks at me boldly with his bright-eyes.

Yes, I'm captivated.Before I realize it, I have stepped from the bike and am knelt down cuddling this cute

little fellow. He is wearing a collar around his neck which probably means that he belongs to somebody. I don’t want anyone to have to grieve over their dog disappearing, and this is not the way I want to get a dog. So, with this little animal on my arm, I try knocking on some nearby doors.

‘No, I don’t know whose dog that is, try over there,’ most of the neighbouring houses respond.

Twice I hear: ‘What do you care, if you like it, then why not just take it?’A little boy on the street finally tells me the dog belongs to the hotel owner on the

corner. With lead in my shoes and the pup in my arms, I walk to the door of the hotel to inquire of the owner.

‘Hello,’ says a man.‘Uhm, yes, is this your dog?’ I mumble.‘Yes, it is my dog,’ he says, while looking at me strangely.I take a deep breath and then bravely say: ‘I would like to have this dog.’Where upon he smiles and says: ‘Sure, no problem, let me go get his lead.’I cannot believe what I am hearing, but my heart jumps when he says I can have his

little dog. As soon as the man returns with the dogs lead, he explains that he really has no time to care for the small guy. During the last rainy period he had found this puppy almost completely drowned at the side of the road. Ah! I think how sweet of him to take this poor thing in and I thank him exuberantly before leaving with the dog. I am thrilled as I put my new little friend in the basket attached to the front of my bike.

‘Off to the veterinarian, pretty boy,’ I say to the contents of my basket as I peddle off to the veterinarian’s office.

He gives the poor thing an enormous amount of shots and fills out a medical passport for him detailing the injections he has been given. Quickly, I peddle home through the cold February weather with my new little friend riding in the basket.

Upon arriving, I light the wood-stove heater and place a big shallow plastic washing tub filled with a soft blanket next to it. Somewhat shyly, he crawls into the tub and spends the rest of the day looking at me with suspicious eyes, as though he is expecting me to throw him out at any moment.

For the first few days, my new little friend does nothing else but eat and sleep next to the heater, plus having his daily walks with me. It seems as though he can hardly believe his luck. I name him Dorcas because of his long legs. The name Dorcas means gazelle in Aramaic.

After a few day’s I hear a knock at the front door. I open the door to see the landlord, who has come down from upstairs, standing in front of me saying:

‘Is it true that there is a dog in the house?’‘Yes, that is true.’It is evidently time for trouble because he is not happy having a dog in his rental house

at all. Kerim, who did the negotiating for the rent, told him I did not have a dog and, Mehmet, the landlord, will not tolerate a dog being in the house.

Hmm, yes, I did not have a dog when I rented the house, but I was unaware that it would be any problem. Kerim never told me that there were no dogs allowed.

In his limited English he explained that the previous tenants had to leave because of their dog. His kids were so scared of the dog that they would not walk outside any longer.

Two cups of coffee and a string of misunderstandings later, I convinced Mehmet that my dog would be completely different. He would not bother the children and definitely would not bark all the time. I persuaded him to give my dog a week and then we could talk again, at the end of the week.

But he kept lingering in his chair, indicating that he was, apparently, not done with discussing the problem. Soon I find out what the rest of the problem is when he says that he is willing to build Dorcas a doghouse so he can stay outside because he feels that it is really filthy to keep a dog inside of a house.

Oh boy, here we go again.This time it takes me quite a while to understand exactly what Mehmet’s opinion about

the dog being in the house is really about. It is that Mehmet thinks he will shit inside of the house. So, I explain how these things work with my dog and that he does not do that

because I take him for daily walks in order for him to take care of that. In the mean time, I am hoping and praying that Dorcas behaves himself because he has not been completely housebroken yet. He could definitely ruin my credibility in a split second. Luckily enough, he is laying in his tub peeking suspiciously at him, when Mehmet finally mumbles; 'All right, I will see how it goes...'

Like most Turkish people, you find their emotions show in their behaviour immediately. Mehmet and his wife would no longer say hello to me and the granny who lives in the miniature house on the property could not look me in the eye any longer.

So, Dorcas and I do everything in our power to make sure that no one can find a single reason to remark poorly about our behaviour. I vacuum, clean, and scrub the floors excessively until I have no skin left on my fingers to convince them how clean I keep the place. Finally, after two weeks, the redeeming words arrive. Mehmet tells me that he has no more complaints about the dog and that his kids think Dorcas is cute. That same evening I raise a toast to Dorcas on the happy outcome. The next morning even granny says good morning with a big smile on her face.

-The Shipping Agent -

Six weeks after my moving company in Holland shipped my household belongings to Turkey, the redeeming phone call comes with the good news. The sea container has arrived in Izmir and they want to know if I would be so kind as to come to the office of the shipping agent in Izmir to claim it.

Kerim and I leave for Izmir in good spirits to find, against all odds, that the shipping agent has a beautiful office with a pleasant and luxurious atmosphere. In my point of view, this can only mean that either the company is a rip-off or it is doing extremely good business. We are politely welcomed by an assistant and asked to take a seat in an office with a comfortable seating area in front of an enormous empty desk. We are offered a nice cup of tea and wait to see what will come next. I can see that Kerim has difficulty with the situation again, as he nervously moves back and forth in his chair. He feels responsible, even though there is no need for it, as far as I am concerned. I feel that his help with the translation is more than enough, but to his way of thinking, women always need help.

A man wearing an expensive suit enters the room and introduces himself as Ersan. He asks who we are and then tells his assistant to bring him my shipment paperwork. He also asks for my other necessary papers, studies them with care, and immediately starts barking in a nasty tone of voice at Kerim. I do not understand what he is saying, but it sounds far from friendly. His demeanour prompts a mental image of 'Mr. Dirty Teeth' and his way of doing business is clearly in my mind. When I realize that this man speaks good English it is my turn to speak. Politely, but in no uncertain terms, I tell him that I am the customer here who, in my opinion, is paying him very well for his services. I explain that Kerim is a good friend who has been so kind as to come all this way to Izmir to help me. I am very grateful for this and wish to see him treated with decency and respect and, should he not be able to do so, I am quite willing to stand up, walk out of his office, and contact another shipping agent.

He was obviously not accustomed to being spoken to like this. He looks shocked, but he does act differently from that moment on. He will probably not like me anymore, but I did not come here to make friends anyway.

In a completely different tone he now explains to me that the paperwork is not correct and, apparently, the rude conversation with Kerim had been about just that. I have my ownership papers for the Çandır land with me, my Dutch passport, and the necessary foreign residency documentation. But, for the purpose of clearing a household shipment, the land deed paperwork is of no use because there is not a house on it. Why would you need furniture with no house he asks? On my foreign residency papers it says that I live in a pension which is not acceptable because, who would need furniture living in a pension?

Fine! What now?

Just as with every other problem encountered in Turkey, there is always some sort of dodgy solution. A rental contract showing my new address for the house I have rented will be sufficient we are told. So, Kerim and I put together a rental contract on the spot with the rental house address on it. Kerim signs as my landlord and we go have it notarized. All of this is easily done and we are back in Ersan's office within the hour. Next, he takes me down to the customs office to sign several papers that put him in charge of importation and clearance of the shipment. The only problem left now is the incorrect address on the foreign residency documentation. To correct this I will have to go back to the police station in Ortaca. This must be done as soon as possible because only then can the shipping agent begin the process of customs clearance. The container will be allowed to stay at the customs warehouse for only five days before they start charging me storage fees.

After a tiring but mostly successful day, we travel the three hundred and fifty kilometres back to Dalyan.

I get up early the next morning and head to the police station to have the correction made to the address on the foreign residency papers. Politely I am told that this can take up to five weeks to accomplish. Disappointed, I explain that this will cause me to be well into trouble with the customs people and unable to move my household goods. The official picks up the phone to find out if there is any other way this can be done quicker. After three phone calls, he smiles as he puts the phone receiver down. He has called his colleagues in Muĝla who normally do the paperwork corrections and they are willing to help me if I will personally bring the permit to them and wait in the Muĝla office until they are completed. It is a long bus ride to Muĝla but I am more than happy to run out of the police station in Ortaca to get on the first bus going to Muĝla. Two hours later I am standing at the front desk of the Muĝla police station. I give the officer behind the desk the letter from the official in Ortaca, along with my paperwork, and am told to come back in three hours.

Contentedly, I leave the station to kill some time in Muĝla. I soon determine that one hour is more than enough time to come to the conclusion that Muĝla is not a very nice city at all. Boring shops in decaying buildings line the dirty streets. In the centre is a deserted town square with a few unappealing restaurants and little else of interest. As slowly as I can, I saunter back to the police office hoping that they will have my paperwork in order sooner than expected. Unfortunately, this is not the case and I am sent to wait in some sort of waiting room down the hall. I walk into a room with tables and chairs and a television set. The room is a haze of cigarette smoke. Through the smoky haze on one side of the room I see police officers seated at a table drinking Turkish tea. This room seems to serve the purpose of waiting room, employee lounge, and canteen, all in one. To pass the time I nose around in a bookcase full of books, but they are all in Turkish. I look up as a man enters the room in a police uniform decorated with an impressive row of stripes. The other policemen are telling jokes in a relaxed atmosphere. This obviously high-ranking officer seems to behave in a very un-Turkish manner as he walks up to me and starts a conversation with all three words of his very limited English. With my own three words of Turkish I manage to relay to him what I am doing there. After our brief exchange of conversation, with nothing else to say, he casually walks over and takes an old accordion that is hanging on the wall and happily starts making music. Some of the other police officers make jokes as if to say: ‘Oh no...there he goes again.’ As he stands in front of me playing this instrument, it becomes clear that this musical concert is meant just for me. I feel somewhat embarrassed and do my best to smile in appreciation. Happy with my compliment, he hangs the instrument back on the wall ending this break with a single word and everybody jumps up to get back to work again. Despite his genial behaviour, he evidently still rules the force with a firm hand. He lets me know that he will ask about my papers and disappears down the hall. He is back after a few minutes and manages to communicate that my papers will be ready in about one half hour. So I guess at least my compliment managed to accomplish something.

A woman who speaks fluent German brings out my paperwork and instructs me to pay the document fees. She also asks me if I am pleased with the way I was assisted. I had not even had the time to reply when she asked me for a donation to the police force. The hair on the back of my neck stands up immediately.

Alright, what now! I think to myself.Apparently she understands the shocked look on my face and quickly explains that they

have a neverending need for office supplies and it is customary to ask for donations. If I would like to make a donation, she will accompany me to the shop where I can pay for a store credit with which the police can purchase pens, paper, envelopes, and other needed office supplies.

Fine! I think. That is something altogether different from an additional fee or bribe and I do not mind helping. I follow her to the shop and give a small donation and she receives a credit slip for the police station. Later it occurs to me that the police officer with the accordion must have earned the station quite a bit in the way of office supplies over the years.

Now I can send my new foreign residency permit with the correct address by courier to Izmir, but will have to wait to see whether everything works out satisfactorily.

After three days I receive a phone call with news that there seems to be trouble with the shipment. There is a boat in the container and importing boats is not allowed. You need special permission from the government in Ankara to do so and it can take weeks to receive approval.

Ahh, Shit! Here we go again!I don’t have that much time left and ask Ersan if there is anything else I can do. He tells

me he will make a call and ask if there might be a way around the problem. In other words, it will cost me money. The following morning he phones and tells me: ‘Yes it can be arranged, but it seems to be difficult.’

This is just another way of saying it will cost me even more money. So I tell him to go ahead as long it does not end up costing too much more than the regular way.

The phone rings again: ‘Boat? What boat?’ Somehow the boat has been made to disappear from the customs paperwork and the container went through the customs office with no problem. Pffft, it is not the proper way, but apparently the quickest and easiest way to get things done here. I have to pay a surcharge for the household electronics mentioned on the packing list to prevent me from importing them for business purposes. So I pay a percentage of the estimated value to the state which will be refunded after living here for five years. Let’s hope so.

- Carol –

In amazement, I look out through the window from my living room. I see a puppy literally airborne in the garden across the street. It is a very big mess in the house where my neighbour; Carol, lives. Carol is a living legend in Dalyan.

She came to live here twenty years ago with her husband back in the days when Dalyan was a small fishing village. All fine and well, but in the eyes of Turkish locals, Carol is more than a little odd. She must be at least sixty three years old, has blond hair, and always wears loud flowery clothing accompanied by matching fire-engine red lipstick. Anytime she leaves the garden a frumpy hat is added to top it off. All in all, a very colourful appearance, which I usually like in people. Everyone should do as he pleases, as long as he does no one else any harm.

The case with Carol is that she has a great love for dogs and cats like most foreigners which is a very different outlook towards animals than the average Turk possesses. The consequence is that Carol frequently arrives home bringing another scruffy animal found on the street with her. She scrupulously calls for the vet to have the poor creature checked out, after which the newcomer is welcomed as a new resident at her house. This

much of her behaviour I can fully understand. My conscience does the same to me when I come across these thin scruffy animals on the street. If you stroke one without thinking first you will not get rid of it because the animal will stay with you all day. Especially now that Dalyan has more traffic, it is heartbreaking to see dogs being crippled every day. These things will slowly change but it is going to take time. Until this happens I have to accept the situation because I do not have any influence over it. All I could do is to feed the poor animals and, without a doubt, I would have fifty or more in no time. I cannot and will not do this.

Apparently Carol cannot accept this, consequently, she has brought home roughly twenty dogs to her garden. With twenty dogs it is impossible to walk them all so they have no option but to shit all over her garden. Every day I see Carol, trowel in hand, fighting this shit-battle.

She has an unsightly but strong fence from where her dogs bark at everybody who is unfortunate enough to walk past on the street. The whole lot of them can see you coming from a mile away and they gather at that side of the garden and start barking. They run along with you and continue until you disappear at the other end of the property. Turks are normally quite afraid of dogs which makes Carol somewhat unpopular in the neighbourhood. On top of that, all of the barking from these dogs can drive other people insane. Luckily, she keeps the dogs inside during night hours, but this is another source of aggravation because dogs are classed by the Turkish as dirty animals that do not belong inside of a house.

By anyone’s standards it is a jolly big mess at Carol’s house. Her husband could not handle the situation any longer and finally left to live elsewhere. A couple of days during the week he goes home to shower and do his laundry and leaves again.

I can only say that the situation at Carol's house is completely out of control. The dogs are forming a pack and continually fight over dominance. During these fights Carol will stand close by and shout to them to stop, but she no longer dares to get in the middle of it.

Lately a newcomer has arrived; this is a cute puppy of about maybe three months of age. The poor thing is treated so badly by the other mentally deranged dogs that I have heard it scream for two days now. The airborne pup apparently has come from underneath the balcony stairs for the first time and was made to pay for it with flying lessons.

I always wondered why the house I rented was empty for so long. For me, this will only be a temporary solution because it would never be my choice to live next to such a neighbour permanently.

- The Boat –

Yes! Finally my things from Holland have arrived. About one hour ago, two big trucks stopped in front of the house to the surprise of the neighbours. My things have travelled by sea container from Rotterdam to Izmir. I needed an extra large container because I wanted to take my boat which is six and a half meters long but a normal container is only six. Because of this, I had to take a twelve meter container and, therefore, I decided I might as well take all my belongings with me. A twelve meter container cannot maneuver on the small streets in Dalyan, so they cleverly reloaded everything onto two big trucks.

Everybody is curious in Turkey, and there is a crowd of people wanting to know just what is going on. Mehmet uses his brains and he puts them all to work. They are happy to be of help if, for no other reason, than to be able to get a glimpse of the foreigner’s strange furniture. In no time everything is more or less in its’ proper place in the house and the boxes have gone into a spare room. I hope that I do not have to live here too long and so I have no plans to unpack everything. The boat was loaded onto a separate truck and how to get it off the truck is apparently not something they consider as being their problem. They must have thought they would be delivering it at some yacht club where they always have some sort of a crane.

At this moment, about ten Turks are standing around the truck trying to figure out how to get the boat off of it. Somebody has the splendid idea to get two big backhoes or earth movers, one for each side of the truck, and simply lift the boat up and drive the truck from underneath it. The idea alone gives me the creeps. They will have to lift the boat very high to be able to do so and it will be a risky undertaking. Nobody comes up with a better solution so we decide to do it that way.

Mehmet picks up the phone to call a friend of a friend of his who, in the old days, went to school with an uncle of his...

Oh, boy. I think I better make some coffee.Before even finishing the first cup of coffee, two massive big machines arrive. They are

for moving soil and gravel and they are going to use the big bucket on their front-end to lift the boat.

The boat sits on a steel frame specially made to get it into the container and under the sides are supports to keep it in balance. The men want to put an inadequate rope around the hull and lift it. The boat weighs more than a thousand kilos, so I do not agree with their plan. I have seen nylon ratchet straps in the front of the truck and I do not know why they don’t use them? The boat could easily overturn with these miserable ropes. Don’t they realize that?

What makes it even worse, is the fact that I realize that they evidently think that since it is not their boat there is no reason that they should care? Slowly I am getting very agitated because they do not listen to what I am saying. Of course, what do I know? I am only a woman!

It is not until I get really angry and start to scream in good old Dutch and shout that they finally become aware of me.

With a lot of mumbling and moaning, they get the ratchet straps out of the truck. Finally. Now we can start unloading the boat.

This makes for the most hilarious scene. There is one man standing in front of the boat where he can see if the boat is in balance. He is giving directions to the two drivers of the enormous machines. The drivers cannot see what they are doing because the bucket is in between them and the boat. All around stand many interested Turks shouting well meant instructions but which make the men in the earth movers unable to hear the voice of the man in front of the boat. It is all very chaotic and I do not trust it at all. I can hardly bear to watch any longer.

The boat is a very old one built at a shipyard somewhere around 1950 according to people that know a lot about these things. The cabin is completely made of Mahogany; there are two beds, a toilet, and a small pilot house. In Holland I have taken it completely apart and put epoxy on it. I spent many days of sanding, varnishing, and doing other repairs on it. It is not a very expensive boat but, to me, it is a boat possessing much emotional value.

The lifting is starting and slowly I can see the boat come free from its supports. It is gently rocking in the ratchet straps as it slowly it goes higher and higher. I am nearly shitting myself and think about all the hours spent sanding and varnishing. I must say, I admire the two drivers that work the machines as they make the boat go up real slowly, centimetre by centimetre. After what seems an eternity to me, the boat is high enough and is dangling dangerously in its ties. Very carefully the driver of the truck moves from underneath it. With a deep breath of relief, I watch how they lower the boat - which uttering an appropriate groan settles onto the ground. Quickly they put the supports back under it and everybody can now carry on with breathing again.

While I make fresh coffee for everyone, they all stand around the boat talking with one another. Here in Dalyan all of the boats are the same shape. They are riverboats with the sole purpose of carrying tourists around like water buses. This one of mine is a strange duck in the pond. She is small, being only six and a half meters, but a very pretty duck…

- Shakes –

I wake up with a shock. Help! My bed is shaking. Lying dead still, I am trying to figure out what I am feeling. Yes, I am sure now, it is an earthquake, a real earthquake! When I switch on the light, I see the lamp rocking like I am sleeping on board a boat. The bed is banging against the wall, with amazement I experience what is happening and wonder how long it will continue.

Upstairs I hear quick footsteps. Evidently, others are awake also and it must be the kids running to their mom and dad’s bedroom in a panic.

It stops and yet I am tense like a wound up spring as I wait to see if there will be more. Wow, this is the first earthquake I have ever experienced.

Two years ago there was also an earthquake during my stay here. At breakfast I found out that all of the guests had been in the garden in the middle of the night. Apparently it was so bad that they were rolling through their beds. I slept through it all. I did not believe it and a few windows with cracks were all of the proof I had that something had happened.

As best as I can, I try to go back to sleep. The next morning I hear that the epicentre was near Marmaris (one hour drive away) with a richter scale of five. We only had some minor shakes say the neighbours - which they say is always the case here - if you choose to believe them.

Everyone is talking about it but no one seems to be overly worried. Apparently it always wobbles now and then in Dalyan during the summer.

There is a known fault line in the earth near Marmaris, so they probably did not sleep particularly soundly in that city last night. Now that I think about it, it seems to make sense, as one can clearly see a massive ridge in the landscape there. This steep ridge is many kilometres long and very straight with a minimum of one hundred meters difference in height between the two sides. In my imagination this must be the fault line and that crack must have come up during a major earthquake.

Later, I realize that waiting in bed for further seismic events is, naturally, not the cleverest way to react while in an earthquake. Maybe next time I should get dressed or something so I do not end up standing stark naked in the street. I hear from many Turkish people that this is one of the reasons they always wear pyjamas to bed even at these temperatures. Sorry, but I will pass on that. It is far too hot here during the summer.

Several after-shocks occurred in the following days after the first and strongest shock. Wisely, I resolve to put together a small bag with my passport, staying permit, and bank papers in it. If the big one is coming, then I would only have to grab the bag. I also have a pair of shorts and a t-shirt all ready to shoot into if the electricity should fail so I do not have to stumble around in the dark in order to find my clothes.

Now, if there is another earthquake, I will be ready for it.I am not sure whether I am being overly paranoid or just really clever. When I ask

others, no one seems to have a bag like mine prepared, but most of them agree that it is not a bad idea. But, apparently, they do still sleep wearing something or other just in case. They do not want to end up naked in the street any more than I do. It is just a matter of priorities it seems...

- Big Creeps –

‘Yoo-hoo!’ yells Tom, who has lived in Dalyan for a few years already, while he peeks in my kitchen window. I am having breakfast and see his happy face beyond the glass. Tom, together with his Turkish wife, own a restaurant in Dalyan where I always like to pop in for a coffee every now and then.

‘Come in,’ I answer.

Tom steps into the kitchen, slumps into a chair, and takes a piece of bread from the table. With his mouth full, he asks me if I have any plans for the day and he wants to know if I want to go for a walk. My dog, Dorcas, takes the hint and jumps enthusiastically up at him.

‘Fine,’ I say, as I clear the table. ‘Coffee?’‘Yes, please, I will take the chairs outside for us,’ he offers.A little later we are sitting outside enjoying our coffee and I notice the neighbour giving

me a disapproving look. She does not think it is acceptable to have male visitors at my home since I am a single woman living alone.

After the coffee, we decide to walk the path opposite my house to find out where it leads to. It is a dirt track that stretches to a distant farm and I have never been down it that far before. According to Tom there should be an in-between path that leads back to another road and so it would make a nice two hour walk.

These little dirt trails are beautiful with wild flowers such as marigold, mallow, camomile, and others decorating the fields. Butterflies and bees are busily flying about and everywhere water meanders through in small streams.

We really want to know if the path continues past the farm looping back to Dalyan, which would make it a perfect route. Casually we walk towards the big farm and, upon arriving, find an enormous dog storming at us from the premises. I am not afraid of dogs, but this cream and white colored dog with mid-length hair is so big that his nose could touch my elbow easily. Stiff with fear, I force myself to talk to this animal.

‘Easy boy, we are not here to bother you, and yes, this is Dorcas, our little friend, careful boy' I say soothingly.

Tom, I don’t like this,’ I say as light-hearted as possible.‘Just keep walking and nothing will happen,’ says Tom.With all my antennas on alert, I walk on and just when I think everything will be all

right, I am confronted with yet another monster arriving.Dorcas, at only four months old, is wise and he rolls over onto his back passively. Every

puppy knows nothing can happen to you if you act passively. Wrong!These dogs seem to have a different instinct. The newcomer throws himself aggressively

on my darling little dog. Dorcas screams and, out of reflex, I run to him and give the aggressor a firm kick.

‘Tom! Help me,’ I shout, scared silly. The big monster has aimed his attention towards me and stands facing me with bared teeth and growling. I have a terrified Dorcas in my arms and I cannot move. I stare into the clear blue eyes embedded in something resembling a wolves head. What sort of creatures are these huge dogs?

‘Slowly move away,’ says Tom, while he comes to stand in between me and the big dog. Slowly, we walk back towards the farm where a Doberman is looking to see what the commotion is all about. Dobermans have never been my favourite dogs, but today it looks like a small neurotic lap mutt in comparison to these other two monsters. Instead of going back to the farmyard, these massive dogs decide to not let go of their new found prey. The Doberman, who does not want to spoil all the fun, has decided to come along with the others. They circle around us in a way that Tom has to move back and forth continually to stay in between the big dogs, Dorcas, and me.

‘Wow, I nearly shit myself with fear,’ I say.That's to be expected, see how they work together like a wolf pack?’ says Tom.I look and see how they circle around us through the fields on both sides of the road, I

am happy to see that they do not come towards us any longer. My arms hurt from carrying Dorcas, but I cannot put him down. He is shivering and is constantly rubbernecking to keep track of these monsters.

Gladly, I finally see the houses of Dalyan slowly coming closer to us.‘Hey, you have to stick close to me! Every time we allow there to be space in between

us they come closer. I wonder if it is Dorcas they want or you because you kicked one of them?’ says Tom.

‘As long as we arrive home in one piece it makes no difference to me,’ I answer.

Just an hour later I sit over a cup of coffee with a shot of whiskey in it recovering from this confrontation. Dorcas is lying in his tub, still very impressed by the whole ordeal.

‘Just imagine if you had walked there by yourself,’ says Tom.‘I can’t imagine. I have never been afraid of dogs, but today I was completely terrified.’‘Is it alright with you if I do an internet search on your computer to see if I can find out

what kind of monsters those dogs were?’ asks Tom.‘Sure, go ahead, I will make us another coffee in the meantime.’

‘I Found it!’ I hear when I set the coffee cup next to the monitor.‘And? Something interesting?’ I ask.‘Sure is, look here,’ John says and starts reading out loud. ‘The official name is

Karabash and we call it the Anatolian Sheppard’s dog. They originate in Turkey and are from the same family as the Mastiff.

They use these dogs to protect flocks of sheep and goats against attacks by wolves. To prevent them from being bitten by the wolves, they wear a big collar around their necks with very long spikes attached to it. They can be as big as 80 centimeters in height and weigh up to 65 kilograms. These are really big boys,’ he concludes.

‘It will be a long time before I ever walk that way again,’ I say, while looking at the picture of the dogs on the monitor.

Later I found out that those same dogs have already injured a woman and killed several cats and so far nobody has taken any action. The scare was so big it will take a long time before I no longer feel fear when a dog comes running up the road as I pass. I am not the only one who has these concerns. A woman I know has told me that she no longer walks her dogs because of the many aggressive dogs in her neighbourhood. She lost control of the motion in two of her fingers as the result of an attack when she tried to protect her own dogs. Dogs get no training here in Turkey and often not enough to eat. The result is fights over food and the protection of one’s street to protect their own turf. Problems occur when a strange dog enters a different street or territory. People have nothing to be afraid of while walking the streets, but as soon as you have a dog with you it becomes a completely different world.

- Summer Depression –

Slowly the weather is starting to get extremely hot. It is already the month of June and all active jobs I think about doing must be planned for the early hours. I take Dorcas for his walk earlier and earlier because after ten o’clock in the morning he just will not move anymore. He is laying on the tiled floor inside and looks at me as if to say I must be crazy to suggest walking in this heat. At half past six in the morning we get up to enjoy an hour of walking in the coolness of the morning. On our way back I normally stop to buy a loaf of bread so I can enjoy my morning breakfast in the early sun. That early walk and breakfast in the sun is always the best part of the day. Afterwards, it is time to do the morning chores until about ten o’clock, leaving little or nothing to do. The house is a temporary rental and, therefore, I am not inclined to put much energy into it. I do not have a garden or any other pressing obligations. It is soon way too warm to sit on the balcony, so I spent the majority of my time lazing around inside of the house. Everywhere around me people are gathering around their hotel swimming pools or are busy taking trips to cooler places.

Sitting on a bench at the riverside seems nice but is impossible when everybody seems to think if you are sitting alone that you must be miserable. Uninvited, they come to sit next to you and offer endless banal conversation. At this kind of moment I really miss having the solitude of my own garden.

Every day, around five o’clock when the heat of the sun finally relents, the people from upstairs take their usual places on the wall on the street side of my house little more than a meter from my balcony. All they ever seem to do is continually gossip and drink little cups of tea. To quietly sit on my balcony reading a book is nearly impossible. I feel as though I am a rarity. This lack of privacy would never bother a Turk, but I do not feel comfortable with it. Living on someone else’s grounds has its distinct disadvantages. It is usually when the weather gets warmer that this becomes so overtly obvious. Feeling miserable, I move to the balcony in the back of the house where the sun is still angrily burning. I sorely feel the frustration of not having my own place at moments such as these. I could just cry if I think of how it should have been. Slowly but surely, the thermometer moves up to forty degrees Celsius. I could go to Kerim at the pension where I do not feel like a guest anymore, but they would expect me to sit with them and not to lay in the hammock reading a book. It also feels strange when the pension guests look up in surprise at this funny women wondering in to take possession of their hammock. A dive in the river followed by sitting with Kerim and his family is fine, but not something I want to do every day.

The only thing I can think of is sleeping. Go to bed after my lunch and stay asleep until five o’clock in the afternoon. But as my luck would have it, they have a little brat who loves to sit on his father’s tractor making loud nnnnnnnnnnnnng, nnnnnnnng sounds like he is driving it for hours upon end. All of this is constantly going on about one meter from my bedroom window.

I am ready to scream and go out to wring his little neck. On top of this, the kid owns one of those toy telephones that repeat the same thing over and over with an annoying mechanical voice like: ‘Hello! Goodbye! Ringring!’ Is it because I am becoming so intolerant or is this really enough to drive a sane person crazy?

Believe it or not, I have already made two of those toy telephones disappear mysteriously, but I think his parents must buy them by the dozen.

The evenings are balmy and really inviting for one to put their feet up with a lovely glass of wine and enjoy reading a good book. Once again, this also is not meant to happen. From the balcony at the back of the house it is probably five meters between it and the old peoples house. Very old, but very sociable, they have visitors every night of the week! Fun!

Ten or more people take their place on plastic chairs on the concrete in between the two houses, drink tea, and talk. And talk, and talk...

They are decent, but somewhat old-fashioned people, nothing wrong with that, but there is a vast difference between us.

When I sit on my balcony with the lamp, a glass of wine, and a cigarette trying to enjoy myself, I hear them softly say things like yabancı (foreigner), sigara (cigarette), and şarab (wine). All of this accompanied by disapproving clicks of their tongue. Funny that I am not having such a good time anymore?

More and more I get into a state of depression. Nothing works out, more so than ever it looks like I am not going to have a place of my own anytime soon. A place where I would have some privacy and be able to putter about.

Marieke, a friend of mine from Holland, is coming over for a week. Cheerful as always, she will make me much feel better right away and not feel so all alone and lost on my own. We talk and laugh a lot, the days are warm and we do very little. A few times we take the boat to enjoy the wonderful surroundings along the river. One evening we have dinner at Kerim’s where some people we know are staying. They invite us to a dinner later that week to have a special fish dish. I have heard about this dish before but had never the chance of tasting it. This dish has to be ordered two day’s in advance. Unbelievable! Is it such a difficult recipe that it takes two days of preparation we wonder? Wrong, they just have great difficulty finding a fish that is big enough. After dinner we are told that our fish came all the way from Fethiye which is about an hour and a half away from here.

Full of expectation, we sit at a table with a nice glass of white wine while waiting for our dinner to arrive. We are ready to be spoiled food-wise when an enormous plate arrives with a big lump of something on it. It appears to be a large lump of salt with the fish underneath it and the whole thing came straight from a pizza restaurant close by. A normal oven would not be hot enough to cook it, the waiter reassures us. He attacks the lump and with a sizzle the beautiful sea bream slowly re-emerges. I must say that seldom have I eaten such a gorgeous fish.

Marieke slowly frees me of the depressed state I had been in and makes me stronger and feel the need to take things on again. Not just waiting until things change of themselves, but to take action!

The week of Marieke’s stay had flown by so quickly. She had slept a lot, which is something she normally does not get the chance to do, having two small kids. I am very happy she came and for the impetus she has recharged me with. If I cannot build on my land, then I want to rent a house in my future village of Çandır, in the middle of nature and away from the tourist town of Dalyan.

- Çandır –

My new village is a beautiful place with about three hundred residents. They all mind their own business, are not hindered by rules, commerce, employers, or other stress-creating factors. Seldom will you see a police officer, there is no need because people take care of their own business here. The average family has two cows, twenty chickens, a few goats, and many honey bees. Not to mention a dog that protects the chickens from foxes and a cat to take care of mice and other rodents. Some families have large herds of sheep or goats that run free in the mountains.

They all have orchards with lemons, oranges, mandarins, figs, nuts, pomegranates, and olives. In addition, each has a vegetable garden for their daily needs. With all of this they possess everything they require. Butter, yoghurt, cheese, and bread are all homemade. Their bees provide honey and their chickens give them eggs.

Everybody drives around on antique Java motorcycles that look terrible but somehow always manage to function. The use of a tractor is also widespread. The roads are more like dirt tracks full of stones, bumps, and other difficulties that often make them fatal for normal cars. Fences are made of very loosely piled thorny branches whose main purpose is to keep out the wild pigs.

For westerners this might look a poor existence, but the opposite is true. Nobody feels pressured by time, even though there are things that need to be done, a few hours a day is sufficient to complete them. All the other jobs can wait when something else more important occurs like; visiting a friend, or chatting with a neighbour that happens to walk by. Naturally, there are moments when there is work that needs immediate attention, such as harvesting. On these occasions, everybody helps everybody else to finish the job. Unlike westerners who only look out for number one, they all work together in one field until the job is finished and then go off to the next field for as long as it takes to complete the task.

Lately there is more to talk about in the village because I have moved to Çandır. I am the first real foreigner to ever live here! They have all heard the stories going around about misbehaving tourists in Dalyan and they are a little dubious of strangers to begin with. There is a lot of glancing in my direction and conversation that falls quiet when I pass, but I am determined to warm a place in the hearts of the people from this wonderful village.

It is a big advantage that my Turkish is limited to small talk and polite phrases. Normally you would think of this as a handicap, but here in this small community, where they have their own rules and values, it’s better not to be very fluent. It will give me the

time to learn what I can and, more important, what I cannot say. It will prevent me from making my life here impossible before it has even started.

I have rented a house in the middle of a lemon grove on a four thousand square meter plot. There is not a neighbor in sight, which is nice for me because I would especially like to be able to move in and around the house without nosy looks. The Turks have a completely different perspective on privacy than westerners. They walk into each others houses whenever they wish to look at what is going on. I do not like that at all because I do things very differently. I do not feel like explaining why I do the things the way I do, even if they might find them unnecessary.

My house has a mountain view on one side and a field of sheep on the other. A special treat is the view of the river from the flat-roof. The house is a convenient distance of at least fifty meters from the road and the lemon grove separates me from the neighbors house. Here my true adventure will start.

- Rowing Boats –

To go over to Dalyan I have to cross the Dalyan River and there is no bridge. The river is the connection between the lake, further inland, and the Mediterranean Sea. The alternative is to drive all the way around Köyceĝiz Lake which takes an hour and a half by car, or on my old moped which is not really advisable considering the hassle of the steep roads. I could go by using my own boat but I think that is a little overdone to just do a little shopping. I do not mind the small inconvenience because a bridge over the river could make Çandır become a very popular living area and spoil the beauty of this village.

To cross the river there is a row boat system that works perfectly. The people that own the land at the river’s narrowest point have set up the row-boat system. Funny, considering the hard labour it requires, there are two women that run the row-boats. Only in the summer do they have extra help from another woman and a mentally handicapped man who likes to make himself useful and has loads of fun doing the rowing. He mainly rows tourists across the river, that is when he is not sleeping soundly in his chair.

The boats are about two meters long and a little over one meter wide. To get into the boat one has to have a well developed sense of balance. This is absolutely not present in my case but is now developing rapidly.

Tourists that visit the ancient city of Kaunos without using a tour company can only get there by taking the row boats. The average tourist is of a bigger build than a Turk and has the same sense of balance as I do. This makes for the most comical situations. Really, you can see Turks take a sprint, jump on, and then run straight to the back of the boat. This makes us europeans look somewhat clumsy, to say the least. The ladies that row these boats can easily take six to twelve persons in their boat. The people are seated around the boat so that it will not lean over to one side. English is not a language that these ladies speak, so one can only hope to take the right place where she directs you to sit. To get into the back you have to manoeuvre yourself past the lady with the risk of falling overboard. Rocking heavily, I see the scared tourists clumsily follow her instructions before the rowing starts. I know that just last summer there were at least six tourists who fell overboard while getting in and out of the boats.

In the summer the river is like a busy highway filled with the many big boats that go back and forth to the beach, to the mud baths, and other enjoyable destinations. They often go at full speed because of the tight time schedules these day-trips must follow. Getting your pants wet is the least that can happen to you.

Once you arrive at the other side, one of the owners of the cafes there will welcome you and invite you to have a drink. No matter what time of day it is, most tourists are really in need of a drink by then.

The row-boat ladies keep the tourists separated from the locals because they pay a different price and they do not want the tourists to know it. It is not like the tourists do not know that they pay more, but the funny part is that locals also have to pay differing fees. I think maybe children and those that must go across because of their work get another discount. Just exactly how it all works has never been very clear to me. The cost to locals is probably never raised or altered but predicated on what you agreed upon when you first made the deal in the past. Maybe there is even room for negotiation.

Secondly, the locals must bring many things across the river. It is often unbelievable what can be stacked onto these boats. Mopeds, window frames, bricks, goats, and a variety of other things they might possibly need. The only thing the ladies do not do is any lifting or loading. This makes sense to me as the rowing alone is hard enough.

They are so alert that they know exactly who has crossed to Dalyan that day. They stop at sundown but should you be late getting back to the crossing, friendly as they are, they will wait for you to be sure you get back across the river. I always tell them when I do not plan to return that day because I would not like to have one of the ladies needlessly waiting for me.

In an emergency the villagers that need to go to a doctor in the middle of the night may wake up the ladies to row them across. Years ago you could simply take one of the many row-boats and row it across the river yourself. Well, those days are over here, and as most everywhere, the boats are now chained to the jetty for the night. This night service is obviously only available with a solid reason and never for party animals that just want to cross late in the night.

The distance between Dalyan and Çandır is only a ten minute swim, but otherwise much farther…

- The Painter –

Before I can move into my new house it needs to be painted and tiled. Kerim knows people from his own circle of friends, which according to him, are cheap and deliver quality workmanship. All right, so I am off to Ortaca which is some ten kilometres away from Dalyan to buy tiles, paint, and other necessary supplies. I have the goods delivered to Çandır and make a deal with the painter that I will pick him up in Dalyan and bring him over to Çandır with my boat. It takes a little longer this way, but I do not have a car to pick him up and take him back and forth from the house to the row boats every day. The tile man and his helper will start about a week later.

The first morning I am ready and waiting with the boat on the Dalyan side of the river at eight in the morning and find no painter. At half past eight the painter arrives. This is called being on time here in Turkey. A small sorry-ass looking man in white overalls with a stick in his hand steps aboard. He is one of those kind of persons you can tell was always nagged upon at school. Shyly he takes his place in the boat with a ‘Good morning!’ and we are off . On the way he moans that it is much to early for him as he peeks out at me from under his baseball cap. He probable wonders just exactly how hard he is going to have to work. It is already very clear to me that work is not something this Weasel likes to do. It is nearly ten by the time he is ready to start painting the house. With slow movements, he lazily strokes the roller up and down the wall. Hmm...This is promising. At three o'clock he wants to stop so he can be back in Dalyan on time. I have to admit that my dislike of the little Weasel became rooted firmly that day. The next day I am more clever and I bring the Weasel to the house and tell him I will be back at five o'clock. Ha! Now he has no option but to stay until five and work.

And yes, my plan has worked, as on my return he has really worked harder and achieved more than the first day. He is not happy after this long day of being left on his own. Too bad Weasel.

After five days he is finished with the walls and ceiling inside and has made a start on the iron window frames. The glass is installed with silicone and was not done very neatly. The one window he worked on is a complete mess with big blobs of paint everywhere and not one straight line. He must not like sanding either, because he simply is not doing any of it. Slowly but surely my patience with this Weasel is fading even further. I tell him to continue outside and I will do the window frames myself. I cannot make a straight line freehand because of the uneven silicone lines, but I tape everything and manage to produce a straight line. What a jerk the Weasel is. While I am painting I feel his eyes piercing into my back. He has obviously never seen a woman paint.

Because the messy part of the painting is over, it is then possible for the tile man to start. The next morning the tile man and his helper are spot on time at the boat dock. As soon as he realizes that we are waiting for the Weasel I can see him become annoyed. Good! This could be fun. Little Weasel arrives as always at half past eight and, while we take off, I can hear how they slag him for being late. I can hear Ramazan, the tile man, say that if he is not there tomorrow by eight o'clock he can swim or walk to Çandır.

Weasel struggles with his roller outside while Ramazan and his helper work like horses on the tiling, getting one room after another tiled. At lunch break a big package appears and the two tile man take a seat in the lemon grove to enjoy their lunch. They reappear after half of an hour to continue their fight with uneven corners and walls that go in every direction. At five o'clock Ramazan signals that he and his helper are ready to go back to Dalyan. These men worked really hard and have gotten half of the house tiling completed. He asks me if it is all right to bring his wife with him the next day to help so they can finish the job. No problem with me. Weasel starts looking more and more unhappy and gets a last warning to be on time.

Ramazan arrives the next morning spot on time with his helper and his wife. To my surprise, three kids get out of the car with them. It is a school holiday and they do not have a baby-sitter. To everybody’s amazement, Weasel is actually on time. After some mental measuring, I load everybody onto my small boat. The only change in Weasel is that he moans a little longer, but nobody takes him seriously. Weasel works very hard that day because he probably wants to finish the job at the same time as Ramazan and not end up all alone with the weird window frame woman. Ramazan tells me that Weasel also works somewhere else in the evenings which is the reason he is always so tired. That is understandable, but it is really not my problem.

It sure is a busy day. Ramazan’s wife is very self-confident and starts grouting in between the tiles they put in yesterday and does it really well. Like a real Turkish woman, she stands bent over all day without bending her knees while happily punching away. How she does this I do not know. I literally see only her big hips all day. Ramazan’s helper is the one who lays the tiles and Ramazan does all the cutting and measuring. The kids have a good time playing in the fields around the house and at the end of the day all the tiles are in and have been sponged clean. What a team! In two days they have laid 120 square meters of tile over six different rooms and balconies.

Happy, but tired, we return late to Dalyan. Much against the wishes of Weasel, but Ramazan really wanted to finish it up. It is already dark by the time we arrive in Dalyan and I am happy we are there as it is difficult to navigate through the reeds with no visibility.

For two more days I must go to the house with Weasel and then it will be ready to move into.

- Black Diesel Fumes –

‘No. There is not a moving company nearby, everyone uses tractors with a wagon behind it to move things,’ Says Kerim, while we are enjoying breakfast in the morning sun.

‘To drive around Koyceĝiz Lake takes far too much time and petrol in a tractor. In order to get all my things to Çandır it would probably require making three or four different trips,’ I explain.

Kerim should realize this as he knows my books alone require at least 30 boxes. To use a boat would be best but I do not know how I can get my stuff from the boat-dock to the house? This seems to be a hopeless undertaking. To first load everything from the house, get it to the Dalyan boat-dock, and then transport it all several times between there and Çandır, and then on the other side of the river load it onto another tractor to get it to the new house.

‘Isn't there a big bus or something we can rent?’ I ask.Kerim takes a deep breath, picks up the phone, makes a few phone calls, then looks up

happily to tell me there is a truck available. Not exactly what I had in mind, but it is going to have to do.

We agree on a price and arrange two extra men to be there the next day to load it all. I am glad that I have already packed most of my things in boxes. Only the kitchen is not packed as it is still functioning.

With a cup of coffee I am standing outside at dawn o'clock to make sure that the moving truck will not miss the house and drive by. House numbers are something they do not have here and I do not want them to have to search any longer than necessary. I look up in disgust as a truck comes driving down the street. It is an ugly monster which they normally use for transporting sand and gravel. The two hired movers decide there is a problem as soon as they have looked into the house.

They complain that there is far too much work for the two of them. They thought they would be moving an average Turkish household. A few beds, a sofa, and some kitchenware. Well, they were in for a surprise when they see I have a hundred boxes and many roomfuls of furniture. They demand more money and I cannot let the whole deal go bust so, I have to agree. Because of the low sides of the truck they will have to make two trips, but fortunately they accept the fact and do not demand more money. The first load is going while Kerim and I stay behind to get the rest ready for the second run. As we watch the truck disappear in a cloud of black diesel fumes, all the neighbors stand in the street to enjoy the spectacle. One benefit of it all is that we are constantly offered cups of tea and soft drinks by the neighbors.

Kerim and I take my boat and go to Çandır to await the arrival of the truck. Two hours later I see the truck slowly come crawling down the steep mountain road into Çandır. Because of the rough road, I am watching my fridge and bookshelves precariously shifting on the bed of the truck. This scene has my heart in my mouth the whole time I am watching it. The truck cannot come all the way to the house so the poor men have to carry the heavy boxes another thirty meters to the house. I realize they are worth every extra penny they demanded. As soon as the truck is empty they leave to go all the way back to Dalyan for the second load and we go back to Dalyan in my boat to Kerim’s pension for an early dinner.

As soon as the truck is back we load the rest of my belongings onto it and the whole circus starts all over again. By this stage I cannot see things arriving in any kind of order any longer and it is very clear that it will be dark by the time they arrive in Çandır. Kerim reassures me not to worry because his son-in-law, Murat, will be there to help us. How this can make much of a difference I really do not understand, but wisely, I do not say anything. We will see.

At nine o'clock the truck finally comes huffing and puffing down the mountain road again. It is very dark - I mean pitch black as there are no streetlights here, no other houses nearby, and like idiots we do not even have a flashlight with us.

As promised, Murat, who is born in Çandır, arrives on his old Java motorbike. Very sweet man, but to be honest, I do not see what he can do.

He gets off of his bike and looks over the situation. He takes his mobile phone and starts making phone calls and in rapid Turkish is shouting things that I do not understand. After a few calls he turns around, puts his arm over my shoulder and says:

‘Do not worry, everything will be just fine.’ What happened next I will never forget. From all directions people begin to appear. Some literally come stumbling out of the bushes. In no time the path to the house is full of light and no less then eight young men are carrying my belongings into the house while laughing and making jokes. I am not allowed to do anything other than point out where everything should go. Within the hour everything is unloaded and afterwards most of the people disappear just as mysteriously as they arrived. A few friends of Murat stay a little longer and help me get rid of my beer supply. Murat explains proudly that this is a nice village where everybody helps everybody. Later I will discover that there are all kinds of little paths through the hedges that are shortcuts. No wonder it looked like they were literally crawling out of the bushes. Satisfied with the feeling of a big job being completed, we return to Dalyan where Kerim has a room ready for me. That night I sleep like a baby.

I could not have ever dreamt of a better welcome in the village.

- Power Cut –

It is raining fiercely. For the last three days I have been confined inside the house, only taking Dorcas for a walk can make me go outside, and even then for no longer than is necessary. He also does not like these heavy rains and as quick as he can he does his business and then gives me a look as if to say, ‘Can we go back now?’

On top of everything, the power has gone out. This happens more when it rains, but this time it has lasted for an unusually long time. I read my book with the help of a gas lamp. The lamp itself is great if you can finally manage to get it to work. It has glass with one of those cotton wicks inside that is connected to a gas bottle. Nothing wrong with it so far, but it does not seem to have a big enough hole where you are supposed to light it for a match to enter. Every time I need it, (which is, of course, always in the dark), I break into a sweat. Clumsily, I try to wiggle the match through the much too small hole and wait apprehensively for the miniature explosion that will be the beginning of my light source.

Today is no different but I am very happy with this lamp. Before I had to use one of those miners lamps that straps on your head with an elastic band. Convenient but hard to use, for example, while making a meal. The gas lamp can burn so fiercely that it will light up the entire room with a hard and very bright light. But they also provide light far longer than a normal flashlight.

After a few hours of reading, I have given up and gone to bed.A soon as I wake up I look at the alarm clock to see if the power has come back on yet.

No, nothing. All right, I'll wait and just start the day as I normally would. It is not until the end of the day that I really start to wonder what is going on. Without any power still, it looks like I will be reading with the lamp again. When I walk Dorcas a few hours later, it occurs to me that other people have their power on. The nearest neighbours have no power, but maybe they just went to bed early. Not being very happy, I go to bed early once more.

As soon as I wake up I look at the alarm clock again and see that there is still no power. This situation becomes pressing because my freezer is full of vegetables, meat, and other things that will soon defrost. It is time for some action.

First, I ask the neighbours if they have power. Yes, they have, and no, they do not know why I do not have any power. I am the last connection from the pole and after me there are no more electricity poles. I could be without power for weeks before anyone would notice. I do not know where to go to resolve this. Even if I knew, I do not speak enough Turkish to explain the problem. So, I hit the road to go find the village handyman. Of course he is not at home, so I have to walk all the way back through the pissing rain. A few hours later I go out once again to find him. This whole power situation is getting me down by this stage.

When I do find him, he understands my problem and promises to come over to have a look. After several hours he arrives indeed and messes around in the fuse box and tells me that there is nothing wrong. Fine, but I still do not have power, so I ask him what I should do. He just shrugs his shoulders and walks away. Communication has never been his strongest point, as I have noticed before, but this time something snaps in me. Crying in frustration, I return to the house after all these days without power and nothing but rain. I do not know who I can ask to help me. What on earth am I doing here in this remote village where nobody speaks English and I do not speak enough Turkish to communicate? I am really starting to doubt my decision to live here. Over in Dalyan these sorts of things are easy to solve, but it is just all much too difficult here. I begin to sniff and cry like a little kid. Somehow it is a relief to cry, scream, and shout at the furniture.

The contents of the deep freeze are ready for the trash and being able to telephone someone so I can spit it all out is not possible since the phone needs power to work. With the battery of my mobile being finally empty, it makes me feel lonelier than ever.

Full of doubt, I take Dorcas for a walk through the rain. While on my walk, I have the wonderful thought that there is a Turkish woman in the village that spent most of her life in Germany and she might be able to help me. Full of renewed spirit, I go to her house. She is happy to see me and invites me in. We talk a little about the rain and all the trouble it brings, like the flooded roads and other problems, before she asks how she can help me. As soon as I start to tell her my problem, I begin to cry and throw all my misery on the table. She comforts me, but says she does not understand why it took so long for me to come and see her. Firmly she picks up the phone and starts to talk to someone in rapid Turkish. After she finishes the call she says that they are working on it and will phone her back. During my second cup of coffee they call back. There is a wagon on the way over from the electricity company to repair it. I thank her over and over, she tells me to come any time something goes wrong.

Feeling better than I have for days, I go home to wait for the electric repairman.

Three hours later the power is back on.

- Coal –

In Dalyan in the year 2005 they think they are very modern and that heating with coal is the new thing. Burning wood is out and burning coal is in. It is less work and more heat is produced from one load of fuel into the woodstove. Since Dalyan is a small town, everybody buys their firewood which makes the step to coal seem easy. The population of Dalyan is also relatively wealthy and they can afford to choose a more expensive option for their comfort.

Here in the village it is completely different as the Çandır people do not have to buy their wood commercially. They are allowed to take their own wood out of the forest under special regulations. The regulations are absolutely necessary, as otherwise the trees surrounding the village would go first and, slowly but surely, the mountains around the village will become bare. The rules are simple. In November there is an announcement from the Mosque giving villagers the opportunity to list themselves for the woodcutting. They have to pay something like five euro to join the woodcutting party. Then a tense

waiting period ensues until the Forestry Department gives the approval a few weeks later. Again there is another announcement via the Mosque and all hell breaks loose.

Every tree that is already dead can be chopped. Since this must happen in a set period, this becomes a very busy time. All day long you hear the chainsaws howling in the forest and tractors driving up and down with their heavy loads. Some of them are so heavy that they can only crawl extremely slowly over the rough terrain. It looks very dangerous as they are loaded to about a meter above the sides of the wagon. Because of the many ruts in the roads, they rock from left to right and you hold your breath as you watch it. When I walk with Dorcas through the forest, I see people everywhere picnicking next to a chopped tree or heavily sweating men trying to get their wood onto a wagon. I suspect they select a tree way in advance to make sure it is not too far from the road in an easily accessible place. This means that most villagers all react like crazy as soon as the Forestry Department gives the green light. They are out in the forest at dawn-o-clock to make sure that they secure their chosen tree. Everybody looks happy despite the hard task at hand. Nothing like a life without heating costs, but why are they in such a hurry? Normally, I do not see the people here work so extremely hard. From early morning until evening they are working like idiots. I asked around and found out that you can only cut this wood for about four days. The man from the Forestry Department will announce once again from the Mosque when it is over for another year. You can actually see this man in his green forestry outfit checking if everybody keeps to the rules. I do not have a tractor with a wagon to transport the wood for myself and so I cannot go into the forest myself. I asked the Muhtar (village chief) for help and he said he would be willing to help me on the condition that I organise this in the coming years myself. For 100 YTL (Turkish lira), which is something like 60 euro, I will get a wagonload full of big logs of one meter in length which need to be chopped to smaller pieces before I can use them in my woodstove. When the sun shines, this is a nice job. When it is too cold to sit in a chair doing nothing, it is the perfect thing to do. During the hours spent chopping wood you do not need the stove burning. This way the wood gives you its warmth twice. It will be a while before coal will be popular here.

- Olives –

A month ago I asked my friend Gul if I could help with the harvesting of the olives. Gul is the sister of Yaprak, the wife of Kerim. I want to know how they do this because for most westerners this is unknown territory. I heard that Gul's olives trees grow on an impossibly steep mountainside. For this reason, I made the decision to help her. Her husband, who is a shoemaker, works in Dalyan so Gul is on her own here in the village. She gave me the feeling that she was not taking me seriously, probably because they do not expect foreigners to do such things. The only condition I had was that I could bring Dorcas so he would get to run in the mountains. Yesterday afternoon Gul came to my house to let me know that they were starting today and that I should be there at half past seven. No problem.

It is half past seven when I walk up to their farmhouse. Everyone is already busy, her brother Murat is way up in a tree cutting branches. I have no idea why, but he must have his reasons I suppose. A flat wagon stands ready with a big pile of plastic bags. These bags look like a modern version of the old burlap bag. Also, I see reed baskets, two shopping bags, and some thin long branches like the ones Murat is cutting. Then Gul's father arrives with some people he picked up at the row-boats from Dalyan who are sitting on the fenders of his tractor.

As soon as the wagon is hitched to the tractor, we are told to climb up into it and we are on our way.

This makes for the most peculiar picture. Various woman, who are not all that thin, with head scarves and thick clothing sit side by side on the wagon. This is the sort of clothing one would wear at minus five degrees Celsius in Holland, while here in Çandır it

cannot be colder than forty-five degrees Fahrenheit and this seems odd considering that the sun will warm everything up pretty soon.

In between them sits my dog and myself wearing no more than jeans and a sweater. They look at me with more than normal interest, with my dog only getting looks of disapproval.

All of us slowly creep up the mountain in the wagon which has no backboard requiring us all to hold on tight so as to not to slide off. After half an hour’s drive, we arrive somewhere way up in the mountains where all of their olive groves are located. As far as you can see there is nothing but olives trees.

But our journey is not at an end yet, we still have to walk quite a long way over seemingly invisible paths. These paths are full of loose stones and every now and then are very steep. They walk these paths like proper acrobats while I create a lot of stone avalanches. I slip and stumble feeling about as elegant as an elephant. How do they do this...?

Is this a genetic trait or just something you have to learn from childhood? It is obvious that I cannot do this. After a rigorous walk of thirty minutes, we arrive at our destination and everybody needs time to get their breath back. Ha! Not me.

We are standing at the bottom of a steep mountain slope full of stones. Slowly, my eyes look up the mountain and all I see is olive trees bent down under the weight of olives. They did not exaggerate much when they told me Gul’s olive grove is a hard one to harvest. It is remote with surroundings that are overwhelming; a blue sky, the sun, and a beautiful view of the Mediterranean Sea. Out on the horizon I can see Rhodes in the distance.

Now it is time to get started. Seemingly risking their lives, the men take the long branches and climb into the trees. With great skill they hit the branches of the olive trees. I see one standing on a branch and with both of his hands he holds the stick above his head to reach for the olives. These men are unbelievable. He looks just as relaxed as if standing on solid ground. It starts to rain olives and now I finally know what these long branches are used for. As soon as the men have finished a few trees, we girls crawl on our knees with reed baskets and collect them. They want you to get the olives from between the rocks, after a few hours I have no nails left on my fingertips and my hands are full of scratches. Often I fight with small prickly bushes that are all over the place whose sole purpose seems to be to only annoy us. The work is heavy but I am having a wonderful time. Feeling the sun on my back while doing something that has been done in this way for thousands of years makes me mellow.

Everywhere around me I hear the others talk. These people are very talkative, but I feel no need to join in, all is just fine as it is. My thoughts drift off while my hands do the work automatically.

Dorcas flies around like a rocket over the mountains and keeps the goats at bay. Every twenty minutes or so he comes back to check if we are still there and then goes straight back to his important job (as he sees it).

Twelve o'clock and it is time for a lunch break. Not one of those mangled sandwiches out of a plastic bag, but a tablecloth spread over the ground covered with little bowls of food. Every woman has brought something to eat, but no one expects me to do so because they all know that foreigners eat funny things. I see olives, pickled vegetables, fried aubergine with a drizzle of garlic yogurt, something with bulgur, and not forgetting the lovely crispy bread. A large dose of honey serves as desert. Everybody eats with contentment and talks about all sorts of things. I listen, enjoy, and learn.

After a while everybody gets up aching and stretching to continue the work. Gul folds the dirty dishes in the tablecloth and places them back into the shopping bags to take back home later on.

The funny thing about this work is that you cannot work for money. You earn five kilos of olives or two and a half litres of olive oil to be picked up at the oil press when the

harvesting is finished. If you choose to take olives, then it is up to you to collect them yourself during the day. Everybody works until they have the equivalent of a year’s supply and then quits the job. This way we all have olives and oil and the harvesting is done. If there are not enough workers the villagers will help each other. Gul would go, for example, to somebody’s grove for five days and then that person would come to work for her to return the favour. Many hands make the job easier

which is something they seem to understand very well here.At four o'clock we all stop. Stiff as anything, but very content, I get up and walk slowly

back to the tractor. Dorcas and I have no energy left and both of us go to sleep extremely early that evening. According to Gul, it will take two weeks to harvest her whole olive orchard.

- Swimming Cow –

My friend Thea and I are at the rowboat crossing from Dalyan to Çandır waiting for the boat to come our way. I have known Thea for many years now, she also used to be a regular guest at Kerim’s pansion and she lives in Dalyan now. At the other side of the river a group of men are shouting and screaming at each other. They are heavily gesturing in a way that makes us wonder what is going on? The subject of their attention appears to be an old Dutch-style black and white cow which is looking around very uncomfortably and nervously.

‘I think this could be fun,’ says Thea.‘Very well could be, let’s sit down over there and watch.’They are all standing together around the cow pushing and pulling to get the friendly,

but unwilling, cow onto the jetty. But why?We see a boat approaching to dock according to their specific instructions.‘I think the cow has to go in the boat!’ I say.‘Could very well be, but do you see how big a step the animal has to take to be able to

get into the boat?’‘This could really be fun to watch.’We look at the little jetty where, by now, the cow is completely in a panic, but the six

small Turks are determined to win the battle. It takes them fifteen minutes to get the poor animal into position on the jetty, during which we agree that the cow is going to win the struggle. With big eyes and strongly flaring nostrils, the sweet cow stands completely tied up in ropes.

At the boat-dock the boat is ready to bring the poor thing to her destination. I am trying to imagine how this man will travel with a cow aboard and his boat full of the perfumed droppings when later today he will most likely use it to take some tourists on boat tour.

Comfortably sitting on our bench, we are enjoying the event. How they are going to put the poor animal on board I really cannot imagine. Just when we are talking about how we would do such a thing, such as building a board ramp, we hear a big splash and the cow is now in the water.

‘Now everything is completely out of control,’ says Thea.‘How are they ever going to get the animal back out of the water?’ I ask.Like so often in these situations, we had read things wrong. The men happily step

aboard the boat and maneuver the cow to the side of it in the water. Half dragged, half swimming, the cow starts crossing. With eyes like saucers, we watch it happen and start laughing. The poor cow must swim quite a distance and on the other side is a concrete dock that is too high for her to climb onto. The animal will have to swim and swim to find a spot where she can get out. Apparently, that is no problem at all.

We come to the conclusion that the show is over and walk, still laughing, towards the rowboat. When we step into the rowboat I ask the rowing woman if this is the usual way to transport a cow. I see the poor thing still busy swimming as she disappears around a curve in the river.

And yes, this is the way they always do it...

- The Café –

One cannot argue over religion, but a few things are the same everywhere in the world. In Holland there is never a church to be found without a café close by to it and things are no different here. Opposite the village mosque is a teahouse, shop, and café combination in a stone building with a door that hangs completely out of line and is only five feet, at the most, in height. The walls are not quite straight and the window frames hang completely askew. One cannot look inside because it is simply too dark. For an outsider, it is hard to recognize as anything other than a dilapidated old building. Outside stand two beautiful old eucalyptus trees suspending a frame of bent branches. On top hangs a green cloth with many holes and tears in it. Underneath are the typical Turkish wooden seats held together by baling wire supports to prevent them from splitting apart. There are also a few wooden benches that do not look much better. I have never had the nerve before to sit on one of these benches, but the seats hold remarkably well when I finally do sit on them. On the walls one can vaguely see the words “Cold Drinks” scrawled in hand-painted letters.

Between the trees, at the entrance of the café terrace, you always find an old man with a once fancy grey hat, smoking a cigarette. The whole place does not come across as being very hygienic so when the old man asks me if I want a glass with my coke, I politely refuse. Other than that it is quite an experience to sit there in between the local old villagers that stop for a cup of tea on their daily walk to the mosque. The tea that is served to the local villagers is free.

Today, there is something happening at the cafe. Are there really that many customers? No, if that could only be the case. In the middle of the street a big fire is burning and I see all sorts of things come flying out of the front door. Tables, chairs, planks, and more of these types of things. A head with a big smile appears in the doorway and wishes me good morning, steps forward, and introduces himself as Timur. A warm-hearted man with short legs in big baggy pants pulled up to his chest over a royal belly. He has bare feet in flip-flops and an old shirt tucked into his big pants. He tells me that he is the new owner of the place.

The old man that was always at the café is no longer there. My first thought was that he may have died.

But no, the old man was his father and is really too old now to run the place, explains Timur. To my surprise, I hear that the old man with his ever present cigarette who always gave me a friendly smile, is well into his eighties. The old man passed the café over to his son who is now cleaning it thoroughly. Burning the inventory is what he calls cleaning as he is going to modernize the place.

You cannot make a living off of the locals as they simply do not spend money on this sort of luxury. But they do like to spend some time there catching up with the latest news while drinking their free cup of tea.

Nice new modern plastic chairs and tables with cheerful looking parasols covered by nice tablecloths are going to attract a lot of tourists, according to Timur. No matter what changes you make, it always will be a dumpy, but original, and romantic place.

As soon as everything is looking cleaner and more hygienic, it will surely appeal to the often tired and overheated hikers and tourists who wish to sit and relax for a while in the shade.

Timur takes me to the other side of the street and shows me a piece of wood. Proudly he explains that he will add the word Çandır to it and place it at the entrance to Kaunos so that tourists can see that there is a small village further down the road.

Brilliant idea, but now he was waiting for the village handyman. The handyman works in government service doing all sorts of things for the village, like the garbage removal, small repairs on the road, and other odd jobs. He is the only one with proper tools in the village. Timur says that the helper is not in the village today, so he has to wait until tomorrow. All of this, accompanied by a very sad look. A look that only Turks can give you.

To his joy, I am able to explain to him that I have a jigsaw and will saw his plank for him if he wants me to. With his finger he points out where the cut should be made in order to get two planks the same size. I go home and saw the two planks and, needless to say, I have a new friend, at least for today.

After a few misunderstandings, I am able to get it across to him that it might be a good idea to put the words Cold Drinks on a sign next to it. He thinks this is a great idea and informs all the surrounding people of what a brilliant idea I have had. Embarrassed, I hope he quickly stops doing that. I am not allowed to leave because he thinks that as a real westerner I know how to accomplish such a thing. This remains to be seen but, I have all the time in the world, so I stay to help.

With the help of several cans of paint and a couple of old brushes, we have an afternoon full of fun. At five o'clock we sit back enjoying a beer while admiring these commercial signs. I just hope it will bring him a lot of tourist business.

- Decorating –

My new friend Aliye, who lives at the other side of Kaunos, decided to rent a house on this side of the village.

I met Aliye a few weeks ago while on one of the rowboat crossings. The rowing lady asked me something in Turkish and Aliye understood I lived here. She insisted that I should come to her house for a cup of coffee. I am not a very social person and really have no time for new friends. But she would not take no for an answer, so I went. On our way over, she explained that she originally came from Cyprus but lived all her life in London. Once at her house, an enormous amount of books had my immediate interest. I love books myself and also have (far too) many of them. Before I knew it, we were talking about fantasy and history books. Things clicked immediately between us.

The new house she found is, according to local opinion, in fine condition. Which means it does not leak, all windows open and close, and have glass in them. Also there is running water, a toilet, and a bathroom, thus the state of all the other things are of no consequence.

She asks me if I want to come along when she goes to look at it. Two sets of eyes see more than one, so I go along with her. When we arrive at the house I see exterior grey walls with unpainted window frames and a rusty metal door. The rooms inside have the same concrete grey walls with unpainted chipboard doors that do not close properly.

The kitchen has a fireplace and a lopsided sink made from brick covered with tiles that are mostly broken and have no grout in between them any longer. The top is dangerously hanging to one side and all this is illuminated by a fluorescent light on the ceiling. In the living room we find an old but seemingly functioning woodstove which, over the years, has made the whole room a dullish brown colour. There are two simple bedrooms that with a fresh coat of paint would be just fine.

The bathroom is the best. There are no tiles so you are looking at grey cement with a small water faucet that gives you only cold water. There is no drain but simply a hole in the wall to let the water out.

In one corner stands something rusty that appears to be a heating device. You simply make a wood fire in the bottom half and fill the top half with water to bathe. It is an ugly

rectangular thing that has long since outlived it's time. By the time it heats the water you probably have to pour it over yourself with a small bucket. I think that the previous residents probably didn’t bathe very often. Every now and then our eyes meet and we really have to control ourselves to keep from bursting out into laughter. I think the man that shows us around will not be very impressed if we do.

The toilet is an Asian one, no problem there, other than the fact that most westerners do not want one. An Asian toilet is basically a porcelain rimmed hole on the floor. It always reminds me of the rest stops when I was a little girl alongside the motorways in France when we stopped on our way to Spain. Believe me, these are not the best vacation memories.

Also, the ceilings are very special. A precursor to the well-known suspended ceilings system they use in shops. It is a simple frame with boards on it. The frame is made from thin strips of wood, making sections 50 by 50 centimetres, on top lay boards made of pressed wood. The sort that get wet and go soggy like porridge. Gaps are closed with home harvested cotton. And this whole construction has never seen any paint.

But with some tiles, paint, and a good spirit, one can make a nice village house out of it.

We discuss the house for a while and she decides to take it. Full of aforesaid good spirit, she sets out to do some shopping. Within the week many things are being delivered like tiles, faucets, a toilet, a bathroom sink, and more of that kind of building materials.

As we are thoroughly cleaning up the house, many of the neighbours ask us what we are up to. ‘Don’t tell me you are going to spend money in a rental house?’ they ask. They have seen me do these stupid things but I am a foreigner and she is not. She is Turkish! Apparently that is completely different. It is not a common practice here to make your house look pretty. Only the necessary tasks get done. To put money into a rental house is really too much.

With great effort and in good cheer, we start painting; the walls outside a nice blue, doors and windows also a nice colour of green, and everything starts to look different. It occurs to me that many people stop to make small talk and wish us luck. I really wonder if this is normal. The amount of attention I get painting the outside of the house is really ridiculous. Sure we are both covered in paint and look like shit, but isn’t that normal when you are messing around with wall paint, a roller, and a wall? At the end of every day we go to the café for a well-deserved glass of beer and there we finally find out what is the cause of all the attention.

In Çandır women can’t do these sort of things. The whole village is buzzing because two women are painting and actually doing a good job of it as well. The quality standard is not the same as I am used to because what we do is not at all perfect. In Çandır these sorts of jobs are for the men, if they do not do them, then you have to get a professional to do it for you. If you cannot afford one, then it simply doesn’t happen. To paint something yourself does not even come to mind. The funny part is that they all think it is strange but nobody thinks any less of us. They think it is great, it makes us independent, and also it is cheaper, which is very much approved of.

After the plumber comes and goes and a carpenter creates a new kitchen, it becomes a nice traditional house in which you can live with pleasure.

- A Night Out –

My friend Marieke is here for two weeks on vacation. We want to go on a night out, which in and of itself is nothing special, but here it is not so easy.

There are plenty places to go in Dalyan for a good night out, but the last rowboat back across the river to Çandır is at nine o’clock. We can always sleep at Kerim’s pension, but then Dorcas would be alone at home for a very long time. Even if we leave Dalyan after

breakfast and walk back to the rowboats, we will not be home before eleven in the morning. Somehow that doesn’t feel fair to him, just because we feel a need to satisfy our desire for a night out.

With no other option, I go to the rowboat people and present them with the problem. Once there it seems that this is no problem at all. There is a little restaurant on our side of the river and they are relatives of the rowboat ladies. They know me as somebody that never complains when there is a long wait and that seems to pay off for me now. A phone call when we are ready to cross will be enough, there will be somebody present until one o’clock.

It is a perfect compromise and this way we are forced to keep our bar hopping within limits. This appeals to me because once out I know there is no stopping, so to have a crossing time is a good limitation. A simple phone call and somebody will come for you, says the very old lady that looks to be in charge of the place. Satisfied with the arrangement, I go home with the good news. To celebrate we decided to add a bite to eat in one of the many nice restaurants in Dalyan so we crossed at 6pm to have an aperitif on one of the riverside restaurant terraces.

We eat a lovely Turkish stew and then we start exploring the bars. Soon we find one with live music and feel we have found our place for the evening. At half past twelve we untie ourselves from the warm embrace of the music and walk, not all that soberly, back to the boat dock. With great difficulty, I dial the number of the restaurant across the river in the dark. We can clearly see that there are still customers present in the restaurant.

‘Hallo?’ I hear.‘We are here and want to be picked up.’ I say.‘Who?’‘The two Dutch girls that need to go back to Çandır,’ I say in my best Turkish. (Which is

always much better when I have a drink in me.)‘Just a moment.’ She says. I still have no idea who I am talking to.‘Hallo,’ says a voice.‘Yes, I am still here.’‘Sorry, we forgot all about the two of you and now the row boat is back on your side of

the river. Can you row it yourself?’‘Yes, no problem,’ I say bravely. ‘Which one can I take?’‘The one with the red oars,’ she says.‘Fine, we are coming over.’Can you row? I ask Marieke while I explain the situation.‘Well, no! But, I don’t mind trying.’‘That’s fine with me, I really do not want to row,’ I say while undoing the boat from the

jetty. Somewhat shakily, we get in the boat and Marieke takes her place on the rowing bench. She fumbles with the oars, but it looks like she knows what she is doing. Bravely she starts and, after a few attempts, she says:

‘I do not think we are moving. Am I doing something wrong?’Together we study the oars and come to the conclusion that she is doing it right, so she

starts rowing again. No movement whatsoever and we get the giggles but wrestle on. In the meantime, a man with another rowboat has arrived and is busy tying his boat to the jetty. Wondrously, he looks in our direction and tells us in a dry manner ‘Lift the anchor.’

We look and, yes, we see a tiny rope disappear from the back end of the boat and, of course, it is connected to an anchor. We tumble around the boat in laughter after we lift the anchor and start forwards. Because of our laughter the boat is waggling all over the river. Sound travels a long way over water and by now there are people at the other side looking at us wondering what on earth is going on.

Not being able to row a boat here in Dalyan is like being unable to ride a bicycle in Holland. They just cannot understand our struggle at all. Crying from laughter, we finally arrive at the restaurant on the other side of the river. Grateful that they are still open, we

drop into a chair for a last well-deserved drink offered to us spontaneously by the late customers that had enjoyed the show.

- Rhodes –

Many people that come to Dalyan for the summer arrive in April and go back home in October. A tourist visa is only valid for three months, so all these good people go out of the country to come back the same day with a new visa stamp in their passports. All of this is done to avoid the cost of expensive residency permits. For the Dalyan region a day-trip to Marmaris and then over to Rhodes is the quickest and most pleasurable way to do this. It just so happens that by a stupid mistake I have let my long term staying permission expire. I am now illegally in the country, so I have to go out as soon as possible to be able to come back in on a tourist visa. So I phone Aliye and, yes, a daytrip to Rhodes sounds like a good idea to her. To our amazement, this is such a good business that they sell completely arranged one day tour packages between Rhodes and Dalyan just for this purpose.

As a result, my alarm goes off at six in the morning and I hop on the moped to pick up Aliye who, as usual, is never ready on time. We arrive at the rowboats and quickly cross the river to be at the agent’s office by seven o’clock. He had specifically warned us to be spot on time because otherwise we might miss the boat to Rhodes. We drive for a little more than an hour including a tea stop. Once in Marmaris the driver buys our tickets for us, and puts us in the correct line for boarding - just perfect.

After a while we get loaded on board a ferry that is a fast catamaran. It can handle three hundred and sixty people but there is not a trace of luxury anywhere aboard. But no complaints, we just seat ourselves and pretend that it is fun. Once offshore we are feeling like sardines in a tin and already full of expectation for the island of Rhodes which we are ready to explore. When we arrive after an hour at sea, we need to take a short walk in the beautiful old part of the city with it's old city walls, gates, and narrow streets. The streets are full of terraces, snazzy shops, and more of the things the tourists like.

The first thing that really stands out is the fact that the streets are tidy, clear of garbage, and there are no scruffy dogs around. Another big difference is that the people living here really go to great efforts to make their houses look pretty. The fronts of many of the houses are decorated with shells neatly pressed into the cement making the walls look like a mosaic. The streets are paved with pebbles over a layer of concrete that give them a playful character. All of this and in between you see beautiful, impressive old buildings. Our first priority is to find a large breakfast and a cup of coffee. Not to mention one that has bacon on the side of it, in it, and all through it. They do not eat bacon in Turkey because they are Muslims and Islam prohibits eating any pork. You can buy it but you will pay completely absurd prices for it. So, we treat ourselves to an English breakfast with extra bacon.

Afterwards it is time to explore the town. A beautiful walk along the city walls and the special old streets give you a good idea of how powerful Rhodes once must have been. But, as typical foreigners, we go looking for a grocery store to see if there are foods available here that are not in the store in Dalyan. After one hour we come to the conclusion that for normal items one really has to be in the more residential areas. There must be more normal grocery stores there. The new part of town where we are walking is full of very expensive shops. These are the type of shops with lots of gold jewellery, expensive suits like Armani, and costly perfumes. It is obvious to us that there must be many rich people that come to Rhodes. We really cannot see the average Greek shopping there.

At three o’clock it is time to slowly go back to the ferry. Along the way we see many stalls with the most beautiful sponges and sea shells. I honestly cannot believe that this is a local product. During my many hours of snorkelling along the Turkish coastline, I have never seen such big shells and sponges. According to the people of Çandır, they used to

row boats to Rhodes in the old days. It is really not so far away that the underwater life should be so different. I also cannot imagine that they break their necks over these sponges and big shells while a bit further down we have none. The stalls look colourful and are absolutely full, so the average tourist does not care if it is local or not.

We are loaded back on board and dock just an hour later in Marmaris so we can line up for my highly desired visa making me legal again.

- Stranded –

Last night I stayed in Dalyan until late and got a lift home by boat. Now my moped still stands down at the rowboat dock. I am enjoying my breakfast and decide to go and pick up the moped with my dog, Dorcas. It is about an hour walk but no problem whatsoever if you have no time limits. To make the walk more enjoyable, I walk the small paths through the ancient city of Kaunos. I am really enjoying myself as it is a beautiful morning and the surroundings are spectacular. My eyes wander over the remains of this ancient city with the vast reed-beds of the Dalyan River delta behind it. In the distance, the beach that lies there is a golden barrier between the salt water of the sea and the sweet water that comes down the river from Koyceĝiz Lake.

After an hour of walking, I arrive at the river crossing to Dalyan where my moped awaits. Dorcas gets to run next to the moped and he loves it, the faster, the better. We are not even half way when my moped stops. The engine is still running but there is no longer any transmission. Fine! This is all I need! To push it home is not an option because I will have to push it up and down over two hills to the other side of the village where I live. It is better to leave it behind, but not where I am now, it is way too dangerous as the road is only a few meters wide and a little bit further down it is wider. I see a spot where I can leave it behind safely but, to my displeasure, I have to push it quite a bit uphill to get there. After a lot of sweating and swearing, I have the heavy thing at a safer spot on the road. I am no longer having such a good day.

I probably should walk home first, but how am I going to solve this? At these moments I feel so lonely and dependent on others. If I could only speak fluent Turkish how much easier my life would be. I have seen mechanics work on this side of the river, but how do I arrange this? I will have to phone the mechanic, explain what the problem is, and where to find the vehicle. He will more than likely not have a clue what I am talking about and just hang up on me.

There is only one option and that is to push the moped back to the rowboats, cross the river to Dalyan, and walk to the mechanic’s workshop to explain the problem. I must see to it that he comes back with me to fix the moped. All in all, it is not something I look forward to. Not in the best of moods, I arrive back in Çandır. Timur sits in front of his café with nothing to do, as usual. He asks me when I walk past how I am doing. This is the usual village greeting ceremony. This time I am happy to hear it and tell him with hands and feet about my day. Friendly as he is, he puts a cigarette in my hands and starts to make coffee. Then he takes the time to ask me what the problem is.

‘Where is the moped? What is wrong? Where did you buy it?’ asks Timur. After two cups of coffee we understand each other and he picks up his phone and assures me that he will take care of it.

First he sends me home to get the little book that came with the moped which contains the number of the shop where I bought it. Nice, more walking! After twenty minutes I am back with the book and he picks up the phone and talks to somebody. He says it is all sorted, that all I need to do is sit down and wait for the things to come together. After a little while, a young man arrives on a moped who has come to pick me up. Apparently he crossed with his moped on a rowboat, so I get on the back and we drive to where I left my

moped. After a while he says he is not able to solve the problem and he wants to go back to Dalyan to get the big chief mechanic.

Quietly, I wait sitting on a stone at the side of the road for his return. While I sit there waiting, many passing villagers ask me if I need help. It is so nice of them and this sure makes me feel better. In the far distance I see the moped coming back, but this time with two mechanics on it. They work together on the moped and before I know it, it is running again. Now it is time to get the purse out. I can’t believe these boys ask for only ten lira, which is about six euro. After a large tip, they disappear down the road, laughing, on their moped.

Full of good spirits, I now go home. On my way down I stop at the Café to see Timur, my saviour. He wants no thanks and paying for the coffee is absolutely impossible. He assures me to always come to him if I have any kind of problem again in the future. Very happy that everything has been sorted, I go home knowing I have a real friend.

- Garbage –

Full of pride, the village handyman unloads new trash bins and locates them all over the village. Nice blue and yellow plastic containers with the English word paper and Kaĝit, which is the Turkish word for paper, painted on them. Not that they are only to be used to put paper into (like my first thought as a well trained westerner dictates), but for any and all trash. They are most likely a left over from a big city where they already recycle their rubbish.

Up until today we only had two of these type of containers in the village and I always had to walk a long fifteen minutes to get to the nearest bin to dump my waste. I am glad I see him do this and ask, with my most charming smile, if I can have one set near my house as well. He also knows that I produce far more shit than most villagers

So, with a friendly smile, he assigns one to me. It will not be completely mine but the neighbours hardly ever have anything to put into the trash so I will, without a doubt, be the main user of this new trash bin.

Unlike Holland, the cities here are full of these containers for everybody to use. Here they are very proud to have such a system. In Holland everybody has his own stinking container and boy, did they annoy me. You had to pay handfuls of money so that the city council would come to collect and bring it away to the dump. As a reward for all your money, they would empty them once every two weeks. One week was for the normal bin, and the other week was for the organic materials bin. Really nice when you have a small garden and leftover meat is there for two weeks during the middle of August at exactly the time of year when your garden seats are out there too. That was a game I never played. Organic things went in with the rest in plastic bags into the bin.

Often we point at Mediterranean countries and complain that they are not up to our standards with their hygiene. Here they put these containers on the streets and you are free to throw in all your rubbish. They do expect you to wrap it in plastic bags because they are emptied manually. But here they empty them every day during the summer. This sure beats once every two weeks.

I also do my garbage the Turkish way. I have a small plastic bin in the kitchen with a plastic bag in it. I have enough of these bags because everything you buy comes in a plastic bag. Cucumbers to washing powder all goes into these plastic bags. One or more walks to the bin and all is well with the trash. No rubbish container in the garden or on the driveway and no opportunities for small rummaging animals.

The fact is that I have much more garbage that the villagers. I now have a compost pile but I do not think that it makes such a big difference. So, I pay attention to their ways of garbage disposal and now it is all perfectly clear to me. All leftover vegetables go to the chickens, meat and bones to the dog, paper and cartons are saved for lighting the heater in winter. The rest of the organic material goes in the compost pile, so only the plastics

are left over. Those from carbonated drinks are used for olive oil, milk, and even other liquids, like petrol. Plastic containers from yoghurt and cheese don’t exist as they make their own. There are none of the unnecessary foam trays under the meat at the supermarket that you see in Holland, as the butcher doesn’t bother with that in Turkey. The villagers do not buy much in the way of meat anyway. Traditionally, they take a chicken from their own coop once a week and, on special days, a goat or a lamb comes to its end.

You will not find canned food here as everything is grown fresh. All in all, there is not much in the way of garbage left. If there is something they cannot find a use for, then they simply burn it.

There is one exception to this ecologically friendly behaviour - habits of the past dictate that they leave their waste behind just where they produced it. Whether it is a picnic area or a place where they worked outdoors. It used to be thinly populated here and their rubbish was organic. Living standards have gone up here and the amount of waste has risen with it. Slowly it pollutes their environment. Often I have even come across broken bottles and jars up in the forest.

When I moved to the village I had a lot of cardboard packing material from the tile floor that was installed. Because one cannot make open fires here before the big rains come, I did not have a clue what to do with it. I asked the landlord what I should do with it and this friendly, older man who comes round regularly to see the progress on his house, offered to take it away for me. How nice! The only thing is that a few months later I found out that he simply had thrown it into the forest.

I am glad that tourism brings positive changes in these matters. The people here make money from tourism and tourists do not like to see rubbish everywhere. Well, from today onwards, we now have these beautiful garbage bins. All I need to do now is walk past all of them with a spray can and erase the painted words for paper. Otherwise, not one well-trained westerner will ever think of throwing anything else but paper into these bins.

- Wild Pig. -

I wake up because Dorcas is making a lot of noise. I am confused when I look at the alarm clock. Half past twelve, why is the little man making so much noise? I listen again and now I hear what Dorcas already knew.

There is a tractor coming up to the house. I jump out of bed, put on a bath robe, as Dorcas goes ballistic by the door. Sleepily, I take Dorcas outside to see what is happening. I don’t know, because no one has ever come to the house at night before.

Curiously I walk out, it is August and therefore still thirty degrees Celsius. For a brief moment I look around at the full moon. Wow, what an atmosphere.

Then I see the tractor emerge from behind a lemon tree. Oh, it is Ismet. The same Ismet who always laughs at me so shyly when I see him in the village, and next to him, hidden in a headscarf, is his wife, Sevim.

I am relieved it is them, they are people I know. For one moment I thought my boat had sunk or that someone needed my help. He nearly drives over my toes and then wishes me: ‘Good evening!’ Then the whole greeting ritual starts: ‘How are you?’ and I must say ‘Fine, thank you, how are you?’ Etcetera.

This small talk is really getting on my nerves now.‘What’s up?’ I say much too soon and impatiently.‘You want to eat pig, don’t you?’ asks Ismet.‘Yes, that’s right.’‘Good,’ he says and pushes against something. With a loud thump, an enormous hairy

thing falls on the ground.‘I shot it one hour ago,’ says Ismet, proudly.Oh, no. Is this really happening to me? How do I solve this?

When I think of pork I think of a roast or something like that, not of a hairy thing that is approximately eighty kilos with long tusks. I dropped the word in the village that I would like to eat wild boar and that I was willing to pay for it. I was thinking about cleaned meat that is ready for the freezer.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.Slowly I walk around it and I see rough hair and an enormous head with long tusks that

glimmer in the moonlight. Ismet explains that he was hunting at Kaunos when he saw this beautiful wild boar and he had thought of me. I live on his way home so he brought it with him.

‘Beautiful!’ he says again. Not at all. This thing is a big creep.‘How do I clean it?’ I ask Ismet. To him, this is obviously a stupid question.‘You don’t know?’I explain that in Holland you’re not allowed to do your own butchering and so I do not

know how to do this. Here, everybody slaughters their own meat and I often see a goat or sheep hanging from its ankles in a tree. Ismet is stating that he will not clean it. I understand that to ask a Muslim to burrow his hands in the belly of a pig is a bit too much to ask for. So I ask him if he knows somebody willing to do this for me.

‘No,' he does not know anyone and it can’t wait till tomorrow in these hot temperatures.

Well there I am, in the middle of the night, in no more than a bath robe, with a mountain of delicious meat in front of me, and I cannot do a thing with it. For a few seconds we look at each other very uncomfortably until Ismet takes a really enormous deep breath, jumps off the tractor, and asks me if I have a sharp knife. Extremely happy, I run back into the house to turn on all the outside lights and to grab a sharp knife. Quickly I change into some old clothes and when I arrive back outside, the pig is already laying there on its back.

Dorcas thinks this is all fantastic and is carefully sniffing the animal. He is always chasing them in the forest, but I do not believe he has ever been this close to one. Ismet tells me to hold the legs so it can’t roll over. Like an experienced butcher, he makes an incision from the chest bone down to the anus. Next, he starts with firm cuts to loosen the skin. I see a membrane in between the meat and the skin which the knife goes through smoothly and the skin comes off easily. Breathless, I watch him do this in the hope that next time I will be able to do it myself. I see a deep cut in the neck where he put the poor animal out of its misery in a neat manner. This is nice to know.

He makes a cut around the legs and from the inside of the leg back to the chest. After this, my creep no longer has a coat on. Dorcas gets the tail and proudly disappears under the trees to bury it for later. After, Ismet shows me how to take the intestines out. All of this horrible stuff sits wrapped in another membrane and can be taken out in one go. A nauseating odour enters my nostrils, I do not know if I could ever do this. It is all getting somewhat bloody now because the bullet has left a lot of blood in the chest cavity. As best as I can, I try to be helpful and, before I know it, I am also poking around in the boar’s cavity. It feels warm, soft, and very unreal to me. He takes all of the internal organs out in one go and throws it in a big bucket. Yuck! It gives me the shivers. Just the smell alone is enough to make you gag.

We stand up for a moment to stretch our backs. Most of the work is done now with the hide off and the intestines out. I look at what is left and think that I can manage from here. I already feel guilty enough as it is.

I explain in a friendly way that I will be able to do the rest alone. Ismet washes his hands gratefully and climbs back onto the tractor. Will he also have to wash himself ritually? I suppose so. His wife never even came off the tractor.

At the last moment he tells me to dump the remains in the mountains. Good tip! I would not have thought of it. It is down to me now. I pick up the knife and bravely start cutting. I start with the legs and it goes just like when you do a chicken, only bigger. With a small axe, I break the joint in two and the first boar leg is done. Somehow, it is not so scary any

longer, as if a switch inside me turned on and I know what to do. Neatly I remove the legs and carry them into the kitchen. Then I see that the head is still attached to the rest. Using the biggest knife I have, I attack the neck. After a few clumsy attempts, I pick up the axe and hack it all to a pulp. Covered in gore, I am glad nobody can see me do this. This is probably not the proper way, but the head finally comes loose. Now I can carry the spine with the ribs inside also.

I think it is good enough. To start looking for the heart and the liver and other edible parts is way too much for me.

‘Next time I’ll be better,’ I say to Dorcas, and start to roll the head in the skin. The whole package only just fits in my biggest bucket. I have to drive into the mountains twice with my moped to get rid of the remains.

I really need a cup of coffee and a cigarette now. What a night!

Outside I hose everything down and there is no sign of the evenings wrestling. Dorcas and I go inside to continue the work. As well as I can, I take the meat from the bones. Next to me, on his cute little bum sits Dorcas, monitoring the whole process carefully. What a good boy he is, he doesn’t touch anything and just watches the event.

After what seems to be an entire century, I am finally done. The meat is in bags of one kilo each and ready for my freezer. I really do not have the energy left to clean the kitchen thoroughly so, with a cloth, I take care of most of the stains. I will give the kitchen a good work over tomorrow morning.

Half past four in the morning and I am sitting again with a cup of coffee and a well-earned cigarette, together with Dorcas, under the full moon. There are no signs remaining that there ever was a wild boar. Only my freezer contains fifteen kilos of nice meat for me and five kilos of lesser quality meat for Dorcas. It may seem strange, but I feel great.

- Bees –

At the end of the summer I see the villagers all very busily working with their bees. Everywhere there are men walking with white protective clothing over their heads and shoulders looking like they belong on the moon. These brave men are working around their angry sounding beehives.

Next to the rows of beehives you often see small houses which are about three by two meters with a cute door and window. Most of the time they are neatly painted, giving you the idea that people are actually living in them. But this is not the case. In these houses they spin the honey out of the honey combs using something resembling a small oil drum. Inside the drum there is a holder where they put the honeycombs and manually rotate them until all the honey has collected at the bottom of the drum. On the outside there is a small tap where they leach the honey from the drum and collect it in big copper tins, each containing up to twenty kilos of honey. Just imagine how many hours of work it must have taken for the bees to collect it all. Some beekeepers have so many beehives that they come down the mountain with tractor loads full of these containers. Each year thousands of kilos of honey are collected this way.

This honey in this area is a specialty. Pine tree honey is a lovely honey which is not very sweet and has a woody flavour. To me, this is the best honey there is.

While walking with Dorcas in the mountains, I pass endless rows of beehives and wonder how it is that the bees collect this honey in September when the trees do not bloom until May. In spring it is very evident what the bees feed on, everything around the house is dusted with a thin layer of pollen. Even more obvious is the yellow colour of the water in all the small bays and inlets. There must be an enormous amount of pollen produced by these trees when the whole mountains seem to buzz from the sound of bees collecting for my favourite honey.

So how can it be that they collect the honey in September? Where do the bees get their honey the rest of the year? Could it be something on the trunks? Or, maybe, the term pine tree honey is to be taken literally. Could it mean that the hives are in the trunks of the trees? Really, here one can expect almost anything. As far as I am concerned, there is something amiss and I would like to know more about it.

I take the chance of being laughed at and go out to find a beekeeper to talk with. The first man to ask is Timur. He is always willing to have a chat and actually has some beehives. Timur is also one of the few villagers that is really willing to listen to you and be of help.

‘Good morning,’ I say when I arrive at the café.‘Good morning. How are you today?’‘I’m fine and how are you?’‘Yes fine. Can I help you?‘Actually, you can. I do not understand what is meant by pine tree honey. The trees

bloom in May but they do not collect the honey until September. What is the story here?’‘How do you mean? What have the blossoms got to do with it?’Now I am completely confused and say: ‘You need flowers for honey, don’t you?’‘I see, now I understand your problem, but you are mistaken. The difference is that

there are little creatures on the trees and the bees use them to make their honey.’Somebody walks up and says: ‘Now that’s not it entirely, but something else.’Timur and the other man are talking together now. I can only partly understand what

they are saying, but I hear the word for droppings. Then more people jump into the conversation and it starts to get somewhat chaotic.

Due to my limited Turkish, it takes me a short while to understand just what they are saying. I understand that, supposedly, there is a creature living on the trees that produces droppings that the bees collect. Huh?

It can hardly get any crazier and the disbelief is obviously written all over my face. So the café is locked and they drag me into the forest so I can see it with my own eyes.

And yes! After a short search we find a tree where I can see it clearly. On a branch I see a white woolly and sticky material. I had seen that before but thought it was a fungus or disease of some sort.

On the white woolly stuff are little plant lice like tiny animals. And, sure enough, I can see little drops of something that looks similar to honey and this is what they collect. This is the same honey that I eat happily on my bread every morning during breakfast.

Once back home I looked in every book on nature I own, but find nothing about these animals and their miraculous droppings. Still, I am not sure if it is droppings or something else they are secreting or depositing on the trees. The honey still tastes just as good, but I will now always look upon this honey differently. Something else I do not understand very well is, why this honey never crystallizes after being on the shelf. Maybe it’s to do with the fact that no flowers created it?

- Satellite System –

As I have mentioned before, the people live here much the same as the majority of Dutch people did before the 2nd World War. But they have the latest in gadgetry. Everyone has a mobile phone, some have a home computer, and satellite television is a common fixture in most homes. Unfortunately, the lack of education in these sweet people means they really have no idea as to how these things work. But, being open minded, they enjoy what modern times bring them.

My neighbour, Metin, has saved some money and told me proudly that tonight they will be delivering a new satellite television system to his house.

Two men arrive in a small van and unload a satellite dish, a receiver, and some other necessary equipment. After a few cups of tea, the men start putting it all together while

the spectators watch and express their opinions about the installation. Shortly later everything is working properly and they all leave to go back home. The proud new owner goes inside quickly to admire his new satellite system. How it all works he does not have a clue, but he sure is happy with the seven hundred channels now available. Just as I am getting ready to leave, I see Mehmet, who lives a few houses further down the road, gesturing to me that I should stay. I walk up to him and he says: ‘Wait! I want to try something.’ He is obviously up to no good and this could turn out to be fun.

We see the lights go on inside and we can clearly see Metin getting ready to sit down in his favourite comfortable chair. At the very moment Metin sits down, Mehmet grabs his shovel and holds it between the dish and the receiver head. Inside, the TV screen no longer has a picture. Apparently Mehmet knows how to disrupt the signal and it is working. Through the curtains we see Metin frantically pushing buttons on the remote control. As soon as he figures out that it is not the problem, he walks over to the window. We dive behind a little wall as the window opens and Metin looks out somewhat worriedly at the dish, looks back at his TV, and sees that everything is back to normal. The window closes and we sneak back over to the dish. The minute he seats himself again, the shovel goes between the dish the receiver head once more. Metin jumps up as though he were stung by a wasp. Standing in front of the TV again, he presses angrily on his remote control, walks back to the window and opens it again, and again sees the television image is coming in clearly. With irritation, he closes the window and walks back to sit again in his chair.

By now we are nearly wetting ourselves from laughter. When the shovel goes between once more, for the third time, we really have to be quick. Metin storms to the window, opens it, and looks over his shoulder to see the normal image again on the TV. He now leaves the window open and sets himself down with a big curse. The image stays good for the rest of the evening.

The next morning I see Metin while walking Dorcas. Casually, I ask him how the new satellite receiver is working.

‘Really wonderful, I have never had such sharp and clear images,’ he says.‘I am glad it is such a success.’ I say.‘Yes,’ he concludes, ‘but you know, I know these satellite dishes have something to do

with airwaves but I would have never guessed that it would only work with the window open.’

- Honestly Found –

On this warm summer evening I saunter, somewhat bored, through the village with Dorcas. In front of me I see a roll of money in the middle of the road. I look around frightened, as if I have done something wrong. It is funny how one reacts in situations like this one. How can I find out who it belongs to? In the back of my mind, the little devil pops up to advise me. It tells me to tuck it away and do something nice for myself with it. Just when I want to reach down and put it in my pocket, I spot a wallet on the ground nearby. I pick it up and open it when a familiar face laughs at me from a photo inside. The money and the purse must belong together and now I know it belongs to Ziya.

I can go to his house and leave it there, but somehow that is much too simple. I decide to have some fun instead and go to see Timur. Timur is sitting there with a few villagers at a table, drinking beer. As soon as I see them, I know just what to do about the wallet.

Beer is an expensive luxury that I cannot afford to enjoy every day. But Ziya is known to be a big drinker so, he should be happy to share a beer in order to get his money back, and I explain this to Timur. He is in for a joke and immediately involves all the other customers. Judging from their faces, I can see they all don’t mind having a few free beers. So, in front of everyone, Timor counts the money in the wallet and it comes to a total of a thousand lira with about another additional six hundred in euro. For Ziya this must be a lot of money, so a few beers is a small price to pay for the return of the lost money. Not to

mention the other identity and bank cards in the wallet which are not very easy to replace here in Turkey.

To make the things even worse, they decide to phone him and say the police are here and are asking for him. With a mean smile, Timur dials his number and calls him. Ziya says he is coming and we wait and wait but, to the amusement of everybody, Ziya doesn’t come.

‘He probably has something to hide,’ says one.‘Drunk,’ says another.Everybody is laughing and after some time we hear a motorbike coming up the road. A

distance away from the café Ziya stops and parks his motorbike. Now we know for sure that he has been drinking. Driving under the influence of alcohol in Turkey is not allowed. He approaches the café with some suspicion but as soon as he sees that there are no police waiting for him, he enters the terrace with more confidence.

Everybody laughs and we tell him that there are no police but there is another problem. He orders a beer and sits down. Timur shows him the wallet and the money and explains that I had found it.

‘The only way to get your money back is to sit with us and drink beers on your account,’ says Timur.

Ziya laughs at this and orders beers for everyone as he gets up and gives me a big loud kiss on the cheek.

‘You thought it contained a lot of money, but I tell you what is even worse than that.’ He digs in a secret part of the wallet and reveals a neatly folded stack of currency. They are all hundred euro notes or fifty pound notes. Altogether, this is an enormous amount of money.

Astonished, I ask myself why someone would carry so much cash around. Translate this sum into income and we are talking about a year’s worth of wages. With a smile, he explains that it is his secret savings that his wife is completely unaware of. I am not sure if I could be so nonchalant just after I had lost my wallet. Ah well, these people have a different outlook on life and experience things in a way much different than I do.

So, here we are drinking beers on this hot summer evening with Ziya patting me on the shoulder every fifteen minutes expressing his gratitude. He keeps his word and does not leave until he can hardly speak any longer. He leaves some money behind for the beers and nearly falls over trying to get up from the table.

Timur locks the door to the café and tells us to stay and wait for his return. With wonder, I watch him go start Ziya’s motorbike and disappear with him on the back. Within ten minutes he is back and announces that Ziya is now safely home in bed. We all drink a last beer and I am enjoying the fact that this cafe owner would go so far out of his way as to deliver his customer home to bed.

With a naughty smile, he tells me not to drink too much because if he has to start putting women to bed he will find himself in great trouble.

- Old Sleigh –

It is about time for me to get my boat out of the water and give it a good work over. The bottom half is covered with growth and this really has to come off. Here in the village there is a tourism boat cooperative with fifteen members. They provide services to the big boats that arrive on a daily basis from Marmaris. These enormous boats are not allowed onto the river, so their customers are loaded into smaller boats for day-trips into Dalyan.

Every spring all of these boats are taken out of the water and are completely stripped. The narrow openings in the boards are stuffed with old-fashioned waddling, which is soft, fluffy cotton. On top of that goes a new layer of primer and paint. Because these men earn a living with their boats, I don’t want to take up one of the few places ashore that are available in the spring. So I have decided to get my boat out of the water during the autumn.

I can’t do this myself and have no experience with the system they use here. It’s a sleigh made of wood that they keep under the water when not in use. You have to get your boat on top of it and then they pull boat onto the sleigh and out of the water. It looks simple.

I phone Murat, who is the owner of the sleigh. Somewhat worriedly I ask:‘Nothing can go wrong can it?‘No, no don’t worry, it is very easy.’‘Do I have to organise anything beforehand?’‘No you don’t have to do anything. I will take care of it. All the materials are there and

we’ve been doing this for many years now. Don’t worry about your boat. Everything will be just fine.’

I say good bye and hang up the phone.

Punctual as I am, I stand in the harbour at five minutes to eight in the morning, and wait. I am full of excitement about the events to come. After three quarters of an hour, there is still no one there. Even by Turkish standards this is quite late so I decide to give him a call.

‘No, I am not coming. I turned everything over to Yusuf who is a good friend of mine. We own the sleigh together,’ says Murat.

At that moment I can see Yusuf happily puttering along on his field with the tractor, apparently awaiting my phone call. Since I didn’t know I had to phone him, I could’ve waited there all day. But all right, apparently things work diffently here. I phone him and he says he will be there straight away.

Yes! Things are finally going to happen! At last, my beloved boat will come out of the water!

Within five minutes, Yusuf arrives on his tractor, undresses himself, and takes a rope.‘What is he going to do?’ I wonder.In his big white underpants, the kind that you can pull up all the way to your armpits,

he steps into the water to find the sleigh. Under water, he knots the rope onto it and comes walking out of the water and ties the other end to the tractor. Shivering all over, he puts his clothes back on. Even though the water is at a warm twenty-three degrees, he will most likely think the water is still cold. He starts his tractor and pulls the sleigh onto the shore.

Good, that went smoothly, so now what?Amazingly, he tells me to take off all the growth on the sleigh with a knife or a scraper

and then let the sleigh dry out before can we continue.Mmmm, I guess nothing further will happen today. I am disappointed and I go home to

have a cup of coffee and some breakfast which I did not have the time to enjoy early that morning because of the early hour.

The message is clear, but these types of appointments are still a hard thing for me. I dislike it when someone agrees to do something and only makes a start at doing it.

My Turkish friend, Aliye, tells me that this can easily happen, that you usually only call to talk about how to do things, or to find out that the necessary materials are not there. So I was lucky that we got as far as we did.

Efficiency is a hard thing to find here. I can well imagine the frustration it gives most foreigners. Ultimately, in my timeless existence it should not make any difference to me at all.

After a week the expected phone call comes. The sleigh is dry enough and we can go ahead and haul the boat out. When I arrive in the harbour, I find that three men are already there and have come to help. The sleigh is in two parts and needs to be put together. There are two big layers like skis that, with the help of other poles, are secured at the desired width.

As soon as it is assembled according to Yusuf’s wishes, they tie a massive rope onto it and a tractor pushes the whole thing back into the water. The thick rope stays tied to the tractor and the sleigh remains just under the surface of the water.

All right, so now we have the sleigh just under the surface of the water and it is tied to the tractor on the shore. I will have to navigate the boat onto the sleigh and this really scares me. I am proceeding too slow and cautious as I navigate the boat onto the sleigh, they tell me to rev it up more so that the boat will drive tightly onto the sleigh. As I cannot get off the boat at the moment, I watch what the men are doing next.

Out of nowhere, numerous wooden planks and wooden poles appear and are neatly lined up. Yusuf puts a spot of grease on each one of them and then climbs onto the tractor.

As he moves the tractor forward, slowly but surely, the rope tightens and the sleigh-boat combination comes out of the water onto the shore. It appears very chaotic and everyone is shouting directions to each other but, in the end, all has gone well.

The sleigh slides over the greased wood and comes to a stop. Carefully, they put the supports under the boat and dis-assemble the sleigh. The two big layers get dragged off a few meters where they will remain until the boat has to go back into the water.

Out of the blue comes a bottle of raki and, despite the early hour, we all take a drink. There are jokes going back and forth and then everybody wishes me, ‘Strength! Enjoy the work!’ and then they leave.

I walk around my dripping boat and as I look at it I’m thinking, ‘Now I won’t be bored for the next couple of weeks…’

- Wrong friends –

Dorcas has a sense of smell that is far too good and when you combine this with the fact that he is in strong physical condition possessing lots of self confidence - you can have a problem.

I take him everywhere without a lead and, because of the upbringing I have given him, he has also grown mentally. I never hit him and I believe that when you give an animal the room to make mistakes, to develop, and to react intelligently, they can become even more intelligent. But, of course, he will always remain a dog. Dorcas has a strong hunting instinct and often he can’t resist it. During our walks, he regularly picks up a scent and shoots off after something he has smelled. I have to sit patiently on a stone and wait for him to come back which is, normally, about ten minutes later. The adrenaline is flying through him when he returns and he looks at me as if to say, ‘That was really cool!’

Mostly he goes after wild boars, foxes, or hares. Sometimes he will also go for the goats that walk freely in the mountains. All the goats belong to somebody, that is why he is not allowed to do this and he knows this. He comes back with his ears low along his neck and looking very guilty. It is not a real big problem as he does not harm the animals. For him it is only ‘fun’.

Not too long ago he found a soul mate in Aliye’s dog, Nemo. This is a dog that really has difficulty behaving around wild animals. Together with an older, more experienced dog, he has already killed a goat. Not nice.

When we walk the dogs together we realise that they amplify each other’s bad habits. Dorcas has the initiative and Nemo will follow. Dorcas hunts with his nose and Nemo with his sight, which makes them a perfect team. The only problem now is that they do not come back after the poor victims are chased away, so we always have to be careful when they are together.

Today, we are walking together at a slow pace towards the harbour. My dog smells something, Dorcas and Nemo look at each other like ‘shall we?’ and off they go. This happens so fast that they are out of sight in seconds. Dorcas can easily keep up with a

moped that goes forty-five kilometres an hour and Nemo is probably even faster. They have disappeared completely. Slightly worried, we follow them, more or less expecting to find them playing at the harbour. But no, this time they are really gone.

Next to the harbour the mountains go straight up and there are many sheep on the slopes. On the other side it is swampy with grassland. To no avail we shout their names for a while and I am starting to get a really weird feeling in my stomach. We hear no sound of barking to give us any indication of where they might be.

We decide to start climbing the steep mountainside, hoping they are not causing trouble. At that moment, a motorbike arrives with two men carrying guns on their backs and Aliye has the unpleasant job of having to speak to them. They say they have received a phone call that our dogs were chasing their sheep. They get off their bike very angrily and are ready to go and shoot the dogs. After some pleading, Aliye convinces them that we will find the dogs and bring them home. We start climbing, shouting, and whistling as we search at for at least three quarters of an hour while nearly breaking our necks on the rocky surface. Every now and then we slip and create stone avalanches. The climbing is nearly impossible and slowly we really get into a panic. They could have killed one of these sheep and I know that this would ruin Dorcas for life. Not to think about the trouble we will have with the people that own the sheep.

At a certain moment, Dorcas comes walking towards us.‘Where have you been, you fool!’ I say and put him on the lead. He walks next to me,

all humble and guilty, while I drag him along in silence looking for Nemo.After another fifteen minutes of stumbling up the hopeless mountain, we see Nemo.With both dogs we make our way slowly down to the harbour where the next surprise

awaits us. The dogs have not only chased the sheep but, worst of all, they chased them right into the water. They have already taken two dead lambs out of the water. With a lump in my throat, I look at the wet woollen coats of these lambs. The owner of these sheep is standing there with tears in his eyes. What misery! I feel so unhappy!

First, we take the two dogs home and try to get ourselves together with the help of a cup of coffee. Aliye and I are really crying now. The sight of those cute, but very dead, lambs was too much.

Will they now demand that we have Dorcas and Nemo put down? Or will they simply throw poisoned meat into our gardens to kill them? It sounds cruel but it could happen and I can almost understand.

How, in heaven’s name, do we get the genie back into the bottle? We let things cool down for a while and wait until everyone has left the harbour.

With lead in our shoes, we go to the house of the owner of the dead sheep. They are all very upset and it is hard to have a normal conversation with them. It is good that we are not still so emotional so things do not get blown out of proportion. After some time we are able to talk about this as rational adults. There have been other dogs that worried the sheep. Most of the time they just shoot the dog on the spot and there is no further discussion of it. None of the sheep owners really care about dogs. It is just the two western girls that care about them.

They greatly appreciate that we came over to their house to talk about it. We agree that we will pay for the damage. The owner says that if he ever sees Dorcas or Nemo alone in the mountains again that he will shoot them. With some trouble I am able get it across to him that I understand completely, but I want to be informed should that ever happen so I will not go searching for days trying to find him.

He says he will do so and I explain to him that I also do not want Nemo or Dorcas poisoned. We all agree that the matter has been dealt with and I am happier.

We will come back in a few days to give them the time to find out exactly how many sheep are missing. Unhappily, we return home and the next day I have to force myself to walk Dorcas with my head up. Nobody would want to get the looks I got from the villagers. I feel their eyes burning a hole in my back. These sorts of things go round the village in no

time and probably get very exaggerated. I am also very unhappy with the whole situation because Dorcas can no longer walk freely.

Three days later we go back to the sheep owner. He tells us that there are seven sheep missing in total. Whether this is correct or not, we’ll never know. But I do not feel like I am in a position to argue the point, as I would like to live pleasantly here for a long time. He also asks a price per lamb that is way too high, but there is nothing we can do about it. To get the police involved won’t really make things any better.

Aliye is having a hard time. Her Nemo has been into trouble before and now really hunts to kill. She decides to find him a new home in an urban area where he will not get into this kind of trouble. As for Dorcas, I hope it was only fun, even though the fun had enormous consequences. He will always be my happy pal, but wandering off on his own is no longer possible, which is too bad. The wrong friends can cause too much trouble, even for dogs.

- Monster -

I have my eye on two old Jeeps that no longer work for their boss that organizes Jeep safaris. Finally, there is a for sale sign on them. Full of good spirit, I go into his office to negotiate a price for one of them. Not that I really need a car, but it would be extremely handy. After a long and difficult negotiation, we finally agree. Funnily enough, that is when my troubles begin. To my surprise I have to go back to Mr. Dirty Teeth, the notary in Ortaca, to have the jeep put into my name. I am happy to find out that an assistant can do all the work and I do not have to see Mr. Dirty Teeth. Then I have to figure out how to insure the car and to pay the road tax so I can take it to the car safety inspection test. As soon as a car is in your name you have one month to get it tested. In my case, I also have to get new licence plates. Oddly, foreigners are not allowed to drive a car with the Turkish plates, and Turks are not allowed to drive a car with the plates for foreigners on it. This is very inconvenient should you wish to quickly borrow the neighbour’s car and simply forget you cannot do so. Only when you rent a car are Turkish licence plates alright.

There is a car testing day for our area once a month. Too bad for me that this is in the same week that I bought the car and I have a lot that I must take care of. The car has an emergency brake that does not work at all and the normal brakes are also doubtful. One wheel wobbles and I have no horn but, fortunately, the lights are all working.

I drive the car home and have several scares on the way around the lake because of an enormous amount of looseness in the steering wheel. Nothing, I am told, can be done to cure this, it is simply a case of getting used to it. Driving alongside deep precipices on my way home is quite an adventure.

I can’t go to the test like this and so I have a mechanic take a look at the car. He happily crawls under and over the car and says: ‘Come to the garage and I’ll get everything in working order for you.’

‘How are you going to do this? The test is the day after tomorrow,’ I say, very worried.‘You can go the test first and then drive over to the garage can’t you?’ he reacts in

surprise.‘Really? Can I go to the test with the jeep like this?‘The frame and motor number are in order are they not? Your lights work. I don’t see

why not,’ says the mechanic while he plays with the light switches.I am flabbergasted; apparently they have a different test in Turkey than they do in

Holland. We agree that I will go to the test and then go to his workshop afterwards to deliver the car. He tells me I can phone him in case there is any trouble. Good!

My new Monster is a six cylinder that runs on normal petrol so I have to cross the river first to get petrol for the long drive to Koyceĝiz where they do the test. After that I have to drive further on to the garage. I have to go twice to Dalyan with the heavy petrol can before the big tank is full.

They told me to go early to the test because otherwise there will be a tedious wait in an enormous long line. I set the alarm for six am. At dawn o’clock I start off, bundled in several layers of warm clothing, on my adventure. It is December and it is very cold. I need a full ten minutes before the Monster will keep running as the automatic choke does not work either.

Clever as I am, I find out that I have forgotten my mobile phone and I am already too far to go back for it. Stupid! Now I really have only myself to rely on should things go wrong.

Once the engine is warm it spins better and as soon as it gets light outside I can fully enjoy the spectacular surroundings. I am starting to have a good time.

The road goes though the mountains with many winding curves. All of a sudden there is a wild boar that comes running from the bushes in front of the car! I brake as hard as I can with my miserable brakes! The animal makes a full spin to avoid me and, fortunately, it works! I see the boar disappear on the other side of the road behind me. I need to pull over to the side of the road to let my heart get back to normal. The thought alone of hitting such an animal straight on! Now I understand these massive frames on the front of cars a lot better. On my first ever early morning drive and I have nearly hit a pig with the car. My luck! Slowly my adrenaline level goes back to normal and I continue on my journey.

After a full hour of driving, I arrive in Koyceĝiz where the test is done. I follow the directions from my Turkish friends and see the row of cars immediately. To the amusement of everyone, I park my car at the back of the line. I am not sure whether they are having this fun looking at the state of my car, or because they have never seen a women come to one of these tests. I have no idea, but I am just happy to have come so far. The car will not idle normally and this makes me very nervous. As soon as they start testing, I will have to repeatedly start the engine and to move forward a car length at a time and a lot of things can go wrong.

It is seven thirty and I do not know what time this is starting. Most cars are empty and groups of men are standing around everywhere talking. I make myself comfortable in the early sun and try to warm up.

After thirty minutes or so I get out of the car and walk up to a group of men and ask what will happen. The men are all very helpful, but I honestly believe they have never seen a woman there. A man from a tractor behind me promises to keep an eye out for me. The line of cars is now so long that I cannot see the end of it anymore. I think I am somewhere around fifteenth in place.

Yes, I see some movement. Two men walk along the row of cars and write down the frame and engine numbers. Ha! I know where to find these and obligingly show the men were to look. They also check the seating numbers from the papers. My Jeep can seat seven people. After this we creep forward, meter by meter, towards a small building. Start, drive five meters, stop, start, drive five meters, stop - it all goes well and I finally arrive at the building. Somebody directs me to the place where I have to park. I explain to him that this is the first time for me and that I have no idea what I must do. He puts his arm around me paternally and reassures me that everything will be just fine.

Somebody sticks something into the exhaust and I have to rev the engine. The man behind the measuring equipment gestures for me to come over to him. I give him all the papers that I have and he takes some of them. Nobody looks at the diagnostic machine, but I am told I have to pay seventeen lira. With an impassive face he gives me a receipt for fourteen. Wisely, I say nothing and go on to the next stop. I bet that I would not have passed if I had complained. I wait for someone to show up to test the rest of the car. But, no, nothing like that. The test is over, ha-ha.

I leave the car and walk over to the front of the building. There I have to stand in line to have the papers stamped and then everything is finally over. There is a long table with men in chairs with a lot of car owners around it. These men are all rubbernecking to peek

at the table. Also full of interest, I look at what they are doing. One man collects the papers and very carefully puts them in the right order in a neat pile in front of the man next to him. This man doesn’t even look at these papers; he only stamps them and moves them to the next man. This next man is possibly the boss who quickly looks through them and, if he finds them in order, writes everything in a big book. He looks at me, signs my papers, and gives them back to me. I can now leave and I thank them with a happy ‘See you next year!’ before they can change their minds.

This is a test my Monster should pass easily for many years.

- Angry Heater –

For the past two weeks or so, my wood-stove has not wanted to burn properly. As usual, I start with a fire starter cube, some kindling wood, and then add bigger logs. Then I put a match to it and I have a nice warm wood-stove. Normally, this is the way to stay friends with these stoves, but now when I do this, in no time at all, my room fills with smoke. It is so bad that Dorcas wants to leave the room and I must wait with burning eyes until the smoke stops. It is unbelievable how the smoke is coming out of every possible narrow opening on the heater. But strangely, as soon as the heater is fully lit and burning, quietly the smoking stops. What can I do? So I wait until the smoking stops, close all the windows, and then try to enjoy the warm room, even though it stinks. This cannot be how a wood-stove is supposed to work, but I have tried everything. I have used different wood, played with the air vents, and tried everything I can think of. It is a daily sorrow all for nothing and I am getting more and more frustrated. How am I going to cope in January and February when I need my warm brown friend all day?

It is only a necessity in the evening at the moment but we are moving towards Christmas. The year will be over before I know it and then it will start getting really cold.

I talk about my problem with several people. One says it is the wood, another says I do not empty the ashes often enough. Under the ashes is the air vent, so that makes sense, but I do empty it every day!

The only argument that makes sense to me is that the outside pipe is not higher than the roof and therefore creates no draft. But why did it function normally before?

I walk through the village and look at other people’s pipes. Most people have the same pipe as mine and they appear to function just fine. My pipe is even sticking out above the roof edge and has an H shape end bit to stop wind blowing in. Everything seems to be in order.

As I so often do, I have made a stupid mistake. I have only asked advice from fellow foreigners. How foolish of me! What do they know about these simple wood-stoves? Nothing, which became perfectly clear to me soon afterwards.

My neighbour comes to pick up his cow from the field and sees me walking Dorcas. I walk over to him to say hello. In reply, he asks me how I am doing and I explain to him that I am having trouble with the wood-stove, in the hope that he knows what to do.

Of course he knows: ‘The pipes are dirty! That is very normal,’ he says, ‘a few times during the winter you need to clean them.’

He ties the cow to a tree and walks into the house with me. Inside, he casually takes the pipes from between the wall and the heater and says: ‘Look! It is completely blocked.’

Really, I do not believe my eyes! From the original fourteen centimetre pipe there is at most a five centimetre opening left inside, it is almost completely blocked with black soot. Very carefully I walk outdoors with the pipe. I don’t even want to think of what would happen if I had dropped it on the carpet or onto my chairs. With no accidents, I make it outside with the dirty pipe.

Outside, the neighbour takes a branch from a tree and uses it as a flue brush to clean the pipe. He then tells me to leave them out in the sun so they can dry. The cow is

cantankerously mooing at her rope and obviously has other urgent matters such as being milked!

I ask the neighbour how I can do the same with the outside pipe because I cannot reach it and have no ladder.

‘No need for a ladder, there is a perfect trick for this,’ he says. ‘Do you have an old newspaper?’

I run to get him an old newspaper and put it into his hands. He crumbles it up into a wad, puts it into the hole in the wall where the outside pipe begins, and lights it with a match. With my mouth wide open in surprise, I watch the blaze. Once more there is smoke in the room, but it’s not as bad as it was with the wood-stove lit. As long as it helps this is fine with me, although I can’t see just how at the moment.

‘Just wait until it stops burning,’ the neighbour says, ‘and you’ll have a nicely burning woodstove tonight.’ He gives me a friendly smile, unties the grumpy cow, and walks off.

I run back into the house to see what is happening. At first, I do not see much and I still don’t understand the thing he did with the newspaper. But as soon as I walk outside to see if something is going on, I see flames rising a half a meter above the chimney. Wow! And people do this on purpose? I run back into the house, afraid that it will all go up in flames. I also see flames in the pipe now, but no smoke and, with relief, I take a deep breath. The flames are all around the wall of the pipe burning away all the soot. Well, I guess if you do it this way, you do not need a chimney sweep.

After about fifteen minutes, the burning stops and I clean everything and put the pipes back together. I take a fire starter cube, some kindling wood, a few logs, and click my lighter to it and…

No smoke!Yes, it now works fine! In two months I must do the same myself. Just create a wild

chimney fire and then everything will be alright again. That’s easy enough…

- Storm –

Today I have been over to Dalyan with the boat. I needed a new propane gas bottle and they are a little too heavy to drag around. As soon as I return to Çandır and dock the boat someone comes walking up to me as usual. I always dock the boat with the nose at the outside of the boat-dock, with the anchor out at the backside to keep it in place and out of everyone’s way. The other boats leave every day and this way they do not have to manoeuvre around my boat. The man who is walking up to me tells me that there’s a storm coming and that I need to put the boat on the inside breakwater of the boat-dock. Most of the other boat owners have brought their boats around to the relative safety of the reed beds, as they always do during bad weather. The steep mountain next to the harbour often creates odd and dangerous twirling winds.

I climb back on board to sail around to the other side of the boat-dock to moor it according the suggestions the man gave me. I thank him gratefully for the warning as I have no television and don’t listen to the radio so I do not hear any weather reports. When I look up I see a clear sky and there seems to be no sign of bad weather. The rest of the day is a perfectly normal day and I do not worry about stormy weather much.

I hear a loud bang and sit bolt upright in my bed! It is half past four in the morning and the wind is howling around the house. I have no idea what the sound was that woke me up but it is probably a door that has blown closed with a bang. I get up and close all windows because the wind is really becoming worse and the trees are making a howling noise because they still have all their leaves.

It is not a continuous wind, more like succeeding gusts of wind. I can hear it coming down the mountain before it bends the trees around the house. Then I think of my boat and wonder if it is secured well enough. This is not a normal wind! It worries me and has

me pacing around the house in thought. The idea of walking down to the harbour isn’t an attractive idea at this time of night.

After more pacing, I realise I will never get back to sleep if I don’t know what is happening with the boat. I might as well go so that I can come back home and get a little more sleep afterwards. Dorcas looks at me with surprise when I put on my shoes. He doesn’t understand what I am doing but will never say no to any extra walks outdoors with me. So, I take the flashlight and throw myself out into the stormy elements.

The roads are pitch black and often there are wild boar, donkeys, and other various creatures I would rather not come across in the dark. The surprisingly warm wind feels like it is trying it's best to push over the trees and I am unable to come to any other conclusion than the fact that I must be totally crazy to walk down to the harbour in this weather. Once I arrive there it seems I’m not so crazy after all as it is quite busy at the harbour. A minimum of eight men are busy securing boats and I see several of their smaller rowing boats pulled ashore. My boat has come loose from its anchor and is rolling from left to right dangerously. The boat can’t be left this way and so I ask one of the men what I should do.

‘Do you have enough rope on board?’ he asks.‘How much do I need?’ I ask.He points out a metal post on shore and explains that I have to tie the rope from the

back of the boat to the metal pole which will secure the boat. I now see that they have all done this with their boats already.

‘Yes, I have that much rope,’ I tell him.‘All right, wait here and we’ll help you in a minute,’ and he walks off.Before I know it, I am helping the others. One man is struggling with the awning on his

boat which protects his customers from the sun on summer tours. It has to come off as it catches far too much wind. With a knife he cuts the strings while I try to keep the canvas under control. A grateful look from him tells me that he’s quite happy with my help, as the others are struggling with unwilling rowboats and rope.

The wind is creating waves so big that the water is coming in over the boat-jetty. I watch how these men duck down every time a fierce wind hits the boat-dock to prevent them from being blown off it. Somebody shouts and gestures for me to come over and when I carefully walk over, he asks me where the rope is on board my boat. Soon they are all pulling the rope tied on to the boat-dock to bring my boat towards it. They wait for the wind to slow just enough for someone to jump on board. He holds on to the mast rigging and moves slowly to the back of my boat to get the rope out of the wooden crate where it is stored. He ties the rope to the back of the boat and then he throws it to the boat closest to mine. I catch the rope and then must crawl over several other boats with the rope in hand before I can throw it ashore to be tied down. The boat is secure now and I’m very relieved that the rope was long enough. The men give the boat precisely the amount of rope it needs to be able to rock in the wind without touching anything. Obviously, all boats are safe now because they are handing out cigarettes and making jokes amongst themselves.

The pitch black harbour, the hard winds, and the foam on the waves give this scene a special feeling with a great deal of power. Working together to save our boats from damage brings us together and creates a very special atmosphere.

They give me a ride back home on a tractor with Dorcas happily running along beside it. Once at home, I hit my bed like a brick.

- Christmas Dinner –

The phone is ringing, and when I answer, it’s Aliye.‘Do you feel like going to a Christmas dinner?’‘A Christmas dinner!’ I don’t know. I haven’t celebrated Christmas for at least ten

years. What is the date today anyway?’

‘It is the 18th today so it will be at the end of next week. John and Walter are doing this dinner for friends and I don’t feel like going alone. Their hotel is closed for the winter, I guess they just want to have some fun,’ says Aliye.

Oh boy, a Christmas dinner. That was the last thing that I was thinking of right now. Christmas in Turkey doesn’t exist at all. In Holland you have the whole build up to it, television, radio, and well decorated shop windows that make sure you know it’s arriving.

‘Are you still there?’ asks Aliye.‘Yes, I am still here, but I wonder how I can arrange this transportation-wise? How do I

get back over the river? During the winter it gets dark early and the boats stop rowing back to Candir at 5:00 pm.’

‘Well, I’ve already spoken to one of the rowboat ladies and her son would like to make some extra money. So, if you return before midnight, he’s willing to row you back if you pay him a little extra.’

‘Alright, you win. I will come with you. I’ll phone you before then, OK?’Sounding noticeably relieved, she hangs up the phone.

Clearly, it has all been arranged for me. Well, I guess I better go to this Christmas party. From what I heard in her voice she really doesn’t want to go alone, but I have to admit that going to a Christmas party where I don’t know anyone who will be attending is not really my idea of having a good time.

Then I say to myself critically: ‘You have been on your own in the middle of nowhere without anyone to talk to for three months now. The most interesting event in your life lately has been going to get groceries in Dalyan - so just shut up and go!’

I stand in front of my wardrobe wondering what I can wear. I really have no idea of what is awaiting me at this party and I don’t have the kind of clothing one wears for special occasions because I never go socializing anywhere.

Mmm, maybe something black, that is always acceptable. I have a pair of black pants and a black turtleneck which, if put together with a nice silk blouse, should be enough. Add a little make up and I am more or less presentable, even though the others may be dressed better since they have a higher budget.

When I arrive, a man in a black suit is in front of the hotel to receive the guests and he tells me to go up to the roof terrace. The change of atmosphere is shocking to me. The roof terrace is a big space surrounded by glass walls with highly-decorated dining tables and a cozy sitting area next to a wood-burning stove which is working hard to make the picture complete.

The whole place is beautifully ornamented with Christmas decorations and nice lights that John and Walter must have worked really hard on. On the buffet stands a big glass bowl of warm spiced wine and John is standing next to it wearing a Santa Claus outfit. He is pouring glasses of the spiced wine when he sees me enter.

With a big smile he comes toward me to welcome me as he puts a glass in my hand. Walter appears from the kitchen dressed as some sort of elf and he introduces himself as Santa’s helper.

There are not any other guests who have arrived at this time and I feel uncertain. But I do prefer this to entering a large noisy room full of people who instantly go quiet when you enter.

I find myself a comfortable seat close to the wood-stove and wait for whatever may come. The room we’re in has the most spectacular view looking out over the river towards the delta and even onwards to parts of the ancient city of Kaunos.

One by one the guests begin to arrive. They all seem to know each other and exude the kind of happiness that good friends exhibit when seeing each other. Christmas is a far bigger event in England than it is in Holland. To me, as a down to earth Dutch girl, it comes across as being a little exaggerated. Quietly, I watch and enjoy everything that is going on around me. Christmas music is being played and I am under the impression that I

have entered a different world. It is so unreal to be in this Christmas atmosphere knowing that as soon as I leave the building it is just another perfectly normal day outside on the streets in Dalyan.

I have obviously spent too much time by myself at my remote house in the middle of the forest with only my dog to talk to. It is so apparent that somebody comes up to me and asks where I find my inner peace. How do you reply to a question like this?

The room is full of a mixed group of nationalities. There are eighteen from England, three from Turkey, two Americans, and myself, the only one from Holland. We all take our places at the beautiful table to enjoy a well-prepared traditional English Christmas dinner. How nice this Christmas meal tastes for someone like me, who cooks mainly simple meals at home for myself. I leave the talking and joking to the rest and just listen to the conversation around me while enjoying the food set before me. The spicy wine is doing its job, the atmosphere is good, and there’s lots of laughter. But unfortunately alcohol is not for me to enjoy tonight, as I do not have the courage to drink when I still have to cross the river and drive my Jeep over the rocky dirt roads to my village. So, at about eleven o’clock I decide it is time for me to go and begin the journey back to my own world.

And yet, I am very happy that I attended the party and did not miss the experience of this special event.

- Lynx –

It is winter and the inside of the house is cold but outside it is nice as long as the sun is shining. I do a lot of walking in an attempt to explore the mountains on numerous small paths in the forest. Often, I take a wrong turn and I have to walk a bit further than I wanted in order to get back home. These paths are wonderful, some of them dating all the way back to the time before Christ. They are still used to this day because they’re often shorter than the more modern roads that in winter turn into muddy tracks. During these walks I come across all sorts of people. Men are puttering around with their bees, or people checking on their sheep who graze freely in the mountains. Sometimes I also see young people that have snuck off to the hills to drink beer.

But I never see any woman. The women never go into the forest for fear of an encounter with a wild boar. This fear is completely unnecessary, I am no hero myself, but I walk in the mountains and have only twice spotted wild boars and that was because Dorcas tracked them down. After sundown it is a different story and you could stumble into them quite easily. They will even casually walk around on the streets in the village.

People have been warning me to be careful about poisoned meat in the forest. During the many walks I have never seen anything that resembled poisoned meat and, I wonder, if I would even recognise it if I did see it. But on the other hand, meat doesn’t usually arrive spontaneously in the forest. My dog is not very food orientated, unlike my earlier dog in Holland, who would eat everything. She would just swallow everything as fast as she could without thinking with the thought that she could always spit it out later.

So I was not too worried about Dorcas because he is different and more selective. But I do worry about the poisoned meat for other reasons. Why are they doing this and what are they killing in the process? There are many birds of prey here like eagles and vultures. It would be a shame if these animals became the victims of these practices. After asking around I found out that the poisoned meat is put there because of lynxes. They supposedly come down, attracted by the numerous lambs that are born in the mountains during the winter. Also they say that the wild boars can be dangerous for these baby lambs as well. I think it is fantastic that we still have lynxes here but, unfortunately, the villagers do not share my feelings.

The wilderness behind the village is enormous, it is so large that a few dead lynxes will not endanger the overall population but still…

I know of other cases in Dalyan involving poison. It happens there because someone who is scared of dogs has had enough of the wild street dogs and simply feeds them meat laced with some sort of poison.

The poison they use is Strychnine. I Googled on this and it appears to be a white substance with no smell but with a very bitter taste. In humans it takes only 30 milligrams to be lethal - strong stuff. Sometimes it is found in the drug LSD, which does not bother me, because drug users that wish to kill themselves are not a problem to me at all. But having this poisoned meat put in the forest to kill animals on purpose, does bother me.

For a long time I ceased to think about the problem since I never personally came across it. But a few days ago I was searching for a nice viewpoint to take visitors and yes, there it was, a piece of chicken with a dead eagle lying next to it. It convinced me that they do put poisoned meat out in the mountains and it does claim victims amongst these beautiful creatures. I covered the meat with a pile of stones, not knowing what else to do. To kick up a lot of shit in the village and in the process make a lot of enemies would resolve nothing. So I hope there is a day when a tourist spots it, takes a photograph, and decides to send it off to a newspaper, seeking an end to this cruelty. But until that day, I simply keep covering all the meat I find and hope for the best. They rarely use much meat with the poison as the people that put it in the mountains would have to buy it or take it out of their own refrigerator which would cost money that they have precious little of to spare. Anyway, this morning I spotted a lamb that was half eaten and dangling two meters high in a tree. It is true what they say about these lynx, but at this point, it is one for the lynx, and zero for the poisoners!

- English Lessons -

The phone is ringing. I answer it. It is Aliye, asking me to come over immediately. She has a neat plan to earn some money.

Quickly I go there, as I am curious to hear just what scheme she has thought up this time to get rich.

We are sitting at her dining table behind an enormous stack of papers.‘We are going to give English lessons!’ she says, coming straight to the point.‘Yeh sure, English lessons. Do you really think we can do this?’

'I have thought it all through. I have the credentials to teach English and you can be my assistant. The children of Çandır are dying to learn English so they will be able to work at a job in tourism. If we get enough students we can make it really affordable for them. They offer these kinds of courses in Dalyan but the kids here in the village cannot get there to go to them.'

‘You have a point, but I really do not see how I can be of help to you. English grammar is something I know nothing about and my Turkish is just not good enough to explain it,’ I say.

‘That’s absolutely not a problem. I will take care of all of that. First, we need permission to use the old school house that is now standing empty. If the Muĝhtar stands behind us, he will allow us to use it without a problem.’

We hit the road and went to have a talk with the Muĝhtar. He was in favour of the plan but asked us to wait one more day before going to Koyceĝiz to ask for the permission. This will give him time so that he can prepare the district council people there for us.

Resolute as Aliye always is, she leaves for Koyceĝiz after two days to seek the permission in person. In England she had become certified to teach English internationally and she has no doubts about the outcome.

Unfortunately they recognise these credentials everywhere in the world except for in Turkey, but the men from the council reacted very enthusiastically about her ideas and are willing to see if there might be another solution.

A few days later the Muĝhtar rings Aliye’s doorbell to tell her that they have worked out a solution! We can give the course on the condition that it will not be an official English course, which means we will not receive a budget, nor will we be allowed to give the kids a certificate.

This was brilliant news! It will allow us the freedom to do things our way without interference from anyone and the money we will make will be ours. There will be no taxes, no rent to pay for the school house building, or other expenses.

With the first obstacle being taken care of, we are on to the next. We will need firewood to heat the classroom we explained to the Muĝhtar and asked him who would pay for the electricity?

He realizes that we will not get rich by doing the course so, being friendly as usual, he offers to pay for the electricity from the village budget.

‘And the wood?’ we ask. That will be more difficult since it is not the time of year for collecting wood from the forest and to ask villagers for their own wood is simply not possible. To have it delivered from elsewhere is extremely expensive. The Muĝhtar looks at us and says: ‘Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock can you go to the high crossing in the forest? Do you know where that is?’

Because of my many walks, I know exactly where this is and we agree to meet him there the next morning. After all these good arrangements, he leaves and goes back to his office.

The following morning we are right on time at the high crossing and find ourselves waiting, as usual, the now familiar half hour before anyone shows up. Finally, a tractor arrives hauling a wagon with two men inside of it. A little later the Muĝhtar arrives and points out two small dead pine-trees. The two men cut the trees, chop the logs into smaller pieces, and we load it all onto the wagon. They bring the wood back to the schoolyard and now we are all set. Is this Illegal? Yes absolutely, but who cares? It is the way things are often done in Turkey.

We hang up a poster at the Mosque, one on Aliye’s fence, and one inside the school bus with the following text: English lessons in Çandır! Information Evening at the school. January 8 at 8:00 PM and we add a thank you to the Muĝhtar which will please a few people. We also have it announced from the Mosque loudspeaker system and wait patiently to see if anyone shows up.

One day before the Information Evening we have still no idea whether anybody is interested. We wonder seriously if there will be enough students for the class and feel that ten is the absolute minimum. We sit in a clean classroom where we have put the tables and chairs into groups. It sounds like quite something but, in reality, it is a bare grey room with an old tatty chalkboard and is furnished with the plastic tables and chairs that are normally stored here for public functions.

The first children enter the classroom with hesitation and shyness but, to our amazement, people keep coming in. Before we know it, the classroom is packed with thirty-five people! The youngest is seven years old and the oldest is fifty-three.

Help! What do we do now?Aliye explains how we will teach, how much it will cost, and what the class times are.

She also explains that today is not a lesson day but that the course will start next Thursday. Everybody who wants to join will have to bring in half of the money and that will cover the first ten lessons. Everybody will also have to be on time. She then asks for some volunteers to do some woodcutting for the woodstove.

A little later we sit with a cigarette over a cup of coffee and look at each other.‘There are too many people,’ I say.

‘We will have to split them up into two groups. The grade level difference is also too big,’ answers Aliye.

‘I hope you are not going to put me in front of a group all on my own are you?’‘I will prepare everything for you,’ she reassures me. ‘I will do the explaining in one

group and then you will take over and do an exercise with them until the break. After the break you will then get the other group and practice with them what I have already taught them.’

I do not know who was more nervous at that first lesson, whether it was the students or me. It was probably me as I am no teacher and I had been thrown into the deep. The first half hour is for everybody together so I am not alone in front of them. It gives me the time to become more brave. I have made a caricature of myself on the chalkboard with things surrounding me that I either like or dislike. With the help of the drawing, I can then teach them through pictures phrases such as I like, I hate, I love etcetera.

Then I get the other group who are mainly talking and using the things that Aliye has explained to them earlier. After the break I go back to the first group of beginners to play tic tac toe. I divide the students into two groups and then I write a word in English on the chalkboard. The student that shouts the correct answer first gets to put a cross or circle up on the chalkboard. The kids love it and there is fierce competition between the two groups. It becomes very clear that the little ones have to get used to the fact that they are permitted to shout in the classroom.

After an hour and a half I am done. Exhausted, I see everyone leaving the classroom in laughter. Maybe somewhere deep down there is a teacher in me after all.

- A hospital Visit -

My mother, who came here to spend the winter, caught a terrible cold and was coughing terribly. This gave her trouble with her back which was already bad. It is not getting any better and I have been asking around whether anyone knows of a specialist that can see what the problem is. In Holland she visited a chiropractor for many years but here in Turkey they have not invented such things yet.

There appeared to be a good specialist at the private hospital in Muĝla, about one hundred kilometres from here. But, to bring my mother in the bouncing Jeep down to the rowboats is no fun. There she will have to go through the acrobatics of getting into the boat which just did not seem to be a very good idea. A taxi driver who has become a friend is willing to pick us up at home. That means at least an extra hour of driving for him, but he says it is no problem whatsoever. What sweet people many of these Turks are.

We leave home early and arrive two hours later at the hospital at about ten in the morning .

I am very curious to see what a Turkish hospital looks like. Who knows what may happen in the future that might mean I needed one, so it is nice to know up front what to expect. I am expecting an old-fashioned hospital with a lesser level of hygiene than in Europe. It would not surprise me if people were still allowed to smoke inside the hospital. I can still remember that this used to be the case in Holland, but it is hard to imagine now when I think of it.

We walk down a beautiful hall with a shining marble floor and up to a plush reception desk where they politely explain to us where to find the specialist. No smoking is allowed anywhere. We see nice seating areas everywhere for people that are waiting and there is a snack bar with sandwiches and drinks. The restrooms are spacious and have nice clean toilets.

As soon as we arrive at the specialist we are surprised to find that his assistant speaks perfect German so there will be no language problem. We have to wait our turn because it

is an open appointment hour which goes from ten in the morning until one o’clock in the afternoon. This is quite understandable if you think about it. Many of these people travel long distances which can make it impossible to be there for an appointment at a set time.

As soon as it is my mother’s turn, she receives a thorough examination, after which the doctor explains that he wants an X-ray taken, just to be absolutely sure. He tells us that we have to pay upfront and, fortunately it is not a problem, thanks to credit-cards.

The X-ray costs five hundred lira which is close to three hundred Euro. This is a lot of money for an X-ray and I quietly hope to myself that I never need their services.

After a two hour wait my mother enters the room for the X-rays. What happens then? Our expensive X-ray turns out to be an MRI scan! That changes everything! All of the sudden it seems very cheap! There is no way in Holland that could you go and have an MRI scan done on the same day? Forget it!

When we go back to the specialist, he tells us that she has a hernia and suggests she have an operation as soon as possible. That is something my mother will not do, but we know now that it will not get better without some sort of treatment. The specialist prescribes some painkillers and we head for the reception desk to pay the bill

where, they reassure us, that everything has been paid already. The five hundred lira was for everything, including the office consultation and the MRI.

Quickly, I take a business card from the desk and tuck it away in my purse. If there is ever anything wrong with me they can definitely bring me to this hospital, no problem. It is such a modern hospital with equally modern equipment and so exceptionally customer friendly that all my fears are gone.

Too bad for my mother as she will have to go back to Holland to get further treatment.

- Market Stall –

I had an idea for a way to make myself some extra money. The idea was to prepare homemade chutneys and marmalades. These delicious items are not for sale at any of the shops here in Dalyan even though there are many British people living here. Add to that the enormous numbers of British tourists that spend a week or longer on holiday here in a villa and you have many potential customers.

After an evening of calculations, I came to the conclusion that there was definitely money to be made selling these chutneys and marmalades. I do not have much to do here during the winter and there are an abundance of lemons, oranges, and grapefruits in Çandır. If I just collect what falls off of the trees, I will have more than I need. The villagers do not ask for money for this fallen fruit, so I can fill up a large number of jars during the winter and sell them during the summer. This sounds like a good plan to me.

Yesterday I went to the Dalyan council to apply for a market stall. They have a market in Dalyan every Saturday and everyone goes there to buy their fruits and vegetables. They made me go back and forth between the Zabita (domestic police) and the council, but I am finally able to find someone that can help me. Unfortunately, the rules have changed concerning food and drinks being marketed in Turkey. Only fresh fruit and vegetables are allowed to be sold at the market. Prepared foods are not allowed any longer. What a disappointment.

These new rules are due to the European Union Commission’s guidelines from Ankara to each of the provinces to prepare the country for European Union membership. Well, I dare say, that nobody is very pleased with these so-called improvements. This is the umpteenth example of a rule being shoved down the population’s throats for little to no reason. The thing about the EU is that nothing positive or helpful seems to come from these EU Regulations. So in the mind of the average Turk, nothing but troublesome rules and regulations ever come from Brussels.

Traditionally, they bake gorgeous gözleme (some sort of pancake) and sell home-made cheeses. There are always woman with pickled peppers or home-made pomegranate juice,

tomato paste, and many other delicious and healthy foods. All these different flavours are part of the charm of the Turkish market. If anyone is afraid that the hygiene is not up to standards then they should simply not buy it. How difficult can this be? But no, all of that must disappear to appease European Union regulations.

Luckily enough, none of this has been implemented yet. As long as no one complains, the existing stalls will stay. This is the best way to enforce these stupid rules without an outcry. In the large cities these things are much different. I have heard that the street merchants in Istanbul that sell the well known round pastry with sesame seeds (Simit )will all have to disappear.

At this moment, this is not good news to me as they will not approve any new applications. In Turkey the rule of thumb says, that if one does not know about something, then it does not exist. So, if you ask for permission, you are going to get the correct legal answer.

Then I realize that at any Dutch market all sorts of homemade foods are available, and as far as I know The Netherlands are still situated in Europe. Bee-keepers can sell their honey, there is sambal from Indonesian cooks, and not to mention the many fruit farmers with a little stall beside the road selling fruits and jams. All of this also occurs at the flea markets and fairs with cakes and pies.

It is hard to swallow that here in Turkey the rules are more strongly enforced than in Europe itself. It is not very often that they will check on permits here, but it only takes one person that envies you to phone the gendarme and then the shit hits the fan.

The fines are enormous here and can go up to as much as nine hundred Euro. That is a ridiculous amount of money when you realize that many Turkish people must live off of three hundred Euro per month.

So, I will have to find out if there are shop owners who are willing to sell my goods in their stores for me on consignment. All I will need is just one little shelf and will just have to hope that the customers will know where to find my home-made chutneys and marmalades.

- Chicken Flu –

Sacrifice Day is the most important celebration of the year in Turkey. The religious side of it I do not know much about, but I do enjoy seeing the preparations and the excitement of the people. Weeks in advance they look forward to the feasting that is part of this celebration. People will travel hundreds of kilometres to spend these days together.

Here in the village things are also more busy than normal. The women start days beforehand to light their cooking fires to make all sorts of delicious dishes. There are more expensive cars driving around in the village than normal. Even more fun are the well dressed city women wearing lots of make-up, stumbling around in high heels over the dirt roads.

Lots of chopping and preparation is being done and a large part of the sheep and goat population find their lives will be ending. The hides are collected and the money it brings goes to a good purpose. Over the whole country this means the consumption of millions of animals.

Everywhere I go I see these poor animals hanging upside down by their Achilles tendon from a large tree branch. The head of the family is the director of the skinning of the animal. The rest of the men get to watch him while he takes the animal’s hide off. Everybody is happy because it is not every day that there is such an over abundance of good food.

Finally comes the holiday and continues for several days. The first day of the celebration is the only day that I know of when shops are closed.

This year it is all going to be different because of the chicken flu virus scares hitting Turkey. How can the flu plan this so well with everybody travelling around the country!

And, of course, within a few days, this bird flu virus has spread throughout Turkey. You can feel the tension around the village. On the first day of the celebration I hear numerous gun shots. In and of itself this is not all that strange here, as it might just be somebody who wants to show off his new gun.

But no, soon I find out that there was an announcement over the loudspeakers at the Mosque calling for everyone to keep their chickens in their coops. The farmer near the Çandır harbour took even harsher measures and shot all of his chickens, which was a little drastic!

While everybody would normally be together drinking hundreds of cups of tea, they are all out there putting chicken coops together for their chickens that usually sleep in the branches of a tree.

The whole village is buzzing with activity and I see people everywhere on motorbikes carrying rolls of chicken wire on their backs. Apparently the hardware store in Dalyan has opened specially for the rush of customers. Others are busy with plastic and wood trying to build temporary shelters for the chickens. One man tells me that he has burned all of his chickens and another says he has put all of his chickens in the deep-freeze at his restaurant in Dalyan. He laughs and says he will feed them to the tourists in the following summer.

Everywhere I see chickens running around with their owners chasing after them to catch them. This makes for hilarious scenes. The lemon and orange trees have low branches which is ideal for the chickens, but for the owners it makes things extremely difficult. I hear the owners cursing and shouting in frustration. My neighbour tells me that he will wait until it is dark to catch his. Apparently a chicken does not see very well in the dark, and he thinks he will be able to pick them from the tree like an orange while they are sleeping.

After two days there are no chickens to be seen here anywhere. What an obedient people these villagers are. In Holland, an announcement like this will immediately be followed by the sounds of protest and discussion about the sense of it all. Many people rebel when their favourite chicken, Clucky, cannot go outside anymore. Here in the village it is unnaturally silent.

They found a sick girl and some dead chickens on the other side of the river, a few kilometres past Dalyan. The doctor who was on duty informed Ankara immediately and they have sent a special team down. That same day the girl was transported to the hospital in Izmir and the chickens were disposed of. To me, this is very adequate reaction for a very large country with a fairly low budget.

Everybody is on guard about the whole thing and are afraid that one of these days the police may come to the village to announce that all chickens have to be destroyed. This whole thing has provided more then enough to talk about over a cup of tea, but I am sure they have had a much better Sacrifice days.

- Lemons –

I look around with an impressed look on my face and see the familiar lemon trees. They are full of cheerful yellow fruits. Yesterday afternoon somebody arrived with a tractor to deliver an enormous number of plastic crates. It is time for the lemon harvest.

The lemon orchard, which is about eight thousand square meters, consists mainly of lemon trees but there are six mandarin and eight orange trees amongst them. These are for the owners’ private use and the lemon trees are for commercial purposes. Oranges are not profitable any longer, so no one even bothers to harvest them.

During the entire winter I could see how the lemons grew bigger and became more yellow. When I came here I thought that oranges and lemons needed sunlight to colour, but apparently this is not the case. As soon as the temperature becomes no higher than 30

degrees Celsius, (which will be around the first weeks of October), the fruits start to colour. Within the month, the fruits laugh at you with their beautiful colours.

My storage room is full of home-made marmalades and chutneys. I just cannot see these fruits fall onto the ground and be left there to rot. Every day I press the oranges and stuff my pockets with them when I go for a walk. I think I go through ten mandarins every day. Back in Holland I always thought they were sour but the mandarins here are very sweet. The mandarins come first and the enormous oranges later. You do not know what an orange can be like until you try one of these sun warmed, naturally ripened, unsprayed oranges. One can simply not compare them with the dry, unsweetened ones they sell in Holland. But, unfortunately, they are nearly finished and will soon be gone.

Only the lemon trees are still bending over from the weight of the numerous lemons. Today, the owner of the orchard comes to collect his lemons. This is the signal for me to quickly pick some lemons and put some lemon juice in the deep freeze.

Things are starting now. It is half past eight in the morning and two minibuses full of workers arrive. I see twenty-eight men and woman in total step out of these buses. They talk the work through and disperse themselves out between the trees. The women take an empty crate and begin, using pruning-shears to work. They cut the lemons loose from the trees and let them drop onto the ground. Apparently the lemons can handle the bounce without damage. As soon as the woman cannot reach the fruits any longer, the younger men come in. They climb the trees to reach the higher branches. The branches are visually in trouble and groan in misery. Luckily for the trees, these young Turks do not weigh much, and the branches hold. Other workers have the task of picking up the lemons and putting them into the crates. The stronger men haul the crates from under the trees and stack them onto a truck.

So far, things look reasonably easy. The lemon trees have very low branches and everybody has to work bent over. The Turks are stockier than the Dutch but, even so, it seems to be hard work. They keep working until twelve o’clock when the whole group settles comfortably in between the trees for their lunch. For one hour they sit there happily talking away while eating their lunch, which is an enormous number of different dishes and a big pile of fresh bread. These people are really short of nothing.

After the break they pick up their things and return to work. A neighbour that comes over to watch the harvesting says that they come from a small village deeper in the mountains where one can still find cheap labour. According to her, they make 12.50 lira per day. That is like 7.50 Euro. It is very little money for such work and, of course, all under the table. In their villages there is no work to be found and this is the only way they can get some cash so they are happy to have the work and it shows.

I wonder if there is any money to be made in lemons. I start asking questions and somebody takes the time to explain it to me. There is something like seventeen kilos in one crate. There are about four crates per tree and the seller gets 0.25 lira per kilo.

After some hard calculating, I come to the conclusion that the owner makes about 2000 lira after taking care of the cost of the workers. He also must water the orchard twice a week during the summer months.

To be able to do this, they all have a deep well of minimally ten meters in depth with a pump. They use an ingenious system of ditches and dams. They hang the water hose into one of the ditches and it flows throughout the orchard by changing the dams and directing the water everywhere.

Also, there is the yearly pruning before one can harvest. Not a great deal of work, but also not a lot of money. The land must be owned by the family otherwise there would not be any profit. Neither would it be profitable if you had to pay interest on a loan.

At four in the afternoon the work is finished and everybody climbs back into the buses and leaves. The truck full of crates disappears as well and all is quiet again. But now absent, my familiar yellow friends that had cheered the place up so much.

- Firewood For Sale –

Now, for the first time in years, there is firewood for sale in the village. How can this be, I wonder? Very simple: for the first time in ten years there is commercial cutting being done by the forestry department. The man from the department selects the trees that can be felled and a bunch of tough men from the village start working at it with chainsaws. They are very willing to be there because in winter there is no work to be found. The whole day all I can hear is the chainsaws singing.

As I come walking past these hard working men, I see them smoking cigarettes and discussing the job. I say to them: ‘Kolay gelsin!’ which means something like ‘work with pleasure’, and I think to myself, what a hard job cutting this timber must be.

It soon becomes apparent that this is the case. After one month I see different men doing the work, except for Osman, a huge man by Turkish standards. He obviously can cope with it physically. I also see that Seskin is still there. He is a cheerful, small, but tedious man. On average I do not see the others back after one week.

The trees are being chopped down with the chainsaws. They take the side branches off and the large trunks are dragged to the road (read dirt track) with a tractor. Once there, other men remove the bark manually with axes. They stand with a bowed back at an angle next to the tree and make back and forth movements with the axe. I only have to watch them doing it and I already feel a back ache coming on.

The bare trunks are all given a number and will be sold. At certain places in the forest are big piles of bark chips that I thought would be perfect for the little pathways in my garden.

The men could see me with the Jeep going into the forest to collect these chips in big bags. By the time that I had already collected four loads, somebody finally built up the courage to ask me what on earth I wanted it for. They are fine to start the wood-stove with but he was sure I would never need this many. So I explained what I was going to do with them and everybody nodded in understanding. But their looks relayed compassion because it was a lot of work to do just for such a funny reason. The people here really never have gotten used to the fact that foreigners invest time to make their living surroundings prettier. Nobody does that! When you work too hard they will even say to you: ‘Do not work so hard! Or you will die young.’

All in all, I took sixty big bags of bark out of the forest and it looks very good in my garden.

The cutting went on all throughout winter. Then I heard that you can sign up for firewood at the Muĝhtar’s office. All the side branches and other leftover wood will be sold. And, of course, I want some of it for my wood-stove. Once I arrived there, it soon became clear to me that I am not entitled to sign up for the wood. Only native villagers can buy it, it is not even open to non-resident Turks. But, like so many other things, something can be worked out for me. The disadvantage is that if you are, for some reason, not too popular or maybe have stepped on a few too many toes, they will not do anything for you. My landlord can order it for me and, because he lives far away, his brother will be able to sign for him. Here they often have difficult rules but are so very flexible.

On a good day in April they announce that everybody can pick up their wood the next day. If you would be so kind to bring the necessary money and be at a certain point at a certain time it will be available. Quickly, I arrange somebody who I know that is not buying any wood himself to help me get to the correct place the following day.

Full of surprise, I look around when we arrive at the designated place the next morning. It is a true gathering of village men. At least fifteen tractors are present and their owners are all standing around, happily chatting away, while waiting for the Muĝhtar and the man from the forestry department. At these moments I am very aware of the fact that I am a woman and stand out like a sore thumb. They also tell me that if somebody asks me, I am

to say that I am only there to watch. I am not allowed to buy wood officially, so it makes perfect sense to me. Everybody present knows I am buying but, as long as it is not actually said out loud, then it is not happening.

Soon it becomes clear that my landlord will have to sign for the wood and he is not there. Quickly, someone phones a relative and he stops whatever he is doing and comes up the mountain to sign for the wood for me. He is not even annoyed or irritated and stays with me the whole morning to sort matters out for me.

Everywhere along the side of the road are big stacks of wood. The Muĝhtar goes up front and the whole procession of tractors follows. What a beautiful sight it is to see such a row of tractors curling through the forest. The Muĝhtar and the man from the forestry department stop at the first pile where he gets his tape measure out and measures the ordered wood. Money changes hands and the first villager starts loading up his wood. Slowly, but surely, rows of tractors move through the forest getting continually shorter. After one hour I find out that my wood has been measured and paid for by the relative. He shows me the wood and no thanks are necessary he says. These things one just does for another when you live in a small village. Happy with the wood, my driver and I load the four cubic meters of it onto the wagon and we start our long way back down from the mountain. The wagon is so heavily loaded that it wobbled and groaned all the way back.

To bad they do not do this every year. This is the most inexpensive and simple way to get a winter supply of wood. It cost eighty lira for the wood and twenty lira for the use of the tractor and driver. Altogether the cost was somewhere around sixty euro for enough wood to last the entire winter.

- Village Wedding –

One hour ago I became the proud owner of a actual invitation to a village wedding.Not that I can read it, but I am proud nevertheless. Is this so special? No, not really, as I

think everyone in the village has gotten one.Well, as a foreigner in this village I am not like everybody else and, therefore, I do not

feel that I am automatically invited. The whole village knows when there is a wedding coming up. But because of my minimal contact with the locals, I often have no idea what is going on in the village. Regularly I hear the drums and the recognizable sound of the wood-wind instruments that you only hear when there is a wedding. But this time I have a real invitation and I will most surely go.

After a week of waiting for the big day, I am all dressed up and ready to go to the party. I have bought a wedding present as well. The entire day the village has been very busy. Many people must use the occasion to visit family and friends or maybe they just want to wander through the village.

This morning, while taking the rowboat across the river on my way to Dalyan, I had a little taste of just what awaits me. Three hundred loafs of bread, two huge sacks with lettuce, and two large cases of tomato’s where brought across the river. Later in the afternoon I saw a tractor loaded with a wagon full of plastic chairs and tables. This is going to be some party!

After a fifteen minute walk through the village, I arrive at the correct address. There was no mistaking it because the lure of the drum draws you right to it.

There are already many people there and, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, I enter the scene and am greeted by several people. There is a man standing in a central spot looking around like he is important. I ask him where I can go to give my present. This good man takes the gift from me and takes me to a table where people he thinks I know are seated.

I take my time to look around and notice the premises are in an area that is long and narrow. The tables are situated at one side to leave room for walking and dancing. At the other end a fair amount of women are busy with the food. I see at least five large fires with enormous pans cooking away on them. These pans are at least 80 centimetre high and

50 centimetres across. I have heard that these pans are handmade from copper. I also see a big tub with mixed salad and many containers with other dishes.

Some women are already busy washing up the dishes that have already been used. There are three young men walking around with enormous stainless steel trays that are one meter in diameter. The women have put a variety of small bowls of food on the big trays, together with some knives and forks, and the young men are delivering these heavy loads to the tables.

All tables are covered with newspapers that are serving as tablecloths and every table has a bottle of raki, a pitcher of water, and some glasses.

In the trees there are many lights dangling that make for a nice atmosphere. The band is two men fiercely beating on drums and three others playing woodwind-like instruments. These instruments have a reed, no vents, but rather holes like a simple children’s loot. One of them produces a continuous basic tone using a circular breathing technique. The others have it easier, while playing the melody.

I suddenly have the feeling that something is wrong when I realize that I see no woman guests present. Then I spot a separate corner that seems to be for woman only. Side by side all the woman are drinking fruit juice. I count my luck that they did not put me there as it looks awfully boring. Because I am not Turkish and everybody knows I drink alcohol, they allow me to sit with the men. Thanks!

I am slowly sipping on my raki while taking in the scene around me. My friend, Aliye, comes walking up accompanied by some other guests. Quickly she sits down next to me because she does not want to sit with the woman either and, of course, she is welcome at my table. She explains to me that it is really the bachelors’ party for the man and that the women have their own party (with henna rituals which I know nothing about). The groom will attend this with the women but will come back to his bachelor party after he is finished there. The celebration tomorrow is the actual wedding day and this evening is separate parties for the bride and groom.

At that moment it is our turn to be served a tray full of small plates with lovely foods. We get: chickpeas with beef, white beans in tomato sauce, aubergines with yoghurt sauce, stuffed grape leaves, a dish with some sort of sweet rice, and a mixed salad. While we are happily munching away, they bring us fried fish and grilled chicken drum sticks. I am already regretting having my full dinner earlier. The food all tastes so good and everywhere around us people are eating and drinking. The musicians drum and toot on their horns happily. The music is really special. It is an unbelievably old-style of music and you can feel this. It is really fantastic!

Sitting outside under the stars adds to the special atmosphere. By now, most men have had a raki or two to drink and the dance floor is getting full of men that are performing macho traditional dances. They throw money on the ground as a token of their appreciation for the musicians. A young boy that is obviously part of the band picks the money up from the ground and, as the evening progresses, the atmosphere gets even better. Everywhere I see men laughing, drinking, and dancing. Every now and then we jump because they are shooting into the air with handguns. We are not used to this and find it somewhat worrisome, but the locals think it is great.

Around midnight I decide it is time for me to go. Nodding good-nights to everybody, I walk away towards home. I am somewhat light-headed and I saunter home with the drums keeping me company. I do wonder in all honesty who it is that will be married tomorrow. There was not anyone at this party who seemed to be the obvious groom busy greeting the guests. So, I have just attended a wonderful party and have no idea who the party was for.

- The Hay Press Machine –

In spring, the fields here are an ocean of wild flowers. At the end of March, the fields are fenced with a hedge of thorny branches so that cattle and wild animals can no longer go through. Sheep and goats are sent up into the mountains to graze and find their own food. Cows walk freely through the village and clear the sides of the road of grass and weeds by eating it.

This way, the fields become colourful heavens of flowers. I have never seen so many grasses and herbs growing together. This variety must be extremely healthy for the animals that are fed with it. There are very powerful herbs like: plantain, dandelion, thyme, chicory, and many others. Around the second week of May it all starts to dry out and in a short period it all becomes extremely dry. That is when it is time to harvest the hay. Normally, you can see the men with scythes and the woman with hand-sickles working with blisters on their hands to cut it all.

How they do this I do not know, but all day long you see these women bent over doing this heavy task. And this is not without danger because these fields are crawling with snakes. The snakes are shy and normally well out of the way by the time you get to them, but you can easily surprise one. This is the reason they do not bring their children to the job.

The grass will be taken home after a week by tractor and wagon. At home they have a wooden crate which they lay lengths of rope across. They then stack as much dry hay into the box as possible and tie the ropes firmly to produce a rough bale of hay. One can see the farmers happily jumping up and down while doing this work. It is a simple system that obviously has been done like this for a long time.

This year everything is different. Some clever man bought a harvesting and baling machine. He is a real wage earner now. The first time he used it he was working the hay baling machine on his own field. With great interest, everybody came to see this wonder of modern technique and it was unusually busy there.

They will probably have seen these machines on television, but have never actually seen one work. The machine itself was not the most modern of versions. I have seen farmers use these machines when I was a kid. There are moving parts on the outside that are, quite simply, very dangerous. I can imagine that these kinds are no longer allowed in the modern western world where everybody is protected from everything. But here, they are really happy with this modern machine. With much gesturing and loud commentary, the men watch the machine working.

This year only a few hard-working women and men work on the beautiful fields with bent backs tortured in the hot sun. Only those that cut the grass from in between the newly planted orchards are not able to use the services of this new machine.

For two weeks in a row I see the machine doing its work everywhere. Every now and then I hear a big Bang followed by a long silence. At such moments I know that there is something wrong with the machine. The owner then putters with it until the work can go on. Throughout the whole village I come across people on tractors hauling wagons that are stacked with these easily stackable hay bales. Without exception, they all glow with pride showing just how happy they are with this new luxury. They all drive around with a look on their faces like: ‘Do you see me driving home with my pretty load?’

Really, this place keeps amazing me. What a marvellous place it is.

- Rubble-

Today I came across a good example of Turkish thinking. I went for a cup of coffee at my friends, John and Walter, who own a hotel in Dalyan. With the tourist season arriving, they are busy remodelling and the hotel is currently in shambles. Today it was time to get rid of the rubble from two walls they knocked down yesterday. They took out some

sections of wall and put all the rubble into large plastic bags which must be removed before they can move on with something else. While we were having coffee this morning, the rubble has been the subject of our conversation. How to dispose of these bags of rubble? My opinion is that the council will pick them up, but I might be mistaken. It is possible that they will have to phone the council to find out whether they will take it when they do the final sweep of the town. They do this every year about one week before the first charter planes with tourists arrive. The whole of Dalyan gets tidied up and they even bring the fire department in to hose down the streets. It is not that things are such a mess now, but many places get redecorated every year and a lot of left over materials are simply left behind.

But no, John and Walter insist they have their own system for these things. It is to simply drive though Dalyan until you see someone with a tractor and ask if he is busy and feels like making some extra money. It had to work.

After finishing their coffee, they leave in good spirits to find such a person. I stay at their hotel and clean things up a bit as I wait for their return. After an hour, I see their car with a tractor and wagon following behind them. It now seems to me that maybe their system works after all.

We all work like mad to get the heavy bags onto the wagon. It is unbelievable how much rubble came out of two small sections of wall. The wagon has been loaded completely full when we are finished. Grinning with satisfaction about their system, my friends walk back into the hotel. They got rid of the rubble and the man has earned a good days pay. He will have to spent some money on diesel fuel, but will have enough left over for a profit. I go sit in a chair and both John and Walter walk up to the refrigerator to get a can of cola. Suddenly, John looks out of the window and shouts:

‘Look!’‘What is wrong!’ answers Walter.‘That’s our man with the tractor is it not?’‘Yes, sure, why?’‘Look, it is empty!’‘Oh boy, he would not have dumped it in the river would he? What an idiot.’The street in front of their hotel ends at the river and there is only room enough to turn

around. All three of us start laughing as we were certain that he would take it to the scrapheap to dump for us.

I say: ‘No, I do not think he dumped it in the river. Even by Turkish standards that would be a little too much. No, not in the river, but maybe he dumped it in an empty field. Is there not some empty land between the two hotels down the street?’

At this moment they really want to know what happened to all the rubble sacks, so they walk down the street to find out as I wait at the hotel. Within three minutes they both come back saying that the rubble does, indeed, lay on the open stretch not even fifty meters from the hotel. Close enough that they could have brought it there with the wheelbarrow themselves with no problem.

‘I bet you that this smarty phones the counsel and that they will end up having to come and pick it up.’ says Walter. He throws his hands up in the air and says:

‘Can anyone ever get used to this?’

- Rubbish From a Tin –

I cannot believe what has just happened! For days now I have tried to get Tim, my white cat, to eat solid food. I found Tim along the side of the road far from any houses. Her eyes were open, but it was clear to me that she could not see anything. I picked her up and took her home with me. On my way home, I stroked her over her dark tail and on her head covered with fur resembling a dark hat. At home I put her on the scales and she only weighed one hundred grams. With whip cream and milk, I managed to keep this little pile of misery alive.

On the web I found lots of information about kittens and saw that a cat’s birth weight is generally around a hundred grams. My conclusion was that ‘my’ cat had lost a lot of weight since someone had dumped it. I also found how to take care of such a little one. And now is the time for solid food. You can start feeding it solid food as soon as it has teeth. Mashed canned cat food would be the best. And, according to a Dutch friend that knows a lot about cats, it is better to mix in some heavy cream.

Every time I present this to Tim she goes ballistic. She clings onto my hand getting completely out of control while biting my hand, digging her claws into it, and kicking her little back legs. She is fighting me, you might say.

It depresses me, five times a day I try to get her to eat. When I offer the food on a little plate she will not touch it, nor will she lick it from my finger either. As soon as she smells the food, she goes into a fit.

This morning I finally got her to go as far as to suck my finger. I have to hold her firmly and make sure only her head can get to the food. This is the only way to stop Tim from going into a fit and getting herself very messy. Obviously, little Tim cannot yet wash herself.

She is always screaming for food, but getting her to eat it just does not work out. Until this evening.

I arrive home late from a concert in the theatre at Kaunos. Tim is screaming for food and Dorcas is also begging for his dinner. So I give Dorcas some chicken wings and, to my surprise, he lets Tim come close to his bowl. Up until now he would never allow Tim near it. One growl was always enough to keep Tim at bay. Like a real tiger, Tim attacks the bowl with the chicken wings. Not with a lot of success because her teeth are too small to chew on the wings, but it is a graphic example of how desperate Little Tim is getting.

Full of hope but, foolishly, I take Tim back to her own bowl of mashed canned slop. Well, Tim is thinking differently and refuses again to eat it while fiercely attacking my hand as usual.

At that particular moment this slow-minded caretaker has an idea. I walk up to the refrigerator and take out Dorcas’s food for tomorrow. They are chicken backs and with my fingernail I scrape some of the meat off one of them. I cut these in even smaller pieces and present them to Tim on a small saucer. Not from my hand, so she can slowly get used to it, but straight out in front of her saying:

‘If this is what you want, then that’s what you are going to get.’Really wildly, she attacks the food and empties the saucer in a split second. I do not

believe what I am seeing. Stupid me, why would Tim want to eat that other shit when there is real good food around?

Sorry, Mister Canned-cat-food-factory-owner, I was never very impressed with the quality of your product in the first place. Well, my Tim thinks the same evidently, because meat makes her eat and the mush in a can does not. It is hard to suggest that Tim is spoiled because she has never had solid food before.

Could that be something Turkish? Let us be honest, the Turkish people here only eat fresh food and they want nothing to do with food that has been in the deep freeze or out of a can. Everything has to be fresh daily and without hormones, otherwise, they simply will not eat it. Well, my Tim is no different.

I will go to Dalyan now for real meat because Miss Tim only eats the real thing.

- Miniature Creeps –

‘Ouch, Tim!’ I shout, while Tim is trying to rip my arm open, ‘I cannot let you go yet!’While trying to ignore that my left arm is being ripped open, I ruffle through her white

fur with my other hand. For a moment Tim has stopped fighting me and I put my tweezers carefully around the little creepy tick embedded into her skin underneath her fur. I twist it around and, finally, I got it.

Glad to be rid of me, Tim happily runs off while I go inside to take care of my arm. The tick I have removed from her I squeeze dead with the tweezers.

This year the number of ticks is more than usual. I have found three of these ticks in my bed that were neatly dropped there by Tim during her beauty sleep. So, I guess it is time for Tim to stay outside. Yesterday I had one on the laundry that was hanging outside on the clothesline. Dorcas also had three of them clinging inside his delicate ears. Sometimes I have seen him with as many as five huddled in a group together close to his ears. I suspect it must be due to a vein close to the surface. He puts his head in my lap and is totally at ease while I remove these intruders.

My sweet little cat thinks differently but she is only seven months old. Maybe she will learn to patiently allow me to remove them also. This was the first time one really dug itself into her skin. I usually notice them when they are still crawling on top of the fur. It seems I have special radar for these creeps and I just know when one has landed on either the dog or cat.

During previous years, these problems did not occur until around April or May. Can it be because of the heat that I am now seeing them in March? Twenty-five degrees Celsius is not normal here at this time of the year. We also did not receive any serous rain this winter. I wonder if that would have anything to do with it?

The weather here has been so beautiful for the past several weeks. Nature must surely be a month ahead of itself as the pine trees are blossoming way too early. The snakes, tortoise, and the cute small lizards have already been out of their winter sleep for two weeks.

I have been finding ticks everywhere, which makes me feel like I am itching all over. I have never had one of these that has had the courage to dig into my skin, but it is a distinct possibility. Everybody that I have spoken to about them tells me scary stories about the diseases that one can get from them. My fellow villagers that have not gained much general knowledge at school believe in all these wild stories and are very afraid of them.

I searched on the internet and found that these creeps must be imbedded in your skin for more than twelve hours before they can transmit any diseases. You are no longer advised to take them out by using alcohol, especially when they are transmitting their poison. I have collected a drawer full of clever tools over the years to remove ticks, such as miniature crowbars and tweezers of all sorts.

The street dogs in Dalyan have their ears full of ticks. This is such a disgusting sight but, occasionally, a dog gets lucky enough to be picked up by a tourist and taken to a veterinarian. At times, they have taken more than a hundred ticks out of one animal, so I have heard. It is odd that you never see this happening to the street cats even though Tim is proof that they do suffer from them.

- Work on the Road –

For the past few days there have been very heavy trucks driving though the village. They crawl along squeaking and groaning down the steep road that oscillates down into the village. This road has a few very difficult curves that these large trucks can barely manoeuvre without having to stop, reverse, and renegotiate the curve by taking several angles around it. Just as well, because I do not think they will manage if they are forced to reverse and back up. One time I witnessed one of these trucks getting stuck against a brick wall of someone’s house. They had to break out part of the wall in order to free the truck. Somebody actually has a house on one of those tight curves at the end of a straight stretch of road. If a truck should, for some reason, go too fast, it will not be able to make the turn and will smash straight into their house. These brave people even have their bedroom on

the road side. I would never dare to close my eyes knowing these heavy trucks start coming down the road at six in the morning.

As soon as I go to Dalyan to go shopping again in the Jeep, I find out just what they are doing. The road from Çandır down to the row-boat crossing to Dalyan is being paved. Last winter they added a lot of gravel and stones to the roadbed and rolled it firm. We were already very happy about that as the road was going to be more straight and without the big bumps or holes in it. Apparently that is not nice enough and, because of this road work, I cannot drive the entire way down to the rowboats. But, no problem, I will just have to walk the last part of it. How do they intend to accomplish the road work?

Very simple, a few men build wooden forms that are fifteen centimetres in height along both sides of the road. This makes a curb which will keep the paving stones together. A concrete truck arrives with a hose on a boom for pouring the concrete into these curb forms. But during these moments when they are pouring the concrete, nobody can pass. Great!

After the curbs are poured, they add gravel to the roadbed, and then pave the road with the paving stones between the curbs. As a result of this, there is less and less of the road available to drive on to the river and I am forced to do more walking. Going further than the point where they are working is simply impossible. One cannot say when the road crew will arrive where your car is parked while you are shopping in Dalyan.

I better not take the car any longer if I want to avoid this trouble. There are piles of sand and paving stones everywhere now. After a few days the men have laid these paving stones so far along the road from the rowboats that it is completely useless to go by car.

So now we are completely cut off from the rest of the world, except for those villagers with motorbikes who can still get through. Too bad my moped died last winter. The villagers most likely knew about the road work and, probably, were very clever to get loads of shopping in advance. But this fool did not know anything about it, as usual. So what now?

Can I go on my bicycle? It is already thirty degrees Celsius at nine o’clock in the morning and will go up to over forty by the afternoon. That is really not nice weather to go for a long bicycle ride over mountains.

But, it is as it is, and I have to go to Dalyan. Even if it is just food for Dorcas and Tim. I will have to get up early so I will be in Dalyan by eight thirty so I can be back home before the heat of the day has arrived.

Bravely, I take a deep breath and push off from my gate. The first stretch of about five hundred meters goes fairly easily. It is all downhill and not just a little, so with the speed of hell I fly over the road, enjoying the wind blowing through my hair. I am wide-eyed with fright because I am passing over all sorts of loose stones and gravel. The road is not much more than a dirt track. If I brake I will lose a lot of speed and that will make me have to work harder when the road goes uphill again. So, I fly down and make it up to the first crossing and a little beyond it. Now there is a nice asphalt road going uphill. Nothing wrong here. Now I have to make a choice. That is whether or not to take a steep part uphill where I will have to push the bike up, or whether to take the old road over Kaunos which is longer. The pushing I have done once before and, believe me, it drains the energy right out of you. So I decide to take the old road. At ease, I can peddle along the pretty dirt road leading to the ancient city. This road only goes uphill a little, so I am still fine.

Slowly but surely I feel my legs getting heavier and the last part of the road, before the old city, goes steeply uphill. To be able to make it, I have to stand up on the pedals in order to get them down again. This does not work as there are so many lose stones and all the weight is on the front wheel which makes the back wheel slip. To sit down while pedalling is impossible for me.

It is really embarrassing that I must get off my bike to push it up the last part, but I do, and I arrive at the top completely out of breath. Do I smoke too much? Should I drink less until at least the road is finished? But I have made it up and there is a lovely breeze to dry

the sweat that is lashing off of me. I am in Kaunos now and the road is a dirt one having more bare soil with loose, but very old stones.

Because you lose all your speed when you pedal over these stones, I am progressing slowly. Limbs-akimbo, I finally reach the other side at the main entrance of Kaunos. The lovely people that work there have seen a lot with all the tourists, but that someone who is a local is acting so crazy, is new to them. Being nice, they invite me to sit down and have a cup of tea with them. Brave as I am I refuse knowing that if I accept, I will never get back on that bicycle again and will not reach Dalyan. I suspect I would probably just go back home again.

After the main entrance is a steep part of the road going downhill and I throw myself at it, hoping I will not go flat on my face with these guys watching how funny this yabancı is acting. I make it down in one piece and, with this speed, it takes me quite awhile before I have to peddle again.

Slowly, with my last bit of speed, I approach the part where they are working on the road and I must pedal through loose sand. Well, everybody knows what a joy that is. Finally, I reach the part that is finished and with a big smile of relief I peddle the rest of the road.

Pedalling my way back is much easier. The hardest part is the part back up to the main entrance to Kaunos where I have to push the bike loaded full of shopping up the steep slope. It is very warm and the sweat is dripping off of me. The last part up to the gate at my house is also not easy but, considering the rest, I have done well.

Needless to say that, once home, I spent a long time standing under a cold shower.

The road is nearly finished now and for three weeks I have been going to the rowboat crossing with the bike. I have to admit that I am much more fit now. Except for the part at the Kaunos entrance, I do not have to get off my bike and push it any longer but strongly plough through it all. The way back is still very hot but that will change soon enough. It is already the end of August – it was my bad luck that this has been one of the warmer summers in years here.

I intend to keep bicycling to Dalyan on days that I do not need much in the way of shopping. I wonder if I can keep this up even when I am able to conveniently take the Jeep again.

- Water Punishment –

In this village we have our own drinking water supply. In the middle of the village stands a small building with a pump installation where they pump water up from under the ground. They say it is pure spring water of good quality. If this is still the case, by the time it gets to the houses it is questionable because the pipelines are not up to standard. Someone explained to me once that in Holland there are all sorts of security points in the Dutch system.

Here they have no such thing and the simple fact that every toilet has one of those little sprays to clean your bottom makes me wonder whether things go round through the system at times.

But, not to worry, as we have our own water and I drink it every day and it tastes quite good. One other nice thing is that it is extremely cheap. I pay around five lira per month which is somewhere around three Euro. To my amusement, the water has been cut off quite often lately. At first you think that they are working on the water system, but if you have no water for four hours every day it makes you wonder what might really be the problem. It is very inconvenient to have to set extra water aside for coffee, tea, and a few big containers for flushing the toilet.

After a week of water misery, I finally found out what the problem was. Most of the villagers simply do not pay their water bills, even though they are small. It is their own water they believe, and they just do not see why you should have to pay for it. That the

electricity required for pumping it costs money is something that they simply do not think about. They, most likely, have never heard of depreciation, costs for pump repairs and the pipes, and other expenses even I am not aware of.

The Muĝhtar has had enough of these unpaid bills and, for this reason, he just shuts the pump down every day from one to five in the afternoon until the bills get paid. Social conscious is the only way the problem ever gets taken care of. In other words, they end up fighting it out amongst themselves. To come straight out and ask these individuals to pay their water bills might cost him votes in the next elections, so, he just lets it ride.

To be really honest, I have had enough of this. I always pay my bill on time and now, right in the middle of the summer, I have to go without water. I need to shower several times a day to keep cool and I miss it. I cannot do my laundry when I want and deal with other problems due to the lack of water.

I am very curious how long this is going to go on. Will there ever be a day that these people pay their bill?

Somehow I have the feeling that no one is really impressed by it, so I will probably have to suffer this inconvenience for awhile longer. If it was up to me I would stop paying my water bill as well. Why should I pay for something I do not have the use of half of the time?

It is too bad that this is not an option for me because this house is not mine and the water is in the landlords’ name. For this reason I go ahead and pay it because I do not want to cause him any trouble.

This morning I found out that things can get crazier. The Muĝhtar has found what he feels is the solution! He has doubled the price of water. This way the good people are left paying for the bad ones.

What can you say to this kind of reasoning…

- A Dream House –

Some people I know from Dalyan have asked me to ask around to see if there is a house for rent in the village. They would like to live closer to nature because, unfortunately, that is not possible in Dalyan anymore. The villas for the rich foreigners are being built by the hundreds. Trees are being cut down to make room for more concrete living boxes.

I go to talk with somebody that knows the village well and he tells me that there is a house standing empty on the road that leads up against the mountain. To be honest, I walk there regularly and have never seen an empty house there. Maybe he means one of the really old empty mud brick houses that you find around the village. These are so bad that nobody goes through the trouble of doing anything with them. If you are clever with your hands you could buy these places and slowly redo them. They could function as really nice holiday cottages if you just included a scooter and rented them out to foreigners.

At the end of the afternoon I go and pick up my cheese made for me by the neighbours. I ask them if they know which of these houses is empty. Yes, they say, it is a fairly big house that is not very old which has been empty for years now.

I explain to them that I am looking around for a house for some people I know and ask them if they can phone the owners to find out if they are willing to rent the house. The neighbour picks up the phone and makes the phone call straight away. He puts down the phone and tells me that the owner would be happy to rent it and that we can go to look at it if I would like. Yes, I would certainly like to have a look.

We walk through a gate up a driveway that brings us onto higher ground. Once there I see a beautiful, new, and reasonably large house. Around it an enormous garden area that is completely bare and the house cannot be seen from the road.

After a tiled porch with a small sink on it, we enter a hall. There I see a set of stairs and a door. When I look up the steps I can see the roof tiles. This must be one of those houses designed for adding a second floor later. Due to a lack of money, they only build one floor initially. Most people here start off with big plans and as soon as the first floor is finished

they stop there for financial reasons. The result is a bungalow with a stairway in the hall that leads to the flat roof. If they do not have the money to finish the second floor, then they put a simple roof on it for now. When they have the money in the future to continue building they remove the roof, finish the second floor, and re-use the material from the roof.

We walk through the door into a new hall and to my right is the door to the living room. It is a large space with two doors leading out onto balconies with three windows. The room is neatly painted and has polyurethane window frames. The door straight ahead leads to the kitchen. The kitchen is nearly as big as the living room with a beautiful marble work top and nice kitchen cabinets that give the kitchen class. It is big enough for a dining table and maybe a seating area. The bath room has a shower, toilet, and a sink. There are two bedrooms and one has an extra shower.

With one door left to go, I enter into a small hall with a bathroom sink and another door behind, which is an Asian toilet on the floor.

The whole house is newly tiled and freshly painted. From the kitchen, I walk up to the balcony and fall quiet because of the stunning view. Left of me I can see the ancient city of Kaunos, spreading in front of me are the reed fields of the Dalyan Delta, and off to the right I can see and hear the waves breaking on Iztuzu Beach.

This house is so much better than the one I live in now and in a much better location. No way I am going to part with this house and decide that I will live here myself!

As soon as I explain this to the neighbour, he starts to smile. He is part of the family of the owner and knows that they need the money. He also thinks this it is so much better than where I live now. I explain that I want part of the field around it included to make a garden and that I want permission to fence it off so Dorcas can run around freely. And, I also want to enlarge the balcony and make it into a real veranda. I can just see myself sitting there with a cup of coffee in the early morning sun.

My neighbour picks up the phone again and, when he puts it down, he has a worried face. Afraid of what can go wrong, I ask what the problem is. The landlord does not know how much to ask for the place so he wants to know what I want to pay for it.

I don’t want to rip anybody off and explain what the houses in the village that I know of cost. This house is, without a doubt, the best of them all, but it would not be wise to give him too much as I do not have that kind of money.

I offer him the same amount as the most expensive rental in the village, adding that I want a lease with five years guaranteed. He makes one more phone call and laughs when he hangs up. It is a deal.

Yes, alright! Now I am going to move house while I had no plans on doing any such thing and it dazzles me a little.

My own place where I can stay as long as I want to, that is of this quality, is exactly what I want. I am not going to build on my land myself for a long time because of all the regulation problems that are still not resolved here.

It feels like I have jumped and am swimming in a strong current. With the help of the neighbour, his tractor and wagon, I am moved within two weeks to my new place.

Happy as one can be I sit with a glass of wine and enjoy how the mountains turn red in the fading sunlight. Finally, I have the feeling I am not living in a temporary house. If nothing comes in between, I may stay here forever. What a wonderful house and an even more wonderful location. I always felt at home in this village, but now I have finally found my spot here.

What about the friends from Dalyan? Over the past few weeks a house became available for rent in the village. The former tenant was a Dutch girl that left unexpectedly.

- Dragon in the Bushes –

It is half past ten in the evening and it is time to take Dorcas for his last walk of the day. I get his lead, grab my flashlight, and walk to the door as Dorcas comes running. For him, the last walk in the dark is very exciting. I walk with him through the gate into the olive grove next to the house. At ease, he sniffs around and puts his marks out by peeing on the obvious places.

It is very quiet and very dark. It is unbelievable how dark it can get here. The Dutch phrase I don’t see my hands in front of my eyes had no meaning to me in Holland, but here it is perfectly clear to me. I really cannot see my hands when I turn off the flashlight. Without it, I would probably walk straight into the bushes or into a tree. I am always very glad when there is that small sliver in the sky again after the new moon.

While I mindlessly walk my round, there is unexpectedly an unbelievable brrggghh sound. It sounds like something between the snorting of a pig and the neigh of a horse.

I stand still instantly and I feel my heart pounding in my throat. In shock I shine the flashlight into the bushes, but I see nothing. Next to me, Dorcas is standing stiffly also which, in itself, is alarming enough. Normally, when there is a wild boar or a fox he reacts by growling and pulling on his lead because he wants to go after it. But not now, and I hold my breath and I wait.

Nothing happens and I feel like a chicken. Bravely, but carefully, I take one step forward. The brrggghh sound is there again. I have no idea what it can be, but to me it sounds like there is a dragon in the bushes.

I shine the flashlight again and still I see absolutely nothing. I am really frightened now. Dorcas is standing very still with all the hair on his back standing straight up and he does not want to move any further either. He seems to be scared also and as soon as I realize this something snaps in me. I turn round and immediately run back to the house with Dorcas right behind me.

Once inside I stand with wobbly knees, heavily breathing, and wondering what to do. What if there is a wounded wild boar walking around? They can be very dangerous if they decide to attack. I should go back to see what it is otherwise I will never have the nerve to go walking there with Dorcas anymore. I realize, at the same time, that I do not have the nerve to do it. What can I do?

I am upset by the whole thing and need to talk it through with someone. I phone Aliye and tell her what has happened and, just by talking with someone, my heartbeat slows down. Aliye is really worried and says that she will phone a neighbour to have him check on it. I explain that phoning will not be necessary but she is determined and will not hear of it.

A few minutes later the neighbour arrives at my house with a shotgun over his shoulder. He also brought a strong flashlight and together we walk out into the olive grove. Will we find that nothing is wrong and that I have made a total fool of myself?

It does not take long before we spot a donkey quietly walking around. The neighbour explains to me that most likely the donkey was the problem. When a donkey is alarmed it will stand stiff and, as soon you come too close for their taste, they make this funny noise like a growl with their flapping lips.

Fine, all right! This would explain why Dorcas did not react to it. The wind must have come from behind us so he could not smell anything and since it was not moving, he simply did not see it.

A little later I sit with a glass of wine and recover from my scary experience. This sort of joke one should not have to experience too often. I know that there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of here in the dark, but I am not a hero by any means. This encounter will ensure that it takes at least a month or longer before I feel completely at ease again while walking in the dark. Long ago they set some donkeys free in the mountains and these wild donkeys walk around the village. They have done so well that we now have three groups running wild in and around the village. They are beautiful animals that survive really well here. They are not tame but also are not afraid of people because they have

never had a reason to be afraid. The donkeys are bigger than the ones I have seen in other Mediterranean countries. These are beautifully black with white noses and white rings around their eyes. They never cause any problems but, oh boy, did that sweetie scare me!

- Capers –

Every spring I see a type of bush with nice grey-green leaves that grow very quickly on the old woody branches from last year. On the new sprouts, in between the leaves on the fragile stems, appear the most beautiful flowers. By noon they are gone because of the strong sun. My plant books cannot give an answer as to what type of flower it is.

At one time I was walking through the forest with Aliye and I pointed them out to her.‘Look, Aliye, do you see those beautiful flowers? Do you know what they are?’ I ask.‘Oh yes, they are caper flowers,’ she says, casually.‘Capers? Do you mean those things they put on a pizza?’She walks up to the plant and says: ‘Sure, look, the flower buds are actually the capers.

My mom used to pickle them when I was a kid.’Full of amazement and with renewed interest, I look at them. I love canning and I can

already see the small jars of capers on my shelves in between the many hot sauces, ketchups, chutneys, and jams.

Unfortunately she has no idea how her mother did this, but she promises to ask her.A few days later the phone rings and it is Aliye. She says that her mom did not do this

herself but her sister was the one that did and she will get the recipe for me.For some reason nobody thinks about capers anymore and the flowers disappear.

It is a year later and it is caper time again. Normally one can find any recipe on the internet, but there is only general information on capers. I read that there are two types of capers. One type is the caper as we know it, and the other type is poisonous and can give you all kinds of scary diseases. Fine with me, but do tell me how I can tell between the two? I guess they did not see that as being important enough.

Today, the mother of Aliye is coming to the village and I plan to bring the caper issue back onto to the agenda.

As soon as I am at Aliye’s house enjoying a cup of coffee and the initial polite pleasantries are done with, I inquire about the capers. I ask her if she knows about the two different types and whether the capers growing here are the right ones.

She has never heard of two different types. She says that the plants that she sees growing along the road here are the same as the ones she remembers from Cyprus, where she originally comes from.

I guess I will take my chances then. So, I ask if she can find out how to pickle them and she picks up her mobile phone and phones someone in Cyprus immediately. I hear all sorts of things that have to do with pickling being repeated in rapid Turkish.

She ends the phone call and says: ‘Now I finally know how to do this. You have to put them in water to get the bitterness out of them for five days by putting in fresh water every day.

‘Just like the olives?’ I ask.‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Then you must put them on a flat pan and put them out in the sun until

they become all wrinkly. After this you put them in jars and fill the jars with salted vinegar.’

‘Exactly how much salt goes into the vinegar?’ I ask.‘I don’t have any idea but if you buy the pre-salted vinegar nothing can go wrong.’I leave there very happy knowing I finally know how to do the capers!In good spirits, I head for the mountains with a bag and Dorcas to collect capers. For

hours I walk from bush to bush to collect them. It is unreal what a load of capers one needs to fill a single jar. I had in mind putting up at least five jars but I soon had to adjust that idea. In the end, I go home with enough capers for a maximum of three jars.

After seven or eight days I am ready to fill my jars. They cutely laugh at me from behind the glass. It was exciting to see that, after a day or two of soaking in the water, the capers got the significant spots that I did not see on the fresh ones. I just hope they will taste good. After the drying there was not all that much left of them. It will cause me far less trouble to fill a few jars next year now that I know how. I kept a close watch on the caper bushes and found out that the caper apples are the seed bulbs that appear after the flowering. Now my next task will be to find out how to pickle these and my shelves will have two welcome newcomers.

-New Neighbour-

Next to my house stands another small little house almost built against mine. It is obviously older, but it looks very well looked after. The mother of my landlord lives there. She is a Turkish woman who wears big flowery trousers, blouses with even more flowers, and the well- known headscarf. Like many older woman, she has difficulty with walking. Most likely because of the bent over posture in which they work, the strange way these women sit (they pull their legs up under them sideways), and due to the damp beds they sleep in during the winter.

I introduce myself to her and she looks me over with two piercing eyes. Her eyes radiate a great deal of power and I can see that she is obviously a strong woman.

Her age I cannot judge simply because the degree of hardship that these women have faced in their lives seems to create this look. She can be anywhere between sixty and seventy-five years old. Apparently she is happy that somebody lives next door again and gives me a warm welcome.

She is very friendly and watches with interest when all my belongings find a place in the house. She is not too shy to come walking into the house and have a thorough look around at the progress. Most of the time she brings me fresh cucumbers or lettuce out of her own vegetable garden and she even manages to become friends with Dorcas.

What an extremely tolerant human being she must be, if you take into consideration how her life up to now must have been. Without a doubt she has never been further away than Ortaca, some ten kilometres down the road. She has never eaten in a restaurant, been inside a bank, watched foreign TV, or even had contact with a foreigner. Most likely she will not be able to read or write and knows little, or nothing, of the modern western way of life where woman live as they choose and go where they want.

Her house has one room with a sofa that she can also sleep on, a wall of cupboards for clothing, spare linens, and big jars of olives sitting on carpets on the floor.

Outside is a small extra room built on later with a modern toilet and a shower unit. The premises is neatly swept and has two plastic chairs and a table made of a wooden cable spool that, before, were used to contain a few hundred meters of cable.

Everywhere are old oil tins that are opened on the top, painted white, and full of flowering plants. Under the enormous mulberry tree, I see her outdoor kitchen. There is an open fireplace with a tiny wooden duffer that can be no higher than twenty centimetres in front of it. Next to it is a ramshackle rack with some pots and pans on it. Her garden is about a hundred and fifty square meters of which most is vegetable garden. But to be honest, she has everything one needs in a climate like this. Add a laptop and an internet connection and it would do me fine.

I do not feel that she disapproves with what I do even though, in her eyes, I must seem to walk around half-naked in my shorts and t-shirt. The dog and the cat are allowed in the house, which is something that is out of the question here. I live alone in this big house with all these things and she must never have seen so many books together in one place. I also have male visitors and, according to traditional village gossip, this can only mean one thing…

And more of those funny habits foreigners must have as she keeps monitoring everything with great interest. When I present her one of my crazy pastries, she accepts it while laughing out loud. She has probably never seen fruitcake before. Most Turks from the villages will not eat anything that they do not know from their parents kitchens.

The only thing I have caught her doing is staring at my friend Leon. He has long hair, a beard, and is building my veranda. She can stand and watch him work outside all day.

It is also very clear to me that she does exactly as she pleases. Yesterday, I could see her walk from her shower to the house completely stark naked. (her shower is outside) Was it much too warm to get dressed? I do not know.

Today, her daughter in law has arrived; she cut my neighbours hair and put colouring into it. I have not seen the headscarf back on yet so everybody may see how good she looks. The headscarf was not knotted correctly most of the time anyway. Often, she wore it more like a head band around her head only to keep her hair together. Then she looked more like an American Indian than a Turkish woman. The neighbour and I will be the best of pals I am sure.

- Snake in the House –

Talking with a panicky voice, the neighbour comes walking up to me and I can hardly understand what she is saying to me. Her enormous dialect, her inability to adjust her language to my level, and the fact that she is missing some of her teeth, make it difficult for me. The only thing I hear really well is the word ‘Oda!’ which means room. And ‘Yilan!’ which means snake. Not too hard to figure out that there is a snake in her house somewhere.

I shout to Leon who is working on the veranda and explain to him that there is a problem at the neighbour’s house.

She walks quietly wailing in front of us. She is really upset and, once we arrive at her house, she will not have us take off our shoes because of the snake. With a frightened look on her face, she explains that she saw the snake enter the house and then did not see it again. She will not go in herself, which is very wise, because these snakes can be dangerous to older people and children. Once bitten, you have to tie off that area and get to the clinic in Dalyan as soon as possible. There you will get a temporary antidote before they take you to a hospital in Muĝla were they keep the serum. They do not have this in Dalyan because it will not keep for very long. Aside from the treatment, the bitten part of the body will swell up enormously and hurt very badly for days. Luckily, we will not have to go through that with her.

Carefully, but not completely at ease, we enter the house. We lift the cushions from her sofa bed and carry them outside.

‘How are we going to do this?’ asks Leon.‘No idea, catching snakes is not something I do daily,’ I reply.‘Well, I guess we just have to carry everything outside, don’t you think?’‘Yes, I am glad she doesn’t have that many things, but we will have to find it. We can

not leave her like this’ I say, much braver than I am feeling.In principle I am not afraid of snakes but standing in a small space and knowing that

there is one there is completely different.‘I wish we knew what type of a snake it is,’ I say.‘If it is a viper we might end up going to Muĝla ourselves!’ answers Leon.Slowly we work on and, one by one, we take the carpets out of the house. No snake to

be seen as the neighbour watches while we remove everything from her house.As soon as we have the carpets out we can then move the sofa bed. ‘Bingo!’ A grey-

chequered snake shoots from under it and disappears under the refrigerator. Behind us, granny screams. We subconsciously stepped backwards also.

‘What now?’ I ask Leon.

‘We need something to chase it from under the refrigerator and, I am afraid, we will then have to kill it.’

Normally I am not in favour of killing them, but I see no other way now and say: ‘It is as it is, we have no choice. But how do we do this?’

Leon walks outside while I keep my eyes on the refrigerator. We do not want to lose it again. Leon returns with a firm piece of wood and a long thin one.

‘Here, you take the thin one to chase it out from under there as soon as I say so. Then I will try to kill it with the big piece,’ says Leon.

I hold the piece at the very end because I dare not come closer. I do not have the courage to sit on my knees. What if it comes forwards! I bend over deeply and poke with the stick under the refrigerator while Leon stands ready for the kill.

The snake shoots away from its place under the refrigerator and goes to the empty corner behind it. On alert, it is laying there with its head up, hissing at us. Leon does not hesitate and lets the piece of wood land hard on top of the snake. We both make a brave jump backwards while the snake struggles a bit and then lays still. We can carry on breathing again.

With the help of a long branch, Leon sweeps the dead snake outside. Granny is nearly dancing with relief. More relaxed, we start carrying her things back inside.

All grannies’ prejudice of beards and long hair has disappeared. From now on, Leon is her hero.

- Epilogue -

All in all, I have lived there for six years. What wonderful and educational years they have been. Especially my encounter with the villagers of Candır was very impressive. These people live their lives as I think life should be lived. Without a set monthly income they have a good existence which is definitely not a poor one. They have enough good healthy food on the table, a roof above their heads, and always good company. That is really what life is all about.

Over time, slowly but surely, I have learned many things and yet, even more importantly, I have unlearned many others. My budget requires that I can no longer buy on impulse. It is enough for the overheads, food, and a glass of wine every now and then, but no more.

Because I try to live like these people, I have money left over at the end of the month these days. Vegetables come from the vegetable garden or are simply put into my hands while passing a neighbour when I walk Dorcas. Everybody has plenty and meat comes from the wild boar that is usually snorting around in my deep freezer in nice kilo portions.

The raw materials for my jams, ketchup, chutneys, capers, and olives, I take from nature or my garden and make myself. All I need for this is sugar, vinegar, salt, and the time to do it. Herbs grow in the spring on the mountain slopes and all I have to do is to make sure that I am there at the right time of year to collect them.

Milk, cheese, yoghurt, and eggs I buy from my neighbour so she can make a little extra money. Bread I make myself as I only need to buy flour and yeast for it. All of the other things that I need I am able to buy in Dalyan. Is it a boring existence? Maybe for some it might be, but I feel happy living this way. This way of life is very time consuming and nearly impossible to handle in combination with holding down a job. The daily care for the garden and the preparation of food takes up a big part of the day.

I have no television and have no other way to hear news. Even this is really nice after a period of withdrawal. As soon as I was without a television to watch, I realised how much misery it pours out over you causing a great amount of restlessness.

An Internet connection allows me stay in touch with family and friends. New internet technology allows me the ability to place phone calls via the computer to everyone for no cost. Any other information I might need I can always find on the computer.

All of this and an enormous number of books make certain that I am never bored. Believe it or not, there are still many things I would like to do but I simply do not have the time.

Of course, I have had my doubts about my decision to come and live here. Sure, the ease of being able to communicate in your own language is something I really miss. Every time somebody comes to visit from Holland I love the endless conversations we have in Dutch.

To be able to sniff through second-hand bookshops is something else I really miss doing. But regrets? No, I do not have them now and never did.