The Trip to Trabzon Or, A polemic on the Turkish planning process

You know those weeks where nothing quite goes right? I mean, nothing really goes wrong, but man, nothing works the way it should. This has been a large part of my experience in Turkey. Moving to a new country is bound to have its emotional ups and downs and sure, each country has its quirks.


In France I was made to wait outside at 5:30 in the morning to get a ticket so I could come back in the afternoon with an unknown array of documents that nobody seemed to be able to agree upon, all just to get a residence permit that I really didn’t need.


In the Netherlands your bike could be stolen while you were still on it—well not literally but damn, you turn your back for one second…


In Turkey, nobody seems worried about paying us.


It seems the Turkish Higher Education Commission (YÖK) decided they wanted more Americans through the Fulbright program. So, they told the American Fulbright Commission that they would pay our salaries. They Americans handed us over, with only a cryptic notification, without asking it seems any questions at all. Well YÖK changed their minds, passed us off to the universities who are now telling us they don’t really have to pay us for the first month we were here because according to the paperwork that we had no access to, we didn’t legally exist. Some universities, saddled with this new salary and no increase of funding from YÖK, denied the housing we were guaranteed, ignored the Turkish lessons we were guaranteed, and are now saying they may or may not be able to pay us some time perhaps in January or February maybe before we leave but who knows maybe not. The Americans feel badly, but ultimately they can’t do anything because they gave us to the Turks.


I have spent a few weeks debating about writing this in the blog. It is a pretty sad picture of an incredibly well respected program, but it’s the truth and I believe that while this may not be the most professional thing I have ever done, it is the right thing to do. If I wanted to battle for housing, salary and general decency, I would have joined the Peace Corps. And while I have been amazingly lucky, with a staff and administration who genuinely care about our well being, who have mobilized to help us in each and every crisis, ultimately this should have never been allowed to occur.


Every conversation I have had with my colleagues seems to reinforce that this is a typical day in the office. And, while I am loath to impose my American standards on a foreign situation, I signed a grant authorization with THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT and not the Turkish one. But, I guess, this is the situation and I can complain until my face is purple, but I have found that the more I look the more I find evidence that this is not a unique situation here, it’s a cultural thing.


Take my most recent trip to Trabzon…


After a 16-hour bus ride, we arrived at 4 am. The whole thing was nothing short of a fiasco. I am still not entirely sure who was responsible for the planning of the whole week, but it seems that they did not pay any attention to several critical details. It all started on Saturday night when Selen discovered that we were both scheduled on a bus that would arrive in Istanbul the following Sunday, at 3:30pm.


Problemo numero uno.


Remember, this is an 18-hour bus ride. Remember that I must hop a bus to Tekirdağ once I arrive in Istanbul. Remember that there are thousands (literally) of students making this exact same trek. Remember that I work at 8:45 in the morning on Monday. Remember, any of you who have had the pleasure of interacting with me when I’ve been deprived of my necessary 8 hours of sleep. Problem, var.


Typically this could be remedied with a quick phone call to the bus station, or even better to the airport but, yes, it is the week of Kurban Bayrami. What does that mean? Ever tried to catch a flight anywhere in the continental US the day before Thanksgiving? Multiply that by like a thousand and you’ll pretty much have it. There are no busses. There are only planes at astronomically high prices (not 45TL one way but something more like 185TL).


Now, I have just met these people. Like, really, about five minutes ago. I am not about to complain about an important family trip that I have been graciously invited to partake in, plus they must have the anxiety of the engagement to contend with. Selen, however, is having none of it. After about an hour of going back and forth we finally decide to take the Friday tickets (initially meant for the parents of the man getting engaged) to Bursa, and then on Saturday I will take a bus to Tekirdağ.


So, like I said, we hop the bus to Trabzon, well, we try to hop the bus, but its an hour late. Not quite the ideal way to start an 18-hour trip. We get on; everybody is already in a bad mood. I believe I have talked about the quality of Turkish busses, I have stated before that typically they are quite comfortable especially considering the prices. Some even have little TVs (not that I really use them, since I don’t understand much still.) This bus was more of a Fung Wah. While it did have an attendant (all busses have an attendant who serves tea, water, and little goodies periodically) he looked sleep deprived, then Selen and I noticed the water had been stored under our seats. The bus smelled of stale cigarettes, and said attendant would take my coffee/tea before I drank it since I would let it cool longer than he felt like waiting.


My biggest fear going into this whole thing was that there are no toilets on Turkish busses. After many discussions, we have still yet to comprehend why this is. I was unsure, therefore, how often we would stop. Well, much to my surprise, we stopped at least every 2 hours, this pleasant surprise quickly soured once the sun went down and they would throw the lights on and open the two doors letting the cold night air rush in. There was, therefore, very little chance of sleeping for more than two hours at a time.


There was a man who got on the bus about half way to Trabzon who sat in front of me who had a habit of lowering the back of his seat abruptly. Each and every time he would pin my leg in a most painful way, once he smashed me in the face and even my loud yelps of pain did nothing to get his attention. My favorite stop had to be the one at about midnight or 1 am. It was probably about 40 out, windy, and there was nowhere to go. The restaurant smelled of something putrid, plus their windows and doors were all open, and the outside courtyard had a horrid mingled smell of human refuse and stale hot-dogs. I assumed the human refuse smell came from the bathrooms, but when I went to relieve myself, I found that they were particularly devoid of smell. I am still perplexed where that smell came from but needless to say, I chose not to buy any food from the establishment.


Finally we arrive in Trabzon—an hour early, even with the hour delay at the start, problem is, it is 4am and freezing. We make our way into the bus station and everyone kind of just lingers. Selen starts asking questions and I know there’s something wrong. Apparently we had reached the end of the planning. This was the end of the line. It was 4 am but nobody had thought to figure out where we would be sleeping, even though they knew we would arrive after the hotel closed for the night.


Problemo numero dos.


Selen (just please, picture this if you know her) flies into a frenzy. She’s yelling at her uncle—the plan’s architect—who it seems, was completely aware of the pitfalls and totally fine with his plan’s lack of plan. He was content to hang with the homeless in this semi-closed bus station until his sister woke up and could come rescue us from this hellhole. I was just sitting, semi-comatose, on a radiator letting it warm my backside. It was—unlike anything else that whole 24-hours—quite soothing.


Ultimately Selen won. At about 4:15 we hopped in some taxis and drove to Selen’s uncle’s sister’s house. She and her family were up to welcome us. Then we all sat down and started chatting. I noticed that nobody seemed to have any plan of sleeping. It was damn early and we could, if we got down to business, get 5 or 6 hours in before we had to do anything. After close to an hour and a half of bleary-eyed discussion (all in Turkish) I gave into the idea of sleep, it seemed all anybody needed was for one person to give in so that they wouldn’t feel bad giving in, too. I was perfectly content being the ringleader. I am foreign and was getting nothing from the conversation, especially in the state I was in. So, after two hours of a nap, I got up and started our first day in Trabzon.


----------------------------------------------------


I am trying now to reajust my expectations, and I am making a great deal of progress. Patience is a virtue right? And I have never been one to be called patient. Its good practice and all of this has brought me closer to my friends here in Tekirdag, because they have been my sanity lifeline. But, I am no f-ing volunteer. I want my money. 

Getting engaged

No, not me. After what I’ve seen, the engagement process here is a sort of familial hazing. It seems to be designed to see if you can hack it. The whole thing actually seems like a pretty good idea, it reinforces something that I think many American lovebirds neglect to reflect upon; marriage is a blending of families. Sometimes this blending is not so much of a delicious smoothie but more of a literal putting of family members in a blender, but we'll get back to that.


So, typically when a couple gets engaged in the US there is very little family involvement. Sometimes, if you’re really old-fashioned, the father’s permissions is sought, but everybody knows that if he protests, there’s not much that can be done. Turkish engagements are an entirely different animal.


Aytaç and Sibel decided to get engaged, but it was less a decision to purchase a diamond engagement ring and more a decision to tell their families that they would like to get engaged. Sibel lives in Giresun, Aytaç lives in Bursa. They met at university and now live, like most unmarried Turks their age, at home with their families. The problem is, their families live about 18 hours away from eachother, complicating their courtship. They decided, like many in their position, to become engaged. So, here we are in Trabzon, where Aytaç's father is originally from--about two hours from Giresun. 


Sibel, her mother, her aunt, her sister and her sister’s fiancé all came to Trabzon to join Aytaç, myself, Selen, Şengül (Aytaç ‘s aunt), his mother, and Selen’s mother, Sennur in the traditional shopping for the engagement rings. Sibel and co. were an hour late, and poor Aytaç was all bent out of shape. It had come to my attention through several conversations that Sibel’s family was particularly difficult. Her father was an ass (again, as far as I was informed), her sister was difficult and self-centered and her mother was something of a wet blanket. It seemed as if this evening was headed for disaster. Aytaç’s family made no secret of being no fan of Sibel’s family. They also seemed to have no qualms about wearing these sentiments proudly on their sleeves.

Finally they arrived and we made our way into the çarsi (bazaar-ish market place), we went from jewelry store to jewelry store looking at and comparing engagement rings. These rings are not what you typically receive in an American engagement. Rather, they are more ornate wedding bands. These bands are exchanged at the engagement ceremony and worn on both the man and woman’s right ring finger until the day of the wedding when they are moved to the left hand. We went to several stores before the couple decided on their rings. They made the purchase and then we continued on to the second half of our adventure.

Sibel needed a dress that she would be wearing during the engagement ceremony. I figured some sort of nice cocktail dress would suffice, but no. Think prom dress. We went into half a dozen stores, but it seemed that she had tried on a dress in Giresun and had not found one in Trabzon that could match it. She was finally convinced to try on several dresses and almost made two purchases before backing out last second. It was like wedding dress shopping on crack. Everybody had an opinion, everybody liked a different dress, and poor Sibel was constantly being overpowered by her mother’s, aunt’s and sister’s opinions. After several cups of tea, a simit or two, and about two hours later, they called the shop in Giresun and reserved the dress there.

Two days later, we headed out to Giresun where we went straight to the hair salon. Now, going to the hair salon is still a very posh thing to do. Think 1950s—when every woman with any kind of income would go to the hair salon in the morning to get her hair done before doing her daily activities. I mean, it’s not that common, but women go regularly before any sort of important social engagement. This is no exception. After spending time at the hair dresser’s—about 2 ½ hours of time—we finally headed over to Sibel’s house. None of us had eaten since about 10:30 in the morning and it was now about 6:30pm. Everyone was stressed and excited and very much in need of food, but alas…

We arrived as Sibel’s house where there were already easily 35 people crammed into their tiny apartment living room. The heat was on and everyone is looking slightly uncomfortable. All the men were dressed in old suits, sitting on the gigantic sectional, reclining with their thighs splayed, leaving very little room for all us new arrivals. Nearly all of the women were dressed with headscarves in floor-length jackets, bustling around after nutty children. We were quickly directed to the children’s bedroom and offered seats on the bunk bed and a few chairs crammed into the open floor space. Neither Selen nor I were entirely sure if this was going to be a gender-segregated ceremony. She had never attended one of these before, plus we were in Trabzon, on the Black Sea, where they have their own distinct traditions. Plus this family was significantly more conservative than Selen’s. Eventually the women convinced the men to move into chairs, freeing up space for us so we were offered a seat in the stifling living room. After about an hour of a penetrating, awkward silence, Sibel and Aytaç arrived, Aytaç’s father decided it was time to make the proposal.


Now, this is what Selen translated for me, he said something to the extent of: “We have travelled a long way to come out to Trabzon (for more about this—see the next post), we believe that Sibel will make a good addition to our family, we are asking for your permission.” To this, Sibel’s father stood up and responded something of the following, “We as a family have thought a great deal about this. We have discussed it as a family and we have come to the conclusion that they will make eachother happy. So, yes, we give our consent.”

Now my understanding was that her family was very reluctant at the beginning, her father made a big fuss about her Aytaç taking her across the country, and who would look after him in his old age? Who would pray for his soul at his grave? Hmm? I don’t know if this was an outward manifestation of his reluctance to allow his 24 year old daughter to become engaged, but it seems he relented to the whole thing. When I first met the mother, I mean, wow. She looked like one of those mother-in-laws that only film writers seem to be able to create.

To all this, Aytaç’s family was of course hurt. Though, Aytaç himself is a very young groom. Also, 24. It seems his father too was looking perhaps to prevent such a union. This made for a very uncomfortable push and pull between the families with Aytaç bearing the brunt of it all. His English was labored, but he explained to me the whole time leading up to this day that he was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to handle all this animosity between the families. This takes me back to the comment about the engagement being some sort of a hazing process. The families must interact for this event because tradition has held firm, they are still the ones who must participate for the engagement to become a reality. While I’m not sure I could handle something like this, it did bring up some very important questions that many couples don’t really confront until they are already deep into a marriage.


In my opinion the best part of the entire scene was the fact that Sibel and Aytaç were forced, by the sheer number of people, out into the hall the whole time that this was happening. They had absolutely no say in anything that was going on. They weren’t phyiscally present when the decision was made. Okay, yes, they dated for several years and they had chosen eachother, but I just couldn’t keep myself from comparing the whole thing to an American engagement, something that is so personal and really something that only takes place between the couple.

Anyhow, after this they brought out the rings which they exchanged. The rings were tied together by a red ribbon adorned with nazars, The ribbon was cut, then a cake was brought in, they fed eachother cake. Finally after this, everyone relaxed, we GOT TO EAT, and take thousands of pictures. I got asked a million and a half times if I was married. When they finally understood that nope, no husband, not even a boyfriend, I had all sorts of offers from grandmas about their grandsons who lived all over the place.


Now, they wait, until 2012. I’ve got an invitation, all I need is a date.... 

Thoughts on the Turkish hazırlık, its students and uncomfortable racial discussions

So my camera is out of commission. I, like the genius I am, packed the wrong camera charger when I came to Turkey. So, for nearly a month now I have been wandering around camera-less. Trying to think of something to write without having images to back it up has led to this entry. One about my students. 


Anyone who spoke to me at any point last year is pretty aware of my aversion to teaching. After being a teaching assistant at HWS for the French department, I was pretty aware that teaching is not my calling. However, if you're a broke twenty-something and you want to travel for free, teaching English is the way to go. Still didn't interest me. When I saw the Fulbright ETA program, why on Earth would I have applied then? Teaching university aged students seemed interesting to me. They were adults who would need minor parenting, because they were enrolled in these English classes, they had an already-established desire to learn English. Well, much to my dismay, I was informed, upon arrival in Ankara that I would essentially be teaching kids in a post-grad year. "Damn it," was really all I could muster. 


After nearly eight weeks of teaching, much to my surprise, I actually enjoy my job. Yes, there are days where I want to physically assault a student or two, but really what workplace doesn't have that kind of tension? There are days where I wish either my Turkish or their English were better so I could explain, properly, how they have made my day or even my week with the little things they say or do. There are other days where they pull me out of a pit of dispair without even realizing they are doing anything comical. 


For example: The American government gave us these massive pictures for us to use in the classroom. They are supposed to show "average American life" but I mean, what the hell does that even mean, right? To them it means showing our diversity, be it ethnic, cultural, social, or educational. I decided to use these massive pictures (they're probably 18"x 24") and have them describe what is happening in the images. They could come up with their own ideas about what the people are doing or thinking. The whole goal was to get them to have a combined use of the present continuous (I am doing) and the present simple (I do). Unfortunately, Turkish-English dictionaries can have poor translations and they certainly don't take the time to explain nuance. So, I kind of laughed it off when, to describe an image of two boys in wheelchairs playing tennis, my students started the sentence with "The two defective boys are playing..." For some reason, handicapped and disabled are not in their dictionaries. So after five classes of this, it got to be pretty funny. I had to explain that no, people are not defective but rather that word is used for tables, chairs, windows etc. The students were embarrassed, but things like this happen all the time. 


For example, the word for a black person in the Turkish-English dictionary is negro. Which, yes, I had to take the time to explain was not a word that people use. In fact, it is a word that is very hurtful to many people. It also doesn't help that Eti, a Turkish version of Nabisco, has a chocolate cookie called a Negro.

Yep, that's right. A negro. 

But really, trying to explain such a complex socio-cultural history as racist language, to a bunch of students that think "I am go to the my home" is a correct sentence, is a very difficult matter. It also forced me into some pretty uncomfortable situations. One student, a real rap connoisseur, asked about the word... yes... nigger.  I cringe to even write it here. Saying it in a loud enough voice that my students can hear me, I find myself saying, almost yelling, one of the most foul, hurtful words in the English language. I find myself diving into the deep abyss of racial history, I find myself explaining slavery and Jim Crowe to a bunch of Turkish bio-chemical and agricultural students who really, for the most part, couldn't care less.

Then there are the times when students say truly silly things, for example, they are a street walker. When I explained that this means prostitute, they certainly listened up. They often confuse prepositions. One student told me that his window is in his bed. And, while certainly not a roaring hilarity, it makes me chuckle to see how difficult our language really is. Turkish does not have prepositions but rather cases that indicate in, at, on, under, over, to, from etc. which is really a whole kind of nightmare for me, but they are literally having to include words that simply don't exist in their own language. 

Then there are the little things, like the name Ufuk, a common name here that (it means horizon), you know, the 12-year-old me finds pretty hilarious. There are also little things like these that I see around the city on a daily basis that, while they can't even come close to China's legendary poor translations, are still pretty funny. 

But wait, what's that in the lower right hand corner?

Sexed-semen? Is there any other kind?

Again, heh, my inner twelve-year-old. Snot, heh.

The little white family, with white teeth, on the toothpaste tube, wait, white power? 

The NAACP would do well to come to Turkey and do some sensitivity training...

Now again, not to make light of these racial issues but in Turkey, they simply aren't an issue for Turks. Of course that's not to say they don't have their own problems, but their problems aren't defined by race. They simply have no platform from which to begin to understand my aversion to these racially charged words and phrases. Plus, it doesn't help that you simply cannot discuss their historical "problems" and yes "problems" is in quotations because I can be thrown in jail for mentioning them. Best not to, not here any how. 

There's also a town called Batman.

Selen's birthday dinner!

Cheers!

I met Selen in 2003 when we picked her up from the AFS orientation in Boston. We took her to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch and horrified her with American portions. Our relationship--while tense at times--has withstood several years and one giant ocean. I am lucky to know her and constantly reflect on how lucky I am to havefamily living so near by to sleepy Tekirdag, especially when that family is located in Istanbul.

Well, last week was an important holiday. It was the 25th anniversary of Selen's birth so of course I made the trek to Istanbul. Before anybody gets any ideas about Turkish public transportation, I would like to interject a bit of my own first hand experience. Their busses are phenomenal. And, while I have yet to use their train system (I've only heard good things) their subways are are also impressive. I had a certain amount of skepticism before boarding my first bus but in the several I have since taken, my respect and affection for their services has only grown. This is nothing like the Fung Wah and from what Emily has told me of her trip to Boston from Rochester, it seems Greyhound has something to learn as well. They serve tea at least once each ride and also offer some kind of cookie or little cake, even though the trip averages 1:45. You do occasionally have to put up with a smoking driver, but I have found the seats comfortable and the staff friendly. One driver was so worried I would not be able to find the university on my own (after living there for 4 weeks) that he enlisted a student to deliver me there. When she saw me getting off to go to the hotel, she in turn enlisted another student who was also getting off at my stop to be sure that I found the hotel. Oh and the going rate is between $7 and $11 each way. But, back to the original story...

Delicious little fish that tasted like heaven.

Selen's birthday was a blast. Due to my lack of close friends (... I am still optimistic) as well as the social taboo of single women drinking in public places, I have not had a "night on the town" since I arrived. We headed to a fasil in Taksim, the famous center of Istanbulli nightlife and shopping (as well as the home to the Turkish Worker's Party--yes the communists are located in the center of Turkish metropolitan capitalism... hahaha.) We went in through some door that looked like an alley access route and then proceeded up a flight of stairs into a beautiful, dimly lit restaurant. I got to meet her friends (who were all amazing and so patient with both my English and Turkish), we got to dance to traditional music and eat delicious mezes (Turkish tapas.) The raki flowed, as did the music, as did the dancing. It was one of the more refreshing nights I have had (though, truth be told raki leaves you with a bad headache...)

The damage, both to the food and to my head...

Hazırlık

I am teaching at a university but in a hazırlık or prep-year. Depending on the university and department in which you wish to study, a proficiency in English is necessary. Because the language programs in most high schools (much like in the US) are quite substandard, many students fail to pass the entrance exam. These otherwise qualified students are then relegated to the hazırlık where they receive 26 hours of English instruction per week for an entire academic year.

Nearly all the Fulbrighters from this year were sent to smaller cities with new universities. Namık Kemal opened, as far as I can tell, in 2006. The school expands greatly from year to year and is still under construction.

Many people have asked how the teaching is going. And, interestingly enough, its going quite well. My students are great and while they may only understand a portion of what I ask them to do, they are very enthusiastic. I am hoping this enthusiasm does not wane in the weeks and months to come, its the only thing that makes the teaching tolerable. Why is that, you ask?

As I mentioned, the university is quite new. In fact the building I teach in is not yet completed which makes for an outrageously loud academic atmosphere.

This is the view from one of my classrooms. Notice the boarded windows and the construction material strewn throughout.

The doors were quickly thrown up a day or so before classes start, some being put on backwards so they do not close (and cannot block out the sound of welding and drilling.) All the classrooms are missing a teacher's table or desk and many were made far too small to house the 25 students that each must hold. Every room lacks a window that actually opens, turning them into ovens, roasting both myself and the students in the afternoon sun.

I tried to put this all out of my mind, I tried not to be such a Debbie Downer but then my colleagues all spent an afternoon complaining as well with one so enraged that she dragged our Rector (something of a cross between a President and a Provost) down to see the situation. After spending no more than three minutes surveying the situation, he told her to calm down, that everything is fine, that she should stop complaining. I suggested she should have asked him to observe a day's worth of classes (where he could sit and roast in his three-piece suit) before passing judgement but it seems that this would have overstepped the lines of propriety.

Even the old buildings aren't safe from the construction crews. Our office building must be updated to become earthquake proof, but the government does not pay to re-build buildings but rather to alter them and their foundations. So, each year they knock down one of the walls, inserting some new foundational elements and then patch the wall back up. The effect looks something like this.

Notice the offices above, mine is on that first floor just to the right of the post. And yes, the building opens to the outside.

Its all been quite the adventure, really. And, let me say, once the classrooms are completed and the workmen go home, and the dust from the construction is finally cleared, the building will be magnificent. Its just the road to get there is already taking a toll. And its only day 4.