All posts tagged Turkish Culture

  • September 7, 2014

    Turkish Travel Tips II: Speaking Bad German in Turkey is Better than Speaking Bad Turkish

    german flagOne thing that I learned in Turkey is that speaking German in Turkey might actually be more useful than speaking Turkish.

    Although I tried my very best to pass as Turkish, something about my ginger hair, milky white skin, and battered green backpack seemed to alert people to the fact that I am not from their country.

    This was not usually a problem, except when it came to communication. For some reason, even though my Turkish is about 1000 times better than my German, people assume that because I am from the West, German would naturally make more sense as a communicative tool. In fact, at least once a week somebody refused to accept that I don’t speak German and doggedly continued telling me their life story as I gazed uncomprehendingly at their face and make small noises of protestation in Turkish or English.

    When I tried to buy a bus ticket:

    Me: Bilet Izmir’e almak istiyorum. I would like to buy a ticket to Izmir.

    Ticket Agent: Ah, maalesef Almanca bilmiyorum. Ah, Unfortunately, I don’t speak German. Here is my colleague, the handsome and multilingual Berk.

    Berk: Hallo. Ich spreche Deutsch. Sprechst du Deutsch? Ich liebe Deutsch sprechen! Hi. I speak German. Do you speak German? I LOVE speaking German!

    Me: Errr, etwas. Nein. Hayir. Almanca bilmiyorum. Türkcem Almancam’dan çok daha iyi. Izmir’e gidiyorum. Biletler var mɪ? Er, a bit? No. No. I don’t speak German. My Turkish is much better than my German. I’m going to Izmir. Do you have tickets?

    Berk: Ich wohne in Berlin, aber meine Familie wohne in Kuşadasɪ. Einkaufen. Rauchen. Apfel. Flughaven. I live in Berlin, but my family lives in Kuşadasɪ . . . he continues in German as I stare at his face blankly.

    Me: Almancam yok. İngilizce konuşabilirim. Ne zaman otobus Izmir’e gidiyor? Lütfen, bilet alabilir miyim? I have no German. I speak English. When does the bus to Izmir go? Please, can I buy a ticket?

    Berk: Fünf Uhr. Ich habe ein Haus in Munich. Schwester. Lederhosen. Tankwart. Five o’clock. I have a house in Munich . . . and so on in German.

    Me: İngilizce biliyorum. Fransizce biliyorum. Turkçe az biliyorum. Almanca yok yok YOK. I speak English. I speak French. I speak some Turkish. I have NO German WHATsoever.

    Berk: Hands me ticket.

    Me: Sağ olun. Çok teşekkürler. Iyi günler. Thanks. Thanks very much. Have a nice day!

    Berk: Kein Problem!

    When the internet stops working in my coffee shop 

    Me: Çok pardon. Internet yok. Internet çalɪşmɪyor. Excuse me! I’m very sorry! There’s no internet. The internet’s not working.

    Barista: İngilizce bilmiyorum. I don’t speak English.

    Me: Not a problem, because I am speaking to you in Turkish! And for the love of all that is good, I know my accent’s not that bad.

    Barista: Bakar mɪsɪnɪz! İngilizce, Almanca biliyor musunuz? Excuse me! Does anybody in the café speak English or German?

    Person in the café: Hallo. Ich spreche Deutsch! Ich liebe Deutsch sprechen! Die Toilette suchen Sie? Well hello! I speak German! I LOVE speaking German! Are you looking for the washrooms?

    Me: Nein. Tuvaletinizi istemiyorum. Internet çalɪşmɪyor. Anladɪnɪz mɪ? No. I don’t want the washroom.The internet isn’t working. Do you understand?

    Person in the café: Die Toilette ist nach oben. The toilet is upstairs.

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  • September 1, 2014

    Turkish Travel Tips: Public Transport and the Humble Dolmuş

    The humble minibus, or dolmuş (dol-MOOSH), as it is known in Turkish is, for most tourists to Turkey, a gem hiding in plain sight.

    This is a dolmuş. They always have their destinations written on the front, but if you're going somewhere in between, just ask the driver.

    This is a dolmuş. They always have their destinations written on the front, but if you’re going somewhere in between, just ask the driver.

    If somebody put a gun to my head and said, “you have two minutes to give people one piece of advice for travelling to Turkey!”, I would tell them how to use a dolmuş.

    Public transit in Turkey is inexpensive and effective, at least compared to most cities in Canada. The country is fairly densely populated, and many people do not make enough money to own cars. Most tourists will be familiar with much of Turkey’s public transport equipment: taxis, buses, intercity buses, airplanes, subways, and even trams function the same way as they do in Western countries.

    But the dolmuş. Ah, the dolmuş. Ignored by the average tourist to Turkey who simply has no idea what on earth those things are, and how one might go about using them. Maligned by . . . nobody really because nobody knows what they are. Spit on by . . . ok, never mind.

    I had to do something about this lack of dolmuş-education, so without further ado, here is a crash course on dolmuş travel.

    A dolmuş is a large van that goes from one place to another on a set route. Depending on the destination, they may go as frequently as every ten minutes, or as infrequently as once per hour. They may start early in the morning, and end late at night, or they may just operate during the daytime.

    To get one, go to your nearest bus or dolmuş station, and look at the destinations listed on the fronts. You can also hail a passing dolmuş by flailing your hands in the air and trying to get the attention of the driver. The way most Turkish people do it is by raising their right arm in a Sex and the City style taxi hailing motion. Yelling “dolmuş!” and tottering around on stilettos is optional.

    This is the dolmuş station at Fahrettin Altay in Izmir. At some stations, including this one, the destinations are printed on signs, but usually you have to ask.

    This is the dolmuş terminal at Fahrettin Altay in Izmir. At some stations, including this one, the destinations are printed on signs, but usually you have to ask.

    When you hail a dolmuş, it will stop and the driver will open the doors. If he passes you and isn’t going too fast, yell. “Şoför bey! Durunuz!” (Chauffeur bay! Dur-oo-nooz.) Mr. Driver, stop! It doesn’t always work, but usually the other passengers or other people on the street will see you and alert the driver.

    The next step is to make sure the dolmuş is going to your destination. Do this by saying the name of the place you’re going. You can get fancier, but if you’re just a tourist, they’ll understand. If the driver says “Hah,” or “Evet,” you’re good to go. If he tuts or says “Hayir,” or “Yok,” then you’ve got the wrong one.

    After you’ve made sure that the dolmuş is going to your destination, you can hop into the typically body-odour scented interior. Often the doors will stay open as you speed along the highway, having hopefully settled yourself into a chair, though if it is already full by the time it picks you up, you’re going to have to stand. Try to hold on so you don’t fall out. You’ll look very cool. Like a local!

    After you get on, have a glance at the fare chart, and give some money at the driver. Even if he is driving, he will accept it and give you the right amount of change. If you cannot get to the front, just pass the money to the person in front of you, and he or she will pass it to the driver. Make sure you say your destination, otherwise the driver will say something to you in Turkish that you probably won’t understand, but which in all likelihood means “How many, and where are you going?”

    Then you can say, for example, “bir, otogara gidiyorum.” One. I’m going to the bus station. Cross your fingers that he hasn’t actually said, “I’m driving a one way route to the hairiest part of Satan’s ass-crack. Welcome aboard!”

    I have heard tell that, technically, dolmuşes are not supposed to carry more passengers than they have seats. I have never seen this enforced, but apparently in certain parts of cities, cops lurk in wait of dolmuş drivers who let this happen as though the arm of the law means nothing to them. When this happens, the driver will tell all the passengers to duck. Everybody who’s standing has to duck lower than the windows until the danger is past. If you notice others ducking don’t hesitate – duck with them! Don’t worry. You’re only disobeying the law, and in Turkey, nobody cares.

    Dolmuşes make it easy to go anywhere in Turkey more quickly than if you rely solely on inter-city bus travel, and are easy to use. Despite the body odour, it’s a treat to have access to effective public transport. Unfortunately, it’s not always possible to check for dolmuşes online, so if you are going anywhere a bit off the beaten track in Turkey, and you suspect it is only serviced by dolmuş from where you are, I would suggest consulting a Turkish person who lives in that area. If you’re worried about finding somebody who speaks English, ask at a hotel.

    Bang. You just saved yourself money you could have spent on a taxi, and you managed to experience Turkey like a local for one whole ride.

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  • August 25, 2014

    Culture Shock in Turkey: Seat Belts, Safety, and the Veil

    When I arrived in Izmir to meet the family I would be au pairing with, I saw Sermin* waiting at the terminal for me with her oldest son Adem. They didn’t see me come out of the terminal, so I said her name from behind her. She jumped, then asked if I’d been waiting long.

    Well, no. You probably would have seen me if I had.

    Walking out of the terminal, we performed all the usual pleasantries that accompany the greeting of someone who has been on a long trip. How was the flight? Good. Are you tired? Not so bad. Did you have any delays? No.

    We got in the car, and I got my first taste of culture shock in Turkey. For in this fine country, back seat passengers almost never wear seatbelts, and that includes children. In fact, since back seat passengers are more often children, it is especially the young uns who are at a risk of … you know … whiplash, concussions, instant death, and other fun stuff.

    Now if this were the end of it, it would not be a very good story. “Whatever,” you are probably saying, if you were born before 1975. “We didn’t wear seat belts when we were growing up, and we were fine. Ok, it’s better if you do, of course. But really, the only reason we ever do it is because there’s a law, and we’re from the West, so we follow the rules because that’s just what we do.

    “What the hell?” you are probably saying if you were born after 1975. “She really deserves the bad mother of the year award. I definitely wouldn’t let my kids play at her house. But you’ve got to stop making such a big deal about this. I mean, Turkey is a developing country. It’s in the Middle East. You should expect things like that.”

    I wish that were the end of it. Unfortunately, the excitement of having somebody new to show off to put Adem into overdrive, and before we knew it, he was using the backseat as a platform for his feet as he stuck his head out of the sunroof to taste the fresh air. His hair whipping around in the wind, his mouth open, he resembled a happy dog on the back roads of rural Canada riding in the back of a pickup and delighting in the feeling of fresh air on his taste buds. I briefly considered if I could teach him to say “I just laaahve the feeling of fresh air on my cilia,” in English, or if that would be a bit much to start with.

    The next day, we drove somewhere else, this time with the two oldest children in the car. As we sped down the highway at 130 km/h, the two boys rolled around in the backseat, trying to wrestle each other into being as far away from each other as possible.

    Counterproductive, I know. But nothing I did seemed to get this across.

    After that ride, I started sitting in the backseat of the car as well, and would just buckle their seat belts. This did not work well. The younger in particular once wrestled me for a full 30 minutes while he screamed his head off. His parents tried explaining to him calmly that this was the way it was with me, and they were going to call the police if he didn’t wear it. Alas, this approach was ineffective.

    At the end of this ordeal, we were a sweaty, unhappy mess, and I didn’t look forward to more performances of the kind.

    And there weren’t any . . . because I gave up. Perhaps I am deserving of the “worst babysitter of the year” award, but I just couldn’t go against Adem’s six and a half years of cultural conditioning.

    This whole ordeal is fairly representative of the way things are in Turkey. While laws are basically the same as they are in Canada, disobedience is much more socially acceptable. There is a sense in which I appreciate this – you can take alcohol to the park without anybody looking askance, whether or not you are drunk. There is no need to bring a paper bag or put it in a thermos, or any other tried-and-true underage drinking strategy. More often, however, I don’t appreciate this aspect of the culture. One time I was out with an acquaintance I’d met here. We went to grab some food, and after the meal the restaurant gave us small packets of wet wipes to clean out hands with. A minute after we left, he dropped his wet wipe. Assuming he’d done it by mistake, I just picked it up to throw in the nearest garbage can (which was about 20 metres in front of us.) He said, “Oh, don’t pick that up,” and I said, “no, it’s no problem at all.” Five metres later, he dropped the wrapper too, and I realized that he was just littering deliberately.

    I don’t want to say that this is representative of all Turkish people, because it’s not. But I will say that Turkey is a much less structured society than Canada. Whenever I buckle my seat belt in the backseat, people chuckle at me – because why would you do it if the cops can’t tell? Twice, in a pinch, I’ve gotten on driverless transit without paying within the sight of others and nobody even gave me the stinky eye.

    All that said, while societal structures that focus on safety are generally more lax here, other societal structures are not. For example, it’s been my experience that the way you dress is incredibly important, and if you don’t dress the “right” way, people make comments. Your shorts are too short? People talk behind your back. You’re veiled in Izmir, one of the most anti-veil cities in Turkey? Oh my gad, you shouldn’t be. That’s not very progressive. You’re wearing makeup with your veil? Well, aside from the fact that you’re veiled, which is problematic because of reasons, (the reason being, of course, that people in Izmir think of themselves as Westernized) the juxtaposition of your obvious face-painting immodesty when the veil is a symbol of modesty is a problem. And so on. The gaze of others is strong here, and is more stifling than any veil could be.

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