Health & Fitness

‘You’re ‘avin’ a larf!’ I said, ‘With respect!’ (it pays to hedge one’s bets). In my opinion, for what that is worth, J is taking things a bit far with our exercise regimen. There we were, miles from home after a leisurely start and a leisurely drive; in the middle of nowhere; bombing along on some of the finest, smoothest, vehicle-free duel-carriageway roads you could wish for, when she insisted I pull over onto a farm track that had once been the original main road. “Come on, then’ she said, getting out of the car, ‘we’re going for our daily walk.’ I can’t begin to imagine what all those people on the road thought at the sight of us two pounding, first one way, and then the other – I couldn’t possibly tell you what I thought, either! Health and fitness? Blood, Toil, Tears and Sweat is what I call it!

Anyway, duty done we set off again for our overnight stopping place here in Afyonkarahisar (Black Opium Castle). Because the roads have improved so much since we last came through we were here in really good time which was great because we’d be able to wander and explore at a nice, unhurried pace. Right? Wrong!

afyon1

We started by ambling around the back streets of the old part of town which is a delight to the senses with beautiful old buildings (many are restored and lived in) and food shops of every description. As I walked and photographed, J remarked that we were on Kale Street – ‘Ummm!’ I mumbled. This was followed by ‘Be a shame to come here and not go up to the top.’ My blood froze as I stopped and looked up. I mean, have you seen that thing? Afyon is already 1030mts above sea level – isn’t it enough that we drove here without climbing up there!

afyon3

afyon4

So it was that we set off up the 550 odd, erratically spaced steps that lead, eventually, to the point where you have to scramble the last few hundred metres to the inevitable giant flagpole complete with giant flag. We were passed by hoards of polite and helpful students heading for the summit who would look at me with great concern, gently take my elbow and offer help. What kept me going was the occasional ‘How’s it going, old man?’ from J. ‘Yorkshire Bastard!’ Got me to the top though!

Was it worth it? Wellllll! Of course it was!

Coming down was much like going up – Jeez, my knees are sore! J says that if we lived here and ‘did’ the castle three times a week we’d be bloody fit. If we lived here I’d be pleading insanity!

afyon5

afyon2 This is a really nice town; it bustles with life and activity and I reckon the shops outshine anything I’ve seen anywhere in Mugla (sorry, no Turkish characters on this machine). Another highlight was finding a wonderful delicatessen which means we’ll have to come back this way to stock up on some really naughty goodies. Our shopping list will not include the derivatives of the beautiful opium poppy.

afyon6

A&J (who are not in Okçular) originally posted on Archers of Okçular 1.10.2011

Posted on February 26, 2018February 26, 2018 by Alan

I’ve Got A Slug!

Originally posted on 25.9.2011 in Archers of Okcular

boutique-et-marchand-turcs — your average family run business

Shopping in Turkey is a different experience from shopping in, say, the UK. Here, the preponderance of family run businesses pretty much ensures you will be treated with consideration, kindness and plied with tea for as long as you care to remain. There are the odd exceptions, of course, where the soft porn pages of the newspaper or the imagined rough end of a finger nail are deemed in need of greater attention and interest, but they are rare.

Returning a newly bought but faulty electrical item is a different matter. At first there is great concern and amazement that such a thing could happen. There will be much discussion and detailed examination of the object. Numerous attempts will be made to find even the faintest glimmer of life. When these fail they will offer to return it under guarantee.

Now, guarantees in Turkey are interesting things; they are seldom stamped and dated as they should be which can be a good thing or a bad thing. It’s a good thing when your guarantee has just run out and you are dealing with a shop owner who knows you and values your continued custom. He will take your unstamped guarantee, stamp it and write in an appropriate date. Then, because it is required, he will need to attach the original till receipt which none of us ever remembers to keep. This is not a problem because in the drawer under the counter are loads of old receipts that he’s collected and he will find one for the approximate value which he will now staple to the guarantee. He’ll smile and say ‘Problem yok!’ and point you towards the accredited repair man down the street who will have it all fixed up in no time at all.

That assumes that it is not too complicated a piece of electronics or the supplier has a ‘return to base’ service policy. Here you run into a bit of a brick wall – ‘OK!’ you say, ‘How long will it take?’ Much sucking of teeth. Mostly he won’t know (he’s been in this business for 30 years but this is all a bit new to him). ‘Not good enough’ you say, ‘it’s brand spanking new. It doesn’t work and I want it replaced right now.’ Now he’s looking at you as if you are from an alien planet (which you are!). You expect him to take back a broken thingy and give you a new one. Are you mental? By now you probably are! ‘All right’ you say ‘give me my money back!’ Ha! Now you really have proved you’re a bug-eyed monster from another planet.

In the end you will see it his way and it will be sent away under guarantee and your chances of ever laying eyes on it again will be slim. You’ll call in each week in the forlorn hope that it has come back or a replacement has arrived only for your shoulders to sag as you slump to the stool the owner has thoughtfully provided. You hardly notice when a glass of tea appears, miraculously in your hand. The shop owner will be deeply distressed at your distress, he will empathise totally with you about the awful state of customer service and care in Turkey – suddenly his face will brighten, he’ll pull down a gleaming chromium marvel from the shelf, and cry triumphantly, ‘I’ve got a slug!’

Sound familiar? Below is an extract from the famous Monty Python ‘Dead Parrot Sketch’.

Mr. Praline: “VOOM”?!? Mate, this bird wouldn’t “voom” if you put four million volts through it! ‘E’s bleedin’ demised!

Owner: No, no! ‘E’s pining!

Mr. Praline: ‘E’s not pinin’! ‘E’s passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! ‘E’s expired and gone to meet ‘is maker! ‘E’s a stiff! Bereft of life, ‘e rests in peace! If you hadn’t nailed ‘im to the perch ‘e’d be pushing up the daisies! ‘Is metabolic processes are now ‘istory! ‘E’s off the twig! ‘E’s kicked the bucket, ‘e’s shuffled off ‘is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisibule!! (sic) THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!!

(pause)

Owner: Well, I’d better replace it, then. (he takes a quick peek behind the counter) Sorry squire, I’ve had a look ’round the back of the shop, and uh, we’re right out of parrots.

Mr. Praline: I see. I see. I get the picture.

Owner: I got a slug.

Alan Fenn, Okçular Köyü

ps for those desperately disappointed not to have a picture of a slug – see below:

slug

Posted on February 26, 2018February 27, 2018 by Alan

Elmalı – Appley

Originally posted on 16.9.2011 in Archers of Okçular

There was a time, way back, when I believed in maps – I’d been weaned on a diet of Ordnance Survey military and Wayfarer maps as well as Shell Route Planners. Maps were maps, maps were accurate, maps were reliable, things of beauty, treasure troves of information – and then J and I came to Turkey!

Here, we rapidly learned, maps were the physical manifestation of someone’s fevered imagination! Designed to confuse Greek third-columnists and Soviet ‘Spetsnaz’ special forces; maps here showed roads where none existed and nothing where they did. Whole towns upped sticks and moved miles to where you might eventually find them – if you were lucky, had unlimited time or happened to pick up a local who was hitching a lift there! Navigating off of the main roads, and even on them, was a trifle hit and miss to say the least.

So it was that way back when J and I were searching out places to settle down we set out very early from our overnight stop at Kalkan. In our search for places that would give us the right sort of vibes, we were heading up and over the mountains behind the town following the so-called main road to the town of Elmalı – ‘Appley’ (or ‘With Apples’ if you want to be precise) in English.

Pretty soon the asphalt ran out and we were on the dirt which got progressively rougher until we considered ourselves lucky to get into second gear from time to time. The hours dragged on as we ground our exhaust system across the uneven terrain and dodged the heavy construction vehicles that were working on a new baraj. Eventually we crept into the small town of Gömbe, a pretty enough place nestled to one side of the river valley, where we stopped for a very late lunch.

These days, anyone making the journey would wonder what the fuss was about as they whizz along the new road that bypasses the baraj and Gömbe. Back then it was a nightmare and because of the construction work the road from Gömbe to Elmalı was also a mess. The plain between Gömbe and Elmalı lies 1100mts above sea level and my enduring memories are of the glorious smells of apples and woodsmoke (it was winter). By the time we got to Elmalı it was dark and J and I had had enough – it was going to take a lot more hours to get back to our base in Dalyan so instead of stopping in the town we drove on and until a couple of months ago we had never been back.

When we did, we were delighted! The town has great charm with many lovely old houses, a beautiful main mosque, a quaint little mosque and water from the mountains cascading down gullies in the steep streets. The air is cool and sweet in summer and although it gets bloody cold in winter it makes a great base to explore the surrounding countryside which is magnificent. Missing this little gem the first time around was a mistake.

Elmalı and little Gömbe both have charm and interest but for me they are mainly useful as a base to explore the stunning mountains that surround them. I’m not going to spend any time describing in detail, suffice to say that J and I spent three days walking, touring and exploring before taking the magnificent drive back that takes you up over the mountains and down to Seki before rejoining the main mountain road from Antalya to Fethiye. It wasn’t enough, so we’ll be back for more.

If you haven’t been to Elmalı or explored the surrounds I recommend it to you, especially when you want to escape the heat of summer for a while. Meanwhile, here are a few photos to whet your interest.

Alan Fenn, Okçular Köyü

camii medrassa — Elmalı Camii and Medrese

IMG_1308_1 — across the rooftops of Elmalı

IMG_1309_1 — view from the top with karamanlar (fat-tailed sheep)

Posted on February 26, 2018 by Alan

Penis Gourds and Wood Preservative

‘Serious Warning’ – those of a delicate disposition should avert their eyes

‘The koteka, horim, penis gourd or penis sheath is a phallocrypt or phallocarp traditionally worn by native male inhabitants of some (mainly highland) ethnic groups in New Guinea to cover their genitals.’ So says Wikipedia.

‘But, come on!’ I hear you say; ‘Penis gourds, wood preservative; where’s the connection?’ Bare with me (pun intended), and I’ll blow away the phallacy that there is no connection between the upright members of some New Guinea highland tribes and the floppy staff and customers of a hardware shop in Muğla, Turkey. I am also becoming aware of the fact that certain key words can have an amazing effect on ‘hit’ numbers on a blog! As an aside, we will also shed some light on what Scotsmen wear under their kilts – or not!

Anyway, let’s journey back to the days not long after J and I had moved into our house here in Okçular – I had been doing a lot of DIY; making all sorts of things around the garden, mostly from wood as I hadn’t taught myself to weld at that stage. Wooden structures generally need soaking in something or other to protect them from the predations of weather and insects – ‘Ronseal’ or similar.

penis-sheath21 — standing proud – native New Guinea men

Off I went to the hardware shop in neighbouring Dalyan, where my pathetic attempts at mime and pidgin Türkçe led to much exasperated huffing and puffing on my part. Eventually I strung together the two words I thought I needed, ‘Ağaç, ağaç!’ (wood – actually ‘tree’) I bellowed, the better for the shop guy to understand me, ‘Preservative! Ağaç preservative!’ There was a stunned, open-mouthed response from everyone present – two conservatively dressed young ladies gasped, turned up the collars of their coats and gripped them firmly between their teeth leaving nothing but two pairs of wide, startled eyes visible as they scurried out of the exit doors. The men present suddenly cracked up, going all floppy and holding on to any available surface as tears of laughter streamed down their cheeks. As I stood, embarrassed, in the midst of all this hilarity I could hear the two young ladies outside and out of sight joining in the fun – was it something I’d said?

Eventually, after the staff had regained their composure (it took a while), they managed to suss out what it was I wanted. ‘Ahşap; dekoratif ahşap koruyucu.’ ‘Thank you’ said I as I crept out followed by more splutters from the ladies who had by then ventured back into the shop.

Back home I was attempting to explain to J what had happened when she too collapsed in giggles. ‘Bloody fool,’ she said ‘no wonder they cracked up. Ağaç is what?’ ‘Wood’ said I. ‘And ‘preservative’? Go and look it up; in Turkish it has a ‘z’ and ends with ‘tif’!’ Mumble, mumble. ‘Oh jeez!’ I couldn’t believe it; ‘prezervatif’ in Turkish is . . .

. . . a CONDOM! No wonder the fellows cracked up and even the ladies were giggling; I’d been waving my arms about, including a very wristy action (to simulate painting, people; come on, behave yourselves), and loudly demanding a wooden condom!

So, there you have the link; tenuous it may be but a link non-the-less.

Alan in Okçular Village

ps Scotsmen in kilts do not wear penis gourds, but here is evidence that perhaps they should. No wonder the British Army is going downhill when they can’t even afford knickers let alone decorated penis gourds! Discretion advised although I’ve left it a bit blurred.

queen_and_soldiers

the pride of Scottish manhood

Posted on February 25, 2018February 25, 2018 by Alan

How Do You Like Your Eggs, Sir (or Madam)?

A couple of posts back when I was extolling the virtues of J and her miraculous composting skills, I made a throw-away remark that such was the heat generated in her heaps/bins ‘. . . you could coddle an egg in there or slow cook a casserole!’ not that I had ever done either, you understand. It was, I thought, just one of those neat little concoctions that strung things along and added a bit of colour to the sentence. A throw-away remark!

So, it came as a bit of a surprise (and a twinge of guilt) when someone, whose own writing I admire greatly, came back with a comment on the post ‘. . . do you really coddle eggs in there?’ a comment that was followed up by an email about her granny’s egg coddlers. That thown-away remark had been well and truly ‘fielded in the deep’, as John Arlott used to say.

Now, I have never owned an egg coddler, the closest I have ever got to one was in the pages of ‘Antiques’ magazine in the dentist’s waiting room. Something had to be done; I know I’m full of ‘bull’ but pride doesn’t want others to think the same. I wasn’t about to try cooking a slow casserole but I could try poaching an egg without exerting too much effort and if it didn’t work I could always slink off into a dark corner somewhere and suck my thumb! The results are shown in the following photos; and no comments about ‘Photoshop’ either, if I’d used that I’d have doctored the burnt bits on the toast!

Alan in Okçular

Posted on February 25, 2018February 26, 2018 by Alan

Ulu Camii – Grand Mosque, Sivrihisar

. . from the ‘Tardis Files’ 15^th June, 2004

J and I were off, yet again, on one of our trips to the east of Turkey – to Erzurum Province, to be exact. Our route was to take us around Ankara to an overnight stop at one of the Turkish Drivers’ Club hotels at Kırıkale; then on to our destination after a stop off to inspect the ancient Hittite capital at Hattuşa near Çorum. The earliest settlement discovered in the area so far dates back to the Chalcolithic Age and the dawning of metallurgy – the working of metals – around 5000 BC.

We had set off at 6.30am and had made such good time that we felt compelled to search out somewhere interesting to have a look at rather than spending three or four more hours gazing at the walls of our hotel room. Two places jumped out at us; Sivrihisar and Gordian. Sivrihisar was closest, so working on the basis that if it was naff we could move on to Gordian, we set off.

This Gordian, by the way, is the same Gordian that used to own that bloody great granny-knot till Alexander came along and cheated by ‘undoing’ it with his sword and taking over the Phrygian kingdom. The Phrygians were a bit cheesed off, as you can well imagine, and accused Alexander of cheating. He invited them to show him where, in the small print, it said he had to unpick it with his fingers, and anyway, his army was bigger than their army so what were they going to do about it. No contest!

So, what was in Sivrihisar that was of any interest? Well, it was a mosque. More of that in a minute. Sivrihisar was, until the War of Independece, a mixed Turk and Armenian town. The remains of the Orthodox church are a bit sad, all boarded up and neglected. Not vandalised, just falling to bits. The old merchant quarter has a number of what were once truly grand Ottoman houses, also falling into disrepair. They’re just too expensive for their owners to restore, and anyway, they’d prefer modern plumbing just like you and me! Some are still occupied, many are empty and up for sale, if they don’t fall down before someone comes along with enough money and a strong desire for the hobby of a lifetime.

SivrihisarMosque3 — . . if you didn’t know

How we found the church was fun. We’d learned that we’d have to waste a bit of time waiting for the mosque to open up for prayers. It’s kept locked because of antique carpets inside. The locals assured us that it would be worth the wait however. So we decided to do a bit of shopping for gifts for the local kids at journey’s end (we’d been there the previous year). There was one of those ‘Everything-a-Million’ shops nearby, so we went in for one of our renowned spending sprees! We still call them ‘Million Shops’ to this day; back then they really were. I don’t think the young owner could believe his luck because he promptly shut up shop and took us on a tour of his town, including the old church, before escorting us back to the mosque for opening time.

It would be hard to find a less pre-possessing place. From the outside it looks derelict. Cracked plaster, bits of corrugated tin, dirty, green, peeling paintwork, incongruous additions around the perimeter. Inside, ‘Harika!’ Wonderful! Can you picture this?

Sivrihisar_grand_mosque — . . conjured from a dream

Imagine you have just entered a set from ‘The Lord of the Rings’. What you see is how you imagined one of the great Viking wooden palaces of legend; or how the palace of the Lords of the Riddermark would have appeared. Dim lights shine here and there. You are faced by a forest of 67 massive carved wooden columns that are supporting equally massive wooden beams that, in turn, support the carved wooden ceiling. The building is flat-roofed by the way, no domes or the like. In years gone by it would have been covered by a thick layer of earth and turf.

sivrihisar_mosque_crivelli_carpet — a true ‘relic’

This is a Selçuk ‘forest’ mosque; built in 1274. The floor is covered by dozens upon dozens of carpets and kilims, some of great age. A wooden balcony fills one side, carved and beautifully crafted, as is the screened section for women off to another side. The mihrab, from where the imam conducts part of the prayers, is a wood carver’s fantasy of geometric designs. The atmosphere is utterly calming.

We were met with much interest and kindness. One old man insisted on telling us all about the place, although we struggled to understand him, before he finally headed off for prayers. What an incredible place – well worth hanging about for. A gem – hiding behind its scruffy exterior.

I would have loved to have had my own photos of the inside, but several of the men asked me not to use my camera. Like me, you’ll have to make do with stock shots from the internet.

Alan Fenn, Okçular Köyü

Posted on February 25, 2018 by Alan

Two Pigs In A Poke

Two posts salvaged from the ruins of Archers, they were written three years apart. The admonishment on the first post still holds good – if you are squeamish or of a delicate disposition then find something else to do.

Butchering The Beast

Parental Guidance: Do NOT read this post if you are squeamish or a genuine vegetarian and you take that position based upon your firmly held belief that the killing of animals for their meat is wrong.

As we ease our way through the furnace that is August, I find myself savouring the delightful prospect of September’s gentler warmth by day with cooler evenings and restful nights when I’m no longer bathed in sweat or kept awake by the thrum of the air conditioner. I find myself anticipating the cooling caress of zephyrs as they flow, unrestricted through windows open to the elements, the calling of nightingales, the chirr of cicadas and the sound of the tractor approaching at 2 o’clock in the morning! I lie there, half hoping that it will pass by and carry on up the track – but they never do; not at that time of night.
The engine stops, and a voice will call out in a hoarse whisper as if hoping not to disturb me; ‘Ali Bey, Ali Bey. Domuz, domuz!’ This is followed by a sharp dig in the ribs from J’s rather sharp elbow and a hissed ‘It’s you they want. It was your idea in the first place!’
I sigh and get up; call out ‘Tamam’ to my neighbours (for it is they), drag on some old clothes and stagger downstairs – my day has begun early!
There, waiting at the gate will be two or three beaming ‘komşu’ and a very fresh and very dead wild pig! They know that J and I have limited freezer capacity so what they bring these days are small to medium sized beasts – the big stuff they take to the hotels that do pig roasts for their, mostly, German guests and earn themselves a pretty penny in the process. I hasten to add here that our neighbours do not generally go out hunting these days; they are protecting their fields of maize that can get ravaged in fairly short order by a herd of wild pigs bent on a night out on the razzle.
What follows is not my favourite way of spending the wee, small hours. I look at it this way though; if they don’t bring these smaller pigs to me then they will be dumped in the forest and that I see as a terrible waste, so I grin and bear it.
First, I find some old cardboard boxes and cover the stone table at the back of the house and my neighbours will bring in the beast, put it on the table and wish me a cheery ‘Goodnight!’
Then, I get out some rope, secure the animal, find some buckets and bowls and sharpen the knives – the butchery is about to begin . . .
I won’t boar you (geddit?) with the gory details; suffice it to say that I skin the beast completely; wild pig meat is fat free and looks and tastes like beef.
Some of you, no doubt are screwing up your faces and saying such things as ‘How could you do that?’ ‘Uck!’ etc. I can understand that – unless that is you say ‘Uck!’ and then carry on buying your meat from supermarkets that are supplied from factory farms. To you I say ‘Either give up meat altogether or start buying it from local butchers who get their animals from farmers who raise their beasts and fowls naturally – allowing them to lead more natural, stress-free lives before you unwrap them and stick their body parts on your barby!’

And This Little Piggy . .

After a long and enjoyable day out with new friends yesterday, J and I crashed early and were well and truly blotto by about 10.30pm.

Cue: ominous sound of car outside, gate being opened and door bell jangling followed by very dozy bloke staggering downstairs, opening door and gazing blankly at neighbour. ‘Domuz! Domuz!’ (Pig! Pig!) he said, ‘Do you want it?’ ‘Tamaam!’ I mumbled as I contemplated a ‘night of the long knives’.

the piggy in question

To set the record straight, our neighbours do not go out hunting much these days but they will shoot those rogue pigs that come and raid their gardens and crops, often causing utter devastation. Whilst I will never encourage hunting and would much prefer just to catch the odd glimpse of these wily creatures as they go about their business, I’m not going to turn down the chance of some delicious wild pig meat.

Anyway, last night I was in such a dopey state that I decided to put off the butchery until this morning. Six o’clock seemed to come around very quickly!

yes, I would be crass enough to have a glass of Chardonnay with wild boar casserole

Cue: in the early morning light a ‘Boffer’ stands and contemplates the task ahead – the beast looks bigger than it did last night. Oh,well, best be getting on with it, then! Now, J and I have long ago stopped eating offal and so I no longer paunch (gut) these animals.

I never claimed I was a proper butcher!

I simply skin, joint and fillet and then return the remains to the mountains where the local wildlife will benefit and make short shrift of the process of disposal.

in the hearse ready for ‘Table Mountain’ – the foxes, jackals, martens, birds and others will be very happy

So, as I write this and whilst the freezer does its thing, J has been preparing a traditional Italian/Milanese dish called Osso Buco, click the link for the recipe.

Osso Buco

If you don’t have any wild boar meat then bear is a good substitute (so it says) – do not go hunting bears, or pigs for that matter – promise! If you really are intent on becoming a survivalist then I recommend John Wiseman’s ‘SAS Survival Handbook’.

Oh, and it’s not a good idea to eat bear if they’ve been eating salmon – it doesn’t taste so good.

Alan Fenn, Okçular Köyü

Posted on February 25, 2018 by Alan

Penis Points

This was a guest post about six years ago on friendly fellow-blogger Jack Scott’s much acclaimed Perking The Pansies. How did it go down with his mobs of followers? He never asked again so . .

Before you crack up, ‘Penis Points’ are no laughing matter; ‘Penis Points’ are, quite literally, a matter of life and death! At least here in Turkey they are. ‘Penis Points’ are a growth industry; ‘Penis Points’ figure in the GDP of the country, they are an essential component in keeping the economy ticking over. Above all, ‘Penis Points’ are a man thing and although I have observed the odd lady collecting her ‘puans’, they are, as a rule, far too sensible to join in these childish antics.

Before I go on, I’d like to relate a story from a time before J and I had considered coming to Turkey to live. We were visiting Istanbul on one of those ‘Weekend Breaks’ and whilst there had met up with Turkish friends. Mehri, the male half of the duo, was a gentle, quietly spoken university lecturer who emanated an aura of peace and love. He and his wife had collected us by car from our hotel and we had just merged into the stream of traffic when an amazing transformation took place; Mehri hunched over the wheel and began snarling and shouting. He hammered the car horn and drove aggressively at those around him; there was much honking back and screeching of tyres. At first it was mildly disturbing, funny even; but as the lunacy grew and the remonstrations from his wife went unheard, we began to fear for our safety.

Suddenly, he swerved violently into a narrow and very steeply descending side road and proceeded downhill at speed totally ignoring several crossroads before screeching to a stop outside his apartment. As he switched off the ignition another switch clicked in his demented, schizophrenic brain and the persona of Mr Hyde dissolved and there, once again, calm and smiling, was our friend Dr Mehri Jekyll!

This was our first introduction to the ‘Trafik Canavar’ or ‘Traffic Monster’, an incubus lurking inside so many, ever seeking opportunities for a quick ‘flash’ and the accumulation of those ego boosting ‘Penis Points’. The reality of the motor vehicle as an extension of the driver’s maleness was no longer some psychologist’s quaint theory; we had just witnessed it in reality.

So, what are these ‘Penis Points’ then? Well, they relate mainly to driving; are, as I said, almost exclusively a male thing and they are measured on a graduated scale from ‘Downright Stupid’ (1) to ‘Causing Death By Dangerous Driving’ (10).

Here are some examples:

You overtake in a perfectly safe way but the guy you passed experienced a strange physiological happening – his penis shrivelled! His only remedy is to glue his car to your back bumper and then, when the moment is least suitable, over/undertake you. Oh! Joy, this prick is back to normal! Plus 6 points.
You are at a junction, you check carefully and the nearest vehicle is 500 yards away so you pull out. The guy is so affronted that he accelerates up to your rear bumper blasting his horn before passing you on the pavement. Plus 8 points.
You pass/pull out on a truck driver who suffers an immediate flaccid moment and then jacks up by hounding your bumper for the next 20 miles (or to the next incline, whichever comes first). He’ll usually catch you up later, when you least expect it and continuing to try sticking his manhood up your tail pipe! Plus 7 points.
You are driving along peacefully when you are confronted by the flashing lights of the black Merc/BMW with Istanbul plates that is hurtling towards you at 180kms in YOUR lane, and you are required to drive off into the forest or compete directly with his superior crumple-zone protection. Plus 3 or 9 points depending on how soon you react!
Some loony driving his tractor/car/ truck pulls out of the side road without stopping/pausing and turns directly towards you in your lane expecting that whoever is there will take the necessary evasive action. ‘Allah Korusun!’ Plus 4 points.
This guy has been crowding your rear bumper for miles on straight, clear roads; suddenly, as you approach a blind bend, he sees his opportunity for an enlargement job and pulls out to confront the huge TIR truck that has just appeared with much flashing of lights and bellowing of horns! Judged well, this is a 10 pointer!

There are many other examples and variations on the theme which include the shooting up of road signs with pistol or shotgun from the moving vehicle. Penis Points are awarded based on speed and accuracy!

I am of the opinion that a significant percentage of male drivers in this country, whether Turk or foreigner, have been sexually repressed by their overprotective, overbearing mothers to some degree or other; and that the only possible relief is to be found in the soft porn pages of most daily newspapers or by traffic manoeuvres that have the chance to bring about the ultimate orgasm of killing yourself or, better still, some poor, bloody innocent third party!

Aaaaaahhhh! How was it for you, darling? Absolutely smashing!!!

five-killed-in-traffic-accident-in-the-southeast-2011-01-27_l

Alan, safe at home in Okçular

Posted on February 24, 2018February 24, 2018 by Alan

Travelling With Our ‘Ablas’!

sloggi-150x150 ‘Abla’ translates as ‘older sister’ in Turkish. It’s a widely used, respectful term of address by Turks of all ages when they are speaking with those ladies they perceive to be older and/or wiser – Abla, or not. You can hear it any day in any market anywhere in the country; it is particularly prevalent in touristic towns when cheeky young market traders are flogging their fake ‘Sloggi’ thongs to greying, foreign matrons who giggle with delight at the first appraising looks they’ve had in many a long year – ‘These are so naughty, Abla. Full of Turkish Delight, just like you;- only 15 lira, Abla; but for you I make a special price!’

Which brings me nicely to Our Ablas – that is J and my older sisters. Not, I hasten to add, that I have ever seen them buying anyone’s thongs in Ortaca market, let alone fake Sloggis. But I digress . .

They used to come to visit separately each year, which was not surprising because I don’t sisters1 remember them ever meeting each other in all the years J and I have known each other, until we came to live in Turkey. Anyway, one year we got the dates wrong and they ended up with an overlap of about a week. As it turned out, they got on famously and resolved to make their annual visit to us a joint venture in future.

This suited J and me fine as it halved the number of trips out we’d have to do. It also suited in another way – they never seemed to stop talking so J and I could flit around, doing our own thing with just an occasional ‘Really!’, ‘Is that so?’ or ‘Would you believe it?’ thrown in feigning deep and abiding interest. We’ve been here so long now that we have little idea about the people and events they’re chatting about. I did suggest to J that we could probably wander off to market or have a weekend away without either of them noticing, but neither of us has ever had the ‘bottle’ to test the theory out. One should, after all, show respect for one’s Abla or face the social consequences; Turks, understandably frown upon such boorish behavior.

The sisters pleasure in each other’s company led to J and me inviting them to accompany us on one of our trips – not in Turkey this time, but on the Trans-Mongolian Train from Moscow to Beijing. It was an amazing adventure filled with sights and sensations with side excursions thrown in. One in particular involved living in yurts in the wilds of a Mongolian National Park. There was horse-trekking; learning to erect a yurt; cooking wild yak meat in buried ovens and how to make everything else you need to survive from yak milk. Oh yes! And white water rafting – which brings me to the point of this story. Whenever our Ablas come to visit, we always tell them to travel light; you don’t bulging-suitcase need to pack towels and blanket – we have them here. If we find that you really do need welly-boots in Turkey in August, we can get them locally; and I think you can leave the kitchen sink at home this time because, if you remember, we already have one! It really is like that. Between them they bring a whole new meaning to a ‘bit of excess baggage’.

Anyway, back to the train trip; we told them, categorically, that whatever they brought with them, they would have to carry it – be warned, we said! Which brings me to the final photograph – here they are, stripped down to the bare bones and raring to get going on a bit of Wild Mongolian River Rafting.

Alan Fenn, Okçular Köyü

Posted on February 24, 2018February 24, 2018 by Alan

Bragging For Birgi

Some of the best or most interesting posts from Archers of Okçular over the years

first posted: 29.7.2011

Turkey is full of ‘must see’ sites and sights and the tiny town of Birgi, near Ödemiş in İzmir province is high on our list. J and I have been back a number of times and I don’t think we’ll ever tire of the place.

Birgi nestles a few kilometres north of Ödemiş in the foothills of Boz Dağ (Boz Mountains). It is a quiet, unspoilt, dignified time-warp of a place that is now being slowly gentrified. Wandering its shady, tree-lined streets and soaking up the spirit of bygone times is rather like a refreshing shower on a steamy day. Enchanting as this town is the reason J and I keep going back is to reacquaint ourselves with two rare and very precious gems – a house and a mosque.

The mosque dates from Selçuk times and once had a flat, earth covered roof. This was ‘vandalised’ by those who should have known better and a pitched roof installed. Whereas once the mosque was cool in summer and warm in winter, now the reverse is true; locals I have spoken to say they are determined to restore the building to its former glory (İnşallah!).

So, what makes this mosque so special? Two things; a pair of doors from the mimbar and the mimbar itself . .

mimbar2

birgi02

The doors are a stunning example of late Selçuk, early Ottoman (1322) craftsmanship that has to be seen to be appreciated. They were stolen in 1993 and ended up with Christies in London where they were recognised by an employee and the matter reported to Interpol; after being missing for over 2 years they were repatriate back to Birgi’s Ulu Camii where you can appreciate them.

mimbar1

The mimbar is a remarkable construction of thousands of individual pieces of wood that mesh together without a single nail, screw or dab of glue to form a beautiful whole. In the age of computers and CAD I truly wonder if such a thing could ever be duplicated – a work of art that begs to be touched and stroked.

An additional ‘gem’ (if he is still there) is the young imam; a lovely guy and an enthusiast for his mosque who leaves his phone number by the entrance so you can have him come to unlock and show you around.

The house, which lays just a few hundred metres from the mosque, is stunning (my word for today) at first sight – it is a carefully restored Konak that is over three hundred years old. What makes this elegant house stand out from any Ottoman period building is the beautifully crafted murals that once covered almost every part of every wall together with the incredible wooden mosaic ceilings.

I cannot begin to adequately describe what you will find, so best to let some photographs weave their magic spell. Better still, go and see for yourself!

birgihouse1