Three Turkish Tales

by David R. Mellor

 The Man Who Waves at Trains

The overnight train from Ankara to İzmir stops at Balıkesir for those connecting to other places. The journey itself passes with varying degrees of discomfort, a helpless battle to sleep with phones beeping, chatter and the jealousy of people snoring, broken up by stops so deserted and isolated that chickens and other farmyard creatures have made it their home.

 Balıkesir, I was about to find out, also is a home of sorts. 

There is a palpable relief that one has arrived at the station, one sits dazed eating the burnt out remains of whatever is available at the kiosk, noticing others gathering to take this or the next train further.

Someone plonks themselves next to us, shakes my hand, with some translation from my wife tells me the story of his life, exalts the pleasure of where we are going to live, and talks about his friend who has just married someone from Bangkok. He is jovial, pleasant and appears content. “Oh, I’m just seeing someone off.” We exchange pleasantries and head onwards with not a second thought about this encounter. 

Due to bureaucratic difficulties on my part, this journey starts to become more frequent than I would wish. Each time we either stop or get the train from Balıkesir, each time we see a growing number coming out of this town, which is barely on the map, to congregate at the station, all men middle-aged or older. Their social life being this solitary place passing the time with passengers, then returning home with a bundle of memories to live on until the next time.

The man I met previously is almost always there seeing someone off, waving to the train with nothing in reply. He catches my eye once and sheepishly bows his head as if to convey that he is not here. On my last occasion to travel back, I see him once again as the train pulls away and wave frantically. He looks up in a state of shock, stands with a beam in his eye, waving with glee as if to say to bystanders: Look, I really am seeing someone off this time.

For the Love of Football

For the person with limited knowledge, Turkey is basked in sun all year round. I mean, that’s what you see on holiday right. On my second visit, I arrived in an İstanbul knee deep in snow, the back streets particularly icy, even going uphill catching my breath. At this surprise we took the yellow taxi (they all are) home.

 One topic in a taxi is never out of bounds. 

On this occasion as ever, I exulted my love of Liverpool FC, love was shown back, then I asked as ever who the taxi driver supported, he said Galatasaray. Due in part to my wife’s influence, I said “Galatasaray are my team as well.” At that point we were married to each other or became blood brothers. A person from Liverpool who also supports Galatasaray! In ice-cold blizzard conditions the taxi suddenly became a tank, he would get us to our door whatever it took, if not we would both die on the battlefield or in this case the icy roads of İstanbul. Lots of back-slapping ensued, Liverpool and Galatasaray chants. “And you love Galatasaray as well.” He was almost crying with pride. How lovely people the Turks are, I thought. 

At the bottom of the road where the house is situated, there is a hill which was completely frozen at that moment. 

“It’s ok, we can get out here.”

“No!” 

The car’s doors locked.

“I will get you right to your door.”

The car slipped and slid up the hill. Why couldn’t I have supported Fenerbahçe, then he would have dropped us in an icy ditch in disgust. 

“It’s really ok.” No, this was now Gallipoli and everyone had to be brave. Sliding back again for the umpteenth time, the lights of the motorway glistened behind, a slip of the clutch and we would be in it. 

“It really is ok, we can get off here!” I held him from the back. 

“No brother, I’m going to take you there.”

I didn’t have a brother and suddenly a well of love grew in me.

“Okay then.”

And with a roar of “Cim Bom Bom!” we reached the summit, I held him like I’d been pulled out of the Titanic.

 Football really is a matter of life and death here, Shankly would be proud.

Rakı

(Eat, drink, eat, drink, eat, drink, forget who you are)

In my country, you either go out for a meal with close friends and family, have a few glasses of wine, then regret spending time with those you actively avoid normally.

Or you go out with your rowdy mates, drinking copulate amounts of lager in the pub. Spend more time in the toilet than you do at the bar. Finally argue with yourself in the mirror before storming out. Grab yourself an inedible takeaway on the way home,  to wake up with it still there on your chest. 

In Turkey, going out is an art somewhere between Romeo and Juliet and a Greek tragedy, with a cast that would fill any theatrical stage.

“Let’s go out for a meal with a few of my friends,” she said. A night of dry conversation and wine, broken up by periods of boredom and silence is what I expected.

We arrived to a vast table with rather jovial guests. All of a sudden what appeared to be an armada of tiny plates, each carrying little dishes of heaven descended before us, I counted at least 20 until I became dizzy. I later found out that these were called meze. A jug of water was placed on the table with ice. My heart sank. Water!!! I signaled in desperation for a beer but was waved down. Instead, a few rather elegant bottles of a clear liquid were placed on the table with a collective sigh of happiness and anticipation rippling amongst the guests. Oktay, a rather jovial and gentle giant, said “Should I do the honors?” Everyone beamed like school children.

“Our guest first.” And like a teenager seeing his first naked body, I stared with wonder, fascination, and fear. Firstly, the bottle was opened and poured gently into a special sacrificial cup (rakı glass), the potion was then mixed with equal amounts of water topped with ice, and like magic, the liquid changed from clear to a milky white. The bottle was then religiously passed round with Oktay being the master of ceremonies. It tasted of velvety aniseed and went down very easily. I continually topped my glass up with this wonder. Eating from dishes that arrived like a conveyor belt and smoking in between, with no disapproving eyes. In a blink we were all a family, who hadn’t seen each other for years. Social distancing went out of the window and everyone’s personal space was the others, hugs and high-fives bounced around the table. After my 8th or 9th rakı, everyone was my best friend and I was theirs. “You should take it easy with that,” a voice said, but I wasn’t sure if it was mine or somebody else’s. My moods then switched to and from Doctor Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. 

“I totally disagree with you,” I said to someone getting quite angry with them. 

“What do you disagree with?” 

“I don’t know, I’m so glad I met you,” and embraced him. 

Then all of a sudden, I remember nothing and have to rely on my girlfriend like a newspaper to report on what happened the following day.

You fell over the chairs getting out of the restaurant. 

Threw yourself in the road to get a taxi. 

When it pulled away you fell out of it.

You crawled up the stairs and slept in the bathroom. 

The headlines didn’t sound good and I nodded and tutted as if they were about someone else, how awful.

“But it was a good night, wasn’t it ?” 

“Yes,” she said with a knowing smile. “In fact, we are meeting them again later, they loved you.” I dropped my glass of tea in trepidation. I’ve learned my lesson, only three glasses of rakı.

The following day the newspaper report didn’t sound too bad:

You danced on tables.

Sang Rule Britannia in the streets.

And hugged and kissed every passerby.

“So, another good night,” I said with a smile on my face.

“Yes.” 

But something tells me rakı doesn’t agree with me, or agrees with me too much.

Born 1964, (Liverpool, England) to a difficult birth, David didn't find his voice until his youth. Years of thinking he was nobody and treated as such, including a period of homelessness in the desperate Thatcher Years.

However, he hit the paper papering over the scars. Found understanding and belief through words. He has been published and performed widely from the BBC, The Tate, galleries and pubs and everything in between. Now resident in Turkey he has continued his literary career with his work appearing in journals including a weekly column in Canakkale Gündem about his observations of Turkish life.

 His poems and writings are autobiographical, others topical and several his take on life. Hope you enjoy.

Check out MellorDR Youtube for recordings.

And “So This is It", a selection of his poetry recently published and available on all platforms.