Category: Travel Publisher: Jack Scott
Type: Non-Fiction
Copyright: Dec 6, 2012
ISBN-13: 9781301964727
Have you ever wondered what it’s really like to pitch your tent in a foreign field, particularly a Muslim one?
Have you ever wondered what it’s really like to pitch your tent in a foreign field, particularly a Muslim one? Guidebooks and travelogues only go so far. To get a real feel, you need to ask someone who’s been there, done that and bought all the fake t-shirts. When Jack Scott and his Civil Partner, Liam, moved to Turkey nothing could prepare them for what was to come – heatstroke, frostbite, biblical floods, Byzantine red tape, lazy censorship, blackouts, bugs from Hell, rancid drains, lunatic drivers, dirty politics, spring-loaded waiters, jaw-dropping sunsets, kindness, generosity and acceptance. They stumbled upon what Jack infamously described as the mad, the bad, the sad and the glad. Jack decided to write it all down in a blog for all the world to ignore. He called it Perking the Pansies. Against the odds and quite by surprise, Perking the Pansies grew into the most successful blog of its kind in Turkey, attracting a loyal following, the attention of the Turkish national press and hatched an Amazon number One best-selling book.
Now that Jack and Liam's sweeping Anatolian adventures are behind them, Jack is publishing the best of the blog as a two volume e-book. The uncensored director's cut includes previously unpublished material and some solid home-spun practical advice about living the dream. Visas, tax, banking, working, customs, healthcare, schools for the ankle biters - all the boring stuff is in there. Jack likes to be functional as well as decorative.
Excerpt
In the Beginning
Friday, October 8, 2010
In the beginning there was work and work was God. After thirty-five years in the business, the endless predictability made me question the Faith. Liam, on the other hand, was neither bored nor unchallenged but routinely subjected to the ephemeral demands of a capricious boss, a soft and warm Christmas tree fairy with a soul of granite – Lucifer in lace. He feared for his tenure. I feared for his mental health. It was the 30th May 2009, Liam’s 48th birthday, and we were enjoying a romantic meal in Soho. As the booze flowed the conversation turned to ‘What if?’ and so began our Great Adventure.
We began to hatch an audacious plot to step off the treadmill and migrate to the sun. Turkey sprang instantly to mind since we had just returned from Bodrum, a chic and cosmopolitan kind of place attracting serious Turkish cash, social nonconformists and relatively few discount tourists. Liam loved it and, after many years visiting the western shores of Anatolia, I needed no convincing. All I had to do was sell my house just as property prices were in free fall. All Liam had to do was agree a financial settlement with his ex on their jointly-owned property. Thus far, that particularly knotty problem had proved more difficult to resolve than the Arab-Israeli conflict.
Against all the odds, I sold my house and its contents to a God-send of a neighbour and, after some emotional horse-trading, Liam finally achieved a reasonable settlement on his own property. Implausibly, we both secured voluntary redundancy from work. In my case, it happened with such indecent haste that I sensed they were glad to be rid of me. Well, the axe man was stalking the Town Hall corridors looking for prey. It mattered little since it all added to the purse. Our remarkable run of luck convinced us that someone was looking down kindly upon us. Liam attributed it to the Virgin Mary.
We turned our attention to where in Turkey we might settle. The obvious choice was the narrow western coastal strip tucked beneath the vast Anatolian Plateau, the area most attuned to European sensibilities. Turkey beyond this was the genuine article, a magical land of sweeping landscapes, drenched in drama and culture but far too foreign and exotic for a couple of mature, bourgeois, gay boys from the Smoke. Bodrum was the bookie’s favourite, an urbane, liberal oasis where we could live safely and unmolested. We briefly entertained the notion of living in Kaş on the Turkuaz Coast. We had honeymooned there and fallen under its captivating spell. The sparkling Bohemian jewel was surrounded by a pristine hinterland and had mercifully been spared the worst excesses of mass tourism. Its glorious isolation was also its downfall. The resort was protected by a wilting two hour drive from the nearest international airport, was effectively closed out of season and lacked those dull but essential full time services we all need to live in the material world: banks, supermarkets, hospitals and the like. We cast our eyes along the map. The coast running south-east of Kaş towards Alanya has been colonised by the Germans and Russians and the string of major resorts running north – Fethiye, Marmaris, Altinkum and Kuşadası – attracted legions of bargain basement Brits. It was no surprise that the odds on favourite won by a mile.
Bedlam in Bodrum
Saturday, April 02, 2011
We took a sunny dolly ride to Bodrum to see how the ambitious townscape transformation was progressing. Much has been done since our last inspection but there’s still much to do and very little time before the start of the season. As work progresses, the grand plan is becoming clear. Sort of. Tired crazy-paving is being replaced by top-notch slabs and the marina road is being narrowed to a single lane, providing a broad costa-style esplanade to saunter along on balmy summer evenings. Nuisance parking will be banished and pestering from the hassle bars should be better controlled. It’s looking good. The start of the season approaches ominously. A legion of swarthy lads with sweaty vests and rusty tools has been drafted in from the east in a frantic rush to complete the work. Early bird visitors have already landed, mainly the elderly Teutonic type topped and tailed in straw hats and socked sandals. They waddle through the unexpected rubble in bemusement. Bedlam in Berlin? Unheard of. Finished by Easter? Not a hope.
My Golden Horn
Thursday, April 07, 2011
We took an all too brief trip to Istanbul to celebrate my birthday. We started with the usual whistle-stop tour of Sultanahmet (the old city). Haghia Sophia remains the highlight and leaves me quite speechless every time I gaze up at the magnificent dome. Onwards to the curvaceous Blue Mosque built a millennium later. Better outside than in, the seductive silhouette of mosque and minarets defines the famous city skyline. Domed out, we rested outside in the well pruned park and endured the call to prayer in thunderous surround sound.
Our first evening was spent in Beyoğlu, the increasingly hip shopping and entertainment district that looks proudly down on the old city from across the Golden Horn. We dined expensively along Istiklal Caddesi, the broad pedestrianised boulevard that runs like a spine through the area. After settling the extortionate hesap, we ventured out into the night in search of a minority interest inn to quench our thirsts and assess the locals. Unsurprisingly, the Byzantine gay scene is infinitely superior to any other in Turkey. We supped in a couple of minor league joints before ending the night in the appropriately named Tekyön (One Way), a large pulsating dance bar. It could have been London or Paris, but here, the disco tits on display were attached to young carefree Turks rather than pumped up Colombians. You know you’re getting old when, like the police, the competition is getting ever younger. We left the boys to their play and headed back to our hotel for a cocoa and a macaroon. We know our place.
Tick Tock
Friday, September 23, 2011
Liam has become increasingly alarmed at the pendulosity of my neatly pruned testiculaire. It's a long hot summer and without the provision of a support hose, gravity has taken its toll. I could run a grandfather clock with 'em.
Caveat Emptor
Friday, November 18, 2011
Liam and I love living in our little stone cottage tucked away in the middle of old Bodrum Town. Not even a perilous spark, a sieve-like roof, heat exhaustion or frostbite have put us off. Our neighbours are a joy and the locals are warm, welcoming and obliging. We rent and are thankful for the freedom this gives us. We’ve been released from the notion of owning a property that Brits nurture in the womb.
For some, the dream can turn sour. For years, people buying property abroad have fallen foul of unscrupulous builders, vendors, agents or officials. Some of the stories are enough to make you weep, particularly when the unsuspecting lose their shirts in a single dodgy deal. Sadly, it’s a phenomenon which afflicts many nations of the world, not just Turkey, and the laws which protect such people vary from country to country. I was recently contacted by an emigrey who is fronting a campaign for change in Turkey. He points out that while it is quite possible to purchase property here successfully, there are too many examples of people getting a rough ride. He's not alone in this view. The Turkish press is littered with examples of scams and only last year, police raided the Central Tapu (property deeds) Office in Bodrum.
Of course, fraud can afflict all buyers, foreign and Turkish alike. But for foreigners, coming to grips with the complexities of unfamiliar property law in a foreign land can be a daunting task. Not to mention an emotional one. Wherever you are willing to splash out, in Turkey or elsewhere, it clearly makes sense to do your homework. Do everything you can to understand the buying process, get good legal advice, don’t be tempted by cost-cutting shortcuts and don’t dish the dosh unless you are absolutely sure that everything is above board. Let’s face it, that’s exactly what you’d do in your own country so why lose your head (and possibly your life savings) when abroad? If it looks too good to be true, the chances are it is. There are plenty of people around who can offer good advice.
Turkey is a fabulous and seductive country to live in or invest in. Dreams really can come true if you do it right and the authorities play their part too. But, if you are one of the thousands of Brits thinking of splashing out on a Turkish bargain, do so at your peril.
Tales from the Water Closet
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Emiköy Alan, who as a hunky young rookie snatched the Queen’s shilling but found it to be debased, lives with the missus in a traditional Turkish village near Dalyan. Alan writes affectionately of their lives as rustic emigreys in his blog Archers of Okçular. He often leaves witty (or so he thinks) comments on my posts. Alan recently published a post about the evolution of Turkish privies, from low slung to high tech. To be mildly obsessed with evacuation is a peculiarly British pre-occupation. It’s our Dunkirk spirit. Alan reminds us of the ‘all-in-one dump and rinse pans’ that are common in this part of the world. They’re not for me. I use wet wipes to keep my ring fragrant.
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell
Wednesday March 28, 2012
Auntie Beeb recently ran an article about gays in the military, not in America this time, but in our foster home. It makes comical reading. For young gay Turks to receive their pink exemption slip (I prefer lilac myself) they have to prove their perversion with photographic evidence. Got a few holiday snaps of you being bummed on the beach in Bodrum? Now, young man, it only counts if you’re Martha not Arthur. The next best thing is a photograph of you in a frock and slingbacks. Anything floral by Laura Ashley will do. It’s all about a cock in a shock frock.
After all those wasted years of navel gazing by the horrified higher echelons of the British armed forces, gay and lesbian Britons are now allowed to serve their country. People who know a great deal more than I do about these things say this has had absolutely no detrimental effect on the operational efficiency of Her Maj’s army, air force or navy (well, it’s always been rum and bum in the navy). Military failure is reserved for hapless politicians who send our brave boys (and girls) out to fight wars they can’t win. Let’s face it, when it came to periods of genuine national emergency (like a world war), no one cared less where you put it. We were all cannon fodder back then. Unless you were Quentin Crisp, of course.
The Cult of Atatürk
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Now we’ve returned to Blighty I feel safe enough to comment on a subject that is taboo in my former foster home: the cult of Atatürk. Mustapha Kemal was undoubtedly an inspirational military and political leader who saved the Ottoman heartlands from the territorial ambitions of the victorious powers following the Great War. The Italians, French, British and Greeks all wanted to pick over the bones of the moribund empire and punish the Sultan for backing the wrong horse. There were scores to settle. Atatürk saw off the pack of hyenas and established a secular Turkish Republic mostly shorn of its imperial lands and within more defensible borders. His post war reforms dragged the country into the 20th Century. He achieved all this through the sheer strength of his towering personality and resolute single mindedness. Yes, he was a dictator, in the age of the great dictators (I mean ‘great’ in the powerful sense, obviously), but his rule was progressive and transformational. His avowed legacy was to establish a just and secular society based on the rule of Law and gender equality. I wonder, therefore, what he would make of the personality cult that has developed around his memory following his death. I wonder if he would approve of the laws that ban even the mildest criticism of him and require his image to be prominently displayed everywhere? What would he make of monumental scale of his mausoleum and the thousands of grand statues that adorn every town square? I wonder?
Perfect for fans of Bill Bryson, Elizabeth Gilbert, and Cheryl Strayed, this is more than a travelogue—it's a hilarious and heartfelt journey for anyone who has ever wondered: "Is this it?"
