The new Lost was so great. God I love this show. The ending when the battery dies is just classic, and a perfect lead in to the next ep which focuses on that character. (Notice how I did that without any real spoilers? cool, huh?)
***
Our Turkish correspondent Toby will be coming back to the states in like 7 more months, so be sure to take advantage of the "As the Toby turns" episodes while you can. Click below to read about his latest misadventure involving an intended trip to India.
***
Drum roll please.
Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the first annual D.O.T.Y. awards. I’ll be your host this evening, and we have, well, not much of a show for you. But then again, that fits with the nature of the award anyway. A D.O.T.Y. is given to the Dumbass Of The Year, the person who has done something just so damn dumb that it needs to be acknowledged and applauded. The winner of this award should be able to look in the mirror and say, “Hot damn, you are one Dumb Ass. What were you thinking?” So let’s not drag this out and just get on with the list of not so distinguished nominees.
First is Azmi, our late and not so great General Director of Darussafaka High School. He couldn’t actually direct his way out of a paper bag, but the D.O.T.Y. committee hadn’t seen so much ass kissing since they “accidentally” went to that special club in Amsterdam. So for that, he gets a nod.
Our next nominee is Cetin Berkman, the Chair-dick of the Board of Darussafaka. He actually won “Senile Old Man” of the year last month, but there’s nothing in the bylaws that says you can’t be nominated in more than one category. For completely unprofessional and cowardly behavior, and for waging a war of personal politics using children as his weapons, he is a strong contender.
Our final nominee is Kadbitch Bilgi. You’ve all heard of her before. She’s the Head of the English Dept. with a serious case of penis envy. The committee felt it impossible to mention the phrase dumb ass and not include her name. Her list of accomplishments in the field of dumb-assness is truly legendary, and far too long to get into detail here.
Joyce, may I have the envelope please. Thank you. Ok, and the winner of this year’s D.O.T.Y. is… Oh, I can’t get the envelope open. Alright, the winner is… What? Where are my glasses? Oh… My …Gosh! What a twist. We have a surprise winner, everyone. The biggest dumb-ass of the year is actually Tobin Huibregtse! Tobin, come on up! Who would have thought? Wow.
“Thank you, thank you. I don’t know what to say. (Wipes away tear of dust from eyes) I can’t believe I beat all those people. Azmi, Cetin, especially you Kadbitch, you all truly deserved this, but I guess since the nature of the award is to be able to admit that you’ve done something dumb, you’re all disqualified. Hahaha. I have no one to thank for this but myself.”
(Later at the press conference)
“So Tobin, were you surprised by the win?”
“Yes and no. I mean, I really was a dumb-ass, but it’s great to be recognized for my performance. I never thought I was capable of anything quite like this.”
“Some of your fans may not be clear on the details of your story and what led to you winning this D.O.T.Y. Can you relate them for us now?”
“Of course, it would be my pleasure.”
It all began last week on Thursday, January 20th. I had spent the day packing my bag for India and finishing-up my travel plans. I was really looking forward to this trip as a kind of Grande Finale to my time in Turkey. I got to the airport and checked-in early to get an exit row seat so that I could have lots of leg room in cattle class. I have to say that I think in the future I may be splurging for the business class seats on long flights. Being stacked next to the winners of the FaTT Ass awards for the past ten years is beginning to grate on me. But I got through customs and had my passport checked and got on the plane.
I flew Emirates for the first time, which was a very nice experience, especially compared to any of the US airlines (except Southwest, for whom I still have a soft spot for some very friendly stewardesses). They announce everything in Arabic and English but the crew is completely international. I think there were only about three Arabs working any flight I had, and there were at least 8 languages spoken by the crew. Each seat is equipped with a touch-screen TV that plays movies, music and games. I really liked that Trivia game played among all the passengers on the whole plane. It showed your seat number, score and went in rounds of twenty questions each. They even give menus, although I don’t know why they bothered because there wasn’t a big choice. But it was a nice touch. The food was good, and they gave large cans of Coke and a full glass of whiskey when I asked for it. And everyone was very friendly and helpful, but more of that later.
I transferred in Dubai to my flight to Delhi. That leg took a further 4 hours, but it went fast because I was in a big trivia battle with the guy in 27B. We left the other players in our wake, and we each won twice. My nemesis came to see me later so he could see who he had been competing against, and we talked a bit about what we were going to see in India. I became a bit nervous about an hour before we landed because a stewardess passed through the cabin distributing visa registration forms for visitors to India. I filled in the parts I could, but something didn’t seem right. When we landed and I got up to the passport control desk, I handed the paper and my passport to the man there and waited. He started flipping through the passport and then checked the paper.
“Where is your visa?” That’s when my stomach did a back flip.
“I need to buy one. Where do I do that?”
“Where did you come from?”
“Istanbul.”
“Then Istanbul.”
“Oh, bloody ‘ell.” They weren’t impressed by my bad impression of their former colonial masters, and the head guy was called. After a quick appraisal of the situation, he told me I had two choices, but I was not getting into India without a visa purchased in a different country.
“You can get back on the plane for Dubai (17 days early) or you can take the flight to Katmandu and buy a visa there. What will it be?”
Given the choice, I opted for the trip to Nepal. He checked on his little walkie-talkie, but the flight was full. That left Dubai.
“But I just came from there. Surely, there’s something you can do about this. I mean, this must happen sometimes.”
“Yes, but only to potential D.O.T.Y. winners, and in their case, we deport them immediately.”
So I was deported from India. I had to sign all kinds of papers, surrender my passport and be escorted everywhere by a little woman who looked like Gandhi in drag. Despite all this, I have to say that the officials went out of their way to make it as painless as possible. Some were even apologetic and said it was the airline’s fault for not informing me before I got on the plane. It would be easy for me to say that too, but the truth is I just dropped the ball on this one. I had checked out the visa situation online and in my guidebook, and although both said I needed one, neither stated that I needed to get one before I left. Usually they do, and in all my years of traveling I’ve only had to buy a visa beforehand once, and that was to Syria. In truth, my “I’m an American” attitude towards visas finally caught-up with me. Laurie Paddock, the Cannuck nationalist, is laughing somewhere right now. The Indian officials put me on the plane, actually watching me sit, and then said goodbye and that I shouldn’t take this personally, it was all just regulations and they hoped I would get the visa and return soon. The purser was given my passport and deportation forms, and I got back to my trivia game that had been so rudely interrupted by the whole affair.
Upon my return to Dubai, I had to wait until everyone had left the plane and the purser was free to deal with me. He called the necessary security officials and I sat in first class until they arrived. While I was waiting, several of the stewardesses in their little veiled hats (Emirates may be a good airline, but it’s still an Arab airline, hence the attempt at modesty) talked to me. They gave me Godiva chocolate left over from them high fallutin’ first class passengers, and one from Morocco told me how the same thing had happened to her in Turkey. Apparently, Moroccans need a visa for Turkey too and she didn’t have one when she arrived on a flight, so they made her fly right back. Another woman told me that plane was going to Frankfurt now and that I should just stay where I was and come along. Not a bad idea, except I had packed for a warm climate (shorts, t-shirts, etc) and all of northern Europe is currently right around freezing. Finally the security guys arrived and they collected my passport and me.
Once again, I had my own special escort. I felt like a VIP in hiking boots. After signing the necessary papers and getting a passport check to make sure I didn’t do this kind of thing a lot, I was asked what I wanted to do now. I initially thought that I would just get my visa to India and then go back since I knew those flights weren’t full. The problem was that it was Kurbam Bayram, that holiday I’ve mentioned before where all the Muslims get whatever livestock they can lay their hands on and cut off its head. Therefore, all the consulates were closed until Monday, and I didn’t want to wait that long. In addition to that holiday, it was also the tenth annual Shopping Festival in Dubai. Every hotel was full. And yes, I did say Shopping Festival. Dubai has built itself up as the shopping Mecca of the Middle East. And since it borders Saudi Arabia, what better time to have this festival of gluttony than right at the haj time? That way, all the good Muslims who have just purified themselves by going on the haj can take off the white haji outfit, hop across the border, and indulge themselves in all the best Japanese electronics and American cigarettes they can stuff into their bags.
I went to the ticket desk and told the man I needed a ticket for a flight that left that night.
“To where?”
“Whatcha got?”
He was very patient and understanding and proceeded to list off what was available.
-Casablanca?
=Been there. Very nice, but also 8 hours away, and an expensive ticket.
-Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur?
=8 hours and I want to do those places as part of a big trip I want to take to southeast Asia someday. Plus no guidebook and there’s a lot to see. Next.
-Damascus or Amman?
=Death to America! Not these days, thanks.
-Tripoli?
=Wow, that would be great. But do I need a visa BEFORE I go?
-Ah yes, it says you do. Sorry.
=Yeah, me too. I’m glad YOUR computer tells you that information.
-Nairobi or Dar es Salaam?
=Lions and zebras and bears, oh my! What are the odds I’ll hook up with a couple of crazy Australian chicks, a drunken Irishman, a slut from Amsterdam and two laid back Norwegians again? Naw, I’ll keep the good memories I have.
-Cape Town, South Africa?
=Lions and sharks and AIDS, oh my! Not quite ready for that yet.
-Europe?
=Look at me. These are my warm clothes. I’d have to drink an inordinate amount of hot wine to stay warm there now. I’d probably wind up in a drunk tank for two weeks.
-How about Seychelles?
=Say shells? Why do you want me to say that? Oh, you mean the archipelago. Hmm. There’s a thought. Yeah. What the hell. Put me on the beach.
And so I got my ticket to Seychelles, a little island chain in the Indian Ocean. The flight didn’t leave until 2AM though, so I had lots of time to go and check-out Dubai’s Shopping Festival. I checked my bags and headed downtown on a bus. When we reached an area that was so packed that I couldn’t have fit a scarf between the bodies, I figured that had to be it. I got off and started shuffling along with the crowd. It was quite a surreal scene. Almost no women in sight anywhere (after all, any woman out after dark must obviously be a total prostitute). All the men were carrying shopping bags in one hand, holding their friend’s hand with the other and scratching themselves with both hands. At regular intervals they’d stop to spit or blow their nose on the street by holding one nostril and blowing. One glob of mucous missed me by an inch. Except for the spitting and blowing, Dubai’s shopping area could have easily been mistaken for a big street sale day in San Francisco’s gay quarter.
I found a Dunkin Donuts with blueberry doughnuts and snagged a few to eat while I tramped around. Yum. I walked for a bit and then spotted a Carrefour, which is a European version of Wal-Mart. I went in there to search for Mecca Cola and Mountain Dew. I found the MD, but I didn’t want to buy too much now and just have to carry it on the plane. I ate dinner and got a taxi back to the airport. I could have gone to see that famous seven star hotel on the coast, but eh. When we flew in I had noticed the two Palm Island development areas. These are man-made islands in the shape of palm trees that are occupied by huge villas. I also saw the incomplete World Islands project sitting like a half-finished global map there in the Persian Gulf. I asked the stewardess about these, and she told me that there were going to be 300 islands making up a map of the world. Each island had between one and a few villas on it and cost several million dollars each. Accessible only by private boat. I privately thought that the folks living on the islands that made up the US part of the map had better have some good security. But hey, Ma. I saw Wisconsin from 5000 feet. I decided Dubai is trying to become the Las Vegas of the Middle East, but in a kind of perverted, half sense. They’ll never be able to push the moral line far enough to become a “real” Las Vegas style place. However, I got back to the airport at about 11:00 and I was sitting reading my book when I heard a noise that sounded a bit strange. But I thought it couldn’t possibly be what I thought it was. A couple minutes later I heard it again. Then again. I put the book down and looked to my left. There was a woman sprawled out on three seats like some sultana, and she was just merrily farting whenever the mood struck her. And as I was looking at her, she let another one rip. I couldn’t quite understand things here. The men go out with other men to hold their hands and go shopping and the women stay home and fart. Now there’s a switch for you.
My flight took off on time, and I picked up the trivia game where I had left off. By the end of this flight I had managed to work my way into the top ten of all time scores on that plane. To do so, I had to be able to answer the questions almost immediately (to get the maximum points), and I realized that the other people on that list of high scores must also have played many, many hours and seen the same questions repeated just as I had. I wondered how many of them were also potential D.O.T.Y. winners who had been deported from various countries. We got to Seychelles at six in the morning, and I was struck by the humidity and the sight of a large mountain covered green as soon as I got off the plane. I went through customs and proceeded to the tourism counter to see what I could rustle-up for a hotel room. I knew it wouldn’t be cheap there, but the book she showed me was full of places going for a minimum of $150 per night. I honestly thought I’d sleep on the beach first, but I kept looking. A woman was also looking for a room and I let her go in front of me. She told the woman at the counter she wanted an exciting place. I found-out later that there is no exciting place on those islands, but it seemed like a reasonable request at the time. She got her room and left and then I told the counter lady that I needed a place for $60 or less per night. As the sweat was already rolling off me, I said it would be of great help if air conditioning were included. She made a couple calls and found one. I took taxi to my little bungalow, which was actually a room in a small building right on the beach. To get to it I needed two keys. The first was for a small kitchen hidden off the reception area. The second was for the actual room, hidden behind the kitchen. I didn’t care. It was quite, near the water, and the AC worked great.
I immediately went for a swim and I took a pair of goggles with me that I’d picked-up in Dubai. The beaches were all white and always completely or nearly deserted. I had never seen so many fish near the beach before. In my time there, I went swimming everyday and always saw dozens of different kinds of tropical fish. I felt like I was in a giant aquarium. I even saw some sea turtles feeding on the reefs, and they let me get pretty close before they swam off. I don’t know any of the names of the fish I saw, but I made up my own names for some of them. There were whip-tailed pencil fish. Alfalfa-haired yellow stripers (they had these crazy dorsal fins that were about a foot long). Red, brown and green Pac Man chomper fish with beaks for eating coral. Most were no longer than my forearm, but a few were nearly as big as me. Luckily I never saw any sharks, although I did break down later and buy some shark jaws from a guy on the beach. The small one I kept for myself, the larger one I gave to Celil for his birthday.
After my swim I went to Victoria, the smallest capital city in the world and the only town of any size in the whole country. It was over the mountain on the other side of Mahe (the big island), but there were regular buses and it was easy enough. I started by going to a travel agency to change the date of my ticket because I could already tell that I couldn’t survive on this island “paradise” for more than a week. I asked what day Emirates flew and was told Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday. I told him to change it to the following Saturday, and looked at my watch to calculate the date. I said the 28th, but he told me it would be the 29th. How can that be? Turned out that after not sleeping for nearly 48 hours and constantly changing my watch to new time zones had caused me to lose a day. It was Saturday and I had thought it was Friday. Well, damn. Ok. Where can I get some lunch?
Seychelles is mostly a Catholic country with a spattering of various other Christian denominations and a few Muslims and Hindus. Therefore, pork was in abundance and, because they’re islands, there’s lots of seafood to be had. Most people eat at little take-away places for lunch and I found a place with a shortish line. I had pork stir-fry and rice. Over the next week I ate everything from octopus to fish to bat pate. They speak Creole there and cook Louisiana style Cajun food. It’s quite a mix, but I enjoyed it. A nice change of pace from school slop, kebabs and regular trips to McD’s. After lunch I needed to change more money because I had changed only $20 at the airport. I asked a lady selling postcards where the best place to do it was, and she surprised me by telling me she could change it for 800 Seychelles Rupees, compared to the official rate of 525 rupees to the dollar. No sooner had she said that than some sunburned tourists from Europe asked me if I’d like to change money with them. This was my introduction to the black market money exchange. Turns out that the government doesn’t allow locals to convert rupees to foreign currency, so everyone turns to other means to get their hands on dollars and Euros and is willing to pay a good premium for them. The drawback for foreigners is that if you change too much and have extra left over, you can’t change it back without an official receipt showing you changed the money at a bank. These tourists were leaving the next day and needed to unload their extra money. The postcard lady didn’t mind, so right there on the street across from the police station we conducted out illicit transaction. What a group of criminals we made in our shorts and sandals. The other man even had zinc oxide on his nose. Perfect cover.
With a pocketful of money and time to burn, I set out to explore all six blocks of the capital. On my rounds, I ran into that same lady from the airport that I had let go in front of me for a hotel room. We said hi and talked for just a second and then went our separate ways. I noticed the Social Security Office was located in the offices above a casino. I’m not sure what the meaning of that was, but I hope the government accounting office keeps close tabs on those books. I walked past a school just as it was letting out. The uniforms were funny. The girls wore shirt skirts and white shirts, and the boys wore shorts and military-style shirts. A secret army development program? Probably not, but if Seychelles does invade Mauritius or the Maldives in a few years, don’t say I didn’t warn you. The school itself, like many other buildings, was almost completely open and had not one glass window in the whole place. Just too damn hot and sticky. I noticed that most of the women were more bootylicious than Beyonce, just as they had been in Tanzania the year before, although these ladies didn’t wear any of the bright colors and robes that characterized the women on the mainland. Most of the men under thirty had one ear pierced and most under twenty had both ears done. They invariably wore huge fake diamond studs, but I figured that at least they weren’t holding each others’ hands, spitting on the street and scratching themselves. Rap music seemed to be the most popular thing around, and I even saw a few guys in 50 Cent t-shirts. It didn’t really seem to fit with the whole ambiance of the island until I heard come Creole rap. After that, I couldn’t wait for the next Eminem song to play.
I returned to my hotel and went for another swim. There was a restaurant near my hotel called the Boathouse that everyone had recommended, so I thought I’d check it out. It was open-air, like I said all places were there, and as soon as I strolled in I saw that same woman from the airport there. She was by herself too, and she asked if I’d like to sit with her. Yeah. An hour and a half later I knew her name was Sasha Ali (why is it that everyone I meet over here either has an Ali in their name somewhere or a family member named Ali), a doctor from Pakistan working with the UN as a placement specialist for refugees. She spoke Urdu, Persian, English, Hindi and Arabic, was about seven years older than me and was a stereotypically spoiled upper-class Pakistani lady with her own cook, maid and driver. No wonder she was staying at the Meridian where one night would be the total budget of my entire trip. Finally, I discovered that they had Mountain Dew in Pakistan, but she didn’t like it. Despite that, she was funny, didn’t mind my silly jokes, and I suspect neither of us were in the mood to nitpick.
This was, as I had only recently found out, Saturday. I spent the next four days with her but I still kept my own hotel room where I would retire to for a few hours each day. Like with most women I’ve either been involved with or been friends with, we had a time limit that determined how much continuous time we could spend together before annoying the hell out of each other. For me, the signal was, and always has been, when the topic of “relationships” comes up. Being the cold-hearted bastard (isn’t that how most of you ladies reading this have described me at one time or another?) that I am, I tend to see that topic in terms of black and white and don’t have too much patience for analysis. Analyzing history, politics or even human behavior is one thing, but the inner soul of a romantic relationship just isn’t my choice of whiskey. It’s more of a sickeningly sweet cheap wine of the sort sorority chicks seem so fond of. But we did manage to stay together most of the time, and I hate to admit it, but she was a bit of a sugar mama. She always chose expensive places to eat, and even though I always at least offered to pay, she somehow always got to the check before I did. The best night was when we went to this Indian restaurant in a big hotel. She wore a sari, black eye shadow and even put on a decorative bindi dot. Then she ordered for us in Hindi and insisted that I eat with my fingers, just to get the real feel of the place. I asked if she meant how a two-year-old feels eating spaghetti without silverware, but she politely asked me to please not get anything in my hair or throw curry on the people at the next table. I figured I could handle that, but I did insist on using a fork to eat my rice.
We tried to find some entertainment, but there just wasn’t much to be had anywhere. There was one bar, but the hookers out front turned Sasha off a bit. That bar was just like the one in Tanzania, except there my safari group (led by Jerry the alcoholic Irishman) had gone right in and gotten drunk with the prostitutes and everyone wound up dancing on the tables. As I reminisced, she got impatient and suggested our usual stroll on the beach. We did a lot of that.
She left on Wednesday, and I was free to do whatever I wanted. But as I always knew, it gets kind of boring being at the beach by yourself. It’s one thing to be in a crowded bustling place with lots to see, but when the sites are restricted to men selling fish it helps to have someone else around. I started talking to a few of the locals. At night, I came across a couple of old men under a street lamp putting a net up in the trees. I asked if they were hunting those big fruit bats (about a two-foot wingspan) that flew around every night. Yes. And do you eat them? Yes. Very good good. Crunch. I didn’t need to ask to know that they liked the wings best. I hung out until they caught one and watched them club the thing to death with a stick. One guy told me that some hotels bought a few bats everyday, and I asked him which ones. He told me one that wasn’t too far and I went there the next night and noticed bat pate on the menu. I figured it was one more thing I could say I’d eaten, and it wasn’t that bad, but I don’t think I’ll be looking around for that recipe anytime soon.
I decided to rent a car for the first ever time. Sasha had gotten a nice one, I got the cheapie, but considering that no one can go faster than 60km per hour anywhere I didn’t think it mattered too much. The extremely narrow roads were like roller coasters there, and coupled with the fact that they drove on the left side of the road, I felt like I was living on the edge every time I got behind the wheel. I got pretty good at it though, and driving on the opposite of the road from what I’m used to wasn’t as strange as I’d thought it might be. I was constantly confusing the blinkers and windshield wipers though, so I just had to hope that when people saw the wipers going really fast it meant left, and if the wipers were going slow and cleaner was spewing onto the windshield then that meant right. I had to get gas once and the attendant who pumped it for me had so much gold on (at least one ring on every finger and a minimum dozen chains) that I thought maybe Mr. T had escaped bankruptcy in the States and come out to enjoy the island life. I thought about asking if Hannibal and Murdoch were working as garbage men, but he looked kind of mean and I decided to let it go.
Now Mahe T may have looked mean but, as people go, Seychellois were extremely friendly. Almost everyone said hi to me, even the old people. And not in a fake touristy way either, they were genuinely helpful and nice. Sasha had thought they all seemed sad to her, but I think they just had serious things on their minds, like what kind of fruit to buy that day or whether to get another ear piercing or not. The girl who cleaned the rooms at my hotel and made my breakfast everyday talked to me every morning and told me about island life. The kids in school learn Creole for the first four years and then all their lessons are in English and French until they graduate. The government even opened a university two years ago. She herself had dropped out of high school because she got pregnant. I asked if that was common and she said it wasn’t uncommon. Like I said before, there’s not much else to do on that island, so teenage pregnancy doesn’t surprise me. I only hope that Seychelles doesn’t become another center of the AIDS epidemic.
On Friday, my last day before my plane left, I went shopping for a few presents. I hit the market and bought a few scarves, some wine, mixed nuts, one of those cool coral necklaces and, as I mentioned, a pair of shark-jaws from some loony shark hunter on the beach. The fruit was very exotic and cheap, so I bought a bunch of different kinds to take back to the kids. I took one more swim to look at the fish, ate a pork and squid pizza for dinner (no, not eeeewwww. It was very good.) and packed my bags. I got up at four so I could be at the airport at six, and I was glad I’d rented a car instead of having to rely on a taxi. I won another few trivia games on the way back to Dubai and ate a good crab omelet (the first airline eggs that didn’t make me sick, go Emirates). I didn’t have time before my flight left for Istanbul to go to Carrefour to buy Mountain Dew, so I can only hope that the American teacher coming back from the States next week comes through and has a six-pack or so for me.
When I got back to Istanbul, I went to duty free to buy a bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila and margarita mix for Ali (yet another Ali) and a bottle of Mozart chocolate liquor and M and M’s for me. The cashier looked at the bottles and told me that the limit was two liters. I tried to explain that margarita mix was non-alcoholic and therefore shouldn’t count. She wouldn’t budge however, so I said fine, left everything on the counter, and walked fifty yards across the baggage claim area to the other duty free shop. I again selected the same items, but this time I chose my cashier (a meek little bald man), spoke only English and no Turkish and was ready for the confrontation. He tried to tell me the same thing, but I acted like I couldn’t understand. Finally I “got” what he was driving at and then pointed out that the Mozart liquor was only .7 liters anyway, and the margarita mix was non-alcoholic. He looked at my stupid, pleading foreign eyes and said ok, he could ring it up separately. So I got Ali his damn bottle of tequila and mix. He’d better make me one strong drink when I give it to him. My first stop was McDonald’s, and yesterday I went to lunch at one of my favorite Turkish places with Hasan so he could tell me how things had gone with him over the break. That night I beat lots of people at ping-pong and gave the guys in the dorm a break from studying with most of that fruit I’d brought back. Always fun to see people’s reactions to new food, but most of them liked most of it. The passion fruit was the most popular, but their teenagers so it makes sense.
Since I came back a week early, I decided to go to Kutahya for a couple of days. Not much there except a castle and lots of porcelain, but I can’t seem to sit still in my apartment for more than a day at a time. I bought a plate there a few years ago, but it broke when I took it to the States. I’ll have better luck this time hopefully. So that’s it.
“Snooooooooooooooooooooooore. Agghhhhh.”
“Hey, buddy. Does that answer your question about how I won this D.O.T.Y.?”
“Ah, what? Yaaaaaaaaaaawn. Is it over? Yeah. I think I can turn that into a sound bite. No problem. Too dumb to get visa before, became boy toy, turned out ok. That’s it. Thanks. See you at next year’s awards.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean as a presenter, of course.”
“Oh yes. Can’t wait. And I’m sure I’ll see all of you there too. Catch ya’ll next year.”
This was a pretty good movie. Much darker than I was expecting having no real grasp of the original material. I had no issues with Keanu. ;)
***
Today I get to go to the dentist. Hurray....er....not.
Yay, now that I'm on days I get to take holiday's like normal people. 3 day weekend, hurray for dead presidents. :)
This weekend will be pretty busy. Going to Chris and Jen's for dinner with Chuck and possibly Brian and Laura on Saturday. Sunday I'm going down to the Springs to hang with Jason and Melissa. Monday I am possibly seeing a flick with Linda...Constantine hopefully!
A lot of the shows I watch have wrapped/are wrapping up at this point. Lost has two more eps left, and the last one that aired was soooo good. West Wing is nearing the end now I believe too. Stargate Atlantis finished its season off with a bang and a cliffhanger, Stargate itself has one more ep left this season and they are really tying up a lot of loose ends. (Next season of the Stargates by the way will not only have Claudia Black and Ben Browder from Farscape, but will also have Mitch Pillegi(Skinner from X-files!!!) and Lou Gosset Jr., hehe) Battlestar Galactica of course is already kaput for me since I watched the UK airings, but since there were only 13 episodes anyway, its relatively close to wrapping in the states. Hopefully season 2 doesn't take TOO terribly long to produce. Carnivale, assuming its a short HBO season like the norm is also more than half over. That show, btw, has one of the best opening credit sequences/music of any show ever. So perfect.
There are of course, still a few that are more towards the middle of their run (24, Alias, and the like), but I guess I'll have a lot more free time soon. ;)
Joe, that movie you told me to watch had one of *those* women in it. Ugh!!! -- Otherwise it was good. :)
Incoming Toby Letter, click below if you'd like to read about animal sacrifices.
Cutting zeros and throats, all in the same month.
It is now 2005, and there have been some big changes over here in Turkey. To begin with, I’m not sure how many of you knew this, but I just lost billions, and not in the stock market. Gone are my days of being able to claim parity with the Trumps and Murdochs of the world. I’ve been reduced to well-off middle management. Turkey changed its currency to New Turkish Lira. Ataturk’s still the only guy on any piece of money, but six zeros got chopped in a bid to increase confidence in the economy, and as a sort of celebration for finally getting the hyper-inflation under control. It’s less than ten percent now, down from eighty when I got here six years ago. Turkey actually defied all the traditional economists’ notions that hyper-inflation cannot be sustained over long periods of time (20 years in this case). But that’s just Turkey for you. The people here usually find a way to get things done and defy the odds, for better or worse.
The Kurban Bayram is starting tomorrow. That’s the feast of the sacrifice where Muslims get together and dispatch an animal: a sheep, cow, goat or camel depending on what’s available and how much money they have. I talk about this every year, but this year I got a new take on things from Ahmet, my friend the tech director at school. Since we’re a charity school people give us donations, especially at this time of year. In past years before Ahmet got here, I couldn’t eat in the cafeteria for weeks after the slaughter because it stank so bad from the old meat they were using. Ahmet introduced some basic hygienic practices that, like Florence Nightingale’s efforts, were little more than common sense, which is why nobody had done them before. In past years they kept the animals at our school and there was a man who acted as a shepherd for our “pet” sheep. On the appointed day they were led to the dumpsters out back and whacked in Columbia-style mafia hits by our maintenance man, who speaks loudly and carries a huuuuge knife. I remember blood really did run in a small river down the hill towards the teacher housing. But this year Ahmet made a deal with a sausage factory to deal with the mess. In that way, the school gets money, not the meat, and that works out better for everyone except the animals who still get their special Columbian necklaces.
Of course, there are some donors who insist on seeing the animal cut right in front of them. Some even want to put the blood on their foreheads. Ahmet managed to talk most people out of participating, but there were a few die-hards who just can’t live unless they see a sheep die. I actually listened to Ahmet have a conversation with a woman on the phone who was trying to figure out what part of the sheep she wanted to keep and when she could see the blood-letting. She kept having to ask her husband, and in the end she said she’d call back later. So for them, the sausage factory is having a special viewing and I suppose the donors will be free to paint themselves in as much blood as they want. Turkey is trying to crack down on sacrifices made in the streets because there is an effort being made to be seen as a more progressive and modern country in the Western sense of the word. That doesn’t mean the authorities have been completely successful. As my parents can attest to, any open field is prime cutting territory. I still remember my mother getting all excited as we drove past an empty lot dotted with carcasses and asking what was going on as knife-wielding ladies in scarves sliced-up Lambchop. “They do that every weekend, Ma. It’s a biology class, but they don’t have enough laboratories to do the dissection inside.” It made sense since ladies with scarves aren’t allowed into universities here. Dad just looked, but wasn’t too interested since it’s nothing he doesn’t see everyday when some crack-head prisoner shanks another. The city government actually has an “Escaped Bull Task Force” whose job it is to track down wounded animals, tranquilize them and return them to the owners who then finish what they had been unable to do the first time. All these amateur butchers wreak havoc each year by not killing the animal quickly. Thousands of incidents are reported where some cow gets punctured but then makes a break for it and runs down the street mooing and bleeding all over the place. Ahmet compared it to the running of the bulls in Spain, except there I don’t think whole families with knives and a Task Force armed with tranquilizers chases the victims. And that’s actually what the direct translation of “kurban” is. Victim. So this will be the last time I have to experience Victim Holiday, and I can’t say I’m disappointed.
I doubt whether most folks here, or anywhere, know the actual historical beginnings of this holiday. That’s not a knock on Muslims, just a fact of any religion. People usually believe things blindly without knowing what the real deal is or why. Sacrificing animals in Islam is supposed to be representative of Abraham almost doing away with Ishmael (that version is slightly different than the Biblical one that says Isaac was the one to be sacrificed, but eh) on Mount Moriah, the Temple Mount or Haram ash-Sharif in modern-day Jerusalem. Choose a name depending on what religion strikes your fancy. At the last second, God sent a ram to be sacrificed instead, and the sacrifice is supposed to have happened on the actual rock inside the Dome of the Rock mosque. That’s one of the reasons why that damn stone is such a flashpoint for all these zealots. Be that as it may, sacrificing animals is yet one more thing that long pre-dates Islam. Arabs used to sacrifice animals to various tribal gods (including Allah, the god of rain and fertility), but also practiced limited human sacrifice, much like the Greeks and Romans before them. Incorporating the story about Abraham into the religion was a good way of getting people to stop using people for their kurbans. Over the years, other reasons have been put forward to justify continued sacrifice. One of my favorites though is that there is a very narrow bridge you have to walk to get into heaven. It’s very difficult to traverse, but if you’ve sacrificed an animal you can ride across this chasm on its back. My only question then is: Why do you need to sacrifice more than one animal in your lifetime? If you do sacrifice extra victims, then do you go into heave with a whole flock? What if you’re really fat and all you’ve ever sacrificed is a little lamp, not a big sheep or a camel? Maybe the “lamp” could just light your way instead of actually carrying you. It’s not a good theological question, but it does show how these things leave them selves open to obvious attack. I’ve probably upset the religious among you enough already though, so I’ll move on.
I recently had my 31st birthday. 31 is a kind of nasty number in Turkish, so some people have been having fun with it, but I’ve got a dirty mind anyway, so I can’t say it bothers me much. I usually wind up making them blush instead of me. Can’t say I feel like I’m in my thirties. I still have more energy than any kid at school and I haven’t noticed any physical changes except for my continuing march towards becoming a complete Q-tip. My hair isn’t falling out, it’s just turning white. I’d say a good 25% by now at least, and changing fast. I’ll catch Dad soon. Some say I should dye it, but what’s the point? It doesn’t bother me. Hasan and Celil both turn 18 this year and are fond of telling me I’m in my Golden Age. I guess over forty is platinum and over fifty is near death. I should point out though that Celil already has some white hair and is getting more every day. Hasan stresses himself enough about studying that if he doesn’t give himself an ulcer first, he’ll have either white hair or no hair soon enough. Both gave me some good presents this year. Hasan gave me a pair of Masai warrior statues that he got from one of the African immigrants who ply their goods (if imitation Rolexes and Omegas can qualify) around town. Very similar to the pair I got for Holly and John last year in Tanzania. Celil gave me this giant ornate knife that looks like a prop from “Lord of the Rings“ and is meant for decoration, but would make one hell of a kurban cutter. With my white hair, I’d look just like a Muslim Gandalf if I carried that knife and put on my hooded vermeuse, a Tunisian druid outfit. I got some other good stuff too. Adult refreshment from Ahmet (some of which I’m enjoying right now, so if I make some spelling or grammar mistakes, cut me some slack), and macaroni and cheese and other US goodies from Mom and Dad. Now if I can just dig-up some Mountain Dew soon the year will be off to a flying start.
I managed to get my grades in on time this year with the help of many of my students. I’ve always been upfront about grades and how I calculate them Without going off on a huge tirade about the educational system here, I can say that grades for many classes are heavily influenced teachers’ personal opinions of a student. Most classes give between two and three exams per term and a corresponding number of discretionary grades. Most teachers use their discretionary grades (subjective, non-exam grades called oral marks) to alter a student’s overall average to quite a large degree. I’ve seen a kid jump two grade levels (from a 3 to 5) because someone thought she “was a good kid.” Contrarily, I’ve seen the opposite happen. The kid was an ass, but was a smart-ass in both senses of the word. He dropped even though his exams were good. The typically contradictory thing about all this is that the entire system here is based on exams, lots of them (over 40 in a single semester), but in the end they don’t really mean all that much. Kids never seem to figure that out though. Anyway, I had way to much to add up and write down in triplicate, and I just wasn’t in the mood for all the BS, so I recruited five secretaries from my classes. I chose the most honest kids and had some adding grades, others copying them onto school reports, and one reading out numbers to me. The school also dictated that we give at least one multiple-choice test this term, and since my teaching partner and I teach over 175 kids, we weren’t really opposed to not grading all those essays. This new format helped, but it was still a lot of work and I needed help. Unluckily for him, I saw Celil walking past after school and asked him if he was busy. Being the honest guy he is, he told me no. He had asked me two years ago if he could help me grade papers, but I’d said no because they were all essays. Celil writes better than most American kids probably do, but he grading essay questions would have been pushing it a bit much. Multiple-choice was all good however, and so he became my TA. I had quite a system going with all these kids, and I’m thinking of expanding and offering their services to other teachers first, and then private companies. I’ll be the first secretarial pimp.
There’s more to tell, but that’ll have to wait. I leave for India tomorrow, and what will be my last big trip for the foreseeable future. Since this is my last year in Turkey, it will more difficult for me to get money or time to go anywhere from the States. I expect India to be a bit of a shock, but I figure if I can brave Hizbuallah in Lebanon and elephants in Tanzania, I can tackle a yogi on the Ganges. Maybe I’ll even see a body floating past if I’m really lucky. I’ll try to find a few things to write about from there, assuming I’m not doubled over with cramps and dysentery. I watched “Gandhi” one more time so I can say, ”That was in the movie!”, but I should look in my guide book a bit too. So, later.
Golden Age Tobin
Yeah, so I used to update a lot at work during downtime, and there really is no downtime to speak of during the day...thus, no updates. I'll try to shift to doing them from home. :)
My friend Joe was visiting from Chicago this weekend, so we went to his old hangout(bar) on Saturday. Other than that, nothing much of interest going on. The new shift is working out quite well for me and more importantly the new department.
I'll probably throw up a couple of the more recent Toby letters this week.
Oh and Happy Valentine's Day!
***