Bad Luck? No Worries Just Rub Your Vagina!

Hehe.  I bet this title grabbed your attention!  You see, according to some, rubbing your vagina apparently really is an antidote to bad luck... But more on that in a minute.  Let me explain how I came about discovering this important piece of life advice.

The other night after we'd finished dinner Ky was running around outside like a crazed lunatic.  Running around for Ky is not so unusual but running around like a crazed lunatic is out of character.  Although extremely energetic, Ky is usually quite controlled in his behaviour.  Unlike the other children around here, he doesn't run around willy-nilly, he runs with a destination in mind (for example, to the irresistible mound of dirt in the carpark behind our apartment).  He runs with a purpose (for example, to get a few minutes pretend driving in the complex' golf buggy, before someone drives it away).  He runs with agility (for example, up the stairs of the playground, down the slide, under the bushes in the garden, up and through the hole in the fence of the mini soccer field, out the gate at the other end of the soccer field, straight through another shrubby bush, and over to the high back fence of the complex where he yells for me to lift him up to be able to watch the tractor plowing the fields next door).  But on this occasion he was just running.  Running in circles.  Running from pole to pole.  Running from one person to another.  Running to and throwing himself against the fence of the soccer field.  And running over to a vacant park bench... where he promptly tripped and fell head first, hard, onto the bench.  The thump was so loud I was certain he'd broken his little head.  Several people sprinted over to him and he had barely touched the ground before at least 4 pairs of hands were picking him up and holding him and checking him all over.  My hands were among them.  I held him to me afraid to look at his face (it was his forehead that connected with the bench) while everyone else around me, with faces full of fear and empathised agony looked on, patted Ky, patted me, and offered advice.  I managed a quick look at my angel's little face and saw a lump already the size of an egg right above his eyebrow.  My instinct was to find ice and I quickly took Ky to the ice machine in the cafeteria.  A couple of people helped with the ice while Ky screamed and screamed at being touched.  A couple of other ladies busily chewed up pieces of bread and started sticking them on his head.  This concept of sticking salivary lumps of bread onto bumps and bruises was not a surprise to me because since I've been living in Turkey, it has been suggested so many times by so many people and although I don't put much faith in it's effectiveness, I've learned that it's much easier to just allow these people to help in their way.  Finally, I'd had enough of all the good-intentioned assistance and took Ky inside so I could cuddle and kiss and do what mother's do best with their babies' 'owies', in private.

Fortunately it didn't take long for Ky to calm down and stop crying.  I think it was all the fussing and touching of his head that upset him more than the injury itself.  He's never been a baby to cry easily over any kind of bump or scrape or bruise - he's tough like his baba.

As the night wore on, several concerned neighbours stopped by to check on Ky and offer more advice.  Every single one of them proclaimed that Ky obviously had the evil eye* on him and that's why he'd hurt himself.  One young man instructed us to pin a couple of evil eye beads (boncuk) onto him straight away.  These little talismans are so common in Turkey that it's actually not normal to see a baby without one pinned to their sleeve at all times to ward off the evil eye.  So this advice did not surprise me.  It was the next couple of suggestions we received that really caught me off guard.  One woman insisted that we were to take Ky's clothes off, turn them inside out and hang them above the toilet, as a sure way to get rid of the evil eye.  Strange?  Yes, but not as strange as the next piece of advice we received.  And this brings us back to the title of this post.  Apparently, when you've exhausted all other efforts of warding off the evil eye and your child continues to experience misfortune, you should, while praying for the health of your child, rub your hand on your vagina then rub that same hand on your face, three times!  According to the woman who suggested this... ahem interesting method of getting rid of that dreaded evil eye, it worked like a charm for her daughter who'd previously been quite accident prone...

Of course I took up the advice... yeah right!!

It's a couple of days after the accident.  After repeatedly checking on him throughout the night, Ky woke up this morning without any sign of concussion and only a scrape across his forehead.  The chewed up, saliva-soaked bread, the prayers and the evil eye beads must have worked.

Hopefully, he doesn't suffer anymore accidents in the near future because the only vagina rubbing activity I'm interested in involves my husband and does not involve saying prayers and rubbing my face.

* From Wikipedia, who've put it more succinctly than I could, "the evil eye is a look that is superstitiously believed by many cultures to be able to cause injury or bad luck for the person at whom it is directed for reasons of envy or dislike." The concept is completely enmeshed within the Turkish culture. It is a very real belief for village people and internationally travelled modern city people alike.  

Good Times and Tears

We've just returned from spending a wonderful 4 days in Ankara visiting Ky's grandparents.  The weather outside was miserable and cold but the weather in our hearts was lovely and warm.  Kaya so loves playing with his Dede (grandfather) and Babanne (grandmother).  The first word he said when he woke up each morning was "Dede!!!" and the newest word added to his vocabulary (which he practiced saying over and over and over ... and over) was "Baba-NEE".  Each morning before the sun had barely spread its golden fingertips across the horizon, Ky had woken his grandparents with his incessant "De-DE Baba-NEE De-DE Baba-NEE!"  Each day started with a Dede-Baby walk around the neighbourhood while Mummy and Baba got to sleep in for an extra hour or so and Babanne prepared breakfast.  Kaya inevitably came home with muddy boots and frozen fingers, a tired smile and lots of babbling about his adventures.  The rest of the day was taken up with lots of good old Turkish home-cooking, visits to and from relatives, Kaya's investigation of every cupboard and box he could find, and some Mummy and Baba date time.  All in all it was a thoroughly enjoyable mini-holiday.  But holidays inevitably have to end and with this one, the smile left Ky's face as soon as we started loading ourselves and our bags into the car.  Sitting on Dede's shoulders, Ky watched quietly as we gathered near the door to put our shoes on.  He said not a word when we carried our bags to the car and loaded them neatly inside.  He didn't even make a sound as Baba hopped into the driver's seat and started the car.  But as soon as I put my hands around him to lift him into his car seat he started screaming!  He grabbed Dede around the neck and refused to let go.  Whenever I touched him he would scream louder.  After lots of soft words and several gentle attempts to take Ky from Dede we finally managed to get him to let go.  He didn't stop crying though.  And when I put him into his seat he arched his back and refused to sit.  Meanwhile Dede couldn't handle it anymore and with tears rolling down his cheeks, he snuck away and went back inside.  Baba, also a little teary-eyed, was not much help either.  Ky wanted his Dede.  He did not want to leave.  After several more minutes of cuddles, rubs on the back and soft murmuring, I finally got Ky into his seat and we were able to drive away.  I felt so sad for little Ky having to leave his beloved Dede behind and was wondering how long it would take for him to calm down when suddenly the crying had stopped and Ky was happily demanding "mama! mama! mama!"  Mama is the Turkish baby word for food.  And just like that our little one had recovered from his loss and was back to his normal hungry self again.  Phew!

The relationship between Ky and his grandfather is truly beautiful.  Unfortunately neither Murat nor I enjoyed relationships like this with any of our grandparents so we really love watching these two together.  What's going to happen when we finally move to Australia?  How are we going to nurture Ky's special relationship with his Dede from so far away?  Maybe we can encourage Dede to retire in Australia ....

It's not much, but it's our home

Lots of people have asked about where we live.  With the exception of one of my brothers, none of my friends or family have been able to visit us since we moved to Antalya.  And I know they are all curious about where we live.  So, here are a few pictures to help you get an idea of how we transformed the company provided, boring, beige, little, 2-room, hotel suite into the place we call home (for the time being).

Please excuse the quality of the photos.  These were among the last pictures I took on our worn out camera before it gave up on it's not-so-glamorous photographic life and became too de-pressed (on/off ... get it?) to even get turned on by me anymore.

The little "kitchen" we put together using the hotel-provided desk, our camping fridge/freezer combo, and an el-cheapo oven-cooktop combo we picked up on sale.  The desk drawer contains the cutlery and the coat cupboard in the right off the picture houses all the other kitchen utensils, plates and glasses as well as serving as our pantry.  All those jars beside the oven contain all kinds of medicinal herbs we use for tea and some dried fruit and nuts - Kaya's staple snack foods.  The double teapot is traditionally turkish.  Strong tea is cooked in the top pot and diluted using the boiling water from the bottom pot.

This is Ky's play area / day bed / guest bed.  The 2 drawers below the bed are part of an old baby crib that someone had thrown away and house Ky's wooden blocks and wooden train set, as well as lots of balls of different shapes and sizes.  The top 2 shelves of the book case are mine and the bottom one is Ky's.  The cupboard below the books is also Ky's and is full of stackable toys and puzzles.  Under the bed on the right side you can see a basket full of soft animals.  Behind that is another basket of musical instruments.  On the other side of drawers, under the bed is my God-forsaken sewing machine.  I painted the swirls on the drawers - a fun little project.  The blow up mattress in the right of the picture is sitting in front of the "forbidden area" - TV, DVD player, and drawers of CDs, stationery and computer paraphernalia.

This is the family bed.  It's just 2 mattresses lying together on the floor.  We removed the actual bed bases  because Ky was constantly rolling off the edge.  The bases actually stacked together quite nicely in an upright position (out of the picture opposite the bed) and we use them as a storage cupboard for our sheets and blankets and suitcases.  The rocking horse was Kaya's 1st birthday present from his Turkish grandparents.

  

This area beside the bed was originally planned to be Kaya's sleeping area but we quickly figured out that it was much easier for everyone when Ky slept with us rather than in a bed of his own.  

This set of 3 pictures is my knock-off version of some artwork I saw on the internet (I can't remember the name of the artist or where I saw the pictures).  I painted these while I was pregnant with Ky.

This soft monkey is also one of my creations.  I made him to match the bedspread and curtains I made for Ky which we've never had the opportunity to use.

My 1st year wedding anniversary gift to Murat.  What do you think?  Did the artist do us justice?

And finally, this is our bathroom.  Unfortunately, the basin also serves as our kitchen sink since it's the only water supply in the apartment.  I wish we had a bath.  My goal is to be living somewhere with a bath by the time our next baby comes along.

A Bloody Car

One of the things I like best about travelling is experiencing cultural differences. Now that I'm living in Turkey, I'm exposed to a myriad of differences on a daily basis - cultural, religious, national, political, secular. Sometimes I smile with pleasure when I witness or experience the difference. Other times I'm shocked and sickened. Many times I laugh. 

One day I'm going to have to devote a post entirely to all the interesting customs, old wives tales and religious duties that I've experienced in Turkey. And the faux pas I committed because of my lack of understanding or acceptance of them. There have been some funny experiences, let me tell you! But today I want to describe a custom that I observed for the first time only recently. 

Kaya was taking me for our usual daily expedition of "outside". We were wandering through the carpark when I noticed smears of blood all over the wheels and front bumper of a brand new car. At first I was shocked and saddened, imagining the poor animal that must have been hit by that car. And then I felt disgusted that the owners of the car hadn't even bothered to wash the blood away. A few hours later when Kaya and I met Murat after he arrived home from work, I showed him the car. Murat informed me that the blood was not caused by an animal being run over, it was purposely smeared on the car! Apparently, when a new vehicle is purchased, it is common practice in Turkey to sacrifice an animal, such as a goat or chicken, and smear the fresh blood on the car. And apparently, the brutal killing of this innocent animal and it's blood being splashed all over the vehicle is somehow meant to prevent the vehicle crashing when driven. What the F!@#? Where am I? What century is this? How ridiculous! 

Looking at the statistics of traffic accidents in Turkey, obviously this stupid practice is not working. Each year in Turkey, there are approximately half a million traffic accidents, 9000 of them fatal. How about instead of slaughtering animals for the sake of preventing accidents, let's educate drivers to stop at red lights, observe speed limits, wear seat belts, drive one car per lane (instead of the usual 4 or 5 cars across 2 lanes), drive on the correct side of the road, not stop in the middle of the road for no apparent reason ... oh and here's a novel idea, how about teaching drivers to give way to other traffic occasionally! 

On the topic of driving in Turkey, I cannot believe how often I see children jumping around in the back seat and even on the driver's lap! Oh, and what about the families of 3 or 4 or clinging on to each other on the back of a moped? The other day I even saw a moped going along the highway carrying a man (driving), a small boy, a woman holding identical twin girls on each KNEE, and a second boy on the very back! I wish I'd had my camera with me that day. Incredible! Incredibly idiotic!

You know what else is normal practice in Turkey? If a car breaks down, or has been in an accident, the driver places a large rock, or pile of stones on the road about 15 feet behind the car to warn other drives of the upcoming hazard ... doesn't anyone wonder what their hazard lights are for? Rocks are also used in this way by council workers digging up roads. One day, Murat and I were driving home along a brand new road late at night. There was no street lighting. At the last moment we noticed a sizeable rock in the middle of the road and Murat quickly swerved to miss it. About 20 feet in front of that rock was a huge hole. And I mean HUGE. It was deep enough to fit several cars inside and in fact there was an earth mover down in there. Can you believe it? No reflective signs, (in fact no signs at all), no barriers, nothing. Oh except that one big rock.

*Sigh* Living in Turkey is certainly interesting. But fortunately most of the interesting characteristics of Turkey are not as negative as those I've just described. In fact, most of the time I feel inspired by my experiences in Turkey. Next time I write about Turkey, I promise to write about some of the beautiful things that distinguish Turkey from other places.

I'm never going to be like Martha Stewart

One look at that dusty machine and Kaya was all over it with his cleaning equipment!

It's not that I really want to be like Martha Stewart, it's just that I'd like to have the opportunity to be like her. This sewing machine situation is not helping me in my quest. If you read my earlier posts here and here about what I've gone through to be able to sew, you'll probably have some idea of the frustration I'm feeling. And you might even be waiting to hear how things have progressed. Well ... there's good and bad news. Let me tell you what happened when I again rang Brother in the U.S. to reorder those needed parts that never arrived by mail.

It was a steamy, hot night. I'd just put the baby to sleep and hubby and I had some time to ourselves ... hmm this is sounding like a post quite different to what I wanted to write. Let me rephrase that. The other night, after I put the baby to sleep, I had some time to get on skype to call Brother. It was late, the air-conditioning wasn't working as usual and I was tired. These things didn't bide well for the poor person who answered the phone... The conversation started out well enough with me explaining that I wanted to place an order and I was going to make it especially easy because I wanted to reorder exactly what I'd ordered 3 months ago. The woman told me, "sure! Just let me have a look at your order." Short pause, and then the words that almost caused me to pull all my hair out and throw myself, screaming through the glass in the window, "I'm sorry but we no longer stock internal sewing machine parts." What! The! F@#$!? I almost screamed at the woman and then I almost cried. I was more than a little bit angry when I asked the poor woman what the hell she was talking about, I mean, I'd just ordered those parts a few months ago! She told me they recently changed their system and no longer carried internal parts. However, she was nice enough to find me the number of a service provider who'd be able to help me. Well, that was at least something.

Seriously, are these Sewing Gods really trying to tell me not to use this machine? This is all just too much! Already I'd spent almost as much as the cost of the machine, in parts and I'm still not guaranteed to be using it anytime soon. Eventually, I decided that I was not going to use the bloody machine, instead, I would buy a new one when I got to Australia. But I would still order the parts, fix the machine and then sell it here in Turkey. I should even make a profit because here, the machine retails for approximately US$800 whereas I only paid about US$160 (plus the cost of the parts).

So I called the number she gave me, and this is where the good news starts. The guy I spoke with was so helpful and even though none of the part numbers Brother gave me, matched the part number he had, together (after a couple of emails back forth with photos of the parts) we were able to figure out exactly what I needed. The credit card details were given and the parts were posted that very same day!

Now, once again, I just have to wait a couple more months until I get to Australia, to see the parts, my brother will bring with him. Let's hope he doesn't forget them, lose them, or break them!