One way ticket

I met Emir on a bus from Nevşehir.

I'm not even sure if that was his name. He was dressed in jeans, a striped t-shirt and grey jacket when I saw him that night. I was on my way to Selçuk.

The bus terminal was like a carnival when I arrived. There were drums, cymbals, loud singing and pipes in the departure area, which made it seem like a celebration although that was far from it. For in the midst of the laughter, I could also hear the sound of crying.

This was no normal farewell. The whole place was filled with clusters of entire families, every group almost identical. There were grandparents, teenagers, mothers who were dabbing their eyes and fathers who tried their best to keep a brave face. And in every family, it was always the same person they were saying goodbye to - a young man in his 20s with closely-cropped hair. 

All these men were about to begin military service, compulsory in Turkey for males aged 20-41. Conscription is a serious thing here. No-one is exempt unless he's handicapped or mentally ill and those who evade drafting are tried in military courts. 

It was already time to go, but the bus couldn't leave just yet. Family members were coming on board to say their final goodbyes. A 10-year old girl in a pink dress cried and held onto her brother as he whispered in her ear. I saw an old man embrace his son and slip some money into his hand as the younger one, tears in his eyes, said goodbye. 

I only noticed Emir when he got on the bus and sat next to me. In a sea of men with identical hairstyles, there was nothing exceptional about him. He didn't look at me when he sat down but he said something which sounded like a grunt as he took off his jacket, folded it and put it on his lap.

There is nothing much to do on a 13-hour bus journey so I spent most of it looking through the corner of my eye, trying to see what my neighbour was up to. Every passenger on the bus had individual television screens and somehow whatever Emir was watching was more interesting than what I had on my screen. It was the equivalent of being absorbed in a newspaper which someone else is reading even though you've already read the same news stories.

I was watching 'Turkey's Got Talent' which, like the original, has three judges. There was a Simon Cowell/Piers Morgan type of guy who, from his demeanour, projected himself as being somewhat of an authority in the industry. There was a vampish-lookish woman in her 40s in a low-cut black dress which provided just the right amount of cleavage to show off her generous assets. The last judge was a ponytailed Al Pacino look-alike who gesticulated wildly every time he spoke. I, of course, didn't understand a single thing anyone said so I turned to Emir to see what he was watching.

He was concentrating very hard on a music video of a woman belly dancing but I couldn't hear the music because he was using headphones. Her jewel-encrusted bikini top and long skirt shimmered as she danced for all she was worth, her hips swaying like the head of a snake, her breasts threatening to pop out any minute now. Emir shifted in his seat and turned up the volume. 

How did he get these music videos, I wondered. They weren't on my TV. All I had was news, talent shows and weather reports. I couldn't figure it out.

I soon lost interest in 'Turkey's Got Talent' and scrolled through the channels. To my surprise, I found 'Mr and Mrs Smith', the movie which apparently brought Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie together. It was dubbed. Ah, well.

After a few minutes, I took a peek at what Emir was watching on his little screen. The sultry vixen with the jewelled bra was no longer there. Now he was watching two women in very flattering square-necked, low-cut tops, dancing and singing. Fascinated, I made a mental note to look for tops exactly like that just in case I planned to seduce anyone. But I still couldn't find any of these music programmes on my screen, and that bothered me immensely.

I turned back to my TV and tried to look for something interesting. Somewhere between channels 5 and 10, there was 'Madagascar 2'. I was dismayed to discover that all the animals were speaking in Turkish. To this day, I suspect the same man was doing the voices for the lion and the giraffe.

My instincts told me that Emir was probably watching something better. I turned to look and what did I see but 'Madagascar 2'. 

My head spun. So do we have the same programmes now or did his shows suddenly get worse? Who determines who watches what?

That did it. This is crazy, I thought. 

I decided that I'd had enough of this obsession with my TV screen, covered my face with my jacket and went to sleep.