Turkish delights

You know you're in a really great country when your tummy loves the local food and doesn't yearn at all for KFC, Burger King or McDonald's. For me, this great place was Turkey.

I love Turkish food. Turkey was the only country where I never once stepped into a burger or pizza joint and never felt the need to look for a Thai, Indian or Chinese restaurant. These fall under the category of 'food which is familiar to me' - anything with noodles or rice, which I usually seek out after a few days.

So what is it about Turkish food then?

Let's begin with breakfast. The basics are bread, cheese, salami, olives and a cup of strong coffee. I was lucky and happened to pick a hotel which had a pretty generous breakfast with some extras thrown in, like goat's cheese, cereal, three types of bread and five varieties of olives. My favourite were the boiled eggs with paprika sprinkled on top.

Lunch and dinner in Turkey are wonderful affairs. There's nothing like a succulent, freshly grilled kebab with a crunchy salad on the side. That's another thing I like about Turkish food- the main ingredient may be meat, but it's always eaten with lots of vegetables. The aubergines, carrots, pickles and tomatoes aren't included just to add colour.

Grilled chicken with rice and salad

Kebab with vegetables and a dollop of yoghurt

I'm not a big fan of desserts or sweet stuff in general but I knew I had to have authentic baklava once I arrived. I prefer baklava to lokum or Turkish delight, which can get a bit 'too much' and cloying after a while.

I love baklava for its simplicity. Those nice, crisp layers with crushed nuts in between, all drenched in honey. Yum.

Don't wait to eat baklava after dinner at a restaurant- make it an event in itself. There was a little cafe near my hotel in Sultanahmet which I stopped at a couple of times after breakfast just to have a plate of baklava and some tea.

Keep an eye out for Istanbul's bakeries. There are dozens all over the city and they sell a huge variety of baklava filled with pistachios, almonds, walnuts and chocolate.

Unless you order a small plate for dessert at a restaurant, baklava is sold according to weight. This is good, because it means that you can buy different varieties to make up 1 kilogramme, or however much you want.

If you're thinking of bringing some back home with you, buy it a day before you leave and ask the bakery to pack it well. Your precious baklava should last more than a week after you reach home.

This week's photo- Cappadocia, Turkey

Taken on a hike in Rose Valley, Cappadocia. A hot air balloon ride would've been great, but there were strong winds that day, so all flights had to be cancelled. The hike was still worth it, though.

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. 

Always time for tea

The minute I crossed the road and locked eyes with him I knew I should have turned left. Or right. Or anywhere else.

“Good morning, it’s a beautiful day,” he called out.

“Yes, it is,” I smiled back and walked on. I don't normally ignore people who are nice to me but today was different- I was in a hurry so I didn't stop.

“Where are you going? I have a carpet shop which you must see,” he said. Was he actually running to keep up with me or just skipping? I couldn’t tell.

“The Grand Bazaar.” I need to get away from this guy, I thought. Honestly speaking, that would be easier if he didn’t have such beautiful eyes.

This time the man was in front of me. “The Grand Bazaar? But why?” he asked, eyes wide open and arms raised in feigned shock. 

I had to stop and laugh. “Because it’s just there?”

“But I am here for you, you don’t have to go there. Can I offer you some tea?”

Ah, Istanbul.  The city of East and West, honey-drenched baklava and carpet traders with impossibly long eyelashes.

Exchanges such as this one happened every single day that I was there. In fact, it happens to every foreign tourist who visits Istanbul, more so if you’re female and travelling alone.

Turkish shopkeepers don’t always sell something you like and not all of them remain pleasant when you walk away, but there is one thing which almost all of them will do - offer you tea.

Full-bodied, strong and always black, çay (pronounced ‘chai’) is drunk not in English-style teacups but in small, clear glasses. Sugar is added, but never milk.

Turkish coffee, which is also strong, is more famous than Turkish tea but in actual fact, çay is more popular among the Turks. 

Drinking tea is such a central part of Turkish culture that as a visitor to the country, despite the copious amounts you drink, you may end up never having to pay for a single cup- you will be offered tea almost every day by complete strangers. Even when you’re a guest at someone’s home, your host is likely to offer you tea first of all.

Just a day earlier, the owner of a carpet factory I visited began by rattling off about single knots, double knots and flat weaves. After 15 minutes of going into the details of silk, wool and cotton carpets, he stopped.

“Now that that’s done, let me be Turkish and offer you some tea,” he said, rubbing his palms together.

At the Arasta Bazaar in Sultanahmet, the owner of a leather goods shop accosted me and invited me to look at his jackets. They were beautiful, but a leather jacket is too bulky to bring back and I wouldn’t have much use for it at home, so I apologised and started to walk out.

“Please. You must at least allow me to make you some apple tea,” I heard him say. It was 6 ˚Celcius outside and his shop was nice and warm, so it didn’t take much for me to change my mind.

But let me get back to that day when the carpet seller stopped me on the way to the Grand Bazaar.

I was due to take an overnight bus that evening but as it was already 3 o’clock, I didn’t want to get sidetracked. After all, I'd already planned to spend time at the Grand Bazaar and still had to get to the bus station after that, so I decided not to visit his shop.

A few days later, I found myself at a transport terminal at a town called Aydın, waiting for my minibus to Selçuk. It was 7 o'clock in the morning. I had just gone through a back-breaking, 13-hour bus ride and was eager to leave but unfortunately for me, my bus driver wasn't. 

I watched him through the glass walls of the waiting room, smoking and chatting with a group of men, not looking as though he was in any hurry at all. As far as I could see, he was just taking his time.

After 15 minutes, I saw him stubbing out his second cigarette.  Finally. I could really do with a shower right now, I thought.

I waited for him to get up, but he didn’t. He continued talking to his friends, laughing loudly, his ample stomach quivering as he did so. I got annoyed. Something was wrong.

Then he looked up and saw me glaring at him through the glass. He grinned and raised his hand.

There in his fingers was what I had feared all along- a small, tulip-shaped glass filled with a clear, reddish-brown liquid- çay.  

He smiled again and shrugged somewhat apologetically.

"I'm simply being Turkish", he seemed to say.