Living with Turtles

After a couple of fairly tiresome, yet hopeful first weeks in Istanbul, spending our days trudging along unknown streets armed with CV’s and our smartest attire, we were finally offered work. At this point, we were still shacking up with Turkish university students whom we had met through the CouchSurfing website. (www.couchsurfing.com) 2009 was approaching fast, and with it, a New Years Eve party in Taksim – the central clubbing and nightlife area of Istanbul. So, in an attempt to ‘network’ and meet more English speaking people, we attended a CouchSurfing party. We spent a crazy night with total strangers drinking beer and Rakki (a kick-up-the-ass local Turkish Spirit, very similar to Greek Ouzo), and meeting expat English Teachers. We also met someone who knew someone, who was a friend of someone, who offered to put us in touch with someone who could perhaps try to help us out with longer term accommodation in the suburb of Bakirkoy, which usefully is only ‘a stones throw’ away from where we have found work.

After we had recovered from the over-indulgence of the night, which knocked a few days off 2009 (and our lives), we made contact with these illusive folk, and sure enough, they had a spare room and said we could move straight away. Mysteriously, and most extraordinarily, on arrival in our new home we were surprised to discover that our new flatmates were in fact turtles! What happened was that previous to our arrival, a former Couch Surfer who stayed in this house offered, as a gift to his humanoid hosts, two small pet turtles. These foolish new pet-owners, over-fed the tiny little cold-blooded creatures, causing them to grow-up into massive, human-sized mega-turtles. And, fortunately for the turtles, having been reared from such a young age by English teachers, they quickly developed the art of language and learned to speak. It was indeed a perfect nurturing environment for a turtle to develop the faculties of human communication. Unfortunately for their owners, these massive reptilian-like creatures began dominating the apartment. Soon, it became impossible to live comfortably. For instance, with only one bathroom, it meant waiting for the turtles to submerse themselves in water, bask under the fluorescent light, and brush their great beaks. Eventually the annoyed English teachers moved out. Considering the immense size and strength of the turtles, they had little choice.

Luckily for Amanda and I however, the turtles have since refined, and have perhaps become a little more amenable in their approach. Thus, they have accommodated us with open arms, and we are curiously intrigued with these giant beasts.

Now, as you may imagine, living with colossal turtles has its plusses... For example they don’t make much noise and they eat all the mould off the bathroom walls. And furthermore, they keep the house well stocked with beer (did you know turtles LOVE beer?), since they both have secure jobs. Plinky and Plonk, who were unfortunately named by their naive expat English-teacher owners, work as Turt tutors; which means that they offer private language lessons teaching locals how to speak ‘Turt’, a tongue with similar origins to Turkish. Apparently, during the reign of the Ottoman Empire, when the Turkish tribes were migrating from the East, so were the Turts, a smaller tribe consisting of turtles. There are no historical records accounting for this migration however, since it occurred mostly hidden beneath the waves of the Black Sea, rendering it impossible to write anything down. (Apparently there were a few attempts but all the manuscripts were sodden.) Regardless, the multitude of turtles now living in Istanbul, and the emergence of a thriving population eager to learn Turt, has created job opportunities for Turtles everywhere.

Plinky and Plonk are in fact a couple – that is to say that they are in a relationship. But being turtles means that they are hermaphroditic, an oddity that defines them neither as male nor female. Although this fascinating little miracle of nature is quite remarkable to us humans when observing turtles in the wild, when one shares a flat with over-grown types, it has dire consequences. And what’s more, a lesser known and most peculiar nuance of this aberration is that only one gender role is dominant at any particular moment, but can (irritatingly) alter without warning. What it means is that these turtles, whom we are currently residing with, have no fixed gender, as it constantly, and quite unpredictably, changes. If for instance, the idiosyncratic Plinky, is in his male-dominated gender role, then drinking beer and enjoying so-called ‘manly’ conversation is quite acceptable, and indeed, a lot of fun. But on occasion, Plinky has quite unpredictably morphed into his ‘female-dominant’ disposition without either of us realizing. Depending on the length of time that it takes me to realize this subtle shift often proportions to the amount of trouble I have gotten myself into.

For instance, last night whilst we were indulging in the ridiculously cheap red-wine special from the shop across the road (that generously supplies us with a seemingly bottomless bottle), we got ourselves pretty plastered. In the throws of drunkenness, I interrogated Plinky about his relationship with Plonk, as I was curious to find out about how hermaphrodites affected them. But unbeknownst to me, at that precise moment, he underwent the gender-switch; a transformation that results in an emotional explosion akin to extreme PMS. During this ‘crisis’, which usually lasts only a short while, it is essential to exercise extreme caution, especially when broaching subjects regarding love or relationships. It was thus my mistake when I suggested that Plonk (Plinky’s other half) is at times a tad overly moody. And it was indeed a bad move on my part to insinuate and that Plinky shouldn’t indulge his girl-turtle Plonk when she gets so moody. Since Plinky was now female, and had just gone through one of the most traumatic transformative experiences that turtles go through, she just broke down and cried. Unfortunately for me, and my lack of female intuition, I didn’t click, so I presumed that Plinky was deeply distressed about the relationship.

Now turtles, being semi-aquatic creatures, hold large volumes of bodily fluids, which when they sob flows out of their giant tear ducts in great gushes. Imagine, if you will, a 140kg turtle sitting in an upright position, perched on a chair, weeping hysterically. Litres of tears were flowing down over his bulbous beak and into his shell. This fluid flowed down through his shell, out the opening at the bottom near his back legs, and all over the floor. At first I presumed that Plinky had not only lost all composure, but also his bladder control. Shocked, but equally moved to sympathy by this sudden sorrowful outburst, I quickly grabbed an old towel and started to wipe down the underside of Plinky’s shell. This was my next foolish mistake. As soon as I touched Plinky, which was by all intentions an innocent act and only meant to help, she screamed and tried to slap me. Apparently I had touched her in a somewhat ‘private’ area. It was thus, at this point, that I finally realized about her gender-conversion.

Giant turtles are extremely powerful creatures, so it was lucky that when Plinky lashed out with her slap, that I ducked and she missed. But, in so doing, she lost her balance and fell to the floor landing heavily on her back. Now, as you may imagine, a 140kg hysterical drunk turtle poses all kinds of problems. For one, the hysteria only increases, and she began shouting and cursing me. Number two, she was rocking violently from side-to-side on her giant rounded shell, and after three bottles of cheap red wine, she was turning green with nausea. And three, the challenge of flipping over this enormous bulk is near impossible.

The first problem that needed solving was the nausea. Plinky’s perpetual and pitiful rocking had led to a dramatic change in the atmosphere as she wailed that she was about to vomit. Luckily for both of us, turtles can stretch their necks out quite far and croon their heads a long way over the bottom of their shells. This impressive manoeuvre allowed me sufficient space to slide a large orange plastic bowl under her beak to reduce potential spillage. Although this was fairly successful, requiring minimal turt-vomit-clean-up, the horrendous noise emitted by a retching turtle is that disturbing that it results in the strangest feeling of hysterical surrealism. Once Plinky had calmed down, I figured that the only way I would possibly be able to turn her back over would be to rock her rhythmically until she had gained sufficient momentum to make the flip. But, after three attempts, massive red wine spillage, and a great deal more vomit, we agreed to give up and make the best of our remaining evening. Thankfully, the futility of our foolishly fun folly transformed the sombreness of the mood, and our evening regained its humour.

I pulled up a chair and sat next to Plinky, using the underside of her shell as a table top upon which I sat our remaining bottle of wine. Thoughtfully, I even provided her with a straw so that she didn’t have to strain her neck too much. Eventually Plonk arrived home from work and helped me to flip Plinky back over on to her feet.

I awoke the next morning to the remnants of the previous night’s indulgence. The chair upon which Plinky had been sitting had been destroyed by her clumsy fall. Also broken, chards of a smashed red wine bottle lay strewn across the floor, leaving the crimson-stained bleeding to death. Mysteriously, the dining-room table lay on its side, and against it leaned a large single bed frame. This construction thus fortressed off a part of the lounge area, inside which I discovered mounds of cushions, extinguished candles, the ashes of incense sticks, toilet paper attached from the corners of the fortress, and a collection of silly hats. I was unable to recollect any involvement with this bizarre scene upon which I now gazed. Although my memories of the previous night were fairly vivid, it was this scene that left me feeling somewhat puzzled, though owned an air of philosophical ambiguity.

Nevertheless, I had to get to work. I jumped into the shower, which is actually a bath with a shower head at the top and a curtain around. But, as most nature documentaries inform us, turtles don’t shower. They do like to get wet however, and Plinky and Plonk have therefore plugged the bath hole permanently to prevent any water going down the drain. Now as you may imagine, this bath water is not only murky, but I dare say muddy. This may be a turtle’s paradise; but its not great for us humans. The only way to shower is to bucket some of the water out of the bath and into the toilet, and then to stand ankle-deep in the remaining sludgy water whilst showering.

Running a tad late, I quickly got ready and ran out the door. I headed my usual route to work, which first passes a pet-shop owned by a small, yet senior terrier. She stands outside her shop-front every morning, wearing her striped knitted jumper and glitzy jewellery, and greets the early passers-by. Inside, on display through the glass, compartmented in layers like chocolates in a box, are puppies and kittens barking and meowing at top volume, yearning to be let free. Saluting her, I turn left onto the pedestrian cobblestoned walkway where it is necessary to avoid colliding with the dustbin men. These resourceful chaps don’t collect rubbish with trucks, like is done in most countries in the world. Instead they drag giant plastic sack-containers around that are supported by and held firmly open by a frame and wheels. Their incredible loads dwarf the bin-men, and tower above the ambling pedestrians, as they plunder like buses down the streets. Turkey doesn’t boast very advanced recycling, and most of the community’s rubbish is sorted through by these pitiful men, who salvage valuables and porn what they can.

These aren’t the only workmen dragging heavy loads however. Another nobleman pushes his large wooden cart around bellowing the obscure sound “Eeeeuw!”. Believe it or not, this guy is actually requesting old scrap metal that he will either sell or melt down.

I turn off the pedestrian walkway, and come face-to-nose with a colossal fish market. Every morning my nose, as though its been hit by a smelly fish-bat, hunches up and attempts to climb inside its own nostrils to hide from the smell. Interestingly though, the market sells every kind of fish one can imagine, from sardines to sharks. It fuckin’ reeks along that stretch of the road! Fish! Fish! Fishy fish! Maybe that’s why the guy shouts out “Eeeeuw!” Not only are there fish, but littering the sides of the market are the remaining and unwanted fish guts and fish heads, and fish blood runs in rivers down the road. And prowling around this carnage are thousands upon thousands of cats who live their wild undomesticated lives amongst the bins and fish mongers, with whom they have developed their symbiotic relationship.

Next door to the fish markets, like chalk and cheese, stands a welders yard. Just as my the senses are becoming accustomed to the fishy-stench, my poor ears cringe at the cacophony of the welding and grinding equipment. And my eyes are lured towards the iridescent blue flame of the welder’s torch, which I wisely avoid knowing that it could damage my cornea.

I continue along the street passing the guy with the fortune telling rabbits, and if I’m lucky, the bloke with the cat on his head. Then there is the çay (tea) shop, the man who sharpens knives, the second-hand book seller with his wooden cart, and the little girl kneeling meekly begging money in exchange for tissues.

It is indeed a strange and bizarre multi-sensory experience.