Author: Farrah Kelly

With all the drama of yesterday slowly fading into obscurity, I figured it was about time I got round to some of this exploring lark I was so keen to do prior to being unceremoniously shown the door in Kayakoy. Having shook the last of the shakes off, I dolled up and strode out, in what I guessed to be the right direction, towards the centre of the centre.

Fethiye is stunning. It’s quite difficult to justify exactly how beautiful it is without getting soppy, or sounding like I’m exagerating. To put it plainly, if I lived here, or saw this view everyday as of now for the rest of ever, I don’t think I’d get bored. I wouldn’t stop marvelling at how bloody pretty it is.

Fethiye bay.

York campus lake, eat your heart out.

It is a slight shame that I’ve come at a time of year when they’re remodelling one area- the town square on the edge of the harbour. Though it hardly detracts from the beauty of the bay, it’s quite an odd sensation walking along a gorgeous pier, busy looking out onto the Med, and finding yourself to have stumbled into a construction site, complete with bemused workmen who see straight through your attempts to look like you’ve ended up there on purpose. That aside, this has been my favourite place to go for a walk, anywhere, ever.

My paper rose!

I ate at a great restaurant overlooking the bay, Address. The staff were a touch overly attentive, but it was quite nice having someone to talk to. Travelling alone can get pretty quiet, and talking to myself in public just won’t do. So the chatter was welcomed- even if they only wanted to list names of football players upon finding out I’m from Manchester. I got made a little tissue rose- for “being gorgeous” no less- and was asked to return to the restaurant after they’d all finished work, which I politely declined. My boyfriend would have been horrified, after all. I neglected to mention he doesn’t exist, but that’s irrelevant.

I’ve done more touristy things, mostly wandering around the old town looking at fabrics and spices and trinkets- I bought a gorgeous handwoven cushion- and headed back to the comfort of my air conditioned room while the sun was a its harshest. Then, a surprise visitor! Regina, of heroic fame, turned up unannounced. Delighted, we headed out for some chai, gossip, and a game of backgammon.

I suck at backgammon.

I’ve had the worlds longest shower, stocked up on Fanta, and have my outfit planned for the boat trip I’ve booked for tomorrow. Now I’m off to watch the sunset in a bar some place. I’m trying not to be smug, having seen all of your complaints about the weather in emails and on facebook/twitter, but it’s really really hard. I’m not even sorry.

Today, I was kicked out of my hotel. I know that immediately summons up images of me being the tourist from hell, but I didn’t throw a TV out of the window or anything. I didn’t even have a TV. Or a window, come to that.

Long story short, I was staying at a boutique place through this workaway scheme I’ve talked about. It means I got free bed and board in return for five hours work a day, five days a week. That’s a reasonable commitment, and a reasonable offer, imho. Unfortunately, the hours turned out to be much longer than I’d anticipated. Anywhere between nine and twelve hours became the norm, the expected.

Up at eight, washing up, serving breakfast, cleaning the pool, hosing down the paths, gardening, lugging wheelbarrows of dead leaves and egg shells to the compost heap, nipping to the local farm to top up an empty coke can with milk, preparing rooms, incessant sweeping of leaves, and waiting up until all of the guests have returned from their wanders at gone midnight. It wasn’t difficult, though occasionally strenuous in the baking sun. No, the work itself was easy. There was just so much more of it than I considered fair.

(Side note- Jack Smith, on planning a possible trip to Croatia, snubbed the idea of a workaway placement there, as the level of work (about eight hours) the hostel place wanted in comparison to how much simply paying for the rooms would have cost, worked out at less than minimum wage. I’m no mathematician, but this is exactly what was happening at my place in Turkey. I’m not afraid of a little hard graft, but this was getting ridiculous) 


The free time was excellent, of course, when I could get it. I had maybe, four, fivehours a day? I’ll write another post on what I got up to later, but for the most part I waited for my next instructions by the pool. This hardly seems like I was having a tough time, I’m aware, but I wanted to actually see Turkey. You know, outside of the hotel grounds.

Anyway, I digress. I told my boss that I was going to leave the next day, as I wanted to do more travelling. She kicked off. According to her, it was dishonest of me to come to her hotel with the intention of leaving after a week. She didn’t believe my protest of not setting out with that intention. She rebuked my argument that I work more than the advertised five hours a day (!!!!!). She told me I could leave. Not tomorrow, not later, now. I packed my bag.

Now, a grown woman, knowing full well I had nowhere to go, no way to get there, and no place to stay, kicked a nineteen year old girl, on her own, in the arse end middle of nowhere, out onto the streets of a country I couldn’t even speak the language of. I don’t mean to sound accusing, but if that isn’t a touch rash, then I couldn’t tell you what is.

Luckily, I had Regina. She’s a German teacher on sabbatical, and we’ve become quite close since meeting at the hotel. She speaks Turkish and English, and upon seeing me, hysterical and lugging my suitcase, found me a taxi and gave me some advice as to what to do next. A few phone calls later, my taxi arrived, Regina negotiated a price, and I was on my way to central Fethiye. Without her, I’d be lost in the woods of Kayakoy dragging my face and 14k suitcase behind me.

I’ve arrived in central Fethiye, and am booked into a small hotel near the dolmus station. I rocked up, slightly hysterical (you know me, never one to get upset in the face of chaos) and was shown my new room. I phoned my mum and a friend to let them know I was safe but in a different place, and sat and thought for a while.

Half in shock still, half relieved, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. I showered (they have two settings here, scalding hot, and “off”.), wandered round Fethiye village, ate something, and stared at the balcony in a daze. I think tomorrow, I’ll go to visit Paspatur . Hopefully it’ll be slightly less eventful. I don’t think my mum’s nerves could take another surprise.

One of the more disheartening things about having an unusual first name is the variety of pronunciations people use to address you with. Over time, I’ve learnt to respond to Ferrar, Faye, Faya, Fairer, Freya, Sarra, Tara, and Fa-rur. None of which are my actual name. Sometimes, people don’t believe that Kelly is my surname, so refer to me as that instead, and are indignant when I don’t immediately respond.

So it’s a nice novelty to be in a country where the name “Farrah” is actually not all that uncommon. It’s spelt differently (Ferah), and the /r/ is more of a trill (phonetics friends might dispute this, I was never any good in phon&phon), but it’s my name nonetheless. I was pleasantly surprised how easily the staff remembered it- whenever I’ve met second language-English speakers, I’m known as anything but my actual name. When I worked in a Chinese restaurant most of the staff got my attention with clicks or hand gestures. The rest didn’t bother to learn my name. I’m loving this temporary honour.


Short of this bemusing highlight, the language differences have, naturally, been a pain . I rely on confusing hand gestures and interpreting mimicry to gain my instructions, which you’d think would be easy enough. But, no. Pointing at a chair and miming sitting down and opening a book, does not in fact mean, “go and sit down and read a book”. It means “wait here while I mop so you can put the floor rugs down after I’ve finished”. Obviously. Which I learned the hard way- and managed to get told off, like a child, for innocently finding a book and seat and doing what I thought I was told. 


  It’s  pretty hard to not use phrases and culutre references- offering to brew up is met with confusion and comparing a hotel guest to Cheryl Cole charcter draws blank looks. Most of what I say, whether to the Turkish or Germans here, is replied to with polite-I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about laughter, or ignored all together.

Not having any difficulty in understanding when they tell me I can “sit down”.

We’ve developed our own little quasi-language, a pidgin, if you will. “Make it work” means “turn the washing machine on”. “Hep” means  ”follow me”. A high pitched hum means I’m doing something wrong. My communication is surviving on half sentences and  Turkish and English words mangled together. 


The upshot of this whole language barrier is that I’ve basically forgotten how to speak like a normal person. I find myself awkwardly imitating their accents when trying to ask them for the next job- “Me mop?” “Where this?“. It’s pretty hard to not feel like I’m patronising them. It’s even harder not to laugh at their botched attempts of English “You shut up” for “Empty the dishwasher” was a personal favourite.

So no, I’m not fluent in Turkish. I’m holding out for another hidden talent.  Statistically speaking, if I’m so crap at everything else, then I’m logically bound to stumble across something I’m blindingly brilliant at. Eventually.