Belinda Lara Robinson - Beneath the Smiling Moustache: Love and Catastrophe in Istanbul—How I Was Swept Off My Feet by a Turkish Doctor (and a Ten Tonne Bus)

The events and conversations in this book have been set down to the best of the authors ability, although some names and details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Copyright 2021 by Belinda Lara Robinson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: beneaththesmilingmoustache@gmail.com.

In loving memory of Belinda Lara Robinson, 1968-2020

Project Manager: Mark Pickett

Executor and Trustee: Steve Harley

Finance Manager: Susan Howle

Project Coordinator: Diane Hickey

Editor: Michele Perry

Publishing Consultant: Georgina Penney

Book Design: Paul-Hawkins.com

With special thanks to Ronda Culshaw, Belindas Sister

ISBN (Print): 978-0-6451398-0-8

ISBN (eBook): 978-0-6451398-1-5

www.beneaththesmilingmoustache.com

A portion of all book royalties will be donated to cancer charities to help support their vital work.

For Robin,

for giving me the courage to begin this journey.

For Arash,

for giving me the strength to complete it.

I am often asked about my memory for detail. I cheated... I went back to Istanbul in 1992, taught English for 12-months, retraced my footsteps for the book, submerged myself in the culture, had Turkish newspapers from August/September 1990 translated into English to ensure that everything I was describing was 100% historically accurate.

When you first arrive in Turkey and attempt to speak the odd word, the Turkish alphabet can catch you unawares. And although the Turkish people were incredibly generous in forgiving my clangers, here's a handy pronunciation guide to get you started:

In Turkish, the character is pronounced sh. So, the Turkish boys name Bari is pronounced Barish, as in parish.

The letter c is pronounced like j.

The without a dot is like an uh sound.

The character is ch.

The is silent.

Plurals are formed by adding a -ler or -lar suffix.

Chapter 1

H aving travelled for several months, my tattered travel diary became a gallery of scribed daily landscapes. Each scene, painted with a thousand words, depicted life and an ongoing quest for well, I wasnt really sure. Each evening, I would read the extraordinary descriptions of the people and places that I had encountered and come to the same conclusion: something was still missing.

As travellers (not necessarily holiday-makers), we leave our homes, our families, with a vacancy in the heart, a void, a vacuum that we hope to fill. But with what? A friendship yet to be encountered? A life beyond the boundaries of familiarity? A search for who really knows? And even when we find something on our journeys, were still not sure if weve found the Holy Grailwhatever that is supposed to be.

It was this quest for this missing piece of lifes puzzle that got someone like mea twenty-two-year-old Media Communications graduate from Sydneyon the move.

It was August 1990, and I had just landed in Istanbul with no fixed itinerary, no reservations, and no return ticket. My mind was busy with questions and uncertain curiosity about the journey to which I had impulsively committed myself.

As I shuffled forward in the long, slow-moving line towards Customs, the notion of spending at least five days in this strange city made me feel both excited and apprehensive. I had travelled to many cities alone since leaving Australia, many foreign countries, but few so culturally and politically challenging as Turkey.

A fragmented, metallic voice bellowed in one corner of the International Arrivals hall, calling out hotel and bus service names. There was harsh shouting, and I saw a jittering gun-wielding soldier running towards a swarthy character wearing a chequered red and white Arab headscarf. The soldier was tongue-lashing this bloke in rapid-fire Turkish. I had no idea what was going on, and by the look on the Arabs face, neither did he.

Half a dozen planes from all over the world had just touched down. Considering August was the height of summer in Europe, there were few European tourists at the airport today, and very few women.

I was travelling alone, but as usual, I wasnt short of company. A swarm of excited, heavily moustached men buzzed around meMEN in long, white tunics; MEN in ill-fitting, outdated business suits; MEN in cheap cotton shirts and pants. Some spoke in Arabic, some in Turkish, others in languages I didnt recognise.

Nearby was a young, rather heavy-set foreign couplepossibly English. Their ridiculous his and hers matching outfits, brand-new Marks & Spencers cabin luggage, not to mention her over-baked solarium tan gave me the impression they were on a honeymoon. But judging by the limited conversation and the amount of eye rolling and groaning that was going on between them, it seemed that things had already turned sour.

That couple, I bet, had probably spent many an hour gazing in the window of Thomas Cook and the like; I know I did. Each agent seemed to offer the same postcard-perfect paradise: sunsets, five-star hotels, swimming pools, beaches, bars and booze. Majorca looked like the same dreamy destination as Malta, and Ibiza looked like Corfu. Turkey, I had a hunch, would offer something differentand I think I was right.

I had just spent a few rather isolated weeks backpacking around the Greek islands. As the internet and mobile phones werent around then, you could easily remove yourself from your family and friends and withdraw from much of the goings on in the world while you travelled. (I recall big stories, such as the countdown to Germanys reunification, or Mandelas quest to dismantle apartheid, were even a bit sketchy.) You could just live in the moment, taking in each new experience blissfully ignorant, while nodding to a beat from your Walkman. But even with the likes of Phil Collins blasting Another Day in Paradise in your ears, it was still impossible to extricate yourself from one particular news bulletin: IRAQ.

On my travels, I stumbled across the odd tabloid written in English, which gave me an update every now and then. But as news in print from the United States or the United Kingdom took so long to reach anywhere, by the time I was reading Mondays