Turkish Customs – Part 2
Turkish Customs – With a Sting in the Tail! - Part 2 of 2. Part One can be read HERE
The following is a great submission from reader, and long term Bodrum resident, Ros Elliott-Ozlek, who re-tells her experience of Turkish Customs - the good and the bad...
This story is © Ros Elliott-Ozlek, Nov 2009
Nov 2009.
...Sure enough, the next day drags on to 2pm and no sign of the officials. At 2.30 I receive a text saying they are too busy today and cannot make it. They will come tomorrow. I ring them back immediately. Tomorrow is no good as I will be in UK. I return on Monday so please to come on Tuesday. Tuesday morning by 11 am is agreed on when I assure them it takes an hour and not 4 hours from their building downtown.
Shortly after 11 am a car pulls up outside. They are here! Lady arrives with an older gentleman. I invite them to sit in the salon and admire the view while I make coffee. The gentleman is eager to proceed with checking off items on his list. He points to the piano (which I am storing for a friend) and states that I must have brought this from England. No, I say, it is Turkish and not mine. He starts to indicate all the Turkish furniture in the room, modern MDF bookcases and television cabinets, implying they are all imported. I repeat that none of these items are British, and show him the old and tatty footstool beneath the coffee table. This is from England, I say. And this – pointing to a rough unvarnished wooden rocking chair made by my great grandparents....
This, I say, showing him a small wickerwork chair that is nearly falling to pieces, and these, - I show him a lightweight wooden trolley table from the 1960s, an upholstered rocking chair and a small armchair, all old.. These items were my mother’s. He begins to understand, and Lady states that all these items are like souvenirs from my mother’s house, and ‘hatira’s from her. I concur that this is so. I suggest they enjoy their coffee in front of the superb view of the sea and islands, and then I will show them all the other items.
Coffee and McVities chocolate digestives are enjoyed on the balcony and the views are admired, the neighbours and the house discussed – how I found it, etc, and current prices of housing in this area compared to the bargain I have found here six years previously.
As they finish their coffee I suggest we go around the house and I point out the other things I have shipped here. Lady shakes her head and lays a restraining hand on gentleman. It is not necessary. It is clear that all is just practical household stuff from my mother’s home, none of it valuable or commercially viable. (In my mind I hear the words ‘junk’, and partly agree, although the value to me is impossible to put a price on when I think of my precious books and music).
They don’t even want to see upstairs. All is well, the forms can be ticked and that stage completed. They will contact me in a day or so for the next stage – the payment of my small tax and refund of my larger one, as I can only receive one refund, thus they are helping me by giving me back the larger amount.
About a week later there is a phone call, which I answer. ‘Margaret?’ a deep voice asks? ‘Elliyot Margaret?’ I understand this may be the man who came with Lady to see my goods, but he doesn’t introduce himself. He gets straight to the point, and tells me I have to pay 350TL as soon as possible to be refunded my 350 TL. I laugh and retort that this is ‘cok komik’, smelling a rat and wondering if this man has decided to feather his own nest in the midst of my problem. I get angry and speak quite harshly to him, saying this is all ridiculous. I hang up angrily, and immediately phone my torpil’s wife. She gives me a sentence to use and suggests I ring the deputy and ask how much more money I will have to pay before this business is finished.
That evening, strangely, a phone call came at 8.30pm. The gentleman who had visited my house to check the goods. The man who had phoned that morning and confused me. He talked for several minutes to Hasan, who was shouting and getting angrier. Then I took over. He reminded me that ‘he hadn’t asked for any money for his petrol and use of his car that day he came to ‘check’ the goods’. This was because he was doing it as a special ‘favour’, a ‘hatira’ for the customs boss – did I understand? I have never heard or noticed that expression before, but figured out the meaning, although ‘hatira’ means memory or souvenir.
Now he said I had to pay 330TL for the second shipment tax and then I‘d get back the 550 odd TL I’d paid on the first shipment. This tallied more with what Lady had said last time we’d spoken at the lions’ den, but I was annoyed that his figures kept changing. I said I’d call Deputy and the big chief the next morning to check this and he concurred.
In the end I call a few days later. I didn’t want to feel so stressed again, and waited while there was a conveniently extended Oct 29th Bayram (national holiday), the government giving an extra 1 1/2days into the weekend. However, I cannot find Deputy, or Agent 2, or Lady. I finally reach the elusive Agent 2, who immediately says he’ll call back. He doesn’t. Then Agent 1 phones and talks on and on about how long I have waited to get in touch and why did I not ring him before and what is the problem? I cut in. I want my 500 TL back and my file from agent 2, tomorrow at 10.30 so I can end this story.
Amazingly he shuts up and agrees. He phones again later and confirms this, and rants on about agent 2, saying he will never trust him again, and he has spoken to him now and will get my file from him and the money I paid and I must not think that he himself did any wrong to me as he has a good reputation to protect.
Next, Gentleman phones. What am I doing about it all? I tell him I am coming in tomorrow at 10.30. He tells me he will put his file with Lady official and I am to go to her, pay my fee, and then get the other money returned to me and finish it all. He reminds me it is a ‘hatira’ he is doing for his boss, so I tell him that in fact, someone is organising all this as a ‘hatira’ for ME!
The next day dawns bright and sunny, thank goodness! I park in the car park by the Customs Building and make my way to Agent 1’s office. I cannot remember exactly where it is although I know the building. Which floor was it? I expect I’ll know it when I see it, and start on the top floor. It doesn’t look right though and I walk down one flight. There are many offices with doors ajar, so I ask someone for Agent 1 and realise I can’t remember his surname either. They advise me to check the board downstairs but I know it wasn’t on there, so nod and walk down another flight as I ring Agent 1 on his mobile. Best to ask him which floor. There is no answer however.
As I reach the next floor my mobile starts ringing and I hear him round the corner saying that he can hear my phone coming along the corridor. This stairwell looked exactly right and we meet again.
He greets me warmly but I am cool. A long string of excuses and utterances against Agent 2 follows and he is obviously concerned for his reputation. Don’t I realise he will always help me. I am not alone. If he had known what a bad guy Agent 2 turned out to be he would never have….and on and on. He feels bad that my friends recommended me to him and that this has happened. I correct him on this. (We had discovered only this year in the winter that these close mutual friends had bought his house in the village before I saw where they lived and decided to move to.)
He has talked to Agent 2 already at 7am this morning, and at 8 and when Agent 2 got on the bus to come here. He is on the way. He should be here now.
It is 10.20 so I know that Agent 2 has another ten minutes to show up and am not overly concerned. Agent 1 is hopping up and down. Where is Agent 2? He should have got here ages ago. He promised. He has the money. I checked this morning. A nervous type.
At ten twenty-seven someone is outside the open doorway. It is not Agent 2, but the large man in sweater and shirt over jeans looks somewhat familiar. Agent 1 steps outside the door and I glimpse an orange folder under sweater mans arm. Could it be mine?
Some money is being counted and an oath is uttered. It didn’t look like 500 TL. Oh well, anything is better than nothing at this stage, and I know I have to pay the 300 odd to close the files.
More muttering goes on and more curses outside as I watch the stage beyond the open door. Is it indeed all a play?
Agent 1 returns inside and shows me my file and starts to go through all the documents. He is looking for the papers he himself wrote, and holds them up triumphantly when he comes across his bold and flowery black ink scripts.
I am meanwhile keeping an eye out for the lists of goods, the inventory and receipts. I haven’t noticed them yet but the file is reassuringly full and looks alright. Yes, I spot them as he continues to flick through, showing his secretary the papers he work, commenting on his good work and Agent 2’s incompetence or scandalous behaviour. He is a good performer and knows how to capture his audience.
Today I am ignoring all the tirades. I just want my money, receipts and file and I’ll be on my way. Agent 1 continues to rant about Agent 2 and swears he will get the rest of my money back. It seems that Agent 2 has only sent 200TL, despite promising 500 this very morning. What a bad man he is. He himself will get the rest of it back for me within ten days. He must prove to me that his intentions were honourable and that he is a good agent. I can’t help believing the sincerity in his dark long-lashed eyes and expressively distressed face.
I decide to reserve judgement for now. I still feel that Agent 2 is being made the scapegoat here, for all of them, and I am pleased I have recovered 200TL of the 300 or so I have to pay today to receive my refund of XTL.
I make my farewells with Agent 1 insisting on accompanying me to the Customs building. I firmly assure him that I must go alone as I have used a big torpil. If things go badly there today I will immediately call him. He insists he is free all day and only came in to the office to help me today. I prise myself away and promise to let him know the outcome.
Across the road on the second floor of the Customs Building I find Lady at her desk. The atmosphere in the office today is so so, a feeling of dark and light. The office is crowded with all the desks piled high in pink files today.
Lady seems pleased to see me and explains again everything they have done so far and that now I have to pay the smaller amount of ‘tax’ to release the refund on the larger amount I paid before. She has prepared another formal request for this. Sign here please, and here. Please read these documents first. They seemed clear to me – authorising the two files on my goods to be closed and the money I had had to deposit on the first one to be refunded. Again she repeated that I could only get the refund once- in accordance with their regulations - and that they had therefore chosen the larger amount to refund me.
A gofer has been called to carry out the transactions. I will call him a Runner. Did I have the receipts? Hopefully yes – I found them in the full–to–bursting orange file, amazingly. What a relief! My runner is to go and pay the ‘tax/fee’ and thus close the files. Did I have cash? He’d bring the receipts and we’d go together to get my refund. Yes it was the total of these two green receipts.
To my astonishment this now came to around 700TL. I would pay 300 odd and get back 700 odd. A bonus! Let’s see, I thought, as we are not out of the woods yet. Once again they explained everything to me at length and I just nodded and agreed. Runner was dispatched. Did I want to go with him perhaps? No? No thank you, I was quite happy sitting and waiting, writing up the proceedings today so far. I handed him 333TL in cash, as requested.
Tea was brought. I read a short story. An hour went by. Perhaps I should have gone with Runner? Would I get a receipt stating what I had paid this 300TL for?
Runner returned. Unfortunately there was a small hitch (my heart sank when he said this) but he explained very seriously that he had only brought back the receipt for the 33TL as the system had broken down. However, Ankara had approved the payment of the 300TL and the receipt would come back later in the day. However, this meant that I couldn’t get my refund till later that day. Lady must write the request for the payment now (What? Again?), and after lunch he would bring the other receipt and we’d go down to get my refund.
However, they might not give me cash. They might have to authorise a bank transfer. Did I have a bank account? Yes I did. Good that all seemed fine then.
Meanwhile I have to sign and initial these documents about my goods. Fine. I signed. More pages were turned. Here; and here; and here and here; more pages; and initial this; and these; and sign here; and here; and here; Good. That’s the first one done. A stack of papers were clipped together and and we repeated the process on another sheaf. Triplicate, my foot! There were about twenty pages in each sheaf.
I could also hear Lady murmuring something like ‘Oh dear! This means the goods have to be checked again!’ but Runner insisted that this was not so.
I pretended not to be following any of this, suspecting trickery and subterfuge at every turn! There are so very many stages in these procedures that treachery can happen at every stage It seems to leave scope for all the greasing of cogs along the rocky twisting road to completion. Even the officials look perplexed at each and every obstacle that arises, as if it is unexpected but insurmountable at each step. Yet they must have gone through these stages hundreds of times before?
I start to sense conspiracy again, but maintain my calm visage as if I haven’t understood any of this.
Lady starts writing her document and Runner disappears downstairs. He is available, he insists, just call him! It can all be completed this afternoon
I wander around outside and find a Turkcell shop where I can resolve my registration problem with them. It seems my Turkish ID details which they require now and which I have sent them by text does not compute with their records of me as a foreigner with an English name when I first got my cell phone. Luckily I have come prepared with my passport, ID card and even my marriage ‘booklet’ – much more than a mere marriage certificate in turkey! It is this last booklet which does the trick and after only 15minutes seated at a desk with a young female Turkcell official all is sorted easily. How nice!
I had walked into an empty shop but now I see that it is full. Lunchtime! Lucky I was so early.
I find a seafront café and order a simple soup and tomato omelette for lunch. Tea is brought afterwards as I wonder about the bill.. It could be exorbitant, being seafront in Alsancak in a modern café; or a ‘normal’ price. When I pay I am pleasantly surprised having calculated around 10TL minimum it is only 6.50TL – about £2.50. I hope this is a good omen for the rest of the day.
Back in the lion’s den I catch sight of one of the original snakes leaving the office. She smiles and says hello to me in English as we pass in the doorway, her arms laden with pink folders. I sit down again in front of Lady’s desk. She tells me that Ms Q will check the papers and then we’ll all go to Deputy’s office. If all is well then I will go and get my refund. This sounds fine, except that Ms Q is the Snake hanim I passed in the doorway just now. I hope she is now a harmless grass snake for today.
At some point while I am sitting there I notice that Snake is looking at a file in the cupboard behind Lady. Lady asks her to look at the document she has written for me. Snake seems to be saying it is none of her business or she doesn’t know anything about it, but anyway she signs in the required place. I continue pretending to be unaware. After Snake retreats with more files of her own, Lady repeats that the signed document now goes to deputy and after that I will go downstairs and get paid.
She goes to deputy herself but returns five minutes later saying his office is too crowded. She has left this task to Runner to do. Runner returns ten minutes later saying that deputy has said to leave it with him and he will then notify Big Chief. Runner has informed Deputy that I am there waiting, but Deputy has said ‘Olsun’ meaning fine, let me wait for a while.
Lady offers more tea. I accept.
At 2.30pm there is a phone call across the room from lady’s desk. She hurries to answer it. I hear ‘She got Turkish nationality in 2004’ which isn’t strictly true, although we got married in 2004. I turn and try to follow the half conversation I can hear. Lady puts the phone down and confers with Snake. Snake seems to think it is an unnecessary detail or problem. Lady leaves the room but her face shows there is some sort of hitch.
I am taken back in time to 5years ago in this very room when the Yolcu Salon over at the Quayside were saying one thing - ‘You can’t keep your goods in Turkey even if you are now Turkish’ - but Snake was saying the opposite. I ran away that day as I couldn’t bear this impasse.
Ten minutes later Lady returns and strides across to the phone again, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She calls someone. I hear ‘household furniture, foreign lady, shipped here,‘ but can’t understand the rest.
Lady explains that the Yolcu Salon officials have asked some questions to make the situation absolutely clear before they sign their agreement. She then explains that Deputy has gone somewhere this afternoon to prepare some kind of exam for Big Chief. If he were still here it would all be cleared by now. The man in charge of Deputy’s office this afternoon is new. He wants to make everything clear too. She assures me there is no problem but I will have to wait.
It really does seem as if the name of the game is to prolong the procedure as much as possible. Impatient customers would probably start offering bribes right left and centre to speed up these wheels!
It is now 3pm and an altercation is erupting at one of the other desks. A ‘customer’ is arguing with one of the officials. It seems he has been waiting for some reply to a document or application. The young female official angrily asks him if it is her job to follow everything up. There is a heated exchange. It seem the man has been waiting one month, but female official reiterates that she has been helped and advised him and told him the procedures necessary; she’s submitted the documents, etc etc. Both sides are shouting now. Another official is sitting eating a Satsuma. I can smell the sweet fragrance amidst this angry confrontation. The customer leaves, stamping out of the door.
As I look around this now stiflingly hot office I can see officials seated at desks with computers, keys tapping while they search their screens; other officials carry piles of folders or files across from desks to cupboards to other desks; written documents are produced, replies are written, documents collated, stapled and placed in more files. It all seems a meaningless mess of paperwork being extended and stretched out ad infinitum. I wonder if anything ever gets finished here, or if this tennis match of requests and answers really does continue forever, until someone ‘torpils’ their way out of it.
I distance myself, looking out of the window at the palms and pines and distant range of hills across the bay. It could be a beautiful view, but is spoilt by ugly concrete buildings, tower blocks of offices, a multi-storey car park with carnival coloured pillars, and the other tall pink customs office blocks. The prettiest building is the two-storey-red-roof that houses the Police station.. It looks like a little cottage, nestling harmlessly between this Customs building and the next high-rise one. The palm trees seem to belong to the police station’s back garden.
At 3.20pm Lady returns and sinks into her chair. Her face is grey and tired, yet she softly pronounces that the deed is done. I have trouble understanding as her face is so tense and her voice so soft. Is it really finished? Yes, she smiles, and now we need to find Runner to go downstairs to get the refund. Lady’s cellphone is not working. She asks a colleague to call runner.
Runner arrives and now the light is fading. It is late afternoon. He says we can go down and get the money now, but he has to get his coat first. We go down the stairs and he leaves me at the bottom by the Enquiries desk. I understood that he had to go to some cloakroom where he’d left his jacket. He goes out of the front door and around to the right – where deputy’s office is situated. I wait and I wait. Eventually the enquiries desk official asks me why I am waiting. Twenty minutes or so go by. I decide to go outside and wait – maybe Runner is waiting out there? Surely not?
Outside in the street there is the usual crowd of young men with their tags around their necks, still queuing outside Deputy’s office or maybe waiting for something else. They stare at me curiously. There are no women waiting anywhere around there. A few minutes later Runner reappears. He apologises for the delay and sets off across the road. I ask him where we are going, as I had understood ‘downstairs’, but I have realised that the Turkish word has other meanings, such as ‘down town’ or ‘down there’. We take a short cab ride to another building in the heart of town. He tries to pay the taxi driver but I insist on his accepting my 5TL note, and he insists on the driver giving him the 1TL change which he gives back to me.
We go up two flights of stone steps inside what could be a small apartment building but is actually another government office. This must be the financial heart of the Customs Offices. Runner is polite and deferential and gently enquires where the office is that we need. I am still assuming we will go into one room and get my refund. However, I quickly realise that the whole procedure is repeated albeit in miniature format.
We have to go up to the director’s office and get a signature, then down to another office, a tiny boiling hot one with three silent officials sitting at their desks and the heater on full. More signatures, and back up to the director’s office and more signatures then down again to the tiny hot one and another signature, and finally into another office where it seems they really do have the ledgers and make payments. I reflect that the three cold officials in the tiny boiling room should go up and down the stairs once or twice to warm up. We are both sweating now.
My situation is again explained, this time to a middle aged lady with sparkling eyes. Runner carefully writes out my bank account number from the cash card I give him, and I note his very beautiful handwriting and painstaking efforts to follow the straight line of the edge of the paper which he has placed to line up his script. He thoughtfully asks this lady for her office telephone number and extension. She has said that they will deposit the money tomorrow so it should be in my account in three working days. Best to ring her tomorrow and check it has gone in. We thank everyone profusely and leave.
It is now dusk. I ask if we are taking a taxi back to the Customs building, but Runner says let’s walk, as it is not far and he seems relieved that the whole business is now over. As we walk back along the crowded narrow pavements with cars lining up at traffic lights, noise and people going home, Runner starts to relate how he hates his job and would change it tomorrow if he could find another one. He tells me how these various heads of sections behave like Ottoman Emperors just because they have a large desk and armchair, and how important it is to bow and scrape to them. These armchair moguls earn tiny salaries but lord it over everyone else, and take massive bribes as a matter of course. He is angry that they feel they have the right to treat people like dirt.
I am totally taken by surprise to hear him speak this way. He has been the soul of discretion and respectful behaviour all along. To everyone. I start to wonder at the stress involved in being a lowly runner or official in such an atmosphere of deception and power games. No wonder everyone smokes there.
We shake hands and part outside the Lion’s Den building and I feel sorry that I couldn’t find a way to tip him for all his kind help and support. I hope he will be able to find a way out of his job dilemma soon.
With relief I return to my car, having purchased a bottle of scotch to enjoy with husband when I get home.
I do not ring Sparkling Eyes director until two days later, to check the money has gone through. When I am finally put through to her she gushes that she is glad I phoned, as they had forgotten to take my Turkish ID card number, and without it they cannot transfer the money. I groan inwardly but give her the number graciously. She tells me that as it is now Thursday afternoon they will transfer the money tomorrow so I should have it next week. We discuss the possibility that my bank account is registered in my English name, but the ID card has a Turkish name; perhaps there will be a problem, I suggest? Never mind, she answers, let’s try it and see. You can check with me again tomorrow to see if it went through alright. I resist the urge to argue my case again, and decide to wait and see. Later I remember that the bank had asked for our ID numbers recently anyway, so perhaps all will be well.
I also note that during this whole business nobody has ever asked to see my ID card. Not even Big Chief, who first asked me if I had one. It has not been copied and filed with any of the documents, despite being the apparent reason I can now keep my goods in Turkey and get a refund. Or am I mistaken here again?
During the weekend I try to forget about it all, and driving home on Monday night after a late evening lesson I decide to just have a look at my account balance using my cash card.
I am amazed to see there has indeed been a deposit. Not 700TL as expected, but 811 lire. I don’t know how they arrived at this figure, but I feel ten feet tall now, having ‘won’ a small victory. The relief is enormous. I feel like laughing and jumping for joy. It is only 811 TL and I have paid another 333 to get it, but all in all I have come out on top, at last, after this long and harrowing saga facing lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Snakes too, along with all manner of personal demons and doubts. I still have no idea of my rights or if it was all a big charade.
One thing is certain though: never go into any lion’s den without a large torpil at your side.