The Story of the Bus in Turkey

Last week we said goodbye to our neighbour and much-loved member of the community.  The local church was filled with friends and family, songs were sung, and stories of her life were told.  It got me to thinking, as is often the case at these times, about my own time here and what would be said of me at my own funeral?

So, I asked my wife to promise that, should I go first, that the vicar be instructed to recall to the congregation the story of the Turkish Bus.  She said no.  ‘No one needs to hear the story of the Turkish bus,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell them the story of the five pints instead’

No one needs to hear the story of the Turkish bus indeed!  Well, maybe not, but I need to tell it, and preserve the tale for future generations.

It all began long ago in the Turkish resort of Altinkum.  We’d enjoyed our weeks summer holiday drinking weak beer at an all-inclusive resort in the hot sun of the Aegean coast.  It was a Thomas Cook holiday, and for some reason all their flights back to Manchester were scheduled to depart in the early hours of the morning, but check-out was at midday, a full thirteen hours before our transfer coach would take us to the airport.

We could still make use of the facilities, the pool, the buffet.  We just didn’t have anywhere to go, and we didn’t want to stray too far from our cases.  So, we spent much of the day in the hotel lobby, drinking coffee, the occasional beer, eating snacks, and reading a copy of People’s Friend magazine cover to cover, over and over.

Eventually, I needed to use the facilities, and spotless as they were, there was one factor putting me off using them. Although they weren’t as open as other overseas public toilets I’d used, such as the half height cubicles walls in Cuba, the gap at the bottom was a little higher than I was comfortable with, and even this wouldn’t have been an issue had the black marble floor not been polished to mirror like perfection.

It all happened so quickly and before I could realise what was happening, it was happening. The neighbouring cubicle suddenly became occupied, and through the reflection in the polished black marble floor I could clearly see the neighbouring occupant, in one deft fluid motion, lock the door, position himself over the pot, and then sit down. There is nothing in the known universe that can sear that image from my eyes and my mind. It is a private moment, not one that should be observed by a stranger, in a reflection, from below.

I had to get out of there quickly. I knew that if I could see him reading the messages on his phone, then he could see me too. The one small grace was that eye contact wasn’t made. I finished up and returned to the lobby before any more surprises happened.

All of that, though, is prologue to the events of the Story of the Bus in Turkey. The long day stretched out until eventually it was the next day. Our transfer coach arrived to speed us through the early hours of the Turkish morning. Through red light after red light, all the way to the airport. Legally of course; there’s no point stopping at a red light in the small hours of the day when no one else is using the road. I often wonder how much time, fuel and emissions could be saved if we also adopted the same proceed with caution rule on traffic signals in the UK.

We arrived at the airport, safe and sound. Checked in the luggage, wandered around. Drank coffee, wandered around. Eventually, the gate was announced and we went and waited there. Gate 4, if I remember correctly. And my stomach hurt. I’d tried to use the toilet, but nothing happened, and probably wouldn’t now until I got home, so I had little choice but to wait some more. Finally, a bus pulled up at the glass doors and we were waved through. Most of the seats were taken by the time we boarded, but it was only a short trip down the runway to the plane, so we were happy to stand by the door, close to the fresh but hot air outside.

I assumed, that with all of the seats taken, and quite a few standees, that the bus was full enough to go. There were no other passengers heading this way so, as the doors closed, I took the executive decision to relieve some of the discomfort on my stomach and hopefully avert an uncontrolled public humiliation and disgrace. It was a biggy; thankfully inaudible, but it stank. I prayed for a short journey. Even I couldn’t bear it. Was it my imagination, or had everything turned green? Move bus, move!

The bus doors reopened and heading toward us was a large group of scary looking holiday makers. The type with tattoos and shaved heads. They were probably perfectly nice people, they just happened to look like football hooligans, and they looked really annoyed already. More and more people piled on to the hot whiffy bus like South Eastern Railway commuters, crush loaded, shoulder to shoulder.

Finally, the doors creaked closed. But we didn’t move. Not yet.

I’ve long since known that the world is made up of two distinct personality types. Those who are amused by flatulence, and weirdos. If you’re one of the second type, get help. Its a cornerstone of civilisation; you’re missing out. That said, even I know that there is a time and a place when it is inappropriate to laugh, and this was one such time. All my strength went in to maintaining my poker face, so much as a smirk and I might as well wave and point at myself, laughing “Ha ha ha, it was me, it was me. You’re all trapped on this hot bus and that’s my bottom you’re all breathing! Ha ha ha!” the effect would have been much same. I’d have been set upon by a bus load of angry skin heads and beaten to a pulp, and I’d have deserved it. This was serious.

I was doing a good job of it until someone at the back of the bus with a loud booming speaking voice said ‘Stinks in here dunnit!’

I couldn’t take it anymore. I could feel my face cracking, and my tongue tensed at the back of my throat poised to pounce and let out one unstoppable belly laugh. I held firm. Whether I laughed or not, surely, everyone must have known it was me, my face must have been redder than a postbox as I battled the pressure at both ends.

There was a jolt and we were on our way. A journey of no more than a couple of minutes and I would be free to the night air, clear to relieve some more of the pressure and discomfort. And soon enough, we had stopped on the tarmac next to an Easyjet plane. Knowing that the doors would open any second now, I let out another silent storm, I had no choice. The doors didn’t open.

‘We have to wait for the other plane to go before we can open the doors!’ The driver told us. I couldn’t believe it. Planes are very fast when they’re in the sky, but when they’re taxiing, its like a lifetime. It must have been another ten minutes that we were trapped inside, while the only plane inched noisily down the tarmac . Too afraid to laugh, too scared to fart again, but finally, we were free. Green faces fled from the bus, everyone had something to say about the smell.

As we queued at the bottom of the steps to board the plane, my wife asked discretely, ‘was that you?’. I nodded, equally discretely. ‘You STINK’ she said. Yeah, tell me something I didn’t know, like, was everyone staring at me or was that just inside my head.