A booth as compact as a matchbox. A clerk sits there taking slips handed to him and patiently feeding them into a slot in a machine. Money changes hands, barriers go up and down. Traffic queues lengthen and then shorten. As the sun makes way for the moon in the sky, the clerk answers the occasional question with a weary look on his face. In the midst of this fast-flowing stream of life all around, there is just one person who doesn’t seem to move the toll booth collector. Because his job is to open the gate for those heading out in their cars to join the rest of the world.
A new film released last week, “Gişe Memuru” (Toll Booth), tells the story of just such a person. The film reminds viewers of all the people out there who work in such similarly confined spaces where they can barely move and who cannot really do anything when they are bored other than look out at the world from behind dusty glass panels.
Actually, these days it is nearly impossible to find tollbooth collectors like those in the film. Most of these positions have been replaced by “smart machines,” but every day we are still in contact with hundreds of people in similar booths as we rush around in our busy lives, buying tickets and tokens, refilling our Akbils, buying newspapers, using public bathrooms, etc. If you were to ask any of these people how they pass their time, the answers they provide would be the same; “Time just does not seem to pass.” If you ask them to tell you a little about their life, they always say: “I don’t really have a story, what is there to say? We really aren’t a part of this life…”
Perhaps the most positive of these clerks that we came across was Mehmet Refik Kılıçarslan (69). His friends call him “Refik Baba,” and he has worked for 11 years now at the Karaköy Tünel token booth. One of his favorite sayings is “Love people.” He works in an incredibly small space. His room has an outdated calendar hanging on the wall, a radio and a shiny new telephone. Other than that, nothing. Through the small hole cut into the glass he sits behind, different hands shove money and collect jetons (tokens) all day long. Some of his customers smile, while others have furrowed brows. But Refik Baba manages to smile at everything and everyone. Every now and then he leaves his little booth to take a break and cast a fishing rod into the water nearby, but he always returns to his cocoon. When we ask him if he ever gets bored, he brushes back his whitened hair and tells us: “I am lucky. I work in a booth in a building that is 136 years old. Every now and then I do get bored, but that’s to be expected. Other times I’m so busy I don’t even have the time to read the newspaper.”
Refik Baba says he has many regular customers who travel on the funicular. Some are lawyers, doctors and engineers whom he greets on a daily basis, and even though he himself is only a primary school graduate, he banters with them and they exchange thoughts on life. Refik Baba says he can get so attached to his regulars that he will worry if he doesn’t see them, or if they come through later than normal. He says sometimes he even dreams about some of his more regular customers. Interestingly, most clerks in his position only work eight-hour days, but Refik Baba works 10-12 hours a day — not to earn extra money, but because he loves his work. He lives all the way in Anadoluhisar on the Asian side of İstanbul, and has to make a special effort to leave a bit early every day to make it home on time.
He has many interesting anecdotes, and some of these start to emerge during the conversation, which he shares with us: “One day, I gave a Japanese man TL 50 by mistake. The man realized the mistake when he got to the airport. He decided not to get on his plane to Egypt and instead headed straight here and returned the money to me. I was very touched. In fact, I took him out to eat and he was my guest for a few days. He left a few days later, but whenever he comes to Turkey he also drops in to visit me. One time I had to have surgery and my customers tracked down my address and came to visit me at home. Some of my customers are more loyal in that sense that people from my own village.”
Real life stories from booth clerks
The Akbil booth on the Yenibosna Metrobüs bridge in İstanbul is barely even one square meter in area. Erol Ergün (42) sits here every day between the hours of 3:00 p.m. and midnight. He is like a fish caught in a net, unable to move. The booth is so tight that he can’t even lean down to pick up any change that falls on the floor. He says if there was anywhere nearby where he could grab a glass of tea or something to eat, he would, but there are no such places within easy reach. He has to order meals delivered by local restaurants. As he refills people’s Akbils, he tries to hide his food as he discretely tries to eat while he works. When he needs to use the restroom, he has to call the Akbil center, and someone comes to briefly cover for him. As the sun goes down, the light above him comes on and the flow of people fade into the darkness of the night. He heads home to Bayrampaşa on the Metrobus and often falls into bed without eating dinner. He sees his two children if and when he gets a chance to drop in at home during the day. He has long forgotten the pleasures of social visits from neighbors or dinner with his family. He says: “Thank God I am not ill in any way. I was a driver for 13 years. But for the past year I have been in this box. There are plans to build a larger space soon. I guess this was what was deemed suitable for me by the bosses. It’s money to put bread on the table. At least I am employed, that’s something for which I am thankful.” When we ask him how the holy month of Ramadan will pass for him in this tiny booth, he responds, “I haven’t worked here during a Ramadan, but God will help me.”
The Tombul family has run a newspaper stand in İstanbul’s Karaköy district for the past five years. Every day at 5.30 a.m. Faruk travels to work from the Asian side of İstanbul and opens the newsstand for the day. After sending their two children off to school, his wife, Tülay, joins him. With all the business swirling around them, before they even know it, it’s already 10 a.m. When most people are starting to go on their lunch breaks, they just get a chance to have breakfast. And the result? Swollen ankles, stress and fast-emptying newspaper shelves. Before they know it, it’s already 7 p.m. Then this weary couple heads home in İstanbul’s peak hour traffic. But they both agree, “This paper stand is ours and we are our own bosses,” adding: “We manage ourselves. Our world may be small and narrow, but at least it’s our own.” They have long since become accustomed to working in a confined space, and they share tasks. While one eats, the other takes care of customers. When they need a break they head over to Eminönü for some fresh air. Their favorite activities when they are not in their small newspaper stand are helping their kids with homework and visiting their parents.
In a small security booth at the Bağcılar Eston Kirazlıevler compound, a gated community in İstanbul, there are three people seated in a confined space. They monitor the screens of the security cameras that help guard the 420 apartments in this compound. For 12 hours at a time these three security guards share this tiny space. And it is forbidden for them to leave the compound. They eat their meals here. Up until recently they had to run across to a nearby gas station to use the restroom. Says security guard Kemal Erol, “We got tired of coming and going, so we built a small bathroom in the booth.”
Vehicles that come to the Zaman building in İstanbul all have to stop at a small booth at the entrance. The stress that comes from these vehicles as they emerge from the İstanbul traffic, racing to get the news in on time, is reflected at times on the attendants in the booth. Yusuf Yeter, one of the team at the booth, says: “Our spirits get a bit down here. When the sun is high in the sky, we roast. And we have constant lower back pain and neck pain.But we try not to bring our stress home with us.”
İlhan Kara (35) works as a security guard at a power plant outside of İstanbul. Commuting was so problematic, so some time ago he and his family moved into lodgings nearby in facilities that are part of the electricity station. There are no other homes or shopping centers nearby. Kara heads to work by car in the mornings and, surrounded by all the switchboxes and cables in his tiny booth, he waits for the evening to roll on. He does lament the lack of a social life. “We are three people in total working together. The computers have ruined our morale. Outside the facility, it is like a desert. There is nowhere to go. My two children are not at the age to play games. We have to drive out five kilometers just to get bread, so we usually stock up for three days at a time. We can’t even make it to the funerals of family members.” Kara says his wife has even become unwell from the strain of the life they lead. And so, ironically, in order to ensure electricity for the city, Kara’s own life has become a little darker.
Cihan news agency
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