This story began with an ordinary purchase at a small Istanbul kiosk. While casually choosing chewing gum, I suddenly noticed two familiar names from another era: “Tip-i-Tip” and “Turbo”. Their appearance had changed over the decades, but the encounter was enough to trigger something immediate and deeply personal. For a moment, I was transported back nearly forty years to Soviet-era Almaty, my hometown, where these Turkish gums had once been exotic imports and, for many children, an important part of everyday life.
In the late 1980s and early 1990s, Turkish products were entering the crumbling Soviet market, including Kazakhstan, with remarkable speed. While local economies struggled under chronic shortages and Western brands were only beginning to emerge, Turkish businesses often proved faster, more practical, and more accessible. Turkish margarine like “Rama”, chocolates such as “Albeni”, biscuits, sweets, and household goods became visible symbols of a changing consumer landscape.
For children, however, Turkey’s most important export was chewing gum.
Soviet gum certainly existed. In Kazakhstan, one of the most common local varieties was simply called “Sagyz” (literally, “gum”). It was cheap, but it could hardly compete. Turkish gums offered longer-lasting flavor, better bubbles, and, most importantly, collectible inserts.
These inserts quickly became more valuable than the gum itself. A stick of gum could be carefully stretched across an entire day, but a rare insert could retain value for months or even years.
“Turbo”, “Final 90”, “Tipi Tip” and many others were no longer just candy wrappers. They became the building blocks of a childhood economy centered around cars, football players, cartoon characters, romantic comic strips.
Each series had its own liquidity. Rare pieces commanded higher exchange rates. Some traded one for two, or even more. Without realizing it, children were learning the logic of markets.
By 1990-91, a single pack of Turbo gum might cost around three Soviet rubles. At a time when a respectable monthly salary for an adult could be roughly 300 rubles, this was hardly insignificant. For a child, buying imported gum was both pleasure and investment.
The secondary market was even more revealing. A single insert could cost one ruble. Even the wrapper itself could hold value, selling for 30 to 50 kopecks. Parents may have believed they were giving money for cinema tickets or ice cream, but in many cases they were unknowingly funding a thriving childhood collectibles market.
Before long, simple collecting evolved into commerce. At one point, I developed my own basic arbitrage strategy. A neighbor had acquired a collection of rare “Malabar” cartoon inserts, highly unusual in our area. I traded my “Final” football cards for “Malabar” inserts, then exchanged those same “Malabar” inserts at school for additional football cards under more favorable terms. Within weeks, my football collection had expanded dramatically. I did not know the language of arbitrage at the time, but I understood profit.
Back then, even neighborhood street culture carried economic undertones associated with gum inserts. If you wandered into the wrong district, a conversation with local bullies could begin quite directly:
“Where are you from? Got money? Inserts?”
These small printed collectibles were often treated almost like a parallel form of currency.
Only years later did I fully understand that many Turkish phrases printed on these inserts had entered my childhood consciousness long before I understood their meaning. “Almaniya Milli Takımı” simply meant the “German national team”. “Oto” meant “automobile”. Yet as children, these words felt like fragments of a larger, glamorous international language. In retrospect, this may have been one of my earliest encounters with Turkish soft power.
Turkey itself had experienced similar waves of consumer transformation earlier. In the worlds described by Orhan Pamuk, especially in his portrayals of Istanbul’s evolving urban consumer culture, one can glimpse earlier forms of commercial fascination with packaging, collectibles, and imported aspiration. By the time Turkish gum reached post-Soviet Central Asia, some of that commercial culture was quietly traveling with it.
Like any currency, inserts were vulnerable to inflation. When new series emerged, older ones rapidly lost value. This happened, for example, when “Final 90” gave way to “Final 92”, reflecting the changing cycles of major football championships. Collections depreciated. The market moved forward.
“Turbo”, centered around automobiles rather than tournament schedules, generally retained value longer. Cars, after all, aged more slowly as symbols than football competitions.
Adults regularly tried to suppress demand with warnings about harmful chemicals or vague health dangers supposedly linked to imported gum. But such fears rarely proved stronger than market enthusiasm.
…At some point, my own collection was stolen. At the time, it felt like a personal catastrophe.
But the loss faded more quickly than I expected. Not because I was necessarily maturing, but because scarcity itself was disappearing. As imported gum became more accessible, the value of the inserts declined accordingly.
No currency retains its value forever. (TZ/VK)
Source: BIANET
