The Economist January 22nd 2022 Business 61Eastv West, Venus v Mars
T
hanks to a venturecapital (vc) boom, it is no longer unusual
to find tech unicorns, as unlisted startups valued above $1bn
are known, springing up in middleincome countries. However,
two coming from Turkey are particularly strange creatures. First,
they are big. Trendyol, an ecommerce company, is valued at
$16.5bn, giving it the status of a “decacorn” worth $10bn or more.
Getir, a pioneer of “superfast” grocery delivery, is reportedly close
to joining that select group. Second, they are battlehardened.
Both come from a country wracked by inflation, currency instabil
ity and barmy economic policies, any of which can be kryptonite
for investors. Most striking, their founders bear no resemblance to
archetypal tech bros. Trendyol’s Demet Mutlu is a 39yearold
woman. Getir’s Nazim Salur is a 60yearold man.
And yet look closely at their two companies, now worth more
than almost any listed firm in Turkey, and the differences out
weigh the similarities. Fittingly for a country that sees itself as a
gateway between the Orient and the West, their view from the Bos
porus is Januslike. One takes its inspiration from China, the other
looks to Europe and America. One shuns the spotlight. The other
craves it. One wants to turn women into gogetters. The other has
the malesounding mantra of “democratising the right to lazi
ness”. They encapsulate several different dimensions of the tech
divide. That makes them intriguing to compare and contrast.
Start with the division between East and West. In simple terms,
this represents a choice between Asianstyle superapps and Sili
con Valleystyle blitzscaling. Trendyol’s biggest backer is Alibaba,
and the Chinese eemporium’s influence runs deep. The Turkish
firm shares Alibaba’s marketplace model: it accounts for more
than a third of ecommerce in Turkey and provides a platform for
trading about $10bn a year of merchandise. Unlike Amazon, the
American giant, it sells only a few of its own goods. Like Alibaba, it
calls itself a superapp, aiming to offer a variety of services, in
cluding payments, on its platform, and it puts the importance of
its smallbusiness sellers, who are everywhere in Turkey, on a par
with buyers. International expansion, when it comes, will proba
bly be to emerging markets, such as those in eastern Europe and
the Middle East. It believes, as Alibaba does, that the superapp po
tential is greatest in such young, mobilemad places.
By contrast, Getir’s first international backer was Michael Mo
ritz of Sequoia Capital, an American vcfirm. Aptly, its strategy bor
rows from the Silicon Valley playbook: blitzscale first, make mon
ey later. Founded in 2015, Getir claims to have invented the busi
ness of delivering groceries in under ten minutes (unsurprisingly
in Istanbul, where few people live more than ten minutes from a
shop, many of Mr Salur’s friends wondered at first why they would
need it). Discounts help get customers hooked, Mr Salur says.
Then, he hopes, the temptation to treat Getir like a personal butler
will take over. With competition from America’s Gopuff and Ger
many’s Gorillas growing, speed is of the essence. Since launching
its first international operation in Britain a year ago, the firm has
moved through the developed world almost as fast as its purple
andyellowclad moped riders dash through the streets of London.
It is now in 40 cities in Europe and America, from Barcelona, via
Bristol, to Boston.
Mr Salur has long set his sights on penetrating America—and
eventually listing the firm there. “If you’re a startup guy, you want
to succeed where the startups are,” he says. In true American style,
he revels in media attention. Getir welcomed your columnist to a
brightly lit depot (“dark store” is a misnomer) under railway arch
es in South London to see baskets of biscuits and avocados whiz
zing out the door. Only when discussing the financials of a cash
guzzling business is Mr Salur guarded. He declines to comment on
its latest valuation, which Bloomberg reports to be as high as
$12bn. “When money is in the bank, you will hear about it.”
Ms Mutlu could not be more different. She has put a Chinalike
media firewall around Trendyol and mostly shuns interview re
quests. One of the few nuggets commonly repeated about her is
that she dropped out of Harvard Business School to set up Tren
dyol in Turkey. And yet she is more remarkable than that. Besides
founding Trendyol, she cofounded another Turkish unicorn, a
gaming company sold to San Franciscobased Zynga for $1.8bn in2020. To put that into perspective: PitchBook, a data gatherer, cal
culates that of 1,335 unicorns globally, only 185, or just under 14%,
have at least one female founder.
Furthermore, Ms Mutlu is described by an investor as “mania
cal” about tech. Having started out selling fashion items on Tren
dyol, she is a champion of Turkey’s textile industry. She is also an
advocate (albeit a mediashy one) for women in the digital econ
omy. Women make up about half of Trendyol’s employees, includ
ing some software engineers, and many of her buyers and sellers.
Those who know her say she struggled to be taken seriously as she
built her business. Adding to the frustration, she did not know
whether it was because she was a woman, or Turkish, or both.
Ottoman empire-builders
These are heady times for startups everywhere. Both companies
are aware that they have thrived at a time when vcfunding across
the globe is frenzied—and sometimes indiscriminate. Neither is
likely to do an initial public offering soon, at least until the valua
tion shortfall of public versus private markets narrows.
Yet they have also benefited from growing up in Turkey’s
school of hard knocks. Living amid galloping price increases pre
pares them for a world that is reawakening to the menace of infla
tion. In a country where vcfunding was negligible until 2021, they
learned to operate leanly. And they stand proudly behind names
that are hardtopronounce inEnglish. As Mr Salur quips: “Re
member Arnold Schwarzenegger?Hedidn’t change his name.” It
may be time to get used to them.nSchumpeter
A tale of two surprisingly different Turkish tech giants