All Of Monday’s Reasons - 14
14. Istanbul
Map
After a rough night, Istanbul was a welcoming sight. Minarets towered over the mosques, looking down on the dusty streets.
The first thing I noticed about Turkish men is that they all had thick black moustaches. Even the young teenage boys have a dark fluff on their upper lip. This is a sign of virility to the Turks and is worn by ninety per cent of the men in Istanbul. This was once a display of political leaning. If the moustache ends sloped upwards it signified a preference for the parties of the right, whereas downwards displayed a loyalty to the left. A guide book I bought said this was no longer true, and that most of them were horizontal. Nevertheless, I did observe the trends in working-class and aristocratic circles.
We found a hotel near the station in the middle of town. The room, for 20,000 lira (less than £5) had a toilet, shower, hot water, and a window. Jackie and Sharon took a room next to mine. Richard was only in Istanbul for the day, but he came up to my room for a shower and to stow his bag.
Once clean, the four of us immersed ourselves in the city. It felt good to be walking around without a a bag for the first time since Barcelona. I stopped to buy a sausage roll which filled me up for twenty five pence.
We decided we should make the Blue Mosque our first stop, and we took a short cut through a park. Walking in the cool shade of the trees, I felt like I was in another world. I felt different. Then it hit me that we were the only Westerners in sight.
People stared as I walked through wearing shorts. Despite the heat (hot, but not unbearable) no one was wearing shorts. Even the young boys wore loose shirts and light fabric trousers, and the girls wore long, shapeless dresses. It seemed that nudity, even in its slightest forms, was considered vulgar. This seemed ridiculous in the ninety-degree heat, but acceptable in the light of the cultural differences. Turkish men generally weren’t seen with their wives during the day. Groups of men sat in the streets talking, gambling and drinking tea among themselves. The women in the park were the wealthier minority of the Istanbul population. Instead of working, they spent the cooler hours of the day in the park with their children.
We left the park and approached the mosque, where the surrounding streets were lined with temporary stalls. Men and boys called out to us as we strolled by, each boasting what they believed to be unbeatable prices for their scarfs and fake antiques. They shouted their sales pitches in a number of languages and respective currencies, but we walked on.
A boy not older than six ran up to me and walked alongside.
“Monsieur,” he held out a wooden flute from the bundle in his arms, “twenty five thousand. Special price. Twenty five.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked incredibly young. His apparent innocence and multi-lingual capabilities instantly won the hearts of Sharon and Jackie. These kids were just as professional as their fathers and grandfathers in the business.
The instrument was the ney, a wooden, oblique flute common to Arabic countries and the primary instrument of Turkish mystical orders, such as the Whirling Dervishes, who say the sound of the ney is akin to Allah’s voice. He played the flute at me as he struggled to keep up. It had an Arabic tone; woody but shrill.
Richard and I sat on the side entrance stairs of the magnificent Mosque. The sales boy danced in front of me.
“For you, M’sieur, twenty thousand.”
“Sorry.”
He gave me the haggler’s eyes that told the potential buyer how badly he needed to make the sale. His young age magnified my guilt.
“I’ve already got one.” I lied.
“Fifteen thousand.” I looked at him blankly.
“Ten thousand.”
Richard asked me if I was going to go into the Mosque.
“Five thousand.”
I shook my head at him apologetically and stood up. In a panic he shouted, “Five thousand for two!”
From 25,000 to 2,500 each in five minutes, this boy was clearly desperate. I was attracted to the sound of the flutes, but I still had a lot of travelling to do and the instruments would be too cumbersome in my pack.
I took off my boots and left them at the entrance to the Mosque where a man issued me with two cloaks to cover my bare legs and arms. Clutching the cloth around me, I shuffled into an incredible building.
The Sultan Ahmet Mosque is known as the Blue Mosque due to the exquisite blue tiles lining the walls. The mosque itself has six minarets and 260 windows, allowing the sun to show off the beauty of the decorations to a breathtaking effect. I was ashamed to see Western tourists taking flash photographs Muslims praying. Behind black curtains along the sides of the building in less dramatic enclosures were the areas where women were allowed to pray, so long as they were out of sight.
We headed down to the docks and took a boat to the Asian side of Istanbul. My first time in Asia was marked by an overwhelming feeling that I was different. There were no other Westerners, no one with shiny white skin. Richard acted contrary to any conformity by taking his shirt off as we walked the crowded streets. We were already being stared at with the girls in short summer skirts and us in shorts, but he provoked looks of disdain. He noticed this when I did and put it back on.
Despite the heat, the fruit in the stalls always looked deliciously fresh. When the salesmen weren’t selling, hawking or haggling, they were discouraging flies from landing on their wares with strips of cloth.
We stopped at a cafe and I had a beer called Efes Pilsen, the most popular Turkish beer. It was light and refreshing and highly alcoholic.
Back on the European side, Richard collected his luggage and headed back to Greece, where he was meeting some friends. We swapped addresses, shook hands, and wished each other happy trails.
Jackie, Sharon and I walked through the town a little more. It was rush hour and I was amazed how many people were getting on and off buses and boats, or angrily honking their horns as they sat in traffic jams where or pedestrians pushing past each other and cars.
I learned later that Istanbul was Turkey’s city of opportunities. Millions had flocked here from the country to make a living. This led to a population crisis and a housing shortage, expanding the size of the city. Because of the increase in commuters, public transport has suffered. Trying to walk down the street with the girls proved near impossible. Someone in their early thirties called out to me in English from across the street.
“Hey Mister!”
“What?”
“How much?”
“Huh?”
He nodded towards Sharon and Jackie.
“How much for your women?” There was a twinkle in his eye.
He smiled. I laughed, “Special price my friend.”
“Five camels.”
“Five camels?” I gave him the offended haggler’s eyes.
“M’sieur, I have three wives. Seven camels.”
“Seven? My friend…”
“Six camels.”
“Good then. Allahaismarlardik.” From my limited Turkish, I knew this meant goodbye and may Allah be with you. We both cackled hysterically and walked our separate ways. The girls were slightly amused, but not as much as me and the Turkish man.
We ate that evening at one of the floating restaurants under the Galata Bridge which crossed the Golden Horn. Despite the attractive location, the meal cost only two pounds with beer. I started with meze, a starter chosen from a tray presented by the waiter. I had deep fried sticks of white cheese followed by fresh red mullet in butter which slid off the bone and into my mouth with tremendous ease. This was washed down with another large Efes Pilsen.
We ate as the sun set over the water before us. During the meal, I ran off to photograph the magnificent scene of the sky on fire over the Golden Horn behind a silhouette of mosques and minarets. On the placid water a fisherman cast out his net from a small boat. While I was shooting the scene, someone tapped me one the shoulder. I turned to find a tramp maniacally leering at me.
He was old, dirty and he reeked. He held out his hand, palm up. I shook my head. He shook his head and pointed to the sun, then to the camera, then to me. He mimicked the action of taking a photograph. He held out his hand at my camera. He wanted to take my picture. I dubiously handed my camera over, which he took in his grubby hands. He tried to look confident and motioned for me to move back to the side of the bridge in front of the setting sun.
Holding the camera up to his face, his grimy fingers fumbled with the lens. After showing him how to focus, I resumed my position and had no trouble smiling my head off as he snapped away.
Somewhere in Istanbul there is a tramp who has been given a crash course in handling and operating a Pentax P30 in low light situations.
He gave me a toothless smile as he gingerly handed back the equipment. To his surprise I extended my hand. At first he didn’t understand the gesture and then he took my hand in his and shook it amicably. A couple of days ago I smelt just as bad. His grin widened to reveal a single, yellow tooth. I said “Allahaismarlardik” and returned to finish my meal.
As it turned out he never took the picture. I’m not sure if he knew this and didn’t want to say, or if he thought he had.
I remembered a favourite poem by Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road: “I will scatter myself among men and women as I go, I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them, Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me, Whoever accepts me he or she be blessed and shall bless me.”
I woke up the next morning after ten hours sleep and had a shower. It felt good to wake up after a night in a bed and get clean. I went to the Bazaar with the girls.
Also known as the Kapali Carsi or the covered market, this was once the commercial hub of the city, but has since become a tourist-oriented attraction which sells carpets, silks and trinkets for a wide variety of prices. I bought some Turkish Delight for a friend in England and said goodbye to the girls.