All Of Monday’s Reasons - 15
15. Asia And Bullets
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It felt good to be alone again. I went back to the hotel and stole a roll of toilet paper from the chambermaid’s trolley. I packed this into my bag and checked out. I took a boat to the Haydarpasa railway station which was to be my gateway to the East.
I entered the large station to find that the 2130 to Ankara was fully booked, so I reserved a seat on the overnight eleven o’clock train. I dropped my rucksack against a large pillar in the middle of the grand station and threw myself against it.
A few minutes later, two German men, both twenty, crashed near me. One introduced himself as Claus and the other was Mark. They were headed for the China Sea.
“The China Sea? By rail?” I said.
“We’ll see for the money,” Claus explained.
They had all the visas for places like Iraq and Afghanistan and they both carried huge rucksacks which must have weighed a ton.
“Asia. Nice, yes?” Asked Claus.
“Yeah. First time. You too?”
“Yes, very nice.”
I opened a beer and passed it around.
“Very nice,” he said again.
He paused, then said, “So. We celebrate now.”
He dived into his rucksack and produced a litre bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “You have a glass?”
We placed our mugs in front of him. He poured the bourbon carefully and we toasted the city. “Skol.”
As we sat there on the polished stone floor in a public building of a Muslim country drinking straight whisky, I couldn’t help feeling slightly self-conscious. A soldier moved us into the waiting room after a few people walked past us, casting down curious looks at us keeping vigil over a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
We finished our round, and Mark poured out some more. He brought a can of Coke from out of his bag. The ring pull had snapped off so Claus produced a survival knife with a ten inch blade complete with blood groove and jagged edge and stabbed the can three times to produce a perfect spout. He poured the drink into his whisky. When we had finished nearly the entire bottle, I suggested to Claus that he should save the rest for to trip that night. We left our bags in the station office and walked out alongside the tracks into town. On the way, we passed a large Army base.
“Eh, Eengleesh!”
A guard at the fence beckoned us nearer. We walked up to the fence which started at eye level, so the guard was two or three feet above us.
“Cigarette?” said Claus.
The guard looked puzzled and said something to us in Turkish.
“Marlboro.” I said. In my laziness I had acquired a reasonable vocabulary of universal words.
“Evet. Lutfen.” Which I knew meant yes, please.
Soon we were faced with six guards, all of whom reached down for their free cigarettes from Claus. We shook their hands.
“You Soldier?” I said to one, “Infantry? Mitraillette?” (Machine gun in Turkish - and French, the international language of war)
“Hayir,” (no), “Chauffeur.” He drove and imaginary car. He pointed to three of his comrades. “Chauffeur, chauffeur, chauffeur.”
He pointed to a man in camouflage fatigues. He said something in Turkish and mentioned a machine gun, shaking an imaginary rifle. The soldier put on his helmet and help up a huge gun. One of them pointed to me and remarked to the others about my long hair. A couple of them chuckled. I pointed to his head and imitated a man moving the lawn, making a buzzing noise as I did. The soldiers roared with laughter and he sniggered.
This miming and hand waving continued for a minute until the rifleman produced a bullet from his belt and handed it to Mark. They motioned for him to put a hole in each side and wear it as a pendant. He took it and put it in his pocket.
“Mark, that’s a live round. That’s not a good idea. That’s actually a very bad idea.” He gingerly rolled the bullet into some nearby bushes while pretending to tie his shoe.
The first driver pointed to an adjacent field and said “English.” He pointed to his comrades and said “English”, then crossed his heart and pointed to the field. It was a cemetery.
“Ah!” I caught on, “Gallipoli, Dardanelles, Ataturk.”
“Ataturk!” said three of them, realising I understood. They pointed to me, knowing I was English, and motioned me over to the fenced off cemetery where lay some of the 500,000 English and Anzac troops who fell in one of the bloodiest campaigns of the Great War.
They pointed to a hole in the fence near them and motioned for me to go in. Claus and I walked to the barrier, where Mark stopped us.
“Think,” he said,”You English. This is of the military. You go to prison.”
I looked at the soldiers and drew a star shape on my forehead with my finger. I smoked an imaginary cigar and walked around with my hands behind my back. I then jumped opposite my imaginary character and stood to attention and saluted. I looked at the troops, shrugged my shoulders and asked, “General?”
I was worried the rifleman was going to put me out of my misery on the spot, but the driver understood. He explained that it was just them on guard.
“English,” he pointed at me, “English,” he pointed at the graves. He said something in Turkish and pointed to the fence. I decided against going in. If I was found by an officer in an army base, it would be highly unlikely for the soldiers to protect me by saying, “Oh, it’s not his fault, we let him in through a hole in the fence.”
As we were saying goodbye, Mark said, “Cannabis?”
The soldiers looked puzzled. I cringed. In Turkey, if you are so much as seen with anyone in possession, then you can be imprisoned for eighteen months and there’s nothing your embassy can do for you in that time. It’s known as “guilt by association”.
Mark smoked an imaginary joint at them.
“Marlboro?” said one of the soldiers.
“No, cannabis. Marijuana-”
“Mark, shut up,” I said, “Turkish soldiers can make arrests.”
I didn’t know that for a fact, but I was taking no chances.
“What do you think these guys are doing at the gateway to Europe by a train station? You get eighteen months here. Forget it.”
“No, that’s only Russia,” replied Mark. He turned back to the soldiers, “Smoke, cannabis.”
“Bullshit. Look, find out for yourself if you want to, but wait till I’m out of town first.”
I urged a hasty goodbye and we walked away. Mark, who had once shown sense, seemed to be a fucking idiot now that the whiskey was kicking in.