This Is This

23. Back In Istanbul
Map

The next morning I stepped out of the bus and into Istanbul only to be met by a taxi driver who nearly ran me over before leaning out the window and asking, “Where you going, my friend?”

“Home, at this rate.”

“Where is home?”

“No idea.”

He looked puzzled.

“I think that man wants a taxi. Taxi. Go.” I pointed to our bus driver who had got out to stretch his legs.

The taxi shot off. It was a one way street so I watched the whole performance in total security and hysteria. No, I was not pleased to be in Istanbul.

I found myself longing for the West. It surprised me because I didn’t think I would be, but I needed something familiar hang on to, even if it was just a sedentary shit.

I checked into the same hotel where I stayed the week before on the way through, dumped my backpack, changed into some clean clothes and hit the town, or rather, it hit me. I didn’t know what I was doing back here. I was just using it as a place to get a shower and a cheap night’s sleep. I drifted into the covered market and walked around a little. I bought a doner kebab and a beer and headed for the part I knew by the Blue Mosque.

I sat in the shade and had lunch, wishing the next twenty four hours away so I could travel to the many places I hadn’t yet visited. I finished lunch and walked up to the Sultan Ahmet mosque. I sat in a park opposite the Pudding Shop, a cult cafe and favourite hang out for travellers and undercover policemen.

It was were Billy Hayes, author of Midnight Express, bought his hash before being arrested. I bought a sausage roll and before I could swallow my last mouthful a man in checked trousers and a white shirt approached me. He sat  down and said nothing for about twenty seconds.

He leant towards me and shifted his eyes in my direction while facing forward.

“English, Deutsch, Francais?”

“Right first time.”

“Eh?” he spoke almost too quietly for me to hear.

“English.”

“You want hashish?”

“What?” I had heard him clearly, but I was shocked. After all, this was Istanbul.

“Hashish?” he said again.

“No.” I tried to sound as blunt as I could.

“Heroin?”

“No.” I used a shame-on-you tone of voice and turned to face him.

He had that distinct undercover look about him. He was clean, but he didn’t smell. His shirt was clean and ironed, but untucked to make him look rough. He was badly shaven but his breath smelled of toothpaste.

Apparently police and Turkish citizens offer tourists drugs and then turn them in when they accept, collecting a community service reward for their efforts. This is done to hundreds of young tourists every year and I wasn’t going to be caught out.

I was pompously beginning to believe that I was smarter than this city. I got up and walked to the other side of the park where I saw two white sunburned youths sporting short haircuts and “Istanbul, Turkey” t-shirts.

I sat on the bench with them. “You English?” I said.

“Yes, are you?” one of them asked.

I was inclined to say no, but I didn’t. They talked for a bit about where they had been. They were the sort of travellers who had more money than they did brains. They had been ripped off on the Bulgarian black market when they were given Yugoslavian dinars for their pounds. They had paid a child for showing them where the nearest toilet was. They had let someone shine their shoes for a ridiculously large amount. I started to play the streetwise renegade type, and if you know me, that’s quite a stretch.

“See that guy over there in the white shirt?” I pointed to the policeman-pusher.

“Yes?” they both asked.

“Guy’s a narc. Undercover.”

“A what?”

“A cop. Don’t buy drugs here even if you’re offered a minute price. Half of the dealers will turn you in.”

“Really?… Thanks.” said one.

“We’re leaving Istanbul today. Can’t wait to get out, either,” said the other.

“Can’t say I don’t know the feeling.”

“Have you been to the Blue Mosque?”

I said I had.

“What did you think? I thought it just said bathroom tiles to me. I wasn’t impressed.”

He sat there for fifteen minutes expressing his disillusionment with the city. When I eventually mustered up the strength to get up, I said goodbye and went for another beer. I went to bed early, wishing I could wake up anywhere else, apart from Athens or home.

I woke up feeling negative so I had a shower, checked out and went for a walk in the town. I left my bag at the station.

Istanbul is a great place to relieve tension. When I reached the Sultan Ahmet, a man with an armful of neys, Turkish oboes ran up to me.

“Hello my friend, where you from?”

“Bognor Regis.”

“Look at the beautiful ney. Listen.” He brought the reed to his mouth and started playing.

“That’s very good,” I said and walked away.

 Five minutes later I walked past a fabrics stall. A fifteen year old called out to me.

“M’sieur! Fabrics here.”

“Yes, I know.”

“How much you say?”

He wanted me to make a bid.

“A quarter what you do.”

“How much?”

“How much?” I repeated.

“For you, two hundred thousand.”

“For you, no customers.”

I walked on. The norm when haggling is to usually half the price first. Tourists are told to do this, so in tourist-frequented areas, starting prices are three or four times higher than normal. If a tourist therefore beats the price down by half, they think they’ve made a bargain, when in fact the salesperson has still sold it for double its value. This is still cheap by Western standards, so most tourists will never know they are being ripped off.

Another man selling fabrics came up to me. He bore the brunt of my discontent because of his typical approach.

“Sir, where you from?”

“Why?”

“What country?”

“What do you want?”

“English?”

“You want to sell me something, don’t you?”

“Sell, yes.”

“Then get on with it.”

He paused for a second and began his familiar patter: “Beautiful fabrics, one hundred per cent cotton, for you - twenty five thousand Turkish lira, special pri-”

“No.”

And that was that. I went to the station.

 

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