[JPM Travel Journals]
SEPT. 2003.
The cramped train runs its awkward line from the Ottoturk airport through the suburbs and ramshackle surrounding slums of Istanbul. It's late afternoon, the sun peering through clouds on the earthen tone structures and dusty streets.
JPM, Eminönü District. Istanbul.
Looking out at the tenements and the poor, I find myself perplexed with the notion that Turkey will join the European Union in the near future. Is this Europe? Technically yes, but what I see reminds me more of Mexico or Asia or undeveloped parts of Africa I have seen. And yet we are only 45 short minutes outside of Istanbul, the crown of Turkey. The shops and storefronts remind me much more of Delhi or Bangkok than London or Berlin, even those in the predominantly Turkish Berlin-Kruezberg neighborhood. Odd.
I ride with my trusty rucksack fitted between my legs, standing, leaning against the metal-shelf end section of this carriage: there are no seats left, and besides, this position grants a much better perspective on my fellow passengers. I am the only tourist here; now. That will change when I reach the Sultan Ahmet district, the quarter of Istanbul resting in the shadow of the so-called 'Blue Mosque,' a district also cornered by the Hagia Sofia mosque, one-time elaborate Byzantine Church before the Muslim take-over.
The train meets my intersection point for the tram. I transfer and ride further. Gradually the city develops to more of my conception of a modern city. And then I am disembarking into the heart of it all. Modern storefronts advertise their wares, restaurants, bakeries, souvenir shops, all varieties of anything you might need, or not need, it is all here for the hassling and haggling.
My first sighting of Constantinople's Mosques; I am in awe. The minerets pierce the sky, holy points reaching to the heavens, calling to another version of god.
It's a good hour later or so before the first call to prayer I experience in Turkey. The voice wails out in an incomprehensible Arabic, pouring from the megaphone amplifiers high in the minerets, sound filling the air. Within a minute different singers are breaking out from all different directions, different mosques, almost like a competition. When I close my eyes I can focus and try to discern the different singers and directions. I feel chills-- It fills me with such feeling, calls back memories of other calls to prayer in other lands. I feel so happy. It feels in an almost inexplicable way so foreign and yet so familiar. I think of the first time I heard such a Muslim call to prayer-- it was in Nairobi, walking down a dusty street past a pale mosque surrounded by birds. It was all so gorgeous. And there was of course the mosque neighboring the guesthouse in which I stayed in Agra, India, where the morning call to prayer at about 5 am served as my screeching vocalist alarm clock. Maybe it's my spiritual curiousity, maybe it's my technical, organizational constitution, who knows, but something about the concept of the prayer call I find so invigorating. A man sings out and I know millions of people are stopping what they are doing to focus now. This attuned, simultaneous focus I hold as so powerful, brilliant.
Old Car, Old Rug, Old City. Istanbul.
I check into a hotel and stash my belongings. I don't have many things: The trip is planned for just over a week. I go out into the evening, the ending day. I buy a roasted corn on the cob from a vendor with a little grill near the mosque, in the park. I pass all the vendors selling pistachios, other nuts, fruits, knick knacks. There are dozens of carpet shops. I peer in cautiously, carefully enough not to linger and invite an anxious shop-owner to dash to me with his proverbial fishing-pole and lures. I'm not here for rugs.
There is a sound and light show in front of the Blue Mosque. I'm lucky, tonight it's done in German. Practice away from home! I buy a tea from a man pushing a small cart and seat myself on the benches. When the sun has set enough the show begans- it's totally kitschy but I'm loving it. A British man of about 40 sits ahead of me, trying desperately to keep a conversation going with a 20-something Japanese woman who seems thoroughly uninterested in him.
I relax, enjoy the show, the illumination of the mosque, it's indeed spectacular. Afterwards I stroll the streets a bit, slowly on my way back to the hotel area, stopping for a pizza-like lamacun - tomato and a sharp soft white cheese with herbs on a soft, delicious dough. I find a pastry, some baklava, for dessert. It's fantastic.
When the night call to prayer breaks out on the competing megaphones I'm filled with the same feeling of happiness, an emotional chill that runs through my body. This time I am walking a dark side-street shadowed by large old trees that frame the construct of the Sultan Ahmet mosque. When the call dies down, I can hear the returning din of flutes from the evening marketplace and garden where a lone whirling dervish spins for a captive audience.
- -
The days are punctuated by the prayer calls and meals; often snacks from the markets. Stops to little cafes where I sit with a bunch of old Turkish men to eat, gesture, smile. They show me how to add lemon, pepper, spice, how to eat the bread. A young man stands next to a rotating rack of meat near a glowing red cooker. He's sweating, and if I'm hot in this corner of the small restaurant I can only imagine he must be really cooking. I go to bakeries and order fresh Borek - the dough is soft like a noodle, the cheese succulent, it all dissolves in my mouth and I am mesmorized, or perhaps it's just the corny Turkish pop music videos playing on the monitor while I sip a tamarind soda.
I have tea often. Stopping to just sit and watch street life, look at faces, smile with people. I flip through my German-Turkish phrase book for fun, noting potentially important phrases which I can later test out on the hotel staff, waiters, or shop fellows. It's absurdly difficult to remember the words, the sounds. After three days I barely have good morning, good evening, thank you, and please learned. And I'm probably, much to the tickled amusement of my audience of Turks, interchanging them.
Marketplace. Istanbul.
Spice Market.
Each day I seem to find a better pastry shop than the previous day, each day I find new alleys and explore new sections of town. I wander markets, bazaars, try interesting foods, buy olives figs nuts and plums from little stalls. I look for Turkish music, listen to various things from the small music shops, find a few CDs that move me-- strange combinations of synthetic and electronic and yet traditional lyrics from scriptures, blended with traditional Turkish instruments.
Hamam - My Turkish Bath changing and napping room.
Finally, I visit a Turkish bath: I enter the cool chamber, respite from the warm outdoors, approach the counter and get my towels. I change, wrap with a red and white striped towel, and head into the baths area, crossing the spacious entry where men sit in towels, sipping tea, smoking cigarettes. The ornamentation here is beautiful in a simple way-- high ceilings, wood and stone work that makes me already feel peaceful before the steam and water. I sit in the steam room for a while, sweating profusely and then go lay on the marble slabs. There is such peace here. The sound of running water. Water, water, water-- so much water. I'm aware of the colors, of the textures, the white marble and the lofty height. In the sauna I lay back on the so dry wood slats, feel sroplets accumulating on my chest and temples, stare up high at the center ceiling point and window and cound slowly backwards. I let my mind wander, then let go of all thoughts. Relax. The running, dripping, spashing of water echoes so beautiful through the place. It's hard to believe there is actually an outside world. After repeating the sweating sauna process and rinsing with cold water and laying on the marble slabs, eventually I find my way back to my private room. A man brings me a small glass of tea, which I drink before reclining on the vinyl couch and falling into a strange dream-speckled sleep with the towel still wrapped around me.
After a few days of Istanbul I've found a few soup and lunch places I really like. I go by and seat myself and order my Mercimek corbasi - lentil soup. The obligatory lemon juice and hot pepper, soak my bread and eat. So spicy and good; wash it down with some yoghurt drink. Cars go by in the narrow streets. People shuffle by on the way to I-don't-know-where. Sometimes I see school children in uniforms, strolling down the streets in their long pulled up socks and with their broad beaming faces.
I'm ready for an excursion. After visits to other parts of Istanbul, the Asian section -- ferries across the bay-- and walks in the posh quarter and its hills and ancient Jewish neighborhood, after the mosques buried somewhere in neighborhoods seemingly almost unpenetrated by us foreigners, it's time to escape Istanbul and go somewhere else. Travel shops market all the typical fair, and it looks potentially exciting but I want something off the track. Something more spontaneous, to see the water and go in it. To ride off into the countryside unsure where I might end up.
Boats on the Bosphorus. Istanbul.
I go to the Bus Station on the Asian shore. It's a madhouse. What seems to be hundreds of bus offices and ticket agents, two hundred buses decorated and adorned with all variety of colors, advertisements and signage. Turks with their goods wrapped in little bags, big bags, boxes, racks, carriers, suitcases. I've plotted a route by looking at the map, to take a six hour bus to Amasra on the Black Sea. Now if only I can find a bus that goes there. Each office suggests another office which suggests another office until I've finally found the right office and bought the tickets and go to get some snacks for the ride.
On the bus they are playing an old Hollywood film dubbed in Turkish. Some hours later we arrive at the end of the line and I must transfer to a small bus to take me to the coastal town. Once there and after some searching I've found a place to stay. I hike up the hill and look out over the town, the nature, the seascape. I wander through the paths and the up and downhill streets over little bridges at the base of the hill. At night I go out on the long wave-breaking concrete extension which protects the beach and harbour with its boats from the waves. Laying out under the night sky is beautiful. There is no light except that from the stars and there are millions of them I can see. Listening to breathing, counting the stars, escaping into the night's peace.
On the beautiful Black Sea. Amasra.
The next day I swim. The water is cold but refreshing and wonderful. There aren't many people on the beach. It isn't much of a beach anyway, but it's still delightful. I eat in the small restaurants, stroll the little streets. There are tourists here but they almost all seem to be Turkish families or couples on a short beach holiday.
Back in Istanbul I check into the same hotel. The slightly run down but altogether quite pleasant 'Bahaus' (which looks quite like 'Bauhaus' and even the design and painting of the place has resemblance to Gropius architecture, or at least a Piet Mondrian painting.) Minimalist in a way I can appreciate, but the crack in the window lets in a lot of street noise, should a car or group of people go by, and there is a street lamp that hums insanely loud all night long. When I hear the calls to prayer I like to head to the roof and look out over the city, the building line carved by the minarets and mosques.
In my last day I visit the bazaar once more and buy a chess board and set with some nice inlay work. I stock up on Turkish Delight from Ali Muhiddin Haci Bekir to bring back to Germany. I get some more pastries and the lamacun pizza, visit the Blue Mosque once more.
Blue Mosque interior. Istanbul.
Leaving my shoes at the door I go in and sit meditatively on the carpet. It's so expansive and open in here, the hanging iron chandeliers dripping so low, the sun peering in through the myriad of small windows and light reflecting a cool blue off all the interior tile. It feels so peaceful here.
But as always, eventually, I must go.
And so there is a small plane
waiting to fly me back to Berlin,
which I must board and depart
this strange and wonderful land.
(Return)
©2003 JPM. All photography and writing copyrighted.