We got to Istanbul three days before Ray and Bruce, giving us plenty of time to forget work and have some fun. What a town. ‘Reeks of history,’ I overheard an American tourist say.
In Istanbul there was so much happening. So many carpets and so many carpet sellers always looking for their next target, which was us. We then trudged back to the hotel heavily laden with carpets but thousands of dollars lighter, having convinced ourselves such quality is so rare.
With major shopping out of the way, we went for a walk and discovered a sleazy lane chockers with small shops and very much reeking of history. We wandered into a dingy coffee shop full of large Turkish men with even larger moustaches, all sucking on a hubbly bubbly, or water pipe, most with tobacco, some with hash. We ordered a Turkish coffee and our very own pipe with a small amount of hash, and started sucking. It didn’t take long for our heads to start spinning like whirling dervishes, which was obvious to the locals who were smiling and pointing in our direction.
With smiles all round and reeking of more than history, we decided to go outside to clear our heads a bit. And directly opposite was a sign:
Three Hundred Year Old Turkish Bath
Massage
Now Open
‘That’ll clear our heads,’ we agreed, still smiling. So in we went, handed over a wad of money and wandered down the 300-year-old steps into the unknown.
It was steamy. Very steamy. And the whole place was filled with gigantic naked men. Some were luxuriating in the huge marble bath, others wandered aimlessly around, some sat on small wooden stools, Little Miss Muffet-like, scrubbing their oversized bodies.
A huge, fully clothed Turk approached us, told us where to get undressed, then handed each of us a towel the size of a postage stamp. If it was meant to dry us, we had Buckley’s or none. If it was to hide our privates, ditto. Most of the other blokes in the place had guts dragging on the floor so their privates were well and truly hidden. Exposed genitals or not, Skeet and I must have been a real sight to them. We each weigh about 60 kilos, probably the size of their five-year-old child, or their lunch.
It was massage first so I looked around for the massage table, hoping the hole for my face would be the right size. I often got a sore neck due to ill-fitting tables elsewhere in the world. A table was nowhere to be seen, obviously it was on its way, so while I politely stood waiting for it to arrive, I had thoughts like, ‘Apart from all the ugly men, this is a pretty cool place to be, and a nice massage is just what I need after a hectic six-week trip with two weeks still to go.’ I was wondering whether to ask for the remedial massage or just a pleasant relaxing one when an oversized hairy hand pointed to the edge of the pool and someone bellowed, ‘You! Lie down there.’ Not only was there no table and no hole for my face, the floor was solid marble. But I did what I was told and found myself lying face down, stark naked on unforgiving cold stone.
Immediately I realised that being only 60 kilos was a distinct disadvantage. Already my knees, hips and ribs were hurting from the rock-hard surface, not to mention my genitals, though at least there was a bit of give there. I looked up from my discomfort to see Skeet’s face ten centimetres from mine. We were both grimacing, half laughing, half crying, as gorilla hands started pummelling our bodies. I heard a wheeze, and a rush of warm air hit me in the face as his lungs completely deflated. Skeet’s masseur was treading on his back. I then heard strange crunching noises. Must have been his ribs and hips. Suddenly, I heard my own body wheezing and crunching. The pain was excruciating. Now we both had 120-kilo Turks parading up and down our backs.
With a lifetime of pain finally over, our ‘therapists’ handed us our postage-stamp towels, which easily did their job after the cold marble and torture. We then sat on our Miss Muffet stools and were scrubbed all over before staggering across to the 300-year-old bath. We slowly lowered our naked bodies into the warm water, joining the throng of flabby hairy Turks, grinning and watching our every move.
With all bones reconnected and no longer reeking of history and hash but very detectable chlorine, we got dressed, tipped our torturers and headed back onto the street. It’s funny how to the Turks and the Thais the word massage can mean two completely different things.
•
Next day Ray and Bruce arrived, along with my rented tuxedo. I packed it carefully then prepared for the Orient Express train ride of a lifetime. Istanbul, Sofia, then Belgrade to Lucerne, where we would finish our trip. The train would then continue on to Paris without us.
We loaded all our gear onto this amazingly beautiful train sitting in Istanbul’s beautiful Sirkeci station, the beautiful blue and white engine whispering beautiful steam sounds. Added to all this beauty we had history, intrigue, border crossings and one hell of a crew. This was going to be a ripper of a story.
First, though, we needed an exterior shot of the train leaving the station.
‘No way. Once the train starts, that’s it,’ we were told.
After ten minutes of wheeling and dealing and begging, I was allowed to run 100 metres up the line for the magic shot of the Orient Express departing Sirkeci station. The engine went 20 metres past me then stopped. Not a great shot. I would have liked the whole train to pass, but at least I got the magnificent steam engine sweeping by. I jumped onto the train full of enthusiasm, at least the shots in the next few days would be great, and anyway that was really only an obligatory exterior, it was hardly the shot of the story. Well, that’s what I thought.
We wandered through the impressively appointed train looking for friendly faces and ideas, but were confronted with aggressive, well-heeled loudmouths shouting, ‘You better not put that thing in my face.’ So we went back to our own carriage to shoot everything we needed for our quirky little sequence involving all those great movies. We’d charm the other passengers into appearing in our story tonight, when everyone’d had a few.
As I set up the lights, not so easy on a fast-moving train, Ray told me he’d do reaction shots to Richard Widmark, then Anthony Perkins, then Sydney Greenstreet, and we’d finish off with Sean Connery in From Russia with Love. I said to no one in particular, ‘Okay then, for Widmark, which way is Ray looking?’
And Bruce said, ‘Left to right,’ just as Ray said, ‘Right to left.’
I couldn’t believe they didn’t know and reminded them of my parting words in Sydney. They both claimed to have studied the relevant scenes carefully (obviously not together).
It wasn’t the end of the world, but it did mean I had to shoot everything twice, covering both angles, which meant lighting twice, and as the filming time increased, so did my impatience. These days with digital filming and editing, they flick a button and reverse the shot, including the part in Ray’s hair.
Finally, with two of every shot in the can, we decided it was time to join the mob and enjoy the Orient Express experience. It was 6 p.m. Dinner suit time. With our sartorial elegance plus our Aussie charm, we would easily convince our fellow passengers to appear in our story.
I pulled out my suit. Total disbelief. The pants were big enough for the Turkish boys back at the bathhouse. Being the masochist I am, I tried on the coat. The sleeves dragging on the floor had me looking like the incredible shrinking man.
There was a knock on the door, and in walked Skeet looking every bit the debonair soundman. When he laid eyes on me, he managed to hold back his mirth. Debonair and perceptive. The door opened again, Ray walked in, took one look at me and almost busted a gut laughing. Not so perceptive. For a short moment I considered murder on the Orient Express.
Ray still had tears in his eyes as we moved to the soiree carriage, me wearing jeans, my best shirt, a bow tie and an ill-fitting look of embarrassment. The carriage was full of elegant furniture and about 40 overdressed fellow travellers quaffing champagne. Underneath an extremely ornate chandelier sat a well-dressed man playing ‘As Time Goes By’ on a grand piano. We downed a few champagnes of our own and managed to get some people on side. Unfortunately they were mostly Aussies. We were hopi
ng for a much more international vibe. The mob still refusing to have anything to do with us were all Americans and they remained adamant about just where we could stick our camera. So we ignored them. We were having such a good time we somehow forgot to work, and suddenly it was 2 a.m. ‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘there’s always tomorrow.’
But there was also breakfast, morning tea, a four-course lunch with wine, afternoon tea, pre-dinner drinks with canapés, then dinner. And it’s all five star. Who has time to work?
Night time again and with near nought in the can, we decided to shoot a sing-along around the piano. There were too many people to set up lights, so I asked Bruce to hold a portable battery light for me. Thirty seconds into the sequence and I couldn’t see a thing through the lens. Bruce had swung the light away as he leant across to pick up another champagne. I grabbed his hand and swung the light back onto the subject. Ten seconds later, same again. It was no good, he was chatting up some beautiful woman. So I gave up and joined the party.
A short time later, out in the dark, the most extraordinary scene appeared. We’d stopped in a rundown station just outside Belgrade. A foot from us was another train aiming in the opposite direction, and inside were scores of Yugoslav peasants heading home after a tough day in the factory. Crammed into their carriage, with no room to move, their eyes stared disbelievingly at the wealthy capitalists with pianos, chandeliers and food.
I grabbed the camera and started rolling, and just as I began that one-in-a-million shot, panning from communism to capitalism, one of the Americans started waving into the camera and screaming about being filmed. There went the shot of the story. I put the camera down and decided to enjoy the moment. I gazed across and noticed the look in the eyes of the peasants. So I picked up two crystal glasses full of French bubbles and handed them across. With huge smiles on their faces, the tired peasant workers reached out and gladly accepted. I then handed out two more. Grateful smiles all round. As their train began to move I leant across and shook the hand of the biggest smile, then they and the glasses were gone.
What a story they’d have to tell their kids. And what a story we didn’t have. But we soldiered on convincing ourselves we still had a chance. Meanwhile, how good was this champagne.
Next morning Ray decided he wanted to do a piece to camera where he looks down the lens and tells a little of the story in situ. It was an elaborate set up, we were passing through the Swiss Alps and the day was perfect. Ray was over the sink, shaving, rehearsing his lines, ‘You wipe the sleep and the slivovitz from your eyes, you open the blind and ... it’s the Swiss Alps.’
The shot was extremely difficult. I had to try and match the light in the cabin with the stark bright light outside. It took a lot of time adjusting the lights, while Ray continued rehearsing. Finally I was ready. We pulled down the blind.
‘You wipe the sleep and the slivovitz from your eyes, you open the blind and ... it’s a fucking tunnel!’
Pitch black. Nothing. All we could see were our reflections in the window. We couldn’t stop laughing. What more could go wrong? We figured we could just wait until we got out of the tunnel and try again.
Wait we did. And when we finally exited the longest tunnel in Europe, the Alps were gone, replaced by an industrial wasteland, the outskirts of Lucerne where we were to get off.
We had no story, but we had a great time not getting it.
8
He’s Dead and the Moon is Blue
Two in the morning, and I was wishing I hadn’t drunk so much. I’d taken off my shirt and shoes, unzipped my fly and was stepping uneasily out of my pants when the phone rang. I reached for the phone and went down like a tonne of bricks, caught up in pants and phone lead. Who could possibly be ringing at this hour, the pissed and not-so-smart side of me was thinking. I mumbled an incoherent, ‘Hello?’
‘He’s dead. Let’s go!’
No! No! No! I can’t believe it ... he’s dead. Why? Why tonight? Not tonight, he’s had 66 days. Why now?
I lay flat on my back and looked around, hoping none of this was true, that it was all just a bad dream and I had fallen out of bed. I could keep hoping all I liked, but the phone was still in my hand, and I knew well and truly that this wasn’t a bad dream. I was in Europe’s most bombed hotel, the Europa Hotel in Belfast, and had been there for a week, waiting for Bobby Sands—the 27-year-old IRA hunger striker—to die.
Micky Breen the soundman and I had been so very good since we’d arrived in Belfast, holding back on the booze, retiring early every night and not leaving the hotel—just in case. After a week in the heavily fortified hotel, cabin fever set in, and that night of all nights we hit the piss and had a big one.
I slammed the phone down and desperately tried to get my head together. I went looking for all the gear I’d need: camera, film, lenses, batteries, portable light, tripod ... No, bugger it, there won’t be time for tripod shots, it can stay right here ... If only I could ... I feel like shit. How can I work like this? This was going to be one hell of a night.
•
Six days ago the 60 Minutes crew hit town, along with half the world’s media, and it struck me as being slightly ghoulish that so many of us from so many different parts of the world had all come to Ireland to cover the death of one seemingly ordinary man. But the circumstances of his death were anything but ordinary. A story is a story, and this was a biggy. After all, it’s not every day a member of the British parliament starves himself to death.
Bobby Sands was serving fourteen years jail for possession of a weapon. All IRA inmates were demanding to be treated as political prisoners, and as soldiers, to be treated as prisoners of war, which should mean no jail uniforms, no work, and free association with other prisoners. But all this was refused by the British authorities. Sands was well into his hunger strike when he won a by-election created after a sitting member of parliament died of a sudden heart attack. The seat had a huge Roman Catholic majority and the publicity of his hunger strike had been sufficient to get Sands across the line. Bobby Sands the parliamentarian was now making life very difficult for the Poms, with some foreign governments and the pope pushing for his demands to be met.
Starting two weeks before the other hunger strikers, Sands hoped his death would force the British government to give in to the prisoners’ demands, and in turn save the lives of the other strikers. In total, 23 IRA political prisoners joined the hunger strike. But they were up against one hell of an opponent in Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.
‘We are not prepared to consider special category status for certain groups of people serving sentences for crime. Crime is crime is crime. It is not political,’ she declared.
After Sands’ election the British government immediately introduced the Representation of the People Act of 1981, stopping prisoners who were serving more than a year in the UK or the Republic of Ireland from being candidates in UK elections, but the horse had already bolted. So the newly elected Bobby Sands was big news.
Big news means big media frenzy, but I couldn’t lose the feeling we were all hoping that Bobby Sands’ demise would be sooner rather than later. After all, everyone had deadlines and Bobby obviously didn’t realise our budgets weren’t limitless. No wonder we’re called a pack.
Anticipating the frenzy, a media centre was set up to offer daily updates on the state of the hunger strikers. Belfast was a mess and it was about to get a lot messier. Dangerous, and about to get a lot more so. The world knew Sands couldn’t last much longer, and when he died there’d be one hell of a shit fight. We were told we had to carry our passports with us at all times, because we’d be checked often by the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary) and the British army.
Each day we’d go out filming to get a feel of the place, and there was no shortage of great footage of balaclava-clad teenagers and men smashing windows and throwing petrol bombs. Wave after wave of them, running from behind a wall to hurl their bombs at local police and anyone or anything connected to the British army. They would
then retreat for more ammo. Teenagers said they would not stop until the Brits were out of Northern Ireland. ‘The Brits are bastards,’ we were told by six-year-olds as they climbed onto smouldering cars to smash any glass still intact.
Early on day three, Micky and I went to investigate a huge cloud of smoke hovering over the edge of town. It turned out to be a pile of burning cars, one of them a British armoured vehicle, and parading around it was a French photographer helping a five-year-old to put on a balaclava. He told the kid to climb onto the vehicle and stand with a clenched fist above his head. I could see the shot appearing on the front page of some big glossy mag in Paris, or worse, on the cover of hundreds of magazines around the world, and probably winning some international photography award for him. As he fired off shot after shot, he was yelling at the kid, ‘No, no, don’t smile, don’t smile.’ I filmed the whole thing, and when the photographer finally saw me he was very pissed off, and let me know it. I was just as pissed off, and let him know it. We’ve all fudged things a little at times but I really thought this was over the top. The Frenchman told me that he’d do what he wanted and I could do what I wanted. So I did. I dobbed him in. Next day the press centre revoked his accreditation and he was on the first plane back to Paris.
Our driver, Jimmy was a very cool customer, indeed. A man of few words, a great accent, an immense hatred of the Brits, and amazing contacts. No problem to get interviews with leaders of Sinn Féin, the political wing of the IRA, or with masked men admitting to be IRA members, every one only too keen to tell us of the chaos they planned following Bobby Sands’ death. Whether or not they were genuine IRA members, no one could tell, but to a man they told us they’d get Northern Ireland back in the hands of the Irish, and for that they were willing to die.
Now Bobby Sands has done just that. It was two in the morning and I was drunk and desperately struggling to put on my pants. I thought, ‘If it’s this difficult to put on pants, how on earth am I going to get out there and do what I’m paid to do?’
All This in 60 Minutes Page 8