A while later, we had finished our grilled fish, which was better than I expected, and were taking it in turns to suck on a large nagileh, the fragrant double apple smoke hanging expectantly in the air as the early autumn sun warmed our faces. My guide for the day had insisted that the shisha was all part of my Istanbul experience and so, emboldened by two large Efes Pils, I had given in to persuasion. Now, I could feel myself starting to get high on the tobacco, a heady mix with the alcohol. Osman, who had also downed a couple of beers and had clearly enjoyed his meal, took one more drag on the shisha pipe before offering it back to me. Was it really so addictive, I thought as I puffed away, or was my enthusiasm purely psychological?
‘Would you like to see the castle?’ asked Osman, the last of the shisha smoke drifting out of his mouth as casually as the question.
‘What?’ I spluttered, coughing on the aromatic veil that was enveloping my face. ‘What castle?’ ‘Yoros Castle,’ he replied, with an indifferent nod suggesting it lay somewhere behind the restaurant.
‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ The words flew forth in something between a squeak and a growl. My irritation was clear because I already knew the answer to the question: lunch.
The castle ruins were perched on a hill above the village. How I had not spotted them from the ferry remains a mystery. It was a steep walk up the wooded rise, one that would have been done more easily on an empty stomach, but we were at the top sooner than I expected and, if I am honest, the exercise helped digest the rather oily meal. The grassy area in front of the castle was not very crowded: a couple of families meandered about while some teenage lads sat on the stone walls, chatting and laughing. There was not much of the fort left: the most impressive part was the two towers of what had once been the main gate.
‘There is a good view from the other side,’ said Osman.
We picked our way through the ruins to emerge onto a spectacular vista where the Bosphorus met the Black Sea. As I gazed northwards, I realised that Istanbul was not only a bridge connecting east and west, but also a link between north and south, with Ukraine and Russia somewhere over the horizon. For them, the Bosphorus was the gateway to a different world, to the Sea of Marmara and the Mediterranean, and to North Africa beyond. And when the Vikings came from Sweden to the city they called Miklagård, it was along the rivers of the Slavic lands and across the Black Sea that they sailed. I began to understand why Istanbul was once considered the centre of the world. And I realised that the city represented for me, too, the passage from a familiar universe to a new one and a doorway to the Orient. Almost imperceptibly, as if drawn by some irresistible force, distant ships were making their way across the still water towards the mouth of the world’s narrowest strait open to international shipping. There are those who worry that one day an oil tanker might have an accident, its fuel leaking or exploding with disastrous consequences for the vulnerable city that hugs the shores of the Bosphorus. Looking southwards to this cleavage between Europe and Asia, I wondered if the ancient Greeks who had first settled Byzantium and the southern littoral of the Black Sea had once imagined their gods wrenching the two continents apart in some mythical battle. A shadow crossed the waters below, its bird-like shape changing as it passed over the hill on the other side. Looking up, I saw a plane, the whistling of its engines only now becoming audible as it gradually descended towards the airport in the distance.
‘You like the view?’
Once again, I had momentarily forgotten my young Turk.
***
It was late afternoon when our ferry docked back at Eminönü, thick smoke billowing from its funnel into the clear autumn sky as it slowly came alongside the quay. I had thought our day would finish after the boat trip and that we would now say our farewells, so I was surprised by Osman’s next proposal.
‘Now I will show you another part of Istanbul,’ he said, as we disembarked surrounded by jostling crowds of commuters, day-trippers and shoppers, all eager to push their way off first.
I followed Osman over the busy Galata Bridge, but when we reached the other side, instead of heading towards the fairytale tower, he veered to the right where we began the ascent of a steep, narrow street. Small, scruffy shops piled high with stereo equipment and car radios were interspersed with others selling guitars, drums and traditional musical instruments. Outside some of the hi-fi shops, youths in tight-fitting T-shirts and cheap jeans chatted with the owners. Business in violins and tambourines was even slower. The wizened men in shabby grey suits from another era sat on stools in front of their shops watching silently as we wended our way up the hill, occasionally blowing a cloud of smoke from their cigarettes. Eventually, we reached the top and the glorified alley opened out into a sort of small square.
‘This is the start of the main shopping street in Istanbul,’ said Osman, ‘Ístiklâl Caddesi.’
Ahead of me was an unimpressive pedestrianised road with few shops and not many punters. Looks were deceiving, though, and as we walked along we passed the Swedish Consulate, a veritable palace behind iron gates and the country’s embassy when the city was still the capital of the Ottoman Empire. A little further on, we paused to look at the Russian and Dutch counterparts, which had similar histories and were equally impressive. Gradually, the street became wider and busier and the shops more interesting, selling everything from clothes to CDs, kitchenware to sports goods. We walked past buildings in an eclectic mix of styles: neo-classical, neo-gothic, renaissance revival and even art deco. The medley of nineteenth- and twentieth-century architecture lent Independence Avenue, to give it its English name, a distinctly cosmopolitan air.
‘This is the Galatasaray school,’ announced Osman, stopping in front of a large, nineteenth-century building incongruously painted in Habsburg yellow. ‘It is one of the best schools in Turkey: the pupils study in Turkish and French. And here is also where the football team started.’
I smiled to myself: Osman’s presentation sounded as if he had learnt it from a script, but I had to admire the effort he was making. My thoughts drifted back to the crowd violence of the ancient hippodrome, a tradition that Turkish football supporters, including those of Galatasaray, seemed keen to continue, albeit on a smaller scale. Here was I, centuries later, in a city vastly different in so many ways from the Constantinople of old and yet some aspects continued as a part of the cultural fabric. Superficially, the event may have evolved, but I knew that the continuity between the chariot races of the past and the football matches of today found its basis in human nature, in emotions and tribalism. These were the lifeblood that fuelled the elation, the cheering, the anger, the violence.
The early evening was clearly the time Turks like to go out shopping or simply meander arm in arm, talking and checking out those around them. By the time we reached the main retail stretch of Ístiklâl Caddesi it was thronging with people – young people. In Europe, I was used to seeing grey-haired masses shuffling around in beige anoraks, so it was striking to be somewhere where the population was overwhelmingly youthful. It was bustling, it was lively: it felt like the future. Amid the Turkish pop music blaring out of some of the shops I recognised the voice of Tarkan singing Sımarık, the ‘Kiss Kiss’ song, while, high above, swallows screeched as they arched and swooped in the polluted evening sky. Headscarves and long dresses mingled with miniskirts and revealing necklines; loosely draped robes and shapeless suits contrasted with tops and trousers that stretched seductively over well-formed bodies, but, despite the great contrasts, the overwhelming impression was of Westernness. Chain stores that could be found on most European high streets alternated with Turkish shops selling domestic versions of the same. It was as if all Istanbul were packed into the three-kilometre length of Ístiklâl Caddesi. Apart from the fact that everyone was so young, this busy thoroughfare could have been anywhere in Europe. I realised that the historic Sultanahmet district with its throngs of tourists was as typical of Istanbul as the Grand-Place was of Brussels.
Startled by the s
ound of an engine, I turned round to see two black motorbikes revving their way slowly through the crowd that parted deferentially to let them pass. Each bike had a driver and pillion passenger, both in black and red leathers, eyes and thoughts concealed behind dark glasses. As they drove slowly in front of us, one of the pillions turned to look at me, but in her mirrored lenses I saw only my own reflection.
‘That is Yunus polisi, the Dolphin Police,’ said my young guide, with what I thought was a touch of pride.
The crowd closed behind the two bikes and soon they were out of sight, the noise of their engines no longer audible.
‘You look tired,’ said Osman. ‘Would you like to try a Turkish coffee? I know a nice place near here where we can go.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I agreed. I was indeed starting to flag.
‘Would you like to try some Turkish delight as well?’ he smiled.
***
Like so many fast-developing cities, Istanbul seems eager to shed many of the aspects of its history that the visitor finds most appealing. In a flush of arrivisme, it seeks to demolish that which has character and replace it with modern blandness, which in a few years will be decrepit and dated. Out with the bathwater of underdevelopment goes the baby of heritage and culture. In this sprawling metropolis one sees a bewildering mix of old and new, rich and poor, urban and rural, land and water, fast cars and slow handcarts, pouting lips and shrivelled hands, carved woodwork and sparkling steel. Today, the steel that glistens is on office blocks and designer shopping malls, but in the past it was the flash of swords in battle that caught the sun. Nonetheless, the city has been the site not only of centuries of conflict between Christianity and Islam, but sometimes also of peaceful coexistence between Muslims, Christians and Jews: indeed, after conquering Constantinople, Mehmet II ordered that people from all three Abrahamic faiths across Ottoman lands be resettled in his new capital.
My first visit to Turkey gave me an initial, addictive taste of the Orient and its exotic pleasures, and a desire to explore the rest of the region. In the course of a few days, it showed me a city and a country striving – and in many ways succeeding – to be modern, to be a temporal fulcrum between East and West. Looking out of the window as my plane lifted itself off Turkish soil, I was confident I had seen proof that secular Islam could work, that talk of a clash of civilisations was exaggerated. Yet, only hours later, on a third continent, other airliners flew into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, shaking that confidence and marking the real and bloody start of a new century. Suddenly, in the time it takes to watch a film, the perceived centre of the world seemed to shift. No doubt like you, as I saw those now famous images, I knew that I was witnessing a pivotal moment in history. Watching events unfold on television at home in Bruxelles, I wondered what Osman was making of it all and what the future would now bring for him.
Saul
We heave the rough wooden crate into the back of the car as a plane, rising into the grey Belgian sky, roars overhead. I had not expected the box to be so big, nor for a moment imagined that it would arrive by air, given its weight. The two grumpy customs officials in the dusty, poorly lit office just outside Brussels Airport had been busy making sandwiches with white sliced bread and processed ham. After ignoring me for a couple of minutes, the woman, in her fifties with a thick band of grey roots at the base of her russet hair, had ambled across to the counter. Putting on the glasses that hung round her neck, she had peered suspiciously at the notice I had received telling me where to pick up my delivery. She had removed her spectacles and looked me up and down, her eyes narrowing, before asking me how much the consignment was worth. She had addressed me in French with a thick Flemish accent and so, diplomatically, I had replied in her native tongue. Her lanky, unshaven colleague, some twenty years her junior, had watched on, hunched over his desk, silently munching on his sandwich, until she had told him to go and get the register. Eventually, after some cajoling and apologies for interrupting their meal, I had managed to get the glum duo to hand over the crate without further to-do or, more importantly, payment.
Back at my house, Anton and I carefully set the delivery down in the main corridor. Knowing I would not be able to manage on my own, I had volunteered my Austrian friend to help me in exchange for the promise of a roast-duck dinner served with a bottle of best Zweigelt, an offer he had eagerly accepted. The crate, covered in red and white ‘FRAGILE!’ stickers and, somewhat strangely, stamped with half a dozen Chinese characters, is big enough to transport a small child: is my memory playing tricks with me or are the contents larger than I remembered? I fetch a crowbar and begin prising off the lid, while Anton stands watching, arms folded. It sits fast, only coming free with groans of protest as the long nails are wrenched from the coarse timber. When I finally open the crate, I half expect the wisp of some spirit to rise out of it as if an ancient tomb were being exposed. I bend over and part the straw: there it is, staring up at me. To be honest, I am rather surprised it has arrived at all.
***
‘It’s wonderful!’ said one friend, swigging on her champagne. ‘You’ll love it, darling, and you simply must go to Palmyra! Agatha Christie stayed there, you know. It’s fabulous!’ She emptied her glass and looked round expectantly.
‘You could spend a whole week just walking round the souk in Damascus!’ declared a German friend who had travelled widely in the region.
An entire week? That I doubted, though the message was clear, as was the Teutonic penchant for thoroughness.
‘But aren’t there secret police following you all the time?’ I ventured: after all, under Bashar al-Assad Syria had been branded as being in the Axis of Evil and, as a British citizen, I was concerned that a solo tourist might attract particular attention. Indeed, I wondered whether I might get a hostile reception from people generally were they to discover my nationality.
‘Perhaps,’ shrugged a third, a Belgian diplomat who had lived and worked in the Syrian capital for three years, ‘but I doubt it. It’s a really nice place: you should go. You won’t regret it.’
***
Yet again, the taxi driver stopped to ask the way and, once more, the instructions given by a passer-by seemed complicated and involved much gesticulation. The man at the wheel was not put off by the lack of a common language between us and cheerfully reassured me in Arabic that at last he knew where the hotel was. At least I think that is what he said as he babbled on gutturally whilst glancing at me in the rear view mirror, waving a giant hairy hand for emphasis, half its pinkie missing. For a second time, our battered taxi took a large roundabout as we went back on our tracks, the autumn air blowing in my face a welcome respite from the smell of stale tobacco that seemed to have impregnated every molecule of the car. The traffic did not appear to follow any particular rules, vehicles swerving randomly like dodgem cars. Snatches of Arabic disco hits and traditional music mingled with the noise of car horns and racing engines as more adventurous drivers sped past us. Suddenly, we slowed down and veered sharply into a road that led into the old city centre. The rough-shaven cabbie made some announcement while we trundled along a street flanked by shabby market stalls, passing crates of white chickens, boxes of battered vegetables and the occasional sad-looking donkey: I began to wonder about my choice of hotel. A group of schoolgirls in smart uniforms offered a glimmer of hope that civilisation might be just round the corner, but each successive street we entered was narrower than the last and the driver found it increasingly difficult to negotiate his way past the parked vehicles, old bicycles propped against walls and stacks of empty cardboard boxes. Finally, we halted in front of an incongruously smart wooden door in an otherwise nondescript, windowless wall. We were in an impoverished street that did little to instil confidence or a feeling of security. Overhead, generations of twisted wires hung between buildings on either side of the road. I began to wonder how on earth I would find my way safely from the hotel to any sights of interest.
The driver climbed out
of the cab and rang the doorbell with a thick finger. After a few seconds, the door swung open and a smartly-dressed man in a navy blue suit stepped out, his sartorial elegance in abject contrast to the taxi driver’s stained T-shirt and fading jeans.
Moments later, I was perched on a velvet sofa, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice. My eyes wandered to the oriental trinkets dangling from the corners of the honey-coloured walls and on to a recent oil painting of old Damascus granted pride of place behind the long wooden reception desk. In just a few paces I had been transported to another world.
‘First time in Syria?’ asked the receptionist, as he photocopied my passport. When he had welcomed me in front of the hotel, he had introduced himself as Mohammed and, somewhat disconcertingly, had seemed to know who I was before I had even told him my name: were there so few guests, I wondered, or were my fears of surveillance being borne out?
‘Yes,’ I replied cautiously, placing my empty glass on the octagonal table in front of me.
‘Damascus is a nice city, a very old city,’ he smiled, ebony eyes studying me as he handed me back my passport. ‘I am sure you will enjoy your stay. If you are ready, I will show you to your room.’
Set in the old Jewish quarter, the hotel had once been a private palace. It had been meticulously restored and decorated in traditional Arab style. Mohammed led me down into a large courtyard in which half a dozen empty sun loungers were arranged around a turquoise swimming pool where once the customary central water basin would have been. We crossed the patio, the striped grey and cream lower walls bringing to mind the cathedral in Cordoba, itself once a mosque; above, the plaster was painted a deep, dusky pink. Citrus trees and herbs in terracotta pots lined the walls, their delicate fragrances reminding me of my own patio garden, and thickets of white and pink bougainvillea nestled in the corners. I wondered if the neighbours had any idea of what lay behind the hotel’s bland outer walls. As we entered a second, smaller courtyard with a bubbling fountain, Mohammed pulled a large old-fashioned key from his pocket and unlocked one of the three doors that gave on to the patio. My room, reached by going up a couple of steps, was nothing if not opulent, and with its swirling drapes, satin cushions and huge glass chandelier, it looked like a film set. It was very different from the police state I had imagined.
From Souk to Souk Page 3