RUSH HOUR IN ISTANBUL
From A 1992 Road Trip Around Turkey
Our road trip around Turkey began in Istanbul in September, 1992. We had allowed three days to explore this famous city before hiring a car to drive along the coast to the Gallipoli Peninsula. However, it quickly became evident three days weren’t nearly enough, and we would have to cram our planned itinerary.
Emerging from our hotel on the first day, a curiously hazy sun illuminated the city with a strange, soft light. There were few tourists about, and a gentle sea breeze brought an unusual freshness to the streets. To begin our tour, we strolled down to the waterfront. Out on the Bosporus, several large oil tankers lay at anchor on the glittering blue sea. A walk along the promenade took us to the Topkapi Palace and gardens. The palace was absolutely splendid, the museum absorbing and the extensive gardens a delight to wander through.
On the second day, we wore ourselves out completely. After visiting the Islamic Arts Museum, on the At Meydanı Caddesi, we strode over to the Blue Mosque. Unmistakable for its six tall minarets and lower central dome, the interior was no less impressive. The vast amount of rich blue tiles which give the Mosque its unofficial name, the towering columns encircled with bands of Arabic script, and the tall arches ribbed with red and white stripes held us spellbound. After so much gazing upwards at the fabulously decorated domes, we both reluctantly departed this beautiful building with acute neckache.
The Hagia Sophia in Ayasofya Square had a faded pink exterior, reinforced by buttresses, and a massive central dome flanked by half-domes. Four towering and slender minarets surrounded it, and there were beautiful gardens in which to contemplate one’s spiritual being. Inside, the cavernous interior was immense. Huge shield-like pendants mounted high up at the corners of the upper floor displayed large Arabic script rendered in gold leaf. Strange to think that this gigantic building was once a Christian church, but it has been a secular museum since 1934 under the direction of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder of the modern Republic of Turkey.
Feeling exhausted, and with time to fill before we were due at a Son et Lumière show, we chose a transient-looking cafe occupying a snippet of waste ground, where I observed a street vendor selling mussels to a waiter. Finally, in need of a proper meal, we dined at The Vitamin, a legendary, budget-friendly restaurant on Divanyolu Caddesi.
Our third and final day raced by with a boat trip along the Bosporus to Sariyer, an attractive hillside district north of the city, where we enjoyed a sumptuous salad lunch by the waterfront followed by a memorable return cruise gliding through the clear blue sea. As we approached the terminal at Eminönü on the south side of the Galata Bridge, the great mosques were silhouetted against a deep blue sky.
Back on terra firma, with legs aching and pangs of hunger beginning to gnaw, we first had to complete our Istanbul itinerary. There were just two remaining ‘Must Do’ items: walking across the Galata Bridge and climbing the Galata Tower. Little did we know, the best part of our visit was about to happen.
Apparently, the original pontoon bridge had been severely damaged by fire a few months earlier, and towed to a new position further up the Bosporus. A new bridge had been hastily erected, initially for pedestrian traffic only. It didn’t take long to reach the northern side in the district of Karaköy, but neither of us could face climbing up the hill to the tower, so we opted for catching the underground funicular.
Unsurprisingly, Karaköy station looked decrepit. The line had opened way back in 1875, making it one of the oldest underground railways in the world. Buying tickets was easy and cheap, and soon we were standing in a well-worn carriage as it trundled up the hill.
Our carriage was crowded, and I had to hang onto a brass pole. The air was stifling and heavy with unpleasant smells: tobacco, garlic breath and stale body odour. Fluorescent lights occasionally flickered, casting passengers' faces in a pale glow. We were surrounded by office workers loosening their ties, secretaries protectively clutching their smart leather handbags, and German-sounding tourists with Japanese cameras hanging from their necks looking distinctly uncomfortable, like us no doubt!
The journey was mercifully short. At Tünel station, we managed to squeeze out of the carriage, onto the platform. Such was the crush that we were half-carried up the staircase by the crowd, then inelegantly spewed out of the exit onto Istiklal Avenue. After a brief pause to recover from this ordeal, it took just ten minutes to stroll down to the Galata Tower, its pale stone walls rising up from the narrow, cobblestone streets. Inside, a winding wooden staircase led up to a viewing area where we were rewarded with a unique panorama of the southern shore
Further downhill, the smell of the sea grew stronger. Inside a darkly lit tea house, old men noisily played backgammon under clouds of blue cigarette smoke. We descended the famous Camondo Stairs curving stylishly downhill, and midway we came across a wedding photographer taking pictures of a newly married couple. The dark, sultry bride looked stunning in her flowing white gown, while her handsome groom, standing nearby, appeared like a well-dressed sentinel. Finally, we emerged onto the waterfront and were greeted with some of the most amazing scenes I’ve ever witnessed!
The entire length of the quayside was pulsing with life. There were literally thousands of office commuters marching along, gripping battered leather briefcases, scatterings of housewives in between them, overloaded with shopping bags, and tourists, lots and lots of tourists. The traffic was congested almost to gridlock, bumper to bumper, horns honking, drivers leaning out and gesticulating, each convoy crawling slowly forward. Mopeds, sounding like angry bees, interweaved through the traffic. Everyone seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. Clearly, it was now rush hour in Istanbul!
I reverted my gaze to the quayside. An old-fashioned-looking steam ferry waited next to the terminal, its white paint streaked with rust, and its funnel exhaled plumes of black smoke into the seagulls swirling overhead. Another ferry was reversing into a vacant mooring, her engines churning the water into a white foam. Suddenly, the horn blasted out, ‘Whoop, WHOOP, WHOOOOOOOOOOOOP!’
Hordes of tourists noisily disembarked, while the queues of commuters on the quayside, eager to get home after a long day at work, pushed forward expectantly from the opposite direction. At the glass-fronted ticket booths, queues of would-be travellers stood firm against the sway, like sea groynes resisting the tide.
Astonishingly, beneath all the chaos, this section of the quay, built on a floating pontoon, was gently oscillating up and down, propelled by a choppy sea several metres below. Interweaving between the melee, grubby-looking porters pushed handcarts stacked with boxes and newspaper sellers held folded broadsheets above their heads, yelling out the news headlines. At people’s feet, numerous cats tiptoed between puddles seeking scraps of food. Leaning against the railings were heaps of fishing nets and wicker crab baskets. I spotted a young boy somehow managing to balance half-filled tea glasses chinking together on a small tray, while shouting “Çay!” (fresh tea).
We wandered further along to escape the bedlam. A hefty old woman wearing a headscarf was trying to sell corn on the cob from a box cart, but there were few takers. The cooking water looked disgusting. A little further along, there was a queue of commuters in front of a rather tubby man with a thick moustache, surrounded by more expectant cats.
Suddenly, there was a shout from below, and the tubby man quickly stepped over to the railings, his arms outstretched. To our surprise, a small paper parcel flew upwards, and he deftly caught it in mid-air, before calmly stepping back and exchanging it for some cash with the man at the front of the queue. Intrigued, we both peered over the side, down to a small, open boat bobbing about on the swell and the sea slapping noisily against the pilings.
Incredibly, there was a Wok fixed in the centre of the boat, full of Mackerel fillets frying in oil and swilling around alarmingly. At any moment I expected the contents to spill over and scald the two men on either side. When the fish were ready, the cook cautiously extracted a fillet with wooden prongs and dropped it into a pre-sliced baguette held by his assistant, who then wrapped it in paper and hurled the parcel upwards several metres into the air. As before, we watched the tubby man catch it and sell it to the next customer. All the while, delicious whiffs of fried fish drifted up on the early evening air.
Unable to resist any longer, we began searching for a restaurant with an outdoor, waterfront terrace. We soon found a small establishment with vacant tables under a plastic awning. A little man wearing an apron beckoned towards us and pointed to a table next to the waterfront. Two glasses of Raki and a jug of water came first, and then, with our food ordered, he returned with bread, olives, and dipping oil while our meal was prepared.
Seated and relaxed, I closed my eyes to fully absorb the moment. I felt completely enthralled by the whole experience. While the noise from the ferry terminal, the crowds on the quayside and the traffic continued in the background, I could also hear some Turkish businessmen seated at a nearby table enthusiastically discussing football. Galatasaray was mentioned, a famous Istanbul team. Soft German and louder American voices intermingled with the others. Turkish music flowed from a loudspeaker somewhere inside.
Mingled with these sounds, unforgettable smells and aromas reached us. An occasional gentle breeze carried the salty, ozone-like fragrance of the sea, mixed with a hint of burnt coal from the dissipating ferry smoke. Richer fragrances emerged from the kitchen, mainly roasted lamb, baked fish and garlic sizzling in butter.
Breaking this spell, a muezzin began the evening call to prayer, his melodic voice eerily echoing across the city. I opened my eyes. Mosques had begun to illuminate themselves against a sky turning violet in the dusk. In the half-light, the old steam ferries, now illuminated, continued to take commuters home. All along the shore, beads of golden headlights slowly inched forward. Rush hour in Istanbul was far from over.
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