Istanbul 4. Being the Tourist -Dolmabahçe Palace.

There comes a point in every city visit when you get the confidence to jump in a taxi and know where you’re going.

Once I have my bearings I can tell if the driver of the said automotive hack will attempt to go from A to B via X, Y and Z; creating an ‘alternative route’ to aid in the emptying of my wallet.

If normal taxis don’t exist?

Welcome to Almaty, a city in which every car is a taxi – I kid you not. Amongst the ex-pat community we generally refer to them as ‘gypsy cabs’; I’m not sure why. Anyway it is just a matter of standing at a point on the road with your arm out. Eventually someone stops, you state a destination, negotiate the fare and away you go. Or not! Not everyone wants to go where you want, so sometimes renegotiate for somewhere nearby…

Anyway it works.

Last day in Istanbul so, from a recommendation (thankyou Dorsaf), I headed for the Dolmabahçe Palace.

Yes I could turn this into a travelogue, quoting dates, Sultans, amount of gold etc.

Sod that.

The flagrant wealth of the Sultans horrifies me in the context of the poverty afforded to the peasantry at the time. There are bathrooms whose area would make up 3 or 4 apartments for the ordinary citizens of the Ottoman Empire. Yet here in the vainglorious Palace in the City of History, the one lesson from History hit me; we never learn from History.

Saudi Arabia, Dubai, Doha, Abu Dhabi, Buckingham Palace; John Travolta’s new home; Bill Gates majestic pile…

Still – who really wants majestic piles?

Then there is the Playboy Mansion; I’ll accept the opulence as it is home to many young ladies, unfortunate enough to have been born with outlandish mammaries…

The four tonne Chandelier reminded me of Del Boy and Rodney.

Where was I drawn?

The Clock Museum.

What is a clock? Art, Science, Engineering, Jewellery; man’s attempt to put numerical order on the passing of his life.

Twelve hours on the clock face; Twelve signs of the Zodiac; Twelve tribes of Israel; Twelve disciples of Jesus; I’m sure I could come up with dozens of other ideas…

The collection embodies Cosmology, Craftsmanship, Aesthetics, Meteorology, Chronology, Mathematics, Culture.

I was the tourist for a while; souvenirs include a pocket watch emblazoned with the face of Kemal Ataturk, a man who must be turning in his grave as his great secular Republic dissolves backwards in time.

Crusader anyone?

Tasha – now is the Autumn of our days.

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.”

John Keats

Thankyou for the realization, the inspiration, the motivation. The farmhouse in France will soon be ours; yours to paint, mine to write.

A sunny day in Almaty

Monday afternoon walking through the City. First thing – the girls are so pretty!

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Mixed feelings at Panfilov Park. The Cathedral shone down on me – look at this.

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Great to have caught the reflection from the Cross just at the right moment.

The Park also contains the War Memorial to Kazak men and women who died during the Second World war. I thought of the famous poem by Laurence Binyon ‘For the Fallen’, immortal lines said every Remembrance parade. Yet here in Kazakhstan a different verse came to me;

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

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But it is a Park for joy, for memory, for lovers, for inspiration.

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As I walked through the beautiful sunshine the words of Robert Frost came to me. Here am I in Kazakhstan, a traveller, a writer, a poet. I could have stayed in England…

Frost

Istanbul 3. Notes from a bar at Sultanahmet.

The old dog wandered wondering. What was he hoping for as he dodged across the road, avoiding cars, crazy motorcyclists and trams? Perhaps a tasty snack from the waiters at the Barron Ottoman?

They stroked him.

The kebab man cut, folded, served; ignored the old dog.

He came my way though fish was not on his agenda this evening.

So many old dogs; men clinging to the last vestiges of reality. Retirement, see the world; die.

Just then a woman passed carrying a spare arse; buttock enhancement surgery or too many pies?

The delicious gypsy girls also meandered by, beauty with stealth, ready at any moment to rid me of my wealth.

Rumi came by too, telling tales of life in the Tavern. Whoever brought me here must also take me home. Beer flows but nobody wants to eat. Who is this God?

Where is the Old Dog now?

Drinking in this Tavern, searching for his soul. Julie tells me we should all save our souls; I tell her it is a quote for Fairy Hanny in the next adventure on Uranus.

Nobody laughs.

Somebody’s strict daughter ambles by, completely covered, yet I catch a glimpse of Converse on her feet; appropriate reality, the antithesis of western hatred. Headscarf and Hard Rock Café T-shirt.

Who is this God?

Is it Satan?

The Djinn?

She is caught between a hard rock and a place.

Next to mosey on by, Natalia, wearing a head scarf to avoid tempting men with her beautiful blond locks. Tight jeans displaying succulent rump, Desmond Morris explaining courtship rituals; brassiere manufacturers please note.

Too many converse, contrary, opposition party’s.

East meets West.

Cliché meets cliché.

Back comes the woman with the spare arse, rear projecting shelf of gluteal fat. Perhaps the overflowing buggy explains the growth.

Where now Madam?

Acceptance; men like a bit of flesh to hold onto, they don’t really like the skinny birds.

Or the angry birds.

Condescending Englishman, patronising tourists and locals. I am not a tourist, I am visiting friends.

Denial?

It’s a river in Egypt.

I love Kazakhstan

Well I have been living here in Almaty since January and it is a beautiful place.

It has the second best prettiest women in the world – Liverpool Judy’s always win.

But I have to laugh at some of the names I have come across recently.

There are ladies called Karlygash, Nazgul and Nurgul. Plus a young man called Jamshit…

So I have played a little with some of the family names; some of these are real but I invented most of them – great source of names for a comedy writer.

Smugulitova

Rustibeava

Kunysheva

Slopitova

Tchukitbakova

Takalukova

Slopysheva

Shezadeva

Gerimov

They will find themselves in various short stories or novels soon. Alongside the German onanist Helmutt Schmacher…

Istanbul 2. Reflections and an Introduction to Rumi.

I think a hangover makes jet-lag so much easier to bear.

Eventually I arose Monday morning and decided to do the tourist bit, so headed to the City centre in one of the many millions of taxis that constantly patrol the streets.

Don’t get into a taxi and ask for ‘Haggia Sofia’ even though the tourist books call it that. To the locals, and the big new brown tourist signs, it is ‘Ayasofya’. I’m still not sure if they are referring to the actual former Church of Saint Sophia, the Church of ‘Holy Wisdom’; or it is just the area around the church/mosque/museum.

It strikes me that many churches in the UK, especially in Silly Suffolk where I live, have become museums as nobody goes to worship there anymore. I find it quite offensive to be charged to visit the great cathedrals in Britain. After all they were made by the blood, sweat and tears of men striving for the greater glory of God. To me it’s a museum with an entrance fee or it is a church; you can’t have both unless you want to expose the hypocrisy behind the Business of Religion.

Fate took me in on Monday to discover the ‘Museum’ is closed. So time for my own explorations. First thing was to get brunch at the ‘Green café’, a fantastic little outdoor café sheltered by trees. It is just to the west of Saint Sophia; great place to watch the world go by.

From there a walk up to Sultanahmet, along the old Mese way, a route through the City for more than two thousand years. The modern trams and motorcycles clunk along streets pounded by footsteps of Legionnaires, Crusaders and Saracens, mechanically oblivious of the souls of the past. How much blood has run down these streets?

I called into a bookshop, purchased a ‘History of the Middle East’ and ‘Selected Poems of Rumi’ – I was in the home of the Sufi’s so Rumi was a must!

On up the hill, past Churches that are Mosques, Universities, The remains of the Arch of Theodosious, large lumps of marble lying prostrate since AD 740 when the city was shattered by an earthquake; another reminder of our insignificance – who the hell was Theodosious? Will there ever be an Arch erected to honour Swifty?

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On this route I witnessed my first street fight for years. There was a row of taxis touting for business and I am guessing that one of the drivers was trying to queue jump. There were shouts, then pushing and shoving, and then no doubt some of the words were Turkish expletives, then crack, a fabulous right hook. End of fight really. Forget all of the Hollywood screen fights. Trust me if you ever get one solid punch in the face then it is game over; probably with a fractured jaw or cheekbone. I remember breaking my little finger during a bit of free style sparring in a karate session as I caught my opponent a glancing blow to his hip. John Wayne should have been dead in every bar fight!

There was a need to visit the Grand Bazaar again, though I know it is full of tourist tack and overpriced souvenirs. I treated myself initially to the Book Souk as I love the name; plus there is a Philatelist or two buried away in some of the shops. Then through the fake Armani jeans, Tommy Hilfiger Shirts and Burberry Hats. Inside is different as there are some genuine leather shops – but bargaining is the key. Always offer half of the stated price and move on from there; if you feel really confident offer one third of the price!

Back down the hill to a pavement café, doors open onto the street; beers and a seafood dish and a read of Rumi.

Great start; the first poem is called ‘The Tavern: whoever brought me here will have to take me home.”

I know that feeling…

 

Istanbul 1 : Getting Lost and finding Old Friends.

Atatürk Airport 9.30 pm on a Saturday night. Check papers, work your way through customs, throw off the term spent in Kazakhstan. Greeted by an old friend and guided to his Gaff. Meet the charming new partner; fantastic dinner with lovely wine.

But then out in the City by midnight looking for a bar that might be showing some World Cup football. I will call it football as I find the term soccer somewhat condescending from the Septics.

Chris somehow managed to get us home by 4 am, which due to the time difference with Almaty my body considered it was 7 am.

‘Hey Mr. M we’ve been awake for 24 hours again,’ it cried out to me as I collapsed into bed.

By 10 we were up and on the go again. First breakfast, as the hobbits would say, consisted of a cup of black coffee, followed as usual by a triple – S. Then into a taxi to head for second breakfast/brunch at a café down by the docks not too far from the Dolmabahçe Palace, a magnificent symbol of opulence built by the 31st Ottoman Sultan Abdulmecid. By that I mean he built the Palace not the café; though I’m sure even Sultans sometimes wish they could get away from it all and go for a pint with the lads.

‘Alright Sultan how’s it going with all the affairs of state, political intrigues, bribes, battles and beheadings?’

‘Fuck that, just get the ales in will you!’

Unlike the Sultan I was able to sit anonymously within the café and order a breakfast starter – one litre of Efes beer. Chris of course had one too! Then the next part of this splendid breakfast fair comprised two more litres of Efes; then two more; then two more. ..

It was a time for reflection. Last time I had visited Istanbul I was married; I used to say ‘happily married’ but my definition of happiness has moved on a long way over the years.

History.

History oozes from the pores of the City Streets.

Greeks; Romans; Byzantines; Crusaders; Ottomans; Turks; and everyone else in between and before and to come.

Football too, permeates the atmosphere; the new stadium for Besiktas under construction one hundred and eleven years after their formation, adding to the summer dust of this great city.

Sadly when I think of football and Istanbul I think of murder. Two fans from Leeds murdered; two fans from Chelsea stabbed; riots after local Derby matches. For many young Turkish men football is followed with a religious fervour.

Chris and I discussed this as the litres of Efes flowed. For my sins when I am in the UK I go to watch Everton or Ipswich – similar shirts and places where I have lived! COYB! Arriving at either Goodison Park or Portman Road thirty minutes before kick-off the ground will contain a few youngsters with their grandfathers, or increasingly, grandmothers. Then 15 minutes before the start of the game the ground fills and the chanting begins. Not so for football fans in Istanbul. The ground is full hours ahead of the start time, maniacal chanting, threats to the opposition fans, coins being thrown and bright red flares being lighted; I suppose you could call it pre-match entertainment slightly less formal than that organised by the Septics.

Anyway the ‘breakfast’ litres continued to flow as my belly continued to grow!

Sometime in the late afternoon we prepared for the main event of the day. Apparently Chris was going to dinner with members of his department to celebrate the end of the school year. So onto the ferry, not across the Mersey, but across the Bosphorus, to dip a toe into Asian Turkey. I know we went for dinner somewhere and I chatted all night. I remember gorgeous streets, cafes, bars, restaurants and stunning women. Then a ferry back, to eventually fall into bed, jet lagged and pissed.

No idea what time we got home, though I knew I had the good fortune to be able to stay in bed the next morning.

What a great breakfast!

The sayings of DC Jason Beaver

Sadly young Beaver is not the smartest detective at the picnic. He misquotes though I’m not sure if it is deliberate or not…

Water off a Dutch back.

No pockets in a crowd.

Daft as a bush.

You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him think.

Too many cooks spoil the pudding.

He who laughs last, laughs last.

A stich in time saves mine.

All good things must come to amend.

All that glitters isn’t cold.

If you make your bed you’d better spy on it.

As you so-so shall you weep.

Beauty is only skin diver.

Beauty is in the eye of the cuckolder.

Better the devil you know rather than sorry.

Crime doesn’t play.

Excretion is the better part of valour.