The International Writers Magazine:Turkey
"When you make a world for tourists, you make a lie, a patchwork from all the coats you have shed."
Mary Lee Settle - ŒA life outside the fishbowlı

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To Turkey from Oz • Sean Hastings begins a journey I’ve spent a long time fantasizing about this journey. As I sit here and write these words, I realize that no fantasy I could have conjured, would have prepared me for the sights I’m seeing and those that I have seen until now. I left Melbourne at an ungodly hour on May 20th, 2008. Wrapped in two jackets and the arms of a girl who has given me the ability to delve deeper into myself than anyone else has ever managed, I said my goodbyes to a city that has been my home for the last 15 years. It was sad to be sure, but, I believe that the beauty of the melancholy can only be realized in the face of true love.

So, with the force of take off pushing me into contemplation about what I was leaving behind and what the universe had in store for me, I decided to thoroughly entertain the fact that on international flights, alcohol is free! I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the crew of Singapore Airlines flight SG183, whose names now evade me but whose hospitality will forever bring mental notes as to why you should never get too smashed at high altitude.

Singapore. Tuesday, May 20th, 2008
The initial sensory onslaught I presumed there would be flying into Singapore was a little nullified. Maybe it was a trip there in my impressionable childhood, but I’ve always tended to think of Singapore airport as a little left of organized. Boeing loads of bickering tourists attempting to claim possessions everyone but they know they don’t need.
But, in this world of progress, it turned out to be one of the most monumental airports this humble arse has ever landed in. As it was, it was a ghost town with me being the only bickering tourist, wondering what the fuck to do with my two jackets I was wearing when I left! So, off I went, down paving rent with ruin, to find my temporary haven. The cheapest Singapore had to offer.
Then I got drunk. Real drunk.
Finding a plastic yellow armchair amidst the high shouldered cats, within glancing distance of the rain worn doorway to the hostel, I proceeded to consume cheap beer and hand fulls of dried fish whilst the aged, local gentry choked on their toothless grins.

The first thing that struck me about Singapore, apart from the heat and humidity, which was like being run over by a water truck on fire, is the class difference. From where I was staying, which had a fairy light, squatters charm to it, you could catch the metro for fifteen minutes and walk out into a concrete jungle of towering opulence. More $100,000+ cars than you could poke a scooter at, fountains gushing amidst 18th century grandeur which bordered on baroque.

The second day in and I was starting to get my bearings a little. With the hangover draining from my pores, I set out to find part of my reasoning for embarking on this mad adventure. Around midday I found my place of content. All around me on Boat Quay were glorious seafood restaurants, a carnival of color and choice, yet I found myself at penny Black. An English pub with all the fake façade which adorns every English pub not found in their motherland. I decided to relish in a decidedly fallow ploughmans lunch, sweaty cheese and all, and with this staunch meal behind me, I thought it time to unleash the tourist in me. I paid my $13 singdollars and jumped on a half hour boat cruise up and down the Singapore River with Jhong, a funny little man who missed his calling as a comedian. It was as entertaining as it was enlightening. As the daylight departed and the heat stayed, I lay spread eagle on the smallest mattress ever beheld, smiling to myself that if I survived this much, I could survive anything…… could I get any more naïve.

Zurich. Friday, 23rd May, 2008
Zurich is the kind of town that will drag out even the most dormant of romantics. Therefore, I shall refrain from too much detail about this city of uber organized public transport, flash cars and the crystal clear waters of the Limmat River flowing through arches of antiquated stone. It is truly a postcard city. As it is hellishly expensive, I spent my time wandering into the surrounding mountains which cradle the city like a mothers arms cradle a babe. I stopped short of practicing my own unique brand of yodeling and followed my thirst to El Lokal, a funky, open air bar next to the river which was run by fantastically enigmatic New Zealand bloke. My last night in Zurich was spent sipping the velvet notes of pleasure whilst bats swooped overhead and the soft murmur of the river lulled me back into contemplation and romance.

Istanbul. Sunday, 25th May, 2008.
Everyone at some stage in their lives needs to fly into Istanbul by day. Words cannot convey the enormity of what lies below and ahead for that matter. The sight was marred slightly, but only slightly by a small visa problem. Anything can be worked out in Turkey if you are prepared to wait a few hours though. The problem was that baggage doesn’t hang around on the carousel for that long. After some frantic translating, which mainly consisted of hand gestures and facial expressions, I located my life’s belongings about 50m away, idly stacked in a corner as if to say, get your shit sorted Sean.

The city, once called Constantinople, is the home of Lions Milk, Shishas, and semi automatic weapons of the parcel shelves of family cars. Being immersed in the sound, sights and smells was like being beaten by the sensory stick, and then some. Istanbul, or Turkey for that matter I’ve discovered, has long been host to the unpredictable timetables of invasion that has overthrown the Hittites, Mongols, Romans, Persians and Ottomans. The language, which I’ve been trying to wrap my head around even before visiting, has a littering of imported words. From the French comes __f_r – chauffeur and ezlong - chaise longue. Adopted from English is ampiyon – champion. Everything is the Turkish language is spoken phonetically and the is pronounced ‘sh’ and the is between the ‘i’ in bird and ‘o’ in word.

The area called Sultanahmet, which is where I stayed and all the major tourist attractions are situated seems like a city unto itself. The Aya Sofia, which was built back in AD535 and only in seven years is truly breathtaking. You could honestly spend a week in just this one area and only scrape the surface of it’s long and colorful history. Like I said before, invasion after invasion from different cultural beliefs have created a city that one would be hard pressed to equal. The people are amazingly friendly but be aware that the English, which at first seems mastered, is only a few words that have been polished to perfection through continued use. After ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’, you basically rely on body language, eye contact and some frantic pointing and nodding. It’s amazing how nothing seems to go unspoken!

Once out of the tourist traps, things become even more interesting. The city’s skyline, with its mosques placed at seemingly strategic intervals, for the life of me remind me of massive hulking beasts wallowing in a magnificent tide of humanity.

The best way to discover Istanbul is just to start walking in any direction. I found a small voice in my head saying, ‘get a map, get a map!’ but, I’m the kind of person who likes to elbow aside life’s sensibilities and make a grand salute to the moral arts of getting myself thoroughly lost. Invariably you’ll find yourself walking down tiny cobbled alleyways and stumbling over makeshift local markets selling everything from faucets to antique watches, plastic shovels to titanic kilims (flat weave carpets). On one particularly fine day, I wandered down one such cobbled alley, I heard a sound that reminded me of an old French film soundtrack, but played on a glockenspiel so that it actually sounded more than anything like a lovesick ice-cream van. When the origins of the sound came into view, I saw that it was a van but one that was selling gas canisters brand-named Aygaz. I know then that this city was going to hold surprise after surprise with no respite.

And didn’t I find myself cursing my foresight! Now during the course of every day, nature doth call. The saying ‘when in Rome’ is ok with me up to a point. That point doesn’t extend to smearing one’s fresh crap over the left hand though!
Ah, them be the joys of cultural differences I say.

Now, as much as I’ve raved about Istanbul and how fantastic the place is, bear in mind, it’s not cheap. You can definitely find yourself cheap accommodation etc. but it’s always worth paying that little extra for the security of your belongings. All in all, with fond memories and a renewed outlook on Turkish life, I was off to visit a friend in Ankara, which, I had been told held about as much excitement as an accountants convention..

Wednesday, 4th June, 2008 The best way to get around Turkey is by bus. There is an extensive and inexpensive network that can take you just about anywhere your heart desires. From Istanbul to Ankara is about six hours and for the equivalent of AUS$30, it’s a pretty sweet deal. I had the joy of sitting next to a gentleman by the name of Mehdi whose English vocabulary consisted of those few polished words I mentioned earlier. The six hours were spent pointing at various unexciting landmarks and objects in an eye spy fashion, teaching each other random bits of our respective languages, accompanied by the gauffaus of fellow passengers when I pointed at a horse and called it a gigolo… A lot got lost in translation I do believe.

Driving into Ankara is like arriving on the moon. Desolate and dry with a thin topsoil allowing only the hardiest of surrounding shrubbery to mete out an existence. Ankara holds dear an amazing history though, and in it’s own way, more so than Istanbul albeit not as colorful. It was once located on two of the major trade routes which had been established for a thousand years, the Silk Road and the Spice Road. Statements of Roman times are still visible in the old city, which have now been transformed into picturesque cafes and antique shops. I met a gentleman by the name of Erol whilst being shown around some of the more ‘honest’ shops. A crazy man with a wicked gleam in his eye who travels to all parts of the Middle East. All he said when I asked him if there was any trouble at various borders was, ‘my friends…no problem.’ Indeed his goods were of exquisite craftsmanship and if I had a spare couple of grand my mother would have been proud.

I stayed on Bilkent University Campus which was quite a change to my rigors of Istanbul. Many people, including Jeremy Salt, author of a new book called ‘The Unmaking of the Middle East – A history of Western Disorder in Arab Lands’ for which I’m worried he’ll be targeted by the Zionists and with whom I stayed, told me that Ankara was boring and bland. Well, after two days of celebrating the birthdays of the local eccentric academic community, my experience told me otherwise! I left with the mother of all hangover and a new destination looming that was to be my last in the heart of Anatolia

Saturday, 7th June, 2008
Cappadocia.
If I thought that Ankara was like arriving on the moon, then Cappadocia is like arriving on Mars. The volcanic landscape that has been eroded into a myriad of phallic fairy like rock sculptures, imbues a setting in which the imagination has free reign. It was in this alien landscape where I had my first ‘aptal (stupid) tourist’ experience. It’s really bad for business when you head off to go exploring in the canyons of Cappadocia, by yourself, again no map, in thongs and just before sunset… I’d heard stories about the size of the wolves in Turkey and it was with these thoughts that I scraped and scrambled my way back to civilization, heart thumping, in search of a calming glass of scotch under a sign that read, ‘Drinkers Law: remember you can’t fall off the floor.’ All well and good if the floor isn’t 50m away, straight down!
At some stage I knew I had to unleash that tourist again and book myself into a tour. Not wanting to follow the beaten path has led me into some spectacular places so far, but the tour I attached myself to, involved the underground cities which are notoriously difficult to get to on your own steam. To think that these cities were started around the 4th century AD and lived in for centuries by up to 14000 people during times of war is truly a feat of astounding proportions.
And now, after a day of torrential rain, I sit and wait for the next leg of my adventure to begin. I have 13 hours on a bus to look forward to before these tender toes are soothed by the sensual waters of the Mediterranean.
Or maybe that’s just the dormant romantic in me surfacing?
© Sean Hastings June 2008
palebluegoldfish@excite.com

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