Mass Marching Hoards

It all seemed so easy.

A quick flight from Bahrain, arriving in the early hours of a Friday morning. OK, it took almost ninety minutes to get through immigration and my cab driver didn’t really know where he was going. But I arrived at my hotel, I got some rest and I made it to breakfast pretty much at the time that my brother had said I should aim for.

Welcome to Istanbul.

Only after brekkie did we hear that the city was bracing itself for some pretty big demonstrations. Parts of the city were going into lock down. But, it was OK. They were in Taksim Square…

“So. Where is Taksim Square?” I asked

“Turn right out of the hotel. Top of the road.” My brother replied.

“Ah. OK. No worries.”

That was when I put two and two together. I’d had a five minute stroll just prior to the conversation and had noted loads of crowd control barriers being erected at the end of the street. I just assumed it’d be a May Day parade or summat and that they would be gone by midday.

Maybe not.

Welcome to Istanbul!

My brother, Rosie and I quickly decided that our best bet was to make a quick exit out of the exclusion zone rather than get ourselves stuck staring at the rooftops from our hotel buzzing on the CS fumes. Off we trotted.

The cops were everywhere.

Military style uniforms, riot shields, helmets; the works. But they seemed relaxed. Casual, almost. The riot teams were outnumbered by good humoured, less intimidating looking officers who appeared to be on public relations rather than intimidation patrol. They were adept at saying “no” in the nicest possible way to both tourists and locals.

Standing at cross roads.

“No. You can’t walk down that road.” Smile.

“No. You can’t walk down that road, either.” Smile.

“Back the way you came? Er… No.” Slightly forced smile.

We were driven downhill leaving confused locals in our wake who had only popped out to buy bread to discover that their home was now blocked off.

But it wasn’t intimidating. A bit odd, maybe, but not at all intimidating. I was trying to remain upbeat. I’d been looking forward to the trip for a few weeks. I really wanted to see my brother and Rosie. It was breaking up my months away from home. I was craving the familiar; something that I struggle to find in Saudi. But despite this, I was getting flash backs to Oxford Street 2011 and Brick Lane and Welling of the early 1990’s. I was well aware that it could all turn a bit ugly and unpleasant and it could turn quickly.

Cutting to the quick. Yes. There were demonstrations. They didn’t reach anywhere near the scale that the government and press had feared. Whatever dissuasion tactics had been used, they were largely successful.

Here are some pictures nicked off the internet.

Didn't See Any of This.

Nope. Nor This...

Other than the road blocks lasting into the early mid evening, we were oblivious to the disruption apart from the occasional view and “chop chop chop” of a helicopter looping over the crest of the hill above Galatasaray.

We were tourists. We soaked up the souks. We looked at the apparent differences between the European and Asian sides of the Bosphorus from the relative comfort of a tourist cruiser. We ate in the least fishy restaurant that we could find.

Spices in a Souk

Soaking up the Souk

Can You Guess What This Is?
Way back I worked with and got to know a young woman from East Dulwich (AKA Peckham). Her father was Turkish. She once sent me some Turkish Delight through the post to my office with a note reading something like; "Dear Sebastian. A gift from your Turkish Delight." I didn't open the letter/package, one of my colleagues did. Struggled to live that down.

Carry On Cruising

From my perspective, the roads being cut off allowed a far more interesting route back to our hotel with all public transport being suspended. Yes, the roads were steep. Yes, the roadblocks were such that we were forced to traverse up and down, up and down winding streets to find our way back. And, yes it was knackering. But the streets of Sishane were wonderful.

The buildings. Grey, red and yellow.

Narrow streets creating dark tunnels with a bright slits of sky above.

But all a bit run down. A bit grubby. But lived in. And a spirit. Rebellious. Open. It felt like Lisbon and Bilbao. Or Bristol. So different to Khobar, Dammam, Riyadh, Jeddah, Manama, Al Juffair, Jumeirah or Media City. But so much closer to my heart and home.

Dark Buildings. Bright Cloth. Washing dries in Istanbul.

Vintage

Slits of Light. And Hills.

Book Shop where most of the stock is stored on the street in shopping trolleys.
In the reality that I live in, this little soul has fallen to sleep having finished reading "Adam's Story".
She is deep in a beautiful dream where she imagines that she is Caitlin Moran.
She dreams that she is helping Adam St Clair find the man who betrayed him

There is a tradition and practice for people to feed stray cats and dogs rather than let them scrap and scrounge.
You see little trays of milk in doorways and heath robinson dog kennels on street corners.
The best condition strays I have ever seen.

Tag

Street Art

And with a beer at the end of the day in a dark, narrow, wooden floored bar playing music that pricks your ears and surprises you. A bar just out of WiFi range meaning that we couldn’t use Shazam to identify who has recorded such a great cover of Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love”.

I’m not a natural tourist.

I don’t know why. In part it must be my fear and loathing of crowds. It probably stems from not liking being told what to do or what is “good”. It must, in part, be down to my heartfelt desire to be contrary…

An example.

The first time I visited Bilbao, it was primarily to take in the Guggenheim. On the first morning I strolled down and found the queues were running at about ninety minutes. Later in the day, I returned and they were down to about an hour. And I still weighed it up and decided that it wasn’t worth the hassle. However good it would be inside, despite travelling so far, the wait would make it pointless and useless. Tainted. So I walked away. On my final day, I returned and found the queue running at forty minutes and I decided that having come so far I should stop being so churlish, bite the bullet and just get on with it.

Once inside, I was told that I wouldn’t understand the content if I didn’t take the audio guide. And that really riled me. REALLY RILED ME. If I cannot understand the “art” without an explanation, it must be shit. Shit by default. And then the gallery was full of coach tours who were using the expansive exhibition halls as make shift dormitories. Loads of teenagers and their coloured ruck sacks laid out sleeping. And that riled me. REALLY RILED ME.

In short, I wasn’t impressed. I’ve been back. With my friend Alex and it was far better. Only spoiled by being unexpectedly confronted by a stained glass work by Gilbert and George.

On the second day in Istanbul we set off to see the Blue Mosque and surrounds oblivious to the three cruise ships that had arrived overnight discharging mass marching armies in the same direction.

But I was calm.

Remember. I was primarily there to enjoy the familiar. To be with family. All be it family who had been ridiculously denied coffee that morning at the hotel by ineptitude.

Question: Have you ever been in a busy hotel dining room when the staff decide to shift every free piece of furniture in the room, lifting chairs and tables above and across the heads of the seated diners?

No? If you want to know what it is like, let me know and I will send you details of the hotel we stayed in. Knock yourselves out; go visit.

But back up at the Blue Mosque we were confronted by two hour plus queues everywhere. For everything. No exaggeration; the queue to ask the people managing the queues to establish the wait times was two hours, as well.

OK. That may be an exaggeration.

Only the Topkapi Palace was less than two hours. Probably an hour and fifteen. So we went there and despite the crowds, the massive swelling crowds… the endless crowds… marching crowds… we made the most of it. The garden. The sunshine. The views. It was good. 

Mass Marching

Flowers

Tram

Breathe in. Breathe out. I was calm.

And then it was over.

Rain and a Sunday morning where the all familiar call to prayer was followed by bells from the Orthodox churches. A magical sound. Back to the familiar. Of Sunday mornings hearing St Mary’s in both Harrow Hill and Bloxham.

And a flight home watching over Iraq’s mountains.

Anyone want to go to Istanbul?

Think I may need to see some more.