By the water in Istanbul

 There are many beautiful places by the water in Istanbul.

These are some of the places I love.

Sunday in Ortaköy, August 2000

The German designed Haydarpaşa Railway as seen from Kadikoy, May 2011

Drinking tea in Üsküdar, April 2012

Fishmen and boats at Eminönü, November 2000

Lost in the fog at Kadikoy Iskelesi, May 2013

Kadikoy waterfront, March 2001

Young soliders on their day off, Haydarpaşa Railway Station, October 2011

Up Close & Personal: an excerpt

How reassuring to know my local hospital now uses kidneys from both

live and dead donors when performing transplants!

A look at the Turkish public health system
 

Back in 2000 my husband and I worked at an English college on Bağdat Street, run by a money hungry former military man with good connections but bad intentions. Thanks to him we had the dubious pleasure of visiting the Bakırköy public hospital as part of the process of getting a work permit. According to our charmless director we had to go to a public social security hospital, otherwise the bureaucracy in Ankara wouldn’t believe the results of our health tests were above board.

When we arrived and entered the foyer of the hospital, we were confronted by a simply enormous crowd of people. Everywhere I looked I saw people trying to squeeze their way past other people determined to stand their ground outside various doors while yet more people were pushing themselves through the clumps of people stuck on the stairs. I was reluctant to throw myself into the fray, so I looked to Kasım, the person assigned to get us through the day, for guidance. Although he was always referred to as the school driver, he was more like a minder cum stand over man. I often saw him delivering bundles of money wrapped in newspaper to the director, and with his long moustache and hardened features he could look quite frightening. Nonetheless, he was always pleasant to us. Unperturbed by the seething mass of humanity around us he motioned us to follow him through the maze. We inched up a crowded stairway and when I looked back, I saw that every corridor and every waiting area was jam-packed.

The sheet of paper Kasım carefully held on to had about twelve different headings on it. All of them required a trip to a different department and a tick from a different pen. Hours after we first arrived we were each given a white plastic disposable cup with a number written on it. Although it was nearing the lunch break we weren’t being offered tea but we did have to give urine samples. The women’s toilets were full of short round village women in headscarves, who all turned and stared when I walked through the door. Not only was I a foreigner, a yabancı, I had dark blue eyes and was wearing figure hugging, at least by their standards, Western clothes. Their unblinking stares were unnerving so at first I just stood and watched proceedings, all the while clutching my plastic cup. I soon saw that the first hurdle would be getting into a cubicle.  There was no queue to speak of, just lots of women milling around. Then it was first in first served. Even once the cubicles were occupied with the door locked (hopefully) and the red bar showing on the handle, the women would constantly shake the knob and ask was it full. It was survival of the fittest.

As I jockeyed to get closer I could see the toilets were of the traditional Turkish squat style. I pondered the practicalities of peeing into a plastic cup in a crouch position, while holding my handbag and coat above a floor I knew was going to be wet. I wondered how the Turkish women coped with their voluminous baggy pants, long thermal underwear, droopy cardigans and floor length coats. Even though they had friends with them to hold their handbags and bit and pieces, we all shared the same problem as far as aiming accurately was concerned. If you squatted in the normal position you aimed downwards but wouldn’t be able to see the cup. If you shifted so you could see the cup, your flow would be horizontal and hard to capture.

However, before I could work out how to proceed, I had to get into a cubicle. Even though I’d been waiting for ten minutes, almost everyone who entered the room after me had either already bagged one, or was standing in front of me. Putting aside my middle class upbringing I deftly side-stepped a barrel-like woman, gently elbowed another away from the door and thrust aside a third to claim victory. Once the door was tightly locked it was time to put the theory into practice. After some finessing I was able to hang my coat and handbag on the handle of the window. Settling into a comfortable position, I took some tissues from my pocket and did a ‘dry run’ of the procedure. I didn’t know how full the cup should be for the sample, but having no way of learning the answer I just went ahead regardless. Within a few moments I was finished. Still squatting and now holding a half full or half empty, depending on your point of view, cup of urine, I had to work out where to put it while I adjusted my clothes. There were no shelves or ledges that I could use. Looking about the empty space I saw the only solution was to place a tissue on a dirty bit of broken tile, and carefully balance the cup on that.

Used to clinics where you could discreetly pass your sample to a nurse who wouldn’t look you in the eye I was very reluctant to go outside, cup in hand. Knowing Kasım would be waiting I felt really embarrassed. He had a well-developed sense of humour and I didn’t want to be the butt of one of his many jokes. The minutes ticked slowly by before I finally steeled myself for the walk back out into the corridor. Luckily Kim exited the men’s at the same time and immediately captured Kasım’s attention. Holding out his cup, he asked if he wanted some tea. Kasım roared with laughter and I used the distraction to slip past him. I headed to the end of the corridor where a doctor was waiting with a trolley to collect our samples. When Kim joined me I asked him how he went. 
      “Well, I didn’t have any problems, but the guy before me must have. He came out trying to clean his cup up with a tissue,” Kim laughed and then added, “Turns out the black marker they use to number the cups isn’t waterproof after all”.

Mosque Life

Looking through to Sultanahmet Camii (the Blue Mosque), Sultanahmet 2007

 

The minber (pulpit) in Çinli Camii, Üsküdar, 2012

Behind Rustem Paşa Camii, Eminönü in 2007

Süleymaniye Camii, Fatih, 2007

                                         

The Şardıvan (ritual ablutions area) at

Eyüp Sultan Camii, Eyüp 2012

 

Women at Eyüp Sultan Camii, Eyüp 2003

The Sounds of Istanbul

The following is an excerpt from one of the stories in my book Inside Out In Istanbul
 

    … Each day certain sounds can be heard echoing down my street. Early in the morning I hear the eskici come through. These buyers of old wares and junk roam the streets dragging or pushing two-wheeled, flat barrow carts, calling out “eskici, eskici”, buying old books, lamps, bric-a-brac and knickknacks. The items they collect vary greatly. One day the barrow will be covered in tattered, ripped and torn penny dreadfuls and on another day they might pass by toting an enormous, elaborate cut glass chandelier. In the past these men worked to their own timetable, but now they are regulated by the local council, each registered and licensed with a barrow number. They walk very slowly down the street, and quite often I see a neighbouring kapıcı, the caretakers some of the apartments have, hailing them. The two men will disappear for some time, and then reappear manhandling an enormous old enamel bath, an airconditioner or some other redundant item no longer wanted. The local eskici often wait in Tutuncu Mehmet Effendi Sokak, our nearest shopping street, displaying high-end glassware and other items they think the passing housewives might like. Any item they think is worth something more is taken to a nearby antique shop.

    There is a particular ritual to the way they transact these negotiations. The eskici calls out to the shop owner, who comes over to where the eskici stands nonchalantly leaning on his barrow, usually smoking a cigarette. This is quickly stubbed out if the antiques dealer shows any real interest. Intense conversation follows, and money is mentioned. On one side the amount is always too high, and on the other, too low. You always know how low it is as the eskici will raise his voice in disgust, utter the Turkish remonstrance of amazement and despair “Allah Allah”, accompanied by raised hands and violent body movements. If he feels the offer is really insulting, he starts to move slowly away, indignation writ large on his back, but all the time he surreptitiously turns to see if the dealer will respond with a better offer. I can always gauge how well the bargaining is going by how close together the two men are.

    Less often the hurdacı goes by. Like the eskici, they wander the streets calling out their presence. “Hurdacı, hurdacı” they cry, buying up scrap metal and spare parts. They are doing really well at the moment, because the vogue for renovating has hit Istanbul in a big way. Every week someone is having their kitchen or bathroom remodeled, and the hurdacı often leave with a full compliment of old metal pipes that these days are being replaced by plastic ones. Since the earthquake in 1999, many old apartment blocks are being torn down and replaced by taller, sleeker models. The new apartments are very expensive so a lot of people have no choice but to stay put and update.

    Another type of street people you see are the Çingene, or Gypsies. In Istanbul they take the place of organised recycling programs, collecting and selling any items the eskici will not consider. They pull contraptions consisting of a metal frame on to which an enormous, dirty synthetic sack is attached. They fill these with cardboard and paper that they filch from the large metal four wheeled bins that sit outside each apartment block. Items are hooked out using vicious looking hand held metal claws, which clank ominously against the sides of the metal bins. They rarely speak to anyone, although from time to time they will sing most beautifully, and are low in the social order. When you pass them on the pavement they pull over to let you pass, unless they are going downhill at speed, with a full load. On the road they usually give way to cars, but sometimes horrify me by making mad dashes out into the traffic. It is the only way they can get to the other side, but it causes drivers to brake suddenly and honk their horns in anger and fright. The Gypsies are usually dark skinned people, and are made more so by rifling in the rubbish and handling printing ink all day. As they rip through the paper they throw on to the ground any unwanted materials, loudly and with abandon. Those who recycle wood from discarded chairs and sofas can spend up to an hour banging way at the metal frames to get to the pieces they want. When they have finished they put everything back in the bin or on the ground, with little regard to the noise they make.

    Everyday at around morning teatime, the simit seller comes by. The simitçi calls out “Taze simit, taze simit” in a garbled, mixed up accent, alerting anyone who might be at home and feeling a little peckish, that these round sour dough rings, covered in sesame seeds are fresh and available now! Our local simitçi is thin and swarthy, and always well rugged up against the weather, whether it is summer or winter. On his head he carries a round tin tray, piled high with fresh simits, and under his arm he clutches a three legged stand. After walking the length of the street and back he stops at the entry to our building, and sets the tray on the stand. Within minutes one of the women from an apartment two floors up from ours is leaning out her window and debating the freshness of his stock. Once satisfied, she calls down her order. While the simitçi selects the best stock to carefully place in a plastic bag, my neighbour lets down a straw basket on a very long string. Inside the basket are the few coins the simit cost. Down at street level the money is replaced by the neatly wrapped snack, and the basket slowly bumps back up the side of the building.

    Now that it is winter, the boza man comes around every night. His plaintive cry of “boza-bo” with a long drawn out emphasis on the bo, can be heard from several streets away, and sounds almost like a lament. Boza is made from fermented barley or wheat, and looks like a well-blended glass of porridge. It is served hot and usually sprinkled with roasted chickpeas. I have only tasted it once and for me it will never be an acquired taste. Some people swear by it as it is nutritious and filling, being high in vitamin B. Whatever their preference, all my Turkish friends agree you should never buy it from the man selling it on the street. Consequently when I first hear the boza man calling his wares at eight in the evening and again at eleven, I feel a terrible sadness. His call is truly heart-rending, and my imagination has him eking out the poorest of livings, due to everyone’s mistrust of him The melancholy evoked by the boza man is known in Turkish as hüzün and is part and parcel of Istanbul. Orhan Pamuk, a famous Turkish author I greatly admire writes about how the hüzün of Istanbul inhabitants casts a particular air and feeling over the city and I have to agree when I feel it too.

If you enjoyed this excerpt and want to read the complete version and more of my stories, click on

Inside Out In Istanbul to buy your copy today.

 

Meet me and buy my book in Istanbul!

For the information of those Inside Out In Istanbul blog followers living on the European side of Istanbul, I will be over your way this week. If you want to meet me and buy a copy of my book, I will be at Molly’s Café in Galata between 2-4pm this Friday afternoon (September 6). My book sells for 12 EURO/US$16 (I prefer foreign currency but accept TL equivalent). Please send me a PM so that I know to reserve a copy for you.

Molly’s café is at Sahkulu Sok no 12, between Galata Sq and Tünel. Check out the her website here. See you there!

San Francisco Turkish Radio

If you are enjoying my stories you can now hear me on San Francisco Turkish Radio. The producer Ahmet Toprak puts together a collection of traditional and modern Turkish music from groups around the world for every show. He gives details of films and art events as well as an up-to-date summary of the news from Turkey. Listen to the whole show or just tune in to listen to me (I come in at 53 minutes). I know you'll enjoy it!

Hamam - More Than a Bath

This excerpt is from a longer piece in my book  Inside Out In Istanbul Buy your copy today.

The Turkish Bath (Le Bain Turc) painted in 1862 by the 82-year-old

Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres. Currently housed in the Louvre

 

We ducked through a low door and stepped into a marble lined area where there were toilets and through to an antechamber with low marble benches and a few basins around the walls. From there we ducked through another smaller, lower doorway into the internal room of the hamam. The main room was shaped like a cross, with a large hexagonal marble slab in the middle. It sat directly under a dome with a skylight at the very top, and here and there other holes let in light. Around the walls of each arm of the cross there were three basins, and in the space between the arms there were two sauna rooms. At first glance there didn’t seem to be any empty spaces, as every basin was occupied by women and children engaged in washing themselves and each other. Despite the camouflage of the steam and the noise I felt self-conscious standing there in my underpants, clutching my towel and plastic washbag, but as I gazed around feeling a little lost, two old women gestured to us. Next to them two little girls were clearing things away from a basin and everyone shifted a bit to make room. We trod carefully on the wet marble floor and set up under the gaze of the two women who had waved us over. The two were less than five feet tall, and short and squat like most of the local women. They were obviously sisters, with the same slim legs overhung by enormous bellies and long grey hair in single plaits, all the way down their backs. After seeing us safely seated and beginning to set up they went back to their own toilette.

There wasn’t much space for the three of us so I sat and looked around while Susan and Yuki got settled. Opposite us was a tiny old woman, laboriously struggling to get to her feet. She was naked but modestly held a silver washing bowl in front of her genitals. It wasn’t really necessary because she had such a large drooping stomach nothing was visible. She had enormous trouble walking and her legs were grotesquely bowed from years of carrying heavy loads. As I looked around I saw other women of similar stature, and judged from their noses and eyebrows that they were locals. My male students bemoaned the lack of pretty girls in Kayseri, what with their hook noses and mono-brows, and I couldn’t help but sympathise. In another corner a woman was washing her two young children. The girl was tiny and stood covered in soapy water screaming as loudly as she could. Her brother, who looked to be about five, was distinctly uncomfortable at the sight of so many nearly naked women and kept trying to sidle away. His mother just grabbed him by his underpants and threw bowls of water over him at regular intervals.

A huge family group had taken over the central slab. Some were in bikinis, others just in knickers, but a few of the teenage girls were wearing knee length slips. All of them were drenched in sweat and water, so every contour was visible. Back in our corner we discovered that we didn’t have a bowl for pouring water over ourselves. I walked carefully back to the change room and borrowed one from the cashier.

We heeded the cashier’s instructions and began to wash ourselves in preparation for the kese. As we sat and poured water over ourselves, our nervous chatter gave way to a lazy, dreamlike silence. Our reverie in the steamy, cloudy, warm air was suddenly interrupted when a young girl approached us and said something to me in Turkish. I said pardon and she repeated herself.

“She wants to meet you,” said Yuki.

“Oh, OK. Hello.”

“Hello. Where are you from?”

“I am from Australia.”

“Austria! Do you speak German?” she asked excitedly while calling some other women over.

“No, no, Australia. Sydney.” Seeing her incomprehension, I added, “Kangaroo.”

“Oh, that is very far. I am from Kayseri. This is my aunt and this is my mother-in-law.” I nodded to the two women who immediately started talking to me in German. I’d learnt German at school so I could follow what they were telling me. They had both lived in Germany for thirty years but had now come back to live in their hometown. The girl was a recent bride and they came to the hamam together all the time. Usually the bride’s mother came but she slipped on the ice last week and sprained her ankle. I wished her a speedy recovery and then the questions began.

“Where is she from” asked the mother-in-law, pointing at Susan, “Is she from Germany?”

I laughed and translated for Susan. She too laughed, because with her blonde hair people either thought she was German or Russian. The first meant they thought she was rich and the second meant they thought she was a prostitute.

“America” said Susan. “And you”, they asked Yuki, “Are you from Australia too? Are you sisters?”

“No, I’m from Japan,” Yuki replied. This wasn’t the first time people thought she was related to either Susan or me. A lot of the women came from isolated villages and knew little about the world. Then the women started questioning me more closely. Was I married? Oh good, it is good to be married. How many years have you been married? Do you have children? Whenever women ask me these questions I know I am doomed to tell the truth because I always do. In order to adhere to Turkish tradition though, my partner Kim and I tell everyone we are married. It is the only way people will accept us as a legitimate couple. When I introduce him as my husband I feel vaguely uneasy but far less uncomfortable than if I tried to explain why we aren’t married. Besides, according to the law in our country, we are as good as married.

 “I’ve been married for 13 years. No, I don’t have children.” Before they can comment I continue. “I am the second wife. No, not two wives at the same time. My ‘husband’ had a wife before. One wife before but now they are divorced. They had two sons. The sons are men now. Children are very nice but they are a lot of work. They are a lot of trouble, we had many troubles with his children.” At this last comment their disbelief calms and they launch into a discussion about children, how they are a blessing and a curse. Some of the women seem more cursed than others judging by their expressions. The general consensus, at least to my face, is that I am a wise woman not to have children but I can see in their faces that they think I am rather strange.

They turn and grill Susan. She doesn’t understand their Turkish so Yuki and I translate. We embroider a bit and tell them Susan has a fiancé in America who is waiting for her. She is taking this year to see Turkey and then she will return to him and they will marry. She misses him very much and they speak to each other on the phone every day. Before they ask how many children she is planning to have Yuki gives her biography. The women say something to her in Turkish and they all laugh. She turns and says,

“I didn’t need to tell them I don’t have children. The aunt just told me she can tell from the shape of my nipples that I don’t.”

Once all the personal details have been supplied the conversation turns to our experiences in Kayseri and how we like Turkish food. We all say it is wonderful and the women offer us some of their food. They offer us hot pickles, which I love, so I eagerly take one. Susan looks at them with some disgust and asks what they are.

“They’re pickles, they’re called turşu. Take one. Oh, they’re usually hot, spicy, you don’t like hot food do you?” When she nodded in the negative I urged her to take it anyway. “Go on, just smile, put it in your mouth and when they’re not looking spit it out. There’s a bin over there. Just make them happy.” Despite her reluctance she did as I suggested. The pickles were really hot and just having it in her mouth was too much for her. Luckily the women didn’t see her spit it out, but when she said no to another one they didn’t insist. I loved them and ate what was offered.

Our friendship established, the three women went to join the rest of their family eating lunch on the central slab. They were really well prepared, with huge jars of homemade pickles, stacks of flat bread, olives and cheese. All of them sat or lay back on the marble, leaning companionably against one another looking for all the world as though they were at a picnic. However they weren’t in a park, but a hamam, and were taking up the space meant for kese and massage. When the masseuse came she tried to move them but they refused, so my first kese took place on a low marble slab by the wall. First she washed the area well and then indicated I should lie down. I lay on my stomach and she began to scrub my thighs. The pressure was strong and almost painful, but just as it became too much she softened her scrubbing. With an abrupt movement she spread my legs and scrubbed my inner thighs and I had to grit my teeth as she did so. Then she pulled my underpants up my buttocks and proceeded to scrub there. After she finished my legs she moved on to my back, pulling my pants down, making sure she didn’t miss anywhere. After a while, under the pressure of her hands and the rhythmic movements I was lulled into a trancelike state, punctuated by water dripping on my head from the walls above and the sounds of water elsewhere in the hamam.

A tap on my back was the signal to turn on my side so she could continue. She continued working around my thighs and calves, and then moved up to do my ribs and the sides of my breasts. These are areas I wash every day in the shower but having them scrubbed was different. It doesn’t exactly hurt but the feeling of the mitt on your ribs and breasts is odd. It’s not unpleasant, but it is something you want finished quickly. Soon enough it was over and I was lying on my back. I was pleasantly drowsy and not paying much attention to my surroundings. Suddenly the bride came over and before I could protest, popped a piece of pickled cucumber in my mouth. It was so unexpected that I started to laugh but the pickle was so hot I couldn’t. I swallowed it quickly and turned to nod my thanks. Catching my movement the masseuse followed my glance and commented about the group on the marble. She was annoyed with them for taking her workspace, but indulgently so.

By this time she’d finished my torso and was working her way down my body. My underpants were still pushed down at the back and wedged up my bottom, and now she pulled them down past my hip bones as low as was possible without being indecent. I didn’t have time to react to the discomfort because she was scrubbing away at my hips and lower belly and it was hard not to squirm. Then she plunged to my inner thighs again and I had to ask her to scrub more softly. It was excruciating but exhilarating as she scrubbed the dead skin off parts of my body, which rarely if ever saw the light of the sun. 

Grabbing my arm and tapping my leg again I realised it was time for me to sit up. This was the first time in the whole experience that we’d actually looked each other in the eye…