Araf means: limbo… between life and dead where you can’t be alive or dead and you can’t touch either of them.
Arafta bir yabancı means ‘a stranger in Araf.’
This was the name Eda gave me. But Eda comes later.
Ten Hours on a bus: I practiced Turkish; by the end I could say, hello, goodbye, and I don’t understand. Writing, iPod, reading, etc; the day flew by. With less than 60 km to Istanbul, I didn’t even need to pee.
I ate grapes all day, saving my red banana for later. My trail mix was almost depleted and I found the chocolate my Japanese girls had given me in Rila. Probably more food than I needed for sitting on my butt all day.
Everyone acted like they were a superstar getting off the bus. Waving like a marathon winner. Strange.
I got myself into a fix at the border crossing, because I said a Turkish hello, “merhaba” to the Stamp guy and he started talking to me in Turkish. I quickly had to drop back and putt, but made it through ok. Be aware, crossing in to Turkey, you will need to first get a visa, then have it stamped. The visa will cost somewhere between 10 and 30 euro depending on the country your passport was issued from. Just out of suspicion, I had put a 20 Euro note in my pocket that morning and it took care of the USA entry visa price and left me 5 euro to spare.
Text messages in Turkey seem to be a light invitation to communicate at some point in the future, rather than a dialogue as it often becomes in the USA. This is something I was first introduced to at the bus station, Otogar, while messaging my soon-to-be hostess about what bus to take since the normal bus to BeĹźiktaĹź, the neighborhood I needed to get to.
After consulting with a nearby gentleman who spoke no English, I took off for a taxi stand on the far side of the station. Little did I know he meant “Taksim,” a popular part of town near Beşiktaş, and not “taxis.” With a little luck, I made it to Taksim, then into a taxi and even landed at Eda’s, my hostess, apartment (on the top floor) in the middle of her birthday party. Perfect timing.
As I climbed out of the taxi, Lady Gaga filled the night with volume, glitz, and glam that contrasted the tight streets and aged buildings surrounding me. Eda yelled at me from what appeared to be the roof of the building that I should start climbing.
After a quick shower, I managed to forget everyone’s names in 2 seconds flat and promptly had most of my expectations of my first Muslim country smashed.
My first thoughts about Turkey were that there would be no alcohol anywhere. I thought that all the women would have heads covered and wear full length robes. Basically, I thought it would be Saudi Arabia with a little less sand.
I am Jack’s failed education.
There were a few bottles of wine out on the table, many wine glasses in hands, and even a bottle of local firewater called Raki. All the girls were wearing tiny party dresses and murderous heels. American music was pumping out of the speakers and the dancing was probably enough to get someone killed if we really were in Saudi Arabia.
It was a little slice of heaven.
Around 3 in the morning, after everyone had left, save myself and a few of the girls, we had some visitors.
This is where I learned that the police in Istanbul can be as dangerous as anything else. The girls promptly forced me to hide out on the balcony while they did all they could to prevent the cops from coming into the apartment. The cops hung out asking the girls for phone numbers, asking to come in, asking for a drink, etc, until after some time they gave up and went on their way.
I am still not clear on why I had to hide from the police, but it seems that the police have huge ego issues and would not have taken well to a foreigner being alone in an apartment with three pretty local girls and may have caused some trouble to assert their collective manhood. Whatever.
Later, I was informed that there is a special branch of the police that wear black and red. These guys can shoot you and not break a sweat. If they ask you for something while you are in Istanbul, comply.
Istanbul is dope. I am glad I took the chance and came down. I had initially planned to spend the weekend in town, and instead stayed for over a week.
Eda wasted no time in showing me the ropes. We walked all over the city, took trams, telefericas, busses, and taxis. We saw the Blue Mosque, Aya Sofya, the Bosphoros, “More than Freedom” street, and numerous other sights. We ate medya dolma, crazy snaggletooth fish, and awesome Turkish salads and snacks.
We even met a complete street urchin harassing all the tourists, so I had to get a picture with him.
She taught me how to make Turkish coffee, a recipe I have since passed on to you dear reader here. At one point, through her Turkish accented English, Eda offered me “horrible tea.” Intrigued, I agreed and found that it very closely resembles herbal tea. It was a rare and valuable treat to make and eat breakfast in a peaceful home.
On the second night in town, Eda and I went to her professor’s apartment a little further into the city and played music, danced, and enjoyed the amazing views from the balcony overlooking the river. The morning light left little to be desired.
As much as I wanted to continue to stay with Eda, I had already made plans to visit more pending friends in the city that week, so I packed up and rolled over to Taksim to meet up with my new host.
Derya and I were loosely connected through a common friend in the United States; Nasreen. Derya and I had been communicating via emails to coordinate my stay with her in Istanbul. Little did I know it was actually her neighbor who had been doing the writing and Derya actually spoke very little English.
We met up in Taksim and rolled out in an illegal taxi (more on this later) across the city to a beautiful neighborhood on the side of the ocean named Avcilar; to another apartment on the top floor of the building. Climbing this many stairs has slowly been convincing me to lighten my pack load.
Alex and I quickly formed Team America, and set off to conquer the city. Billiards in Tukey is apparently quite different from anything I have ever seen. The one rule seems to be that rules can be made up or discarded at any point in the game. It was a circus.
Isatanbul has gigantic arcades filled with games, rides, and all manner of diversions. We rode a shark, shot up Team Fatt with laser guns, and even made some new Chinese friends.
After our adventures in billiards, we rolled out to grab some Chinese food. While chomping down on sum flied lice, Alex and I started talking about the differences between all the languages we heard throughout the day. I told her I knew a little Chinese, and that I would tell her what to say to the guy at the counter on the way out. I did just that.
Ni hen piaow liong.
As Alex rolled this off her tongue to the diminutive Asian gentleman at the counter, his head lifted, his eyes focused on her intently, and his eyebrows rose. We waved and left, and she thought for a moment before asking me, “What did I just say to him?”
I replied, “You told him he had a beautiful body.”
We made people turn and stare we were laughing so hard while walking through the mall.
Team America: shenanigans.
I was told that I would be able to enter the mosques as long as I removed my shoes and was respectful. On the last night of Ramadan, this is not the case, apparently. I was turned away from the Blue Mosque for not being a Muslim. Not a big deal, just be aware it may happen and be cool. Come back later and you’ll get in. I did.
While in Latin America, I generally kept my hair cut pretty short, or not at all. My hair was getting dangerously close to the “not at all” class when I came to Istanbul.
I made mention of this to Alex and she volunteered to cut it for me. I figured, if things went badly, I could simply shave it afterward. Here is the end result. The Iraqi Haircut or the “Half-American.”
Staying in Avcilar was a blessing in many ways, one of them was the close proximity to the sea walk. A 3+ mile stretch of park and walking path that led along the sea. Running is difficult or frowned upon in many parts of the city, so following some breakfast and a little rest, I took the opportunity to get half-naked and go running in the smell of the sea air and the light of the sun. It was marvelous.
The Princess Islands are a cheap boat ride away from CavataĹź; a popular tram stop near Taksim. For 3 Turkish Leva and an hour of your time, you can head out across the sea and visit some of the islands nearby that have some great scenery and smell somewhat like manure. I would recommend getting out there early in the day as it takes a while to walk around and find the more attractive parts of the island.
If you catch a late boat back to the mainland, you will hit Cavataş around the time that dance clubs near Taksim start winding up. It’s a short walk, and quite worth it. Eda met us on the street in front of the Starbucks that was becoming my defacto meeting place and led us to our next location.
A club named Araf.
As with every interesting city, the streets and markets are littered, absolutely covered, with shops selling tourist junk. My admonition is to do all that you can to avoid purchasing anything from these places. Walk around the grand bazaar long enough and you will start to see places with Turkish people shopping there, or even queuing up to buy things. Look long enough and you will find the Turkish coffee shop that sells the best Turkish coffee in Istanbul; Turks line up down the street to buy it. The coffee is cheap and fantastic; buy all you desire.
Fun fact about Turkey, they have Engrish goods second only to Japan.
When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me I was acting like a “whirling Dervish” and I had no idea what that meant. i just assumed it was something like the Tazmanian Devil. Actually seeing the Dervish at work was something of an anticlimax. I know that I fail to understand the depth of the whole process, but they were not nearly as ferocious as any Looney Toones characters I had seen.
After a few days with Derya and friends, I had an arrangement to meet another couchsurfing host near Taksim, so we bid adieu and I rolled out. My new hostess’s name translated as “September Love.” She lived on the top floor.
She struck me as a person who has real problems relating to the people and the world around her until I found out she was only 22. Then I realized she was just young. We went out and had a blast with some of her friends on Independence steet.
Though she was fantastically kind in opening her home to me, a stranger, she made some really strange comments that made me feel unwelcome the next morning, so I arranged to meet up with Eda at lunch and packed my bags and rolled out again. A solid plan all in all, as Eda and I used the next couple days to cook up some masterpieces and really enjoy the days.
Alex and a friend Mahmoud from Jordan met up with me on my last night in town to go check out Sultanahmet and the actual interior of the Blue Mosque. It was quite fetching; truly otherworldly for one such as I. The mosque and all these treasures are fantastic things, and at the end of the day they are just that; things.
These magnificent buildings all take a back seat in value to the fantastic people of the city: the guy at the tram stop who overheard me talking to myself and gave me the directions I needed, the people who opened their doors to a wandering stranger, the wild old Turkish ladies that held an impromptu photo shoot with me at the Dolmabache gardens.
In a wild stroke of chance, my good friend Brandon from the USA arrived in Turkey on Saturday; my last full day in town.
Alex and I made plans to meet for lunch before I left, and Brandon and I took off down Independence Street. It was fantastic to talk to a friend from back home and share some of the insights and information I had about Istanbul with him. We walked around, listening to the screaming throngs of Turks in every bar and restaurant with a television as they stood glued to the basketball game unfolding in front of them between Turkey and Serbia.
We walked down Independence street moments before midnight, marveling at how empty the street was, as normally it is wall to wall with bodies when suddenly the Earth shook.
The ground moved; windows rattled loose; wind came from nowhere, tainted with shisha smoke and the smell of Turkish coffee blowing every loose object down the street with the sickening speed of a wind born of chaos.
Turkey had just won the game.
Immediately previously invisible Turks poured out of every doorway, alley, and window into the streets screeching and clawing at each other like some Godly war. Within seconds it was impossible to hold a conversation or walk in a straight line. Instinct born from experience drove me to cover my pockets with my hands as bodies pressed against me, but no one cared.
In the din, Brandon and I shared a friends’ farewell and both rolled off to get a decent night’s sleep. Or at least I hope he did.
As soon as I got to the top of the stairs I found a celebrating Turk tackling me and babbling about the game. Eda was as excited as I have ever seen any American sport fan. We made some more horrible tea and chatted for a couple hours before I was simply unable to keep my eyes open any longer.
It is hard to describe just how precious it is to wake up to a friendly face after so long on the road. Walking in to Eda’s room and sharing our first waking thoughts and wild recounting of our dreams is something I treasured. We took turns making breakfast while I stayed with her and she whipped up some magnificent food while I cleaned up and made ready to leave yet another place that had almost come to feel like home.
Almost.
Stomping down the stairs with my pack on, I can’t say I will miss climbing so many stairs, but I will definitely miss the friends I made here.
Alex met up with me at Taksim while I was waiting for the shuttle to take me to Otogar and my bus to Sofia (yuck).
We missed the shuttle so set off on a mad dash across public transportation and taxi cabs in some of the heaviest rain I have seen outside of a monsoon; we were both soaking wet by the time we made it to the station and the sad parting of Team America.
Leaving, the color has been bled from the day. Everything is muted, as a bad photograph of the land around us. There is no direct sunlight and the clouds are a dim blanket obscuring the heavens and muting the earth. The air is heavy with rain and my thoughts are heavy with somber reflection.
Sofia and the upcoming days hold no attraction for me. I am hoping that Albania does something to kick me and turn me around.
I’ve put a barrier around myself with an iPod and headphones. I can’t stop writing, hoping that something worthwhile comes out of it.
