Another message from P'Hi. I am fine. Crossed Tehran and did 1100km. Nobody speaks English. They don't knows the word vegetarian. No bank gives money on Visa or Mastercard. Here they don't have any traffic rules. No body knows how to drive.'
A Man Called Mumi Running the hotel I'm staying in, The Optimist, is Mumi (short for Muhammet). He rents the place, situated opposite the grandeur of the Blue Mosque, and is trying to make a business of it. Within our limited scope of understanding we've become friends and I've got some small reduction on my splendid room plus tea/coffee for free. This is quite something as Mumi is entirely money-driven. Money-driven, an optimist, but not particularly efficient at the extraction of the green stuff, especially considering what a prime spot he has.
Anyway, if you're in the market for a trip to Istanbul, and it's a great place not to be stuck in, then you won't find a better-situated (if a little noisy) place to stay for around 30 Euros per double. So here are Mumi's contact details:
Hotel Optimist,
Atmeydani No.68,
Sultanamet 34400,
Istanbul,
Turkey.
+90 212 638 9580
Mail: muhammet.maden@yahoo.com
The Turkish MeccasMumi's friend, a bright-eyed, intelligent stick of a man pointed around the place, trying to explain: 'Turkish Mecca Number One,' he said, rubbing together his fingers in international finger-speak for money.
Mecca number one is a highly discussed topic. Everyone wants to know what you earn, what your vehicle costs, what you just paid for dinner. It's much like further east in asia - there is no taboo when it comes to discussing one's finances.
I'd been out for the afternoon with Mumi. We'd visited some tearooms overlooking a cemetery, with longer views over the city and the busy Bosphorus. From here it was just a short walk the Mumi's place and there I met his family (wife and two kids - see pic of daughter), living in a slightly run-down one-bedroom flat. The area, by no means the worst in Istanbul, showed quite a difference in living standards between here and urbanised areas further west.
Next we went to a bar - very much a mens' club -. It was much as the one described by P a few posts back: all gambling and beer swelling, a perfect example of Mecca Numbers Two and Three. Smoking, as my red eyes will testify, is Number Four.
For Mecca Number Five take a look at any Turkish media. Most has an underlying smuttiness... another news report from the beach at Bodrum, including some completely random close ups of buttocks and groins; a group of men huddled around a laptop with porno eyes. Then there's the trip to the 'disco'.
If there are Istanbul Meccas Six and Seven they are picnicking among heaps of litter and fishing from the sea wall.
Fiery pantsStrolling at any time in the small park below me are gaggles of unfathomable Koreans and tourists of a less flocksome nature. And pursuing these are the touts.
'Hello - where you from?' And so it begins, hopefully in the tout's mind to end in a carpet shop with a nice, juicy commission. Now tanned, and probably recognised, I'm no longer subject to their attentions. If I were a blonde woman, then I'd obviously still be getting hassle - sex for free! If I were an old, dyed-blonde woman, then it might not be for free, but there'd be plenty of young men who are trained to keep their food down while on the job. Sword-swallowers on their days off?
Another type of tout looks for tourist men sitting at tables. He'll join them with tales of returning from business in Germany, how he is going to a special Turkish belly-dancing show that evening. He'll fill the air above a coffee table with lies. His real intent is to take the tourist to a disco and take a commission on Mecca Number Five.
Such a geezer approached P and I in The Optimist one night. We were tipped the wink by the guys here and managed to swerve his plan... after he'd bought us a couple of large beers. Ah, small victories...
Istanbul at nightTrouble sleeping. Seagulls wheel in the lights above the huge mosques like swirling fairy lights. Perhaps the buildings warm in the day, providing night-time thermals or maybe they just like the limelight.
Honking clanking, the rubbish men come at 1am. But before they appear the recyclers go to work, ripping open the rubbish bags and stamping on aluminium cans and plastic bottles to compress the load. Just as it feels all will quieten down, out come the street cleaning machines, tending the valuable tourist real estate. By three all is relatively quiet and by four I can sleep.
What next?I'm done with the waiting, the promises of a solution that never materialises. The process with courier firms goes so far before either communication stops or I get a 'no' for an answer - a used bike is dangerous goods and needs to be signed off as such, but there is nobody in the whole country who can do such a job. The Iranian agent suggests I may get a visa if accompanied by a guide, but this will take 'at least ten days' to arrange - and how the hell is he going to guide me anyhow? I need to move or I will, as the waiters joke, end up marrying a Turkish girl and growing old in Istanbul.
So the most likely solution as I write is to take the bike back to Romania where I have friends who can probably help. I may even leave tonight to backtrack the 1000 miles. One way or another I will be in the Himalaya by the month's end. At the moment, 'another' is the Mecca Number Two favourite.
Damon
