5am. What on earth is that horrendous wailing noise? It was a muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer from the nearby minaret of the Ayasofiya, directly across the road from my room. Ah, that’s OK then. But hang on, wasn’t the Ayasofiya turned into a museum in 1935? Yep. So it’s no longer a mosque? Nope. So no-one goes to pray there any more? Well, actually, a small part of it has been turned back into a mosque in a concession to radical Islamists in the city. But who would go to pray there at five in the morning? Beats me.
Back to sleep. I finally got up at 9.30 and admired and photographed the spectacular view, and in particular the offending item which had woken me up at 5am. I attempted to go for breakfast, having finally worked out where it was served. I was intercepted by a shoe cleaner. I decided to pamper my shoes, as I expected I was going to put them through hell for the next couple of weeks. The guy did a thorough job on them, and then asked me for TL500,000. The cheek. He gave me some sob story about life being hard, having four children to feed (that’s your fault, not mine, I thought), etc. He even had the gall to look miffed when I gave him TL250 (I’ll drop the ‘000s from now on), although even that was very generous (I’m told TL100 is the norm, but I had nothing smaller).
Money. It’s all they’re after, it seems. A few dollars here, a few thousand lira there, and in the end, you’re skint. Istanbul is a fascinating city: 12 million people trying to sell you something.
Breakfast was OK, but it didn’t seem to be very Turkish. If anything, it appeared to cater for German tourists - rolls, ham and cheese. My TL100 tip would have to do for all three days, as it seemed a bit extravagant for one day’s breakfast, especially in relation to its quality.
My first port of call was to be the Sultanahmet Camii, the Blue Mosque. However, as it turned out, I scarcely got past the Ayasofiya when I was approached by a young chap called Büland - friendly, chatty, with good English (see photo on left with his cousin Ahmet). He invited me for a tea, in a spirit of friendship. Yes, of course. Naturally, he led me to a carpet shop. Here we go, I thought.
He sits me down, and two teas appear. I immediately tell him that I’m not buying a carpet. Who’s said anything about selling carpets, he replies. Then why bring me to your uncle’s carpet shop, I think. His uncle, Orhan, promptly appears, and Büland disappears. So much for drinking a tea in friendship. Another tea arrives, and the sales pitch begins. This is where I make my second mistake. When asked my opinion on different types of carpet, I show interest in silk on silk - only the most expensive type known to man. Fortunately they are too expensive, so I think I am safe - the only vaguely affordable ones are very small - roughly 80cm long. He shows me some of his better (i.e. more expensive) stock, and I continue to play along. We whittle them down to two carpets that I actually do like. A lot. Then I make the biggest mistake of them all - I fall in love with one of them, and decide I must buy it. However, he is quoting a ludicrous price, £1100-1200. He asks me what I feel I can pay for it, speaking from my heart, not my head. I see an easy way out of this purchase. £300, I say. He gives me a look as though I’ve just insulted his grandmother and questioned his parentage. Damn, I think, that was too reasonable an offer - he’s still interested in the sale. During the sales pitch he tells me all sorts - that he sells to Liberty’s, that he’s going to make a loss on this sale, but he doesn’t mind, as it’ll be the first sale of the week, and that will bring him luck for the remainder of the week, etc. He even tried to show me the economics of it - how long it takes to make the carpet, how much the workers are paid, etc., to illustrate his point. He even showed me his pistol in a mock threat. Anyway, gradually I am edged (bullied?) up to £350, my final offer. As we shake on it he says £400, and I instantly withdraw my hand. He leads me next door to meet another carpet salesman (i.e. his stooge), who shows me an inferior carpet for £1150. Orhan promises that, if I find a deal that is even £1 better, he’ll refund me and give me the carpet as a present. How much will I pay? £350. No sale. So I say that he wants £400, I £350, so we’d better compromise at £375. He hugs me and says £385, and I should spend the £15 on dinner. I think he meant I was paying £400, and he was buying me dinner. Oh bugger, I thought, I’ve just gone and bought a carpet.
With hindsight I’ve noticed that I did more damage to myself than he did - it was I who talked my price up, bit by bit...Daniel Johnson - prize idiot!
We finalised the deal, which amounted to TL34 million. He explained to me that while it might appear to be slightly more than £385 at that time, rampant Turkish inflation would take care of this. I was not convinced - and rightly so. After the sale we had another tea, and Orhan introduced me to a young Kurdish girl (I won’t reprint what he said to me about Kurdish girls at this point, as it was just a touch rude), aged 22, but I didn’t catch her name. Fortunately she didn’t speak any English - otherwise she would have understood what he’d just said about her. Anyway, she appeared to be his girl, yet she also appeared to be flirting with me. This did not suit me at all - she’s the girl friend of a guy sitting next to me who carries a gun, drives a brand new black Mercedes and probably has connections with the entire Istanbul Mafia. OK, slight exaggeration there, perhaps. But I did have two more nights to survive in Istanbul.
I left Orhan’s to get on with some sightseeing. I promptly bumped into Büland, and resisted the temptation to flatten him. Instead, I went back to my room to dump my precious new carpet, and then headed off to find Topkapi Palace - not too difficult a task, considering my hotel backed onto it. I stopped briefly to admire the church of Hagia Irene within the palace grounds. One of the earliest, and best preserved Byzantine churches, with not a minaret in sight - wonderful. It survived intact because it was used as an arsenal and general store rather than as a mosque. Unfortunately it was not open, though, so I could not see its alleged simple, clean interior architecture.
I then went to the Palace proper, and tried to remember it from the last time. The treasury had the hand of John the Baptist (yeah, sure), as well as other treasures, such as the amazing Topkapi dagger - it has to be seen to be believed. In another part of the palace is the room in which the holy relics are kept - a hair from the beard of the prophet, his footprint (about a size 14, I’d say), his sword and those of his first caliphs, etc.
All this sightseeing made me rather hungry, but the choice of food in the restaurant was abysmal - so I decided to make do with the views of the Bosphorus instead. Lunch would just have to wait. The views of the Golden Horn from the Baghdad Pavilion were also amazing. Pity about the hordes of people, though. The queue for the Harem was enormous - until we found out that it was closing for lunch and wouldn’t reopen for an hour and a half.
Topkapi Palace
This prompted me to leave the palace - I was getting too hungry. On my way out I stopped at the Hagia Irene once more, only to encounter two typically English biddies (C1/C2, ca 50+) who didn’t have a clue what they were looking at, although they did clearly like it. I told them what it was. In detail. They thanked me and beat a hasty retreat. Was it something I’d said?
Onwards, to the Yerebatan Serayi - the "Underground Palace", actually an old Byzantine cistern. It was fascinating, and very tastefully done. I sat in the cafe sipping apple tea and listening to the classical music (Vivaldi and Bach, if my memory serves me correctly) echoing through the cavern. It was all a bit surreal really - after all, it’s just a glorified empty reservoir. There is a rather splendid pair of Gorgons's heads, each turned on their sides to divest them of their magical powers. And who said the Christians weren't superstitious!
Finally, lunch, at around 2.40. I was starving by this time. I went to the Pudding Shop, of Midnight Express fame (apparently), just off the Hippodrome. So at last I had my first köfte since my arrival the night before. A bit like my tradition of frites in Belgium, I suppose. Just as I’m paying, who should walk in but Orhan. I decline his invitation to join him, as I must be pushing on, but I agree to join him for a drink later at his place. We’ll drink Raki, our national drink, he says. Oh good, I say. Oh God, I think, I hate aniseed!
Time for the Hippodrome, the old horse racing circuit and Constantinople’s favoured site for massacres. Justinian had a large segment of his rebellious population put to death here in the sixth century, and in early nineteenth century the Janissaries, elite slave-soldier class of the Ottomans, were butchered here. There are also some curious souvenirs brought here by past emperors. There is a tasteless fountain supplied by Kaiser Wilhelm II. Then there is the Obelisk from Egypt, commemorating a famous (at that time) Egyptian victory over the Hittites in Northern Syria in 1500BC. Originally it stood twice as high as now, but it broke in two when Theodosius had it brought here in AD390. There used to be a famous statue of horses in bronze nearby, but that was nicked by the Fourth Crusade in 1204, when it was used to pay back the crusaders’ debts to the Venetians. They now adorn St Mark’s Square.
Another statue is the bronze spiral imported by Constantine the Great. It originally had serpents’ heads, and commemorated the Greek victory over the Persians at the battle of Plataea in 379BC. It is made of bronze from captured Persian armour, and was originally dedicated to Apollo. At the end of the line there is another Theodosian obelisk (he seems to have been fond of them - what would Freud have said about this?) which used to be clad in bronze. More semi-precious metal for the crusaders to nick...
The Blue Mosque stunned me - I had regarded it as a piece of typically inferior Ottoman architecture (ahem!) compared with the Ayasofiya. However, having studied it from all angles, and compared it with the Ayasofiya across the way, I was forced to change my mind. It is amazing, brilliant. The major domes are supported by lesser ones, creating a picture of domes cascading downwards in perfect classical symmetry. The Ayasofiya by comparison looked clumsy. That's quiet an achievement. I was speechless. That’s an even greater achievement.
I had to wait before entering it because afternoon prayers were in progress. Inside, the mosque was beautiful, covered in Iznik tiles. However, the great pillars supporting the great dome (aka elephants' feet) were somewhat intrusive and clumsy. So that was the price for exterior perfection.
I left and returned to my hotel, partly because I was tired and partly because I needed the loo. Fortunately I found a stack of paper, so I was able to nick a couple of rolls to carry around town with me and to take onwards to Syria. I was home and dry, at last, my omission before leaving London covered. I now remembered why I had forgotten it: I had not included it on my checklist of things to pack, as it was too obvious!
I had just sat down to write my postcards and my diary when the wailing started once more. Better go for that drink. Allah give me strength. At least no-one pestered me that day - it must have been the stress of buying that carpet, written on my face. I ate in a Turkish-food McDonalds-type-of-place. After this I went to Orhan’s shop. He was playing backgammon when I arrived, and arranged some Raki to be bought for me. I then chatted to Büland and his cousins about this and that (mainly football, me feigning both knowledge and interest in this topic) while he sold a carpet to a Yank and a Brit. They had been brought there by a Danish ex-footballer who knows one of the members of the Galataserayi team, who in turn did his national service with Orhan’s nephew (this is getting very convoluted!). Orhan had to go out with these customers, so he said I should come back tomorrow and we’d go out with a couple of girls he could supply, he knew a good restaurant with belly dancing. Great, now he’s turning into a pimp, I thought. Nonetheless, he didn’t half remind me of Han Stiphout (my boss in Holland), both in looks and mannerisms. Meanwhile, I asked Büland what the significance of the beads was, which everyone seems to carry around everywhere - were they some kind of religious prayer beads or something? He told me that they were just a toy, something to fidget with. He gave me a set. I see what he means - they are addictive!
So, roll on tomorrow. Every time I looked up at the Ayasofiya from my room, I wondered what this strange wooden contraption was, up on the buttress of the great dome. It looked like an Onager to me. As an Onager is a large Roman siege catapult, I thought this unlikely. However, even after studying the photograph I took of it, I have been unable to identify the purpose it served. I had plenty of time to ponder this question, as I was being kept awake by a stray dog’s barking nearby. I couldn’t wait for 5am.
Last Updated on 09 November, 1999