How did an Aussie woman with no Turkish ties end up in a place like this?
August 22nd 2008 11:01
Category: No Category
I have just spent twenty minutes trying to explain this for a film crew from the Netherlands, as I have done on countless occasions. Despite the fact that Istanbul is the latest, hottest, hippest city in Europe, some people are still puzzled as to how an Aussie woman with no real connection to Turkey could end up here.
I had no family ties, no job connections and no man I met on a holiday to return to. And not only have I ended up in Istanbul, but on the border of Fener and Balat along the Haliç (Golden Horn) in Fatih. A place crowded with kids and their parents, living two, three or more to a room. A place of no doorbells, where children shriek, Anne, kapiyi aç! (Mum, open the door) throughout the day and night. A place of mixed race and religion, struggling to come to terms with its poverty and state of disarray when its past is such a contradiction to its current circumstances. A place brimming with discontent and anger as neighbours yell and curse at each other over the smallest things: a car parked near a front door, water streaming over a balcony as carpets are washed, a plastic bag of household rubbish dropped from a fourth floor window spewing its contents as it hits the road, barely missing a passer-by.
I myself curse when on a still, windless day the putrid smoke from the hamam (Turkish bath) across the road snakes its way through the finger-width gaps in the poorly constructed sash windows and fills my house. In winter when the streets are a fog of smoke as all manner of wood, particle board, cardboard and paper are burned to keep the poorly insulated houses warm. When late at night, cars roar down the streets, horns blaring to celebrate a wedding, a departure for the army or a win for Fenerbahçe (football team). When I arrive to see my newly painted walls awash with scribbles from the bored and disrespectful children of my neighbours. Why oh why did I buy a house in this forsaken place?
But then the skies clear, the sun comes out and I walk the five minutes or less to the banks of the Haliç and wander along toward Unkapani; and the confluence of the Bosphorus and Golden Horn. If the mood strikes me, I jump on one of the numerous buses toward the bustling spots of Eminönü or Taksim. In minutes I can be in Tünel, slip inside a café, order a coffee and virtually shift into another time and place, the thoroughly European Istanbul, that trendy city that everyone is talking about.
In less time I can be struggling with the crowds shopping in and around the Misir Carsi (Spice Bazaar), grabbing a freshly baked lahmacun (flat pizza-style bread with the thinnest topping of minced lamb, tomato, parsley and pepper) or lor peyniri (ricotta-style cheese) for baking cheesecake from the shops at the entrance by the Yeni Camii (New Mosque).
An equally quick bus or taxi ride and I am back in my own patch, finishing my shopping at the numerous local stores just a stones throw from my door. Kaymak (clotted cream) from the Kaymakçi; (clotted cream seller), freshly rolled yufka (thin round pastry a little like filo) from a shop crowded with traditional kadayif (shredded wheat pastry), revani; (dried cake based for soaking in syrup) and the like. Bread, perhaps the slightly dense koy ekmegi (village bread) or the heavy whole meal loaf for a change. Then to the greengrocer who knows me well and tells me that their oranges are the best in Balat, that I should not go elsewhere but to him when I run out of the stock I told him I had at home.
My arms laden with all sorts of produce, I make my way home. The kids in the street are gathered around my door, sitting on the only intact, clean marble doorstep. They scatter as they see me coming, avoiding my usual rebuff. After stepping inside, I close the heavy 16-bolt door behind me, drop my bags and sit on the stairs, knowing that within minutes I will open the door again to tell whichever child it is not to leave their signature etched into the woodwork.
I sometimes still wonder to myself how I managed to arrive here. The full story of that journey is longer than this article and will unfold in the following weeks, but the fact is my life in Istanbul revolves around this noisy, crazy village. I know this because upon returning from an extended trip to Australia over Christmas and New Year a couple of years ago, a neighbour told me of plans to build a tramway from Eminönü to Ayvansaray and that all the houses in our street were going to be demolished. I had been so looking forward to coming home, to being in my own place that my initial reaction was gut-sinking dismay. The thought of moving, of re-establishing another house was exhausting to say the least, but I could at least leave Fener and Balat. But would I? The reality is I would not. I would find another house, restore it and stay in the midst of the chaos, the pollution and the madness of this place.
I had no family ties, no job connections and no man I met on a holiday to return to. And not only have I ended up in Istanbul, but on the border of Fener and Balat along the Haliç (Golden Horn) in Fatih. A place crowded with kids and their parents, living two, three or more to a room. A place of no doorbells, where children shriek, Anne, kapiyi aç! (Mum, open the door) throughout the day and night. A place of mixed race and religion, struggling to come to terms with its poverty and state of disarray when its past is such a contradiction to its current circumstances. A place brimming with discontent and anger as neighbours yell and curse at each other over the smallest things: a car parked near a front door, water streaming over a balcony as carpets are washed, a plastic bag of household rubbish dropped from a fourth floor window spewing its contents as it hits the road, barely missing a passer-by.
I myself curse when on a still, windless day the putrid smoke from the hamam (Turkish bath) across the road snakes its way through the finger-width gaps in the poorly constructed sash windows and fills my house. In winter when the streets are a fog of smoke as all manner of wood, particle board, cardboard and paper are burned to keep the poorly insulated houses warm. When late at night, cars roar down the streets, horns blaring to celebrate a wedding, a departure for the army or a win for Fenerbahçe (football team). When I arrive to see my newly painted walls awash with scribbles from the bored and disrespectful children of my neighbours. Why oh why did I buy a house in this forsaken place?
But then the skies clear, the sun comes out and I walk the five minutes or less to the banks of the Haliç and wander along toward Unkapani; and the confluence of the Bosphorus and Golden Horn. If the mood strikes me, I jump on one of the numerous buses toward the bustling spots of Eminönü or Taksim. In minutes I can be in Tünel, slip inside a café, order a coffee and virtually shift into another time and place, the thoroughly European Istanbul, that trendy city that everyone is talking about.
In less time I can be struggling with the crowds shopping in and around the Misir Carsi (Spice Bazaar), grabbing a freshly baked lahmacun (flat pizza-style bread with the thinnest topping of minced lamb, tomato, parsley and pepper) or lor peyniri (ricotta-style cheese) for baking cheesecake from the shops at the entrance by the Yeni Camii (New Mosque).
An equally quick bus or taxi ride and I am back in my own patch, finishing my shopping at the numerous local stores just a stones throw from my door. Kaymak (clotted cream) from the Kaymakçi; (clotted cream seller), freshly rolled yufka (thin round pastry a little like filo) from a shop crowded with traditional kadayif (shredded wheat pastry), revani; (dried cake based for soaking in syrup) and the like. Bread, perhaps the slightly dense koy ekmegi (village bread) or the heavy whole meal loaf for a change. Then to the greengrocer who knows me well and tells me that their oranges are the best in Balat, that I should not go elsewhere but to him when I run out of the stock I told him I had at home.
My arms laden with all sorts of produce, I make my way home. The kids in the street are gathered around my door, sitting on the only intact, clean marble doorstep. They scatter as they see me coming, avoiding my usual rebuff. After stepping inside, I close the heavy 16-bolt door behind me, drop my bags and sit on the stairs, knowing that within minutes I will open the door again to tell whichever child it is not to leave their signature etched into the woodwork.
I sometimes still wonder to myself how I managed to arrive here. The full story of that journey is longer than this article and will unfold in the following weeks, but the fact is my life in Istanbul revolves around this noisy, crazy village. I know this because upon returning from an extended trip to Australia over Christmas and New Year a couple of years ago, a neighbour told me of plans to build a tramway from Eminönü to Ayvansaray and that all the houses in our street were going to be demolished. I had been so looking forward to coming home, to being in my own place that my initial reaction was gut-sinking dismay. The thought of moving, of re-establishing another house was exhausting to say the least, but I could at least leave Fener and Balat. But would I? The reality is I would not. I would find another house, restore it and stay in the midst of the chaos, the pollution and the madness of this place.
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