Istanbul, in light of...

The layout for a travel piece I wrote last month for the Hindustan Times in Mumbai. The section editor did a fantastic job, I think:



In the story, the main theme is duality - the duality of the Bosphorus, the Bosphorus bridge, and of Istanbul itself - that perspective has evolved recently of course. But when I read over the piece, there is some element of the multicipity I dove into in my last post. I talk about the mixing of identities, for example, and the subsequent emergence of a multi-layered dynamic that enriches a city like Istanbul. Rather than succumb to Brand Inc., or buckle under the weight of dollar signs pouring in from the West, Istanbul's artists and culturists have managed to create a new kind of creative space, one that promotes experimentation and hybrid forms of expression.

I think this has something in part to do with geography and something as well to do with history. In geographical terms, situated as it is at the fulcrum of the mythical East-West divide, Istanbul has always been a place where ideas meet and mingle, occasionally clash but generally co-exist in some form of mutual tolerance. The sheer weight of competing ideas forces concepts together, fuses them in this atomistic nucleus, this city anchored at the heart of the global corpus.

But Turkishness stubbornly survives, which I think is a historical reality proceeding from the very recent past. Turkey, not too long ago, was the driving force behind one of the greatest empires the world has ever seen. That Ottoman glory still resides in the consciousness of Turks. Its legacy is the source of the huzun Orhan Pamuk writes about in his memoir, Istanbul: Memories and the City, that existential melancholy hovering over Turkish identity like a lingering storm cloud, like a Paradise Lost. Despite Kemalism and the nationalist twitch that has forced the Turkish Republic to mask its Ottoman identity behind a thin veil of European-ness, the core, the foundation, the skeletal structure is, and I think always will be, Ottoman. Turks secretly cling to it, this remarkble heritage; they privately worship it, like pagans in Mecca. It informs almost ever aspect of their lives and in my humble yabanci opinion, they are the richer for it.

So, here is the story in its naked entirety. Hope you like it.

There is something bordering on the sublime to wake up in Istanbul on a misty January morning and hop on a ferry across the Bosphorus. That magical word itself – Bosphorus – invokes an almost ritualistic reverence, as powerful as the river Styx or Mount Kaf, a place whose history is steeped in myth and legend. But unlike these other two mythical geographies, the Bosphorus actually exists in our everyday world which, for me, gives it an added power. Its sound alone - Bos-phor-us – with its lyrical cadence and transition from hard consonant to soft trailing breath echoes the realities of the city it dissects, a place simultaneously real and unreal. It is a word, like the waterway it signifies, with the power to captivate and bewitch, a dangerous word with a thousand snaking meanings that will turn any person caught in its phonetic web to stone.

But what does the Bosphorus mean and where does it fit into the fabric of Istanbul? I’ve lived in this enigmatic city for 3 years now and still the answer’s a mystery. For me, this legendary waterway is more of an experience than a fact; a place more to be lived and felt than understood and early morning is the best time to experience the Bosphorus, so that’s when this journey will begin. It will not be a typical trip through Istanbul: you won’t, for example, find the Aya Sophia or Blue Mosque here. In my Istanbul, those historic sites already have their rightful places secured; to linger too long on them would be to miss this overwhelming city’s subtler tones. Besides, descriptions of Sultanahmet, Istanbul’s tourist district where these impressive Byzantine and Ottoman structures are located, may be found in any dime-store guidebook or hackneyed travel website, home of the guided tour and group discount. This trip doesn’t require a guide, only an ounce of adventure and the flaneur’s heart. And it’s better embarked upon alone, with an eye for mischief and a mind seeking subversion.

The Bosphorus is steeped in a subversive history. Whether it’s wars or royal intrigues or the burning yalis Orhan Pamuk describes so vividly in his memoir, Istanbul: Memories and the City (these being the wooden Ottoman-era mansions whose fiery demise became a sort of spectator sport in the mid-20th century), the murky depths of the Bosphorus is a vast library containing all of the scandals, secrets and sultry subterfuges of Istanbul. Setting off from one of the many jetties on an ageing ferry is a little like drifting over the city’s undisclosed past; this is not only the cheapest way to get around Istanbul, but also the most spiritual.

Tragically, the old ferries are slated for retirement, succumbing to the march of time and the lure of technology. As Turkey edges closer to the European Union, these relics of a more languid past fail the test of modernity: they’re too slow and too dangerous to meet western standards. But riding them, which I’ve done for hours, is like stepping out of a stiff tuxedo and into a soft terrycloth robe. Sitting on one of the wooden benches on the open-air stern, feeding simit bread (a little like a bagel) to the hordes of seagulls who have learned to trail these lumbering monoliths while curio salesmen pitch their wares and tea sellers carrying trays of Turkish chai defy the logic of listing, this is the proper introduction to the spirit of Istanbul. Entering this world is as easy as finding one of the piers dotted along both the Bosphorus and Golden Horn, in Eminonu or Karakoy or Kasimpasa districts, and letting the current take you – up the Bosphorus, past Tophane and Dolmabahce Palace, into Besiktas where a quick change of boats will take you further, on to Ortakoy, a sleepy historic district under the shadow of the Bosphorus Bridge.

That bridge, the preeminent link between East and West, the first in history and still a potent symbol of Turkey’s fundamental duality, is an endless source of contemplation. What does it mean, this arcing collection of concrete and steel? Does it cancel out the power of the Bosphorus or reinforce it? I’ve often thought about these questions seated at one of the many cafes lining the Bosphorus in Ortakoy. The best answer I can give is borrowed from Fatih Akin’s 2005 documentary Crossing the Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul. In this moving film about the music of Turkey, the image of the East-West divide so endlessly debated in the fractured world of the 21st-century is completely and utterly shattered. “Both sides of the Bosphorus are connected,” Selim Sesler [www.selimsesler.com], Turkey’s top clarinetist whose talents in gypsy music are one of the subjects in Crossing the Bridge, tells me. “They feed each other. They need each other to survive.”

The Bosphorus Bridge, built in 1974, represents perhaps the initial phase of Istanbul’s spiritual renewal. Expressed in terms of music and art, this renaissance has gained phenomenal momentum ever since the bridge’s construction. Istanbul is buzzing with arts and culture these days, a buzz that is simultaneously Turkish and foreign. Authorities in Istanbul have promised to make this city the cultural capital of Europe by 2010; the Istanbul Biennale rivals its Venetian counterpart, perhaps betters it, some say, for its freshness of perspective and experimentation. Orhan Pamuk winning the Nobel Prize for literature, UNESCO naming 2007 the Year of the Mevlana, in honour of Jelaluddin Rumi, the 13th-century sufi poet whose whirling dervishes and entrancing devotional music are perhaps the best-known avatars of Turkish identity, the explosion of galleries, theatres and music halls, all point to a creative spirit residing at the heart of Turkishness.

So if the Bosphorus is the avenue of Turkey’s past, Istiklal Caddesi in Beygolu district is the road to its future. But it’s also not as simple as that. The past informs the future in Turkey. At Araf, a bar on Nevizade Street running off Istiklal in the Galatasaray neighbourhood, Selim Sesler belts out classic gypsy tunes for the next generation of Turks who respond with the gyrating belly dance, an art passed on from mother to daughter for generations. In Babylon [www.babylon-ist.com], Beygolu’s prime concert hall in the Tunel neighbourhood, Mercan Dede [www.mercandede.com], Turkey’s prince of electronic music fuses sufi styles with modern sounds while a few blocks away, at the Galatasaray Dervish House, Mevlevi Sufis whirl (every Wednesday for the public) to sounds of centuries-old songs played on the ney, one of the oldest instruments in recorded history. Ceza [www.cezafan.com] leads the charge for a booming hip-hop scene and Baba Zula [www.babazula.com] amazes with its unique brand of underground fusion music (and their own fulltime belly dancer).

All of these bands and performers can be found within a few square kilometres of each other, alongside dance schools, galleries and, of course, bars, clubs and restaurants, many of them towering over the city on rooftops with spectacular views of that ever-enduring symbol – the Bosphorus, always present, like a persistent memory on the edge of consciousness.

Turks obviously know how to have a good time. But in contrast to cities like Bangkok, for example, where nightlife and contemporary arts are almost completely borrowed from the West, Istanbul offers its visitors a distinctly Turkish experience. Spend a night in Cicek Pasaji, an ornate indoor courtyard lined with meyhanes (traditional Turkish drinking houses) and you will experience an onslaught of Turks drinking raki (an aniseed drink much like ouzo) and singing classic Turkish songs accompanied by wandering street musicians. Walk down Istiklal and listen in on the incredible variety of street musicians playing ney, saz, darbouka, kanun and many other instruments which are still a mystery to me. Or simply escape the mayhem down one of Beygolu’s myriad of alleyways lined with cafes where Turks gather to discuss philosophy and politics (yes, it’s still hip to do that in Istanbul) and smoke water pipes (narghile) over a game of backgammon.

There is no denying that all of these facets of Istanbul are Turkish, but there is also no denying the distinctly Western shades that colour them. Night after night, day after exhausting day I’ve walked this vast city’s streets, digging for a unified identity only to find another shard that sends me off in an entirely new direction. After a night or two of this I often take another early morning ferry ride up the Bosphorus and think about this for a moment: what is Istanbul? Is it the conservative Fatih district where Quranic recitations dominant the airwaves? Is it the great mosques designed by Sinan? Is it, instead, the Bosphorus Bridge, that symbol of the East-West divide that really is no divide at all? Is it music? Or is it that tea seller and curio salesman? Is it perhaps all of these things? Or possibly none of them? The answer, I’m sure, is locked away somewhere in the depths of the Bosphorus itself, and she will not give up her secrets lightly.