LX 1800, to a wintery lunch in Istanbul

The airbus A330 touched down softly on the tarmac but immediately screamed and juddered as full reverse thrust tried to change the thermodynamic principles of our 100 tonne host. Snow covered every aspect of Kloten Airport except the runway. After a few too many coffees, I boarded a smaller A320 and sat in the empty cabin.

“We are totally full returning” said the Maitre De Cabin. I lay out on three seats and snoozed across eastern Europe. I awoke over what the electronic map said was the sea of Marmara. The thick cloud made it impossible to verify this, so I got my copy of Milliyet and read the front page. A journalist called Murat Bardakci had written a book about the mass transportation of Armenians in 1915. The article said that according to the Ottoman Archives, 934,000 people were moved or converted faith. It went on to say that was very difficult to say how many had died and how many resettled. I was astouded, the Turkish press were openly discussing the Armenian Question on the front page.

But Bardakci, the "Young Turks" and the Ottoman state was forgotten as we popped out of the clouds, skimmed over the coast and bounced on the runway. The pilot used maximum reverse thrust and we stopped at the taxiway of his choosing, halfway down the runway. Swissair (I refuse to call it Swiss) were obviously in winter landing mode.

I breezed through Immigration and Customs and hopped into a car with my brother. “hang on, he said, the driver is an ex policeman, and wants to collect his pistol” Said my brother. “I did not even know he was armed”.

With a smile, Ahmet effendi, a polite, slim, middle aged, grey haired retrieved his pistol and drove us into town. Istanbul was grey wet and miserable. The traffic was a thick jam thick that moved at a constant fifty miles per hour.

After all the flights, I wanted to get some air, so we went to the Eminonu waterfront and stared at the Bosphorus. It was five o clock and the commuter ferries and passengers were running in large numbers. The Captains of the half century old vessels would manoeuvre between fishing vessels, Car ferries and pilot boats at speed; They would then berth, disgorge, embark 800 people and disappear into the darkness. The whole process was impressive, not just in its delicacy, but its receptiveness. Four berths were being worked constantly. It was cold and after a couple of hours, My brother wanted to do his laundry, and so I headed back to the flat and fell asleep.

I woke early this morning, the flat was quiet, and so I padded around in my bare feed and made myself some coffee. looked out of the kitchen window, it was light, but not yet dawn. I sat with my coffee ostensibly working on my pictures, but n reality looking a the ever changing dawn. Living 5’ south of the equator makes for pretty, but very short sunrises. But Istanbul in January, was not going to reveal herself quickly. Every five minutes the light would shift and change in the subtlest of ways. Pink would appear and disappear, red would shine on a building and then be obscured by cloud. It took a full hour for the city to be properly, lit, and even then it was eleven am, before the light brought out the princes islands. From the 14th floor I could see the planes landing in Yesilkoy airport, the hospital that Florence nightingale started, and the barracks that houses Istanbul’s Asian Mechanised Infantry Brigade. The four towers looking dutifully down on the docks.

Soon after I hurried from the flat, it was time to meet Murray Hanon, our new dive instructor. I made my way quickly down the road to the metro and arrived at Taksim Square, disdaining the use of the funicular I walked down Iskiklal Caddesi. As I came level with the French consulate, I found an convoy of riot buses, trucks and an armoured water canon. The water canon started to do an awkward three point turn facing the door of the consulate. For a second, I thought that perhaps M. Sarkozy had upset the Turks and that the police were about to assault the consulate, but the vehicle kept up its awkward turns and eventually faced the opposite direction. The busses disgorged riot policemen who cheerfully strapped on Japanese samurai style body armour, while discussing who was going to hold which chemicals. The riot policemen had their own combat medics, sub machine gunners and firemen. They exuded professionalism with a degree of weariness but no testosterone, and no machismo. I got the impression, that they would much rather not have to bash, hose down or gas anyone and just smoke cigarettes and drink tea. I wondered what was going on. Were the police defending the French or someone else? I had no time to think, I needed to get on.

I continued down the road and met up with the reason for the riot police. A cross section of trade unions and associations were protesting, very peacefully, but very loudly against the Israeli Military Action in the Gaza Strip. The Turks marched in lines, shouting and chanting, leaving space for pedestrians to move around them, and stopping occasionally for traffic. Leftists mixed with well dressed middle aged ladies in their protest. They were preceded by a series of senior un armoured police officers with walkie talkies. There was obvious civil co-ordination between the protestors and the Riot Police officers. Just in case the co=ordination became less civil, the officers were protected by a brace of policemen, one of whom carried what looked like a federal riot gun. I snapped off a couple of shots and, not wanting to be late strode off with new purpose to my appointment. I stumbled across the golden horn and paused only to record the amateur fishermen and made it to Sirkeci Railway station. Here too, the Cevik Kuvetleri were guarding the station with riot shields and gasmasks and batons, while a police officer talked to some individual protestors.

The senior officers and the protesters were chatting happily, about what could and could not be done. Both sides seemed to have an understanding of the role of the other. I could not imagine this respect or mutual respect in England or Europe, but then I also knew that if a riot started, the fight here in Istanbul would be like no other. Gas, water canon and sticks would fly on both sides.

While I waited, and watched, I started to think. Turkey to me was like this mornings dawn, ever changing , unpredictable and yet assured. Revealed to the viewer only in small doses Turkey is a confused place. Many people, have written articles about Turkey being on a crossroads, at a crossroads, or now, as I see it, the guardian of the crossroads. Or that “Turkey is poised on the edge of a crisis” “the government is weak” “Government too strong” “Non compliant with the EU” “corrupt” “about to be toppled by the military” “Turkey must choose its friends carefully”. In its time, every writer had said that Turkey was about to have something monumentally negative happen, and yet the Turks always pulled back from the brink. The headlines constanly felt like: "Village about to be trashed by savage storm" or "Village saved from savage storm"

I have come to the conclusion, that the Turks don’t care less about all of those sentiments. The people of this Nation, just get on and do their own thing. Uncertainty is a part of Turkish life, that’s why, when in Turkey, you drink your coffee and look at the grounds. For that’s about as good as your forecast gets.

Few western journalists that I can remember have ever got Turkey right. Really worked it out, and seen the wood for the trees. The clichés come out about two continents, and bridges and two cultures, and some of the clichés are indeed true, but they come, they look, they apply western European principles to a complex Eastern Nation. I had only been back for a day, and yet nothing fazed me. Not the protesters, the high prices, the surly cabdrivers, the police and the drizzle. This was, after all, the only city in the world that straddles two continents, so everything abnormal, is usual;ly normal. (now who’s using clichés).

My thoughts were interrupted, a tram pulled up and Murray got out. He waved from a distance, weaved between the heavily kitted Policemen with a polite “afedersiniz”, and shook my hand.

“Hello there, how nice to meet you” he said with a smile. I instantly liked Murray, he was polite and unassuming. He would be joining us in Pemba in a couple of weeks, but had been a resident of Istanbul for over half a year.

“There seems to be a series of riots in the offing, shall we go somewhere for lunch?”

“Sure, but to be honest…..” he pointed lazily at the Riot squad, “I think the Turks have got it all under control”

---

---