Midnight Express

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An anomaly of Turkish life was played out every morning in the breakfast room at our hotel. The Turkish travellers visiting Istanbul far outnumbered the overseas tourists and most of them adopted a more conservative form of dress. A flat screen TV mounted on one wall played VH1 videos on every visit, the majority of which were best described as risque. The locals - fathers, wives and daughters - some clad in full burkhas, sat glued to the soft porn videos loosely camoflaged as euro-pop tunes. It was with great interest therefore when I came across a professional photo shoot at Sirkeci Railway Station, featuring an attractive pop princess. An aide advised that they were shooting the stills for part of the latest video. He informed us who we were watching, but alas I failed to write down her stage name. We were assured fame and fortune was within her grasp. I settled for a few snaps, shadowing the professional who was encouraging the sultry look. The empty rail tracks formed the backdrop.

Sirkeci was once the home of grandeur, as the terminus of the Orient Express. Today - save for pop princesses and the entrance to the new Mamaray Express under the Bosphorus - it is largely empty and neglected. The old restaurant didn't seem to be doing good business and the International Ticket Office staff seemed under-employed. The old main entrance is effectively boarded up and hidden behind a petrol station. There is a small museum detailing the history of the Orient Express and other railway memorabilia. It is free and worthy of 15 minutes of your time. The museum keeper looked up from reading a novel as we walked in. Meanwhile outside the pop princess kept on looking sultry, the professional checked his light readings and the ticket office continued to while away the day. I subsequently tried to identify my "model" by looking through a few CDs in a music store to no avail - to be honest, as with the music they are all carbon copies. On a more positive note, the said music store was packed with brand new vinyl proving that the revival is on an international scale.

After the brush with Turkish pop royalty, we headed across to the Spice Market. A brief interlude in the New Mosque was included on the way. We used up more of the world's carrier bag supplies and headed insie the Mosque. The Spice Market is no longer exclusively spice and is just a smaller version of the Grand Bazaar. Miranda continued to monitor her Turkish delight prices and value, although she paid equal attention to various nut purveyors. "I am the Turkish Del Boy", announced one of the traders ........... "born in Canterbury". A business card was thrust into our hand for future reference. It made no mention of Canterbury and there was no company Reliant Robin embossed on it. We had originally thought about going to the Hagia Sophia, but they don't do Mondays. Asia it is then. We crossed the busy road on a footbridge in search of the correct ferry station at Eminonu and surveyed our options to use our trusty Istanbul cards.

There were 3 choices of destination, Uskudar, Haydarpasa or Kadikoy. We could of course have opted to go back to Sirkeci to get on the Mamaray train, but the water appealed more. We applied our Istanbul cards to the ticket barrier and boarded a Kadikoy ferry heading for Haydarpasa. As with other great cities built on water such as Sydney or Auckland, there are many transport options but the pull of travelling on the water somehow helps put a place into perspective. The Topkapi Palace loomed high on the ridge as we made our way across the Bosphorus. We alighted at Haydarpasa some 25 minutes later, which was just off the map I was carrying. We headed for the familiar landmark of the Haydarpasa Railway Station, which we had just passed on the waterfront as the ferry docked. We weaved our way across the excuse for a bus station with it's chaotic lines of shared minibus taxis departing for all points east. If Sirkeci was the end of European rail travel, Haydarpasa was the beginning of Asian rail travel. The Bahgdad line didn't really look fully operational. The platforms as far as the eye could see were jam packed with semi derelict rolling stock, although the other aspects of the station continued to function. The station barber was still cutting hair. The only customers for the restaurant seemed to be a few more of Istanbul's cats in search of a free meal. We took advantage of the fact that the toilet attendant had popped out for lunch and saved ourselves 2 x 1TL (or toilet tokens as they became known during the week).

We had some vague plans to visit the Florence Nightingale Museum during the week. The only snag was that it is in the middle of the Selimiye Army barracks, so you can't just wander in off the street. The protocol is that you try and arrange it through your hotel by faxing a copy of your passport ID to the army barracks a minimum of 48 hours in advance and then waiting for the good people in Turkish Army circles to ring the hotel and advise you of an appropriate appointment. The hotel had clearly never had such a request or heard of the Museum before, but eventually the Head of Guest Relations took up the challenge of making said arrangements. As we were in the vicinity, it seemed logical to try and blag our way in anyway without our appropriate appointment. There is also a Florence Nightingale Monument in Uskudar, but there seemed no obvious entry to the Haider Pasa Cemetery without wandering across the train tracks. We wandered up the hill in the heat ...... yes it was 23 degrees ........... and down by the side of the Haydarpasa Hospital. The military connections were clear by the number of guns on display and the checkpoint entry for visitors. A helpful local pointed out the cemetery entrance in the bend of Burhan Felek Avenue (although you might want to download some more precise instructions from the Comonwealth War Graves Commission website to avoid chance). The Nightingale Monument is immediately obvious on your left as you enter, although the French writing visible from the side where the path is completely fooled us until we'd traipsed round the rest of the cemetery. The graves are a mix from the Crimean War, World War 1 and other later Middle East conflicts with sections also reserved for British and European diplomats who had served in Constantinople. We were now back on the map we had, except that the problem that I had somehow dropped it somewhere now presented itself. The 2 cemetery staff hunted us down to hand it back, before they greeted their more important visitors - 2 Scots in a black Landcruiser with diplomatic looking number plates. Our paths would meet again later in the week!

We pressed on to the Barracks. The Man in the Middle's tried and tested approach of trying gates and doors as a means of entry appeared as though they could be life threatening on this particular occasion. A brown sign displayed on the main road pointed out the direction to follow for the F. Nightingale Muzesi. A sliding vehicle gate, lots of surveillance cameras and Turkish soldiers on the hillside seemed to be an obstacle to investigating further. There was no human presence with whom to discuss our options. The gate slid open a bit and an armed soldier waved us up the driveway. We proceeded cautiously. The soldier pointed to his colleague in the booth to the side of the next barrier. The benefit of his English language skills allowed him to sit out of the sun all day. Alas, no appointment - no entry. He checked his list. We were not on the list. The soldier advised us of the protocol detailed above, but helpfully wrote down the correct telephone number with an extension, 02165568000 ext 3032, as "the one on the internet is wrong". We made our way down the driveway to the main road under the watchful eyes armed with our new information.

The first bus that appeared displayed Ukudar, so hopped on into the unknown. The Maidens Tower appeared on our left so I was confident we were on the right track. The bus stopped in the terminus near the ferries back to Europe. The centre of Uskudar was awash with election flags and battle buses. There was much flag waving and loud music, as the respective parties tried to gain the attention of those coming from or going to the ferries. The general chaos was not helped by an on-going construction project by the Mamaray station. We dined in a waterfront cafe - excellent fish sandwiches at the generally accepted normal rate of 6TL. The Ayrans were better value than on the European side and there were less invitations to study the menu.

In time honoured tradition, Miranda insisted on a walk up the main street on a Turkish delight price study mission. A wheel barrow of sheep's heads went past us in the opposite direction. We retreated to the Salacak Fatih Mosque, probably the prettiest mosque on the trip. There were no plastic bags on offer on the Asian side, so we carried our shoes. We returned to Europe.

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Photos

Haider Pasha Cemetery
Florence Nightingale Monument