The Archive

Our new life

Another day, another drive. Everyone took their positions in the respective cars and we drove onto the ferry that was to take us across the strategically important Dardenelles and towards Gallipoli, starring Mel Gibson.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Pellet made his one navigational mistake of the trip, not noticing the sign for Anzac cove, to which were were headed. Instead, we rolled up the coast until we realised something was not right.

Then, on the age-old principle of 'never go back', we headed inland on a small road.

The road wound and ribboned across the peninsula, through villages where chickens roamed free and men sat around on plastic lawn chairs doing, as far as we could see, nothing.

This all came to a head as our convoy missed another turn and roared into the smallest village yet, past the village cafe (old men, check. Plastic garden chairs, check) and into a dead end.

Foxed, we prepared ourselves for our new lives, sitting in chairs and looking out at the dusty road, presumably waiting for something to happen to possibly rival the excitement of two cars appearing in the village, an event I am convinced the villagers will be talking about for years to come ('do you remember that day with the cars? Two of them, there were. I'll never forget it')

So it turns out there are exceptions to the 'never go back' rule. We went back, got onto the 'main' road again, and hammered round the windy tarmac to Anzac cove, slowing down only for the ocassional tractor and a cyclist we nearly killed (sorry).

We stopped off at a memorial to the Anzacs who landed at this point and stared up at the sheer slopes that faced them when they landed.

It must be said, we could not have got up those slopes in trainers and tee shirts, let alone loaded with equipment and with angry Turks shooting down with machine guns into the bargain.

Truly the Anzacs were brave and bold. Which sadly in war is not much of a substitute for being led by competent generals. They lost.

So, after paying our respects (consisting largely of being glad it wasn't us), we were back on the road to Istambul (or Constantinople, if you're a particularly intransigent Christian).

A few short hours later, we were pulling into the suburbs of the rather large city of Istambul. Dropping the cars off and, having seen the state of the traffic, opting for a metro over a cab, we were soon at the station nearest out hotel.

Problem was, we coulnd't quite figure out how to get from the station to the Hotel. Thus began our first experience with Istambul cab drivers.

Now I'm the first to say the Turkish people were super nice to us, friendly, kind and generally super. Even the ever-present 'do you want to buy my stuff' hawkers would leave you alone if you asked them.

Which is why you can be sure I'm not being racist or Xenophobic when I tell you Istambul cab drivers are lying, chiselling bastards.

The first one we met insisted it was a forty five minute walk from the station to the hotel (it was ten to fifteen). Still, we had our luggage and it was hot, so we decided to get cabs anyway.

Deciding we didn't trust that guy, we got into two other cabs.

Big mistake.

The one chosen by myself, Wig and Beardog was a twitchy, crazed crackhead who, we concluded, hadn't slept for five days and sustained himself by eating cigarettes and smoking meth.

It was one the hairiest drives, punctuated with sudden stops, jerky and apparently unecessary turns of the steering wheel and lots and lots of shouting.

After fighting through the traffic, we came to our stop, where the drive simply came to a halt, blocking not just the road we were on, but a side road into the bargain.

Cue more hooting and hollering as we got out, paid and ran off. For all I know, he's still there, shouting at the traffic and seeing things.

Anyway, we'd made it alive and celebrated with a few cheeky beers in the hotel before having a little dark time and heading out into the city for dinner and drinks.

There is, in Istambul, an area known as Beyoglu (outside old Constantinople, on the Galata side, where there was an old Genoese settlement and to whom St Paul wrote his epistle to the Galatians, if you're interested) where most of the going out happens.

So there we went. And ther we learned a) Chicken shish. Everywhere. b) all the good bars were rooftop numbers, so be prepared for stairs and altitude c) a terrible shortage of indie clubs. Who knew.

We drank and talked in a range of bars, which isn't that interesting for you. So I'll just add the highlight of the night for me, in which Patrick went out on his own for a short while, during which the town apparently did a 'Dark City' and suddenly he was lost.

Out of the blue Wig gets a call from Pat. 'I'm lost'.

No problem. I have a map and start to talk him in from where he'd found himself. We were just on the brink of locating his whereabouts, when he suddenly cries, 'Oh no, my battery is running out!'

I haven't heard anyone sound so forlorn for a long time. He was, he told me later, convinced he was about to get cut off and lost forever in Istambul.

Fortunately, I am the Mapicon and nobody gets lost on my watch. Minutes later, his phone was indeed dead, but we'd spotted his head in the distance.

Leave no Beardog behind.

Eventually, deciding an indie club was not to be found, we headed back in various taxis (all paying wildly different sums for an identical ride) and went to bed.

But wait, what is that sound? That wailing noise coming from the tower?

Why, it's the 'call to kebab'. Yes, there was just enough time for another chicken shish at the cafe around the corner which had a logo consisting of strangely familiar golden arches which we consequently designated Notdonalds.

They were going to see a lot of us over the next three days.

posted by Peter The Great @ 11:20 AM