Thursday, 18 October 2007

Istanbul - Hamamis, Nergiles, Barbers, and unexpected things


Friday 12th
We got into Istanbul at midday from a 6am flight from Rootin' Luton. Luton isn't my favourite airport at the best of times, but being there at 6am is right out. It didn't help that we stayed in the equivalent of Luton's answer to Fawlty Towers the night before.

It's pretty cool to arrive in Asia and then drive across a suspension bridge into Europe. Our bus dropped us off by Taksim Square - the equivalent of London's Oxford Street I guess. We spent 20mins waiting for the 61b bus amidst the throng of people and vehicles. Marcus got harassed by a bunch of psychopathic seven year-olds that kept on deriding each other by shouting 'GAY' at one another. We suddenly saw the 61b sneakily pull out of nowhere and bugger off. We then cracked and got a taxi.

We booked into a funky little hostel in the Sultanahmet district. This area is on the curve of the Golden Horn peninsula, on the opposite side of the Bosphorus strait. It is a jutting piece of land that presides over the Marmara Sea. It's small wonder that this site was chosen for the Topkapi palace, the Blue Mosque, Aya Sofia, and the Hippodrome, to name but a few architectural wonders. We are just a few streets down from Aya Sofia itself opposite the demon barber of Istanbul - more on that one later.

We'd actually arrived at the end of the holy feast of Ramazan so everyone had gone bonkers and the Turkish Delights were flying. It probably wasn't the best night to hit Taksim Square - but we braved it like the little troopers we are. We got the low down on a few cool night-spots to go to from a guy in the hostel. The Tunel road was absolutely heaving. Turks love dressing up and Dolce and Gabanna seems to have been adopted as the national dress. We tried to get in to a late night club but we were turned away in disgust by the owner - probably for being heinous, pikey, gippos who's clothes didn't have a single D&G label on. So we just hung out with all the other reprobates in the cafes and had couple of beers.

Saturday 13th
Got up and headed straight out - eager to see the sights and explore this vibrant city. We didn't bank on the fact that the end of Ramazan meant everybody was on a bender for the week-end. The Sultanahmet district was awash with tourists. Not just foreign people visiting Istanbul, but Turks from all over the country visiting Istanbul. It was pretty manic. We decided to head for the Kapari Carsi (the Grand Bazaar) A place famed for the sheer scale of shops, merchants, and procurable oddities... for a price, of course. It was shut. Nevermind. These things happen. So our spirits not dampened, we bought a couple of pretty tasty kofte kebabs and went for a wander and a wonder. I insisted on getting chillies in mine - despite the worried look on the kebab shop proprietor's face. We strolled along the peaceful and almost deserted streets. The original Kapari Carsi is enclosed in a kind of Medina; a fortified market basically. This kind of makes sense given that most merchants spent a lot of money fending, or buying, off thieves and bandits. The modern incarnation of this market spreads far further. It runs all the way between the Kapari Carsi and the Misir Carsi (the Spice Market). We managed to get to the doors to the original market, where I stood quietly contemplating the massive door to the place - snot gently running from my nostrils and tears from my eyes as the chillies I had eaten slowly began to superheat my sinuses and turn my face the colour of a two year old having a tantrum.

When I'd recovered slightly, we wondered down and around the Cads surrounding the Kapili Carsi. Although everyone was on holiday apparently underwear was still fair trade on holy days for the only shops open were selling hot lingerie or D&G underwear.

We finally decided to end the afternoon by having a hamam. Hamams are Turkish massage parlours. They are actually middle-eastern practices that are also still practiced in many North-African countries. This rings true for many customs you find in Morroco, Tunisia, Egypt, and even many places in Greece. It emphasises the anthropological importance of the trade routes between these places. It's roots of course are with the Romans. I am not sure if this custom prevails into modern Italy. but they are a fantastic way to relax. There are a couple of recommended hamami in the Lonely Planet. We chose a reputable one over less known one - for sexual chastity more than anything else (and if you've ever seen Marcus in a skirt you'll know why - he's quite a looker) - it was pretty cool; if not a little pricey. Hamams are emphatically separated into male and female. in older times, the intrusion into the a female hamam was punishable by death; note that the converse was not enforced - in fact it was probably punishable by half the men in the hamam doing the funky chicken.

I have had a hamam once before, in Tunisia, methinks it was in Sousse - but I could be wrong. I was having a week's break there on my own. I have always been quite into massage as a therapy. A girlfriend encouraged me to give it a go once and I liked it so much I did a year's course in it, although I didn't formally finish. Anyways I'd read up on it and decided to give the experience a go. This was a much smaller and less touristy hamam. When I say less touristy I mean just me and lots of Tunisian locals. I rocked up and paid - I think maybe a couple of quid - for it. I was presented with a pair of shorts so antiquated they would have had Stanley Matthews cringing in embarrassment, however in the spirit of keeping an objective mind I donned them and went into the hararet. This place was basically a concrete sweat room. On either side were two massive stone blocks protruding from the wall at least the height of my chest. In the middle of the room were two, heavy set, barely clothed, Tunisians that were taking turns in alternatively scrubbing each other raw with pairs of massive abrasive gloves (I later found out to be called Kese) and pouring buckets of water over each other's heads. mmm... worried? Me? 'course not. Then I heard the grunt. I looked up to my right, up onto one of the protruding concrete blocks. At first I thought it was a mountain gorilla, escaped from a zoo somewhere and seeking refuge. I then realised it was human. Big, very hursuite, with an overhang on its forehead that cro magna man would be proud of, but definitely human. The guy sitting on top of this block nodded down to me. He looked like Bluto's bigger brother. Everything suddenly fell into place. This was my scrub buddy. My partner in abrasions. I have read of the term - having the colour drain from your face - but I'd never experienced it until right then. The irony of it: I was going to be scrubbed to death in a pair of 1920's football shorts by a man who had more hair and muscle on him than Desperate Dan on steroids. I think I may have started crying quietly at that point. As things turned out, I was just being a gibbering eejit. I ended up sitting on top of the block gesticulating away with him. The guy that finally turned up to give me my hamam looked like the Monty Python character from Life of Brian with the long beard and the loin cloth - the guy that broke his 20 year vigil of silence because Brian stood on his toe. He was about fifty and had a better sixpack than Tupac. He led me through to another room filled with lots of other men in loin cloths - why did I have to wear the Stanley Matthews shorts? - and he gave me the most amazing exfoliatory massage. It took about 45mins - during which he removed most of my epidermis using the Kese. He, like the mad Tunisians in the Hararet, kept dunking me with buckets of hot and cold water throughout the procedure. I swear by the time he'd finished I was so clean I was glowing like the Ready-brek kid. It was pretty amazing.

Anyways, I digress. So. Back to Istanbul: after being received in the camekan - reception area - we were sent upstairs to change into a skimpy towel and a pair of funky wooden clogs (no not D&G unfortunately) you we were taken downstairs through the cold room into the hararet. In this hamam the hararet is a palatial rotundum with an ornate, circular, platform to lie on. Basically you dump your clogs, lie on your back and sweat it out for about 20mins. It's very peaceful as you can hear the sounds of the city drifting in and out of range. Then one of the masseurs comes over and grabs you and goes to work. It was a very good massage. There was some serious bone-cracking manoeuvres that I had not experienced before. The use of the kese was not employed as it should be, I felt - but I did enjoy the lathering and the hot/cold water dunking. At one point I was turned over on to my front and found myself vis-a-vis with the upskirt, and basically family jewels, of another guy in front of me. I found myself pontificating on what a strange set of apparatus men are furnished with; and how it's not often you get to view said apparatus from such a weird angle; that and resisting the urge to leap up and run. Afterward, I was sent out to the sogukluk (the cold room). I wandered around there for a while a bit lost. In fact I was trying desperately to erase the testicular imagery I had experienced from my brain. Unfortunately for some reason it kept on getting mixed up with Kofte Kebaps; the subconscious is a strange place. I was finally found by a nice old bloke who wrapped me up like a Nativity virginal Mary and sent me upstairs to relax. Marcus came up a while later - looking very enigmatic and we dressed and headed off for a Nargiyle (more on that tomorrow)

There was on final act of pampering I wanted to indulge in, and that was to have Turkish shave. I had been cultivating a fair amount of stubble for a while and I wanted to get the full treatment. There is a barbers just across from our hostel. [Incidentally - you may, or may not know (or even be, or not be, interested) but a Turkish barbers does not have the traditional white pole with the red spiral running down it. This is because the English barber was also a very rudimentary dentist. Actually, let me dismiss the euphemism here: The ye-olde English barber used to rip peoples' teeth out with big pliers. The sign is a representation of blood running down an arm. Turkish teeth pulling fell under the remit of apothecaries and doctors. Barbers in Turkey have one specific job - to trim and shave hair]
So I went for a shave. It was pretty impressive as it goes and a very humbling experience. I say humbling because it is done with a cut-throat razor-blade. So you are basically subjecting a couple of major arteries to the whim of a stranger. For all you ladies, the analogy is getting a brazalian done with a meat-cleaver. He was pretty good at what he did. The only thing that did concern me was that he had the TV turned on to a program with half-naked ladies on for the entire shave. He spent quite a while checking my side-burns to try and correctly align them. In the end he cut them 1/2 centimetre shorter on one side than the other; probably around about the time the girls got down to their underwear on TV. He finished up the shave by covering me with a secret Turkish balm - that turned out to be Nivea, however what I really was not prepared for, either mentally or physically, was when he set alight to my ears. Yes. Just re-read that part again. He took a lighter and cupped my right pinnea and torched it. Now - My immediate reaction (and one that runs in my family) was to start laughing hysterically; there's nothing like the conflagration of one's ear hair to get you giggling. I was still laughing (and yes it did hurt) when I realised he was going for the other one. Many things were going through my mind at this point; why didn't my friends tell me my ear hair needed was so bad it warranted immediate incineration? I checked them just last week - had I had a sudden spurt? Is this normal behaviour? he looks quite sane. God did I tell him I wanted my Speedo line tidied up? Luckily he stopped there. Needless to say, I was a little reluctant on the tip. I have been trying to get Marcus to have one done ever since. What is it in our nature that makes us so eager to persuade others to suffer our pain?

1 comment:

Rom said...

"...why didn't my friends tell me my ear hair was so bad it warranted immediate incineration?"

Cos we knew what they'd do when you got to Turkey.

It *was* pretty bad though - you could have hung boubles off it come Christmas...