Out of Istanbul

by Bernard Ollivier

And so that’s where I’ve decided to begin to walk, allowing myself, however, a first deviation from the old caravan route. The ancient camel path, which starts in this district on the Asian shore of Istanbul and heads east to Adapazarı, hugging the Sea of Marmara, became a road in the early twentieth century, and then a highway. Hardly interested in starting my trek amid so much engine noise and the foul smell of exhaust fumes, I opt for a detour, following the Bosporus upstream. Although I wish to keep to the route of the caravans, it goes without saying that I’m more interested in honoring its spirit than its exact course. Far be it from me to attempt to do the work of a geographer or historian. Rather, as I go along, I hope to share some of the thoughts, feelings, and perhaps even perils that were part of the everyday life of caravanners and traveling merchants. I expect that it will be in the villages, and not in the cities, that I’ll come closest to the atmosphere, traditions, and way of life of those who once traveled these routes. I therefore intend to avoid major thoroughfares. But in the original stopover points, I’ll make a point of ferreting out any vestiges of the ancient road and especially of the caravansaries, the wayside inns that housed men, merchandise, and animals and provided for their rest, food, and safety.

  The road that runs along the Bosporus—a kind of slender canal connecting the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara—is not a highway; what a pity, though, that it carries just as much traffic as one. I’m straightaway in the mad rush. Turkish drivers are maniacs. Zooming along at top speed, gesturing, honking; zigzagging to avoid potholes when there are some, and zigzagging all the same when there are not: they’re a constant threat. It stems from a general consensus: in this country, pedestrians survive only by categorically recognizing that drivers always have the right-of-way. Last night in Istanbul, I saw an old man get knocked down by a motorist. The driver cursed his victim profusely, and the old man couldn’t seem to come up with anything to say in his own defense. That’s how it is here: drivers reign supreme, so pedestrians are always wrong. Of course, the street is no place for pedestrians. But Istanbul’s narrow and impractical sidewalks are really no better. So, where is one supposed to walk?

  For the time being, I’ve decided to walk against the traffic, so I can see danger coming head-on. I slowly press on along a kind of parapet, the base of which is being splashed by waves from the strait. I’m ready to jump into the water should a car come too close. Trucks and cars brush past me, racing by in a roar. It’s forbidden to walk under the two suspension bridges. The first arch is a military zone. Barbed wire and soldiers guard it: stone-faced men, each holding an assault rifle across his chest, one hand near the trigger. Warning signs proclaim: No cameras allowed. I will come across warlike scenes like this a thousand times. Occasionally, the road veers somewhat away from the bank, and in those places, it’s lined by opulent-looking houses protected by walls and warning signs that all walkers recognize without any need for a translation: Beware of the Dog. The residents of these houses must be deaf; the loud rumble of the vehicles is unbearable. On my guard, hemmed in by cars and trucks, I’m not really able to enjoy the scenery. I walk slowly, heedful on this first day of my feet, which seem to be holding up, and of my shoulders, which are starting to burn where the straps of my pack cut into them. All perfectly normal and expected; my skin just needs to thicken a bit.

  Yes, I’m carrying a little too much weight. In Paris, I lightened my load ten different times. But how much lighter could I go when the container itself weighs only two kilograms (4.4 pounds) and I’ve got nearly three kilograms (6.6 pounds) of books, documents, and maps to bring? Everything else is small potatoes. Aside from the clothes on my back, I’ve packed two T-shirts and a pair of boxers, an extra pair of socks, and a pair of pants made of very thin, lightweight material to help me cope with the heat. I’ll come to find out—too late, of course—that the fabric is slightly transparent, but when wet from perspiration, it becomes perfectly see-through. So I only wear them in the evening at stopovers. I have a sleeping bag and a bivvy sack as well as an emergency blanket. Pocketknife, toothbrush, and ultralight camera, I weighed everything twice before cinching the straps. But I couldn’t get under twelve kilograms (26.4 pounds), on top of which I must add a two-liter jug of water and a little food: bread, cheese, and fruit. All in all, a total of fifteen kilos (33 pounds).

  On the opposite side of the Bosporus, plowed by rumbling cargo ships, the city’s old fortifications are still in good condition. But the view of the strait—its name means “cow-passage”—is worse off with its two suspension bridges and a high-tension power line, which spoil the panorama.

  After about fifteen kilometers or so, I have to make a right turn in the village of Paşabahçe (pa-sha-ba’-chuh). There are no road signs anywhere, not even the smallest signpost. No directions for roads, cities, or villages. I will have to ask the locals. At 1:00 p.m., I stop in a small, working-class restaurant, a lokanta. It’s my first opportunity to put my Turkish to use without my Istanbulite interpreters beside me. The result must not be very convincing, since the owner interrupts me with a wave of his hand and goes off to get the dishwasher. The short-statured fellow washes his dishes wearing a two-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and a tie. He tells me in English that he used to be a math professor in Albania. He hoped to immigrate to France but was denied a visa. He makes much more money here as a dishwasher than he did as a professor back home. After a cup of tea offered by the owner—in Turkey, tea is always included with a meal—I set off again.

  Much like an athlete before an important event, I’m very attentive to my body. A small pain in my side, another in my knee, a cramp in my foot, and I start getting worried, although I’m aware that these are, in fact, proof that I’m in shape. On the Samsun, I inspected my feet nearly every day. No concerns at all. But even so, my mind is hardly at ease. After these first few hours on my feet and as I head back out onto the road, I remain vigilant, on the lookout for the least sign of fatigue in my body and especially in my feet, the walker’s most precious possession. In Paris, going over my map, I planned to take it easy for the first few days, doing only short stages. There are only six or seven kilometers to go this afternoon, since I plan on stopping in Gümüşsuyu (gu-mush’-soo-yuh), twenty-five kilometers into the journey. For my first day, that’s a reasonable distance.

  But where, oh where is that road on the right? I ask two walkers, who, very kindly, offer to take me there themselves. They lead me a few hundred meters down the road . . . to the bus station. I had, however, been very clear about asking for the road to the village, not the bus. But they would never expect, even for a second, that I would want to walk those seven kilometers! Somewhat to rouse them, I tell them in my rudimentary Turkish that my final destination is Tehran. They are dumbstruck. I’m not really sure whether their stunned incomprehension is because of my limited vocabulary, or because of my plans. I rephrase what I said, and this time, I think they’ve grasped it. Now there’s no doubt whatsoever: they are dealing with a madman. I can read in their eyes such disbelief, combined with pity and mistrust, that I decide to abstain from casually telling people about my undertaking in the future. I set off once again, and as I do, I can feel the weight of their stares on my back.

  Having made very little progress, I keep walking in circles. No matter whom I ask, no one has ever heard of the village of Gümüşsuyu. I’m reminded of ventures into Paris’s outlying suburbs, when I was looking for the Rue de la République or the Rue du Président Fallières, which no one, ever, has even heard of. My success rate is headed down the tubes. And then, all of a sudden, there it is, passing between a warehouse and a bottle factory. The road makes a steep climb out of the Bosporus trench. Halfway up, I realize that I’ve lost my pedometer. Too bad. From now on, I’ll just have to estimate the distances I travel. Its little tick-tock mechanism annoyed me anyway whenever I went for jaunts in the countryside. On top of it, it wasn’t very accurate, probably from never having been properly calibrated. It was by no means essential, so good ridda
nce.

  On either side of the road, hundreds of single-family houses are going up. Protected behind walls or gates, they are being erected in “compounds” resembling fortified villages; ghettoes turned inside out—islands for the well-off—which, in the United States and Africa, are designed to protect the privileged from the rank and file. Here, like there, the entrance is flanked by a guardhouse, complete with guards. Their outfit, of the same color and cut as that of the police, is designed to scare off troublemakers. Higher up on the hill, one can see the concrete skeletons of towers and high-rise blocks that will soon house ordinary folk. Istanbul’s metropolitan area and surrounding province, home to thirteen million souls today, will grow even more in coming years, and developers are delighted at the prospect.

  In various places, the houses remain unfinished. Their owners typically reside on either the first or second floor. Above them, the walls have only been started, concrete pillars with rusty metal arrows pointing up toward the sky. I later find out that this is done on purpose: housing tax is due only when construction is completed. So they are left unfinished.

  I finally make it to the top of the long climb. The Bosporus has disappeared. At the summit, along the roadside, there is a büfe run by a little old man and his wife. It’s a modest shop: four wooden stakes covered by a plastic tarp. Beverages are kept cool in a refrigerator hooked up to two wires that illegally tap into lines on a nearby electric utility pole. I drink the first Coca-Cola of my life. What other choice do I have when that’s all there is in the refrigerator, and my two-liter water jug is empty? At 3:30 p.m., I’ve made it to Gümüşsuyu. The village has no hotel. I’m assured that there is one in Polonez, a little burg, ten kilometers down the road. Since I don’t feel the least bit tired, Polonez it is.

  It’s only day one, but this is a typical illustration already of what I ran up against in preparing my trip. On the map, I planned out theoretical stages based on the distance to be traveled, the altitude, and the presumed historical interest of the area. But I’m well aware that in Turkish villages, hotel infrastructure is nonexistent. Inns, designed for those traveling in vehicles, are located only along major thoroughfares and are spaced great distances from one another. Having opted to journey through villages, I knew that almost every day would bring its share of surprises.

  There are fewer and fewer houses, and I enter a dark forest of fir trees, which progressively give way to more friendly-looking oak trees. The road heads directly east, jumping from one hill to the next, and the view from atop each looks out over a vast expanse of green. Upon arriving in Polonez, I stand confounded before a gate topped with a cross. A Christian cross in Muslim lands? It’s a cemetery and the doors are locked. The Polska hotel is full, but several families open their homes to travelers in exchange for a few shiny coins.

  Krisha, a young blond with jade-colored eyes, runs the Lora Pansiyon and offers to provide me with dinner, a bed, and breakfast for ten million Turkish liras. I have to admit that I’m still astonished to see people handling bills in denominations of five million. But in a country where a cup of coffee costs four hundred thousand liras, you soon get used to such fantastic sums, the result of double-digit inflation over many years. Ten million is the equivalent of the modest sum of one hundred and sixty French francs (about US $25). On this first day, I’ve walked thirty-two kilometers (20 miles), ten (6 miles) more than I intended with respect to my hiking schedule. I feel vaguely tired. But it’s already nighttime, and that should take care of it.

  A gold cross glimmers around Krisha’s neck. She’s wearing neither scarf nor chador, and her lightweight garment has a chic, yet modest neckline. Never again, throughout my travels in Turkey, will I encounter a woman dressed so freely. She speaks Turkish, but, like almost all the village’s inhabitants, her first language is Polish. She tells me the town’s history. In 1842, the Sultan Abdulmejid, after a war with Russia, granted a group of Polish citizens the right to build a village in a forest belonging to Istanbul. For over a century, they were a community of woodworkers living in isolation from the outside world while maintaining traditions of their homeland. Apart from the Polska hotel, nearly every business in the village has a Polish name. Its inhabitants were formerly all Catholic and spoke the language of their ancestors. Over the past fifteen years or so, however, a few Muslim Turks have begun to move in. The Polish residents have maintained the right to practice their religion. They have their church. But since education became compulsory, Turkish is the only language taught in the village school.

  The bed is comfortable, and the half-Turkish, half-Polish breakfast quickly fills me up: bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, a hard-boiled egg, and a very salty fromage blanc.* All washed down with tea, served in little tulip-shaped cups. I already had the opportunity to see how Turks prepare tea, a method that yields a most amazing beverage. I watch Krisha as she prepares mine. She uses a two-stage urn, the çaydanlık (chai-dahn’-luhk), which works on the same principle as the samovar. The large lower level holds the boiling water. The upper level, the demlik (dehm’-leek), contains a large quantity of tea and very little water. The tea is thus kept at the right temperature by the steam from the large vessel. By skillfully operating the two, she can draw tea at the desired strength; but make no mistake, doing so is an art. People drink tea everywhere, at any hour of the day. The tea urn is kept continuously hot, from early morning until bedtime.

  The sun is high in the sky when I bid Krisha farewell. With a twinge of regret. I always find it difficult to leave a place where I’ve received a warm welcome. I think about the traders who preceded me, long ago, on these roads. They didn’t have misgivings as I do. For them, what good were the stopovers? Arriving at their destination, finalizing some gainful deals, and then returning home—as quickly as possible and in one piece—were their only concerns.

  Will the second stage be difficult? My muscles are sore from the distance I covered yesterday. But the day is bright, and before too long they start to warm up. I cheerfully head out onto a road as straight as if a saber had sliced a path through the oak-covered hills. Once again, as a precaution, I walk on the left, but the traffic is lighter than yesterday. The cars, which are considerably fewer than the trucks, are visible from a distance, since their sound is amplified in the tree-lined passageway. Drivers make it known how surprised they are to see a hiker, especially one loaded down like a donkey. Most of them slow down and wave, which I take as a sign of friendship, and so I wave back. Others, less frequently, authoritatively motion me to walk on the berm, furious that a lowly pedestrian would dare encroach on their turf. They make no attempt to move over and give me some room. Since I don’t want to go head-to-head with machines weighing ten or twenty tons, I politely move aside. During the day, several trucks coming toward me slow down and indicate that they’d be happy to give me a ride. Two privately owned cars stop and invite me to get in. I decline the invitation each time with a smile. I’m not about to forego the pleasure of hiking along what has been, for several months now, the road of my dreams! I come upon three men on horseback. Farther down the road, an elderly countryman with a white mustache and a black hat is rolling along, slumped in his seat, in a cart pulled by his son. We say hello to one another: we are the slow ones, the meanderers, those who lag behind. The father and son are clearly consumed with curiosity but are not so bold as to stop to find out more. As for me, my Turkish is so minimal that, at least for now, I avoid initiating any conversations.

  After two hours on the road, my muscles have warmed up to the extent that I don’t even think about them, but my thighs and buttocks now sting where my pack rubs against them. I still have too much fat in all the wrong places. I’m used to giving my body time to adjust to the conditions I impose on it, and I can typically tolerate some pain without a fuss. If I drop a few more kilograms and pick up a few more kilometers, my hide will toughen up all by itself. Even so, I anticipate a difficult first week. Then, after the stress of the first few days, my body will adjust. My long-distanc
e walking muscles are not yet performing at the level I will soon require of them. Before they let me forget about them, my feet will have to struggle with my boots; my shoulders, hips, and back will have to endure the battering from my pack; and my thighs and buttocks will have to suffer a little. A day like yesterday amounts to nearly forty-five thousand steps and just as much rubbing. We lead sedentary lives, and so, at the outset, our skin isn’t ready for such physical demands. Mine is going to have to get used to it. The pleasures of walking are never simply ours for the taking. They have to be earned, and that means abiding by a few simple rules. Initially, the human body is caught unawares. You must therefore, as gently as possible, help it become attuned to sustained activity. Going too quickly at first only results in pain, stiffness, and injuries, and those will take much longer to heal, since, each day, the hard work begins anew. Our ability to gauge the right level comes from within, in all our fibers and joints. But although it is weak over the first few days, our body doesn’t simply accept our inabilities. It doesn’t just whine: it sets about making repairs and begins working harder. Is a particular muscle atrophied, shriveled, or starving? Then the body will nourish it, smooth it out, and oxygenate it until it reaches a level of equilibrium. When such a state is finally achieved, the body blossoms and there’s a sense of physical fulfillment. Hiking creates and instills harmony.

  Back in Paris, I had planned that, on the second day, I would stop in the village of Sırapınar, after a short, eighteen-kilometer jaunt. But with yesterday’s ten extra kilometers, my schedule has shifted, so I get there by noon. Heading out of the village, I spot a restaurant where a few tables have been set out under the oak trees. A fire pit promises tasty grilled meats. I walk over to take a seat, but before I can, the manager, thinking I look rather strange, intercepts me and leads me to a table far away from his other customers.