The Art of Schlepping (or Four Days in Istanbul)

Istanbul was a hodge podge of outrageous activity and quiet, beautiful normalcy.  We arrived in Istanbul 2 hours late, waited out the line at customs and the first thing my travel buddies (two fellow Fulbright ETAs) and I noticed was the mixture of nationalities around us.  The second thing we noticed about Turkey as we walked out to take a taxi: there are signs in English!  

As three self-proclaimed travel lovers, anxious to understand the world by its roots and not just take it by storm, we concluded that a $40.00 taxi ride to our hotel would not be nearly as trying and exciting as taking a cheaper metro (4 Turkish Lira).  So we patiently rolled luggage (which contained enough clothes, books, and goods for a year in Tajikistan) across the airport concourse level, down a ramp, down an elevator, and to the “Jeton” machine only to learn we did not have the right bills. 

I will not lie, in that moment, my year living in the comfort of Boston, then DC, amongst working professionals who are nothing if not efficient got the better of me.  I searched my travel buddies’ eyes and hunched shoulders for signs they would yield and take a taxi.  Nothing doing.  It dawned on me that two years ago, an extra hour or two to take the long way and save $35 would have been absolutely reasonable.  It was an eye opening moment, where I began to again appreciate the lifestyle and priorities of the traveler. 

So on we went for two hours from Ataturk airport, crowding the metro with SIX bags, through two train transfers, enjoying polite conversation with a French weekend traveler on holiday with his son, climbing uphill in the old city’s cobbled streets, and arriving huffing and puffing to the Blue Tuana Inn.   From the balcony, I saw the Blue Mosque just a stones throw away, and suddenly, the last 24 hours of traveling where worth it.  It was a little after 6 o' clock and the hazy sun was beginning to nestle into the horizon and it was at this time of day that the skyline of Istanbul is was best viewed. 

Our very first stop that evening was the Blue Mosque.  The Mosque of Sultanahmet, as it is also called, was built in the early 1600s by Sultanahmet to outshine the Hagia Sofia that is around 500 meters in front of it.  Standing between the two towering mosques, I was simultaneously enchanted and mortified by their grandeur.  What an unbelievably beautiful feat!  What a stupefying culmination of imagination and artistry!  And what unquenchable, power wielding regime must have existed to conceive and execute both of these buildings?   

Standing in the manicured quad between the two superstar mosques, one sees felt-clad, vaguely Ottoman characters, who are dressed up similar to characters in Disney World.  They offered to take pictures with interested tourists wandering about.  The youngest tourists got a picture for an especially discounted fee.  I heard the clatter of coke bottles and smelled dust mixed in with sunscreen that wafting up from tour groups.  I could point out distinct swarms of European, American, Middle Eastern, African, South Asian, East and Southeast Asian families of tourists.  As I too was a part of this mass, I felt no shame in snapping a gratuitous number of pictures in front of the same dome. 

Though severly jetlagged at the time, when I finally entered the Blue Mosque, a structure I have referenced often as a Middle East studies major, I still felt I was approaching something unparalleled in the world.  I was struck by the care put into piping each thin line of grout between each spectacular inlay of tile.  The enormity, profundity, and singularity of craftsmanship were quickly blurred by the sly irreverence of international tourists, myself included, snapping pics from the back as Turkish men prayed up front. 

In my opinion, however, of the two mosques in the quad, the Hagia Sophia is the real star.  The Hagia Sophia is a testament to interaction over time between and organizations and religions.   What do I mean by this?  Well, take a close look at the peeling paint that the Ottomon’s painted onto the vaulted ceilings, and you will see the Orthodox cross staring through in the color of dried blood.  You can easily see the grand disks reading Ya Allah Ya Ali and Ya Muhammad attached in front of the stained glass of the Virgin Mary and Angel Gabriel.  The Angel Gabriel also revealed the message to Muhammad (s.a.s.) and is a particularly poignant figure to represent.  The Qiblah, faces Mecca, and stands slightly off to the right in the existing alter – proof that both the Muslims and Christians before them, found their faith from the same forefathers.

After traipsing through the Basilica Cistern, following the masses into Topkapi Palace, taking an egregious amount of pictures of the same breathtaking skyline every angle allowable, we were exhausted of the tourist mold.

And that is why the best part of traveling always is running into old friends who know more about living in a place that guidebooks can reveal.  Indeed amongst the three of us, we had the chance to cross paths with a number of good friends in Istanbul.  I met Norah (who was studying in Istanbul) in the Old City, and four hours before we left Turkey, Norah, Javid, Alfred, Kyle and I walked up to the Galata tower to share fresh juice and creme soda under the shade of a corner café. 

We talked about old friends, rehashed our experiences together in Syria, and then my fellow ETAs and I offered Norah our unique approaches to Central Asia.   We ended with a group review of our favorite travel experiences and Iranian films.  I believe the best travel experiences are memorable because of such meaningful crossing of paths.  As much as we tried to find meaning in the tourist destinations, we wanted to make a personal connection that was unique to us in Istanbul.  For me, Norah was one such connection.

Finally we set out on a Turkish Air flight to Dushanbe (one of two flights that are available per week).   Flying is no friend of mine, and I hoped our time in the air was not grossly exacerbated.  For the first time in my life, I took a sleeping pill, which I will never do again.  Not only did I knock out for the four hour flight, but for 48 hours afterwards, I felt nothing but a sticky jetlag under my eyelids.

Arriving in Dushanbe was fraught with every kind of bureaucratic inefficiency a frightened passenger could imagine:  an entire plane load of people jogging to passport control, squeezing into a triangular crowd in hopes of making it to one of two passport officers at the front of the room.  Once through, bags were lost and people were frustrated.  But as we neared the glass doors leading outside, Tajik families were reuniting; and as we stepped out of the exit into the early Tajik sun, to our left was smiling embassy staff.  

Our short stop in Istanbul was calming and beautifully timed.  Despite the hectic shuffling between planes, shuttles, taxis, and trains, all the while porting our year's worth of baggage, the extended stop over in Turkey helped me ease into my new reality.  This reality is ten months in Tajikistan, a brand new country.  I hope this blog will be a place I can come back to, update often, and evaluate the process of living abroad as it unfolds.

Cheers,
Areebah