Nosebagging in Turkey

The transition from Eastern Europe to Turkey was stark.

The not-unpleasant, but relative monotony of Eastern European food and culture was broken within moments of hitting the outskirts of Istanbul, the city’s sheer size alone dwarfing that of any I’d seen in my past two and a bit months of travelling.

With a population 17-million-strong, the bus trip into the centre seemed to take an age, and the highway in parts was sixteen-lanes-wide made up of chunks of four lanes heading in alternating directions. Forests of buildings and immense kebaberys bordered this seething metropolitan mess and to be quite honest, it was intimidating.

The Potato and a street mussel

After the twin impacts of a mystical mist-shrouded border crossing from Bulgaria and wallet-crushing 45 euro entry fee, I was exposed and vulnerable, and in the face of this sudden novelty of culture and size I had reverted to my more traditional form of traveling, man-baby-mode. Every time I saw something new, I wanted to put it in my mouth to find out what it was.

Sadly my overwhelming desire for a kebab of some variety had to be postponed as our attempt to navigate to our hostel went awry as we overshot our tram stop, resulting in a frustrating confusion amplified by the inconvenience of luggage. Eventually we solved our folly, finding the hostel full of unhelpful staff who recommended to us a mediocre dinner spot.

Fish sandwich central

Not a great start to our stay, and one that would only get worse. Eastern Europe, particularly in the off-season, is basically bereft of tourists. Cities would have only a smattering of hostels, and smaller towns one or two if they were lucky. You could confidently assume that you were one of a handful of tourists. Suffice to say that in Istanbul this was not the case.

We awoke bright and early, ready to face the vastness of Istanbul and try to tick off as many of the compulsory sights as possible. Emerging fresh faced and well-fed from an ample Turkish-style breakfast buffet, we were immediately caught up in the wash of a terrifying tourist throng.

We bravely soldiered on through the mass of people, but constantly trying to dodge staged photos and battling the malaise that infects the traveller used to more peace and quiet when exploring a city and who cringes at bus-loads of happy-snapping tourists saw a shared look of distaste and frustration across Aaron, the Potato and I.

Testi Kebab time

So in a frenzy of necessary evil facing we took in the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia, Topkapi Palace, the Basilica Cistern, and the Galata Tower at a furious pace. While the Galata tower was pretty cool to go up and get a panoramic view that gave a true sense of the scale of the city, the Basilica Cistern, with its cheesy background music to add some faux-gravitas and noisy tour groups, was a letdown.

With the pesky sight-seeing out of the way it was time for some nosebag, a quest that would give purpose particularly to the Potato and I over the course of our four days in the big smoke.

The first point of call was a fish sandwich, which we lunched upon greedily. Tasty, but nothing amazing, it was the start, but not the end of my fish sandwich experience.

Shishkebabery

Later that same day as Aaron and I wandered across one of the smaller bridges spanning the Bosphorus, Aaron noticed something: a wharf-side grill with small plastic chairs and tables, fresh salads and chunks of fish a-grilling, with the only custom appearing to come from locals.

While so tempted by this Anthony-Bourdain-worthy sight that Aaron almost abandoned his principled vegetarian stance for a moment, he nobly resisted but insisted that I savour one so that he might vicariously experience what promised to be a culinary delight.

With fisherman spanning the same bridge, and indeed all of the bridges and available wharfside in Istanbul, I could only assume this fish was fresh, even if it might come from the not entirely sanitary waters of the Bosphorus, which, for those not in the know, is the 31 kilometre long channel between the two parts of Turkey and indeed Istanbul, separating Europe and Asia, and connecting the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara. 

Castle at Goreme

One can hear the rhythmic chant “Bosphorus, Bosphorus, Bosphorus!” as you walk its banks, this entreaty the calling card of the endlessly competing boat tour companies. They offer 20 lira to the lazy, oblivious and rich, but can be readily negotiated down to 10 for a 90 minute long cruise of this famous stretch of water.

In later days I would learn that the fish sandwich is listed by Lonely Planet as one of the most dangerous street foods to eat in Istanbul, but even knowing this I would do it again as the sandwich lived up to its visual cues. Liberally seasoned chunks of fresh fish with crisp salady bits and a squeeze of fresh lemon—who could say no?

View from the castle

Speaking of the top dangerous foods in Istanbul, also listed is the cheap and tasty rice and chickpeas which one can find for mere pennies at many street vendors. While I am not sure as the origin of the peril of this dish—perhaps it is not entirely fresh a lot of the time—again, I would eat it again.

Similarly, street mussels of dubious providence, a favourite of his Holyness A. Bourdain, were a surprising treat. Two for one Turkish Lira and stuffed with rice, spices and served with a  squeeze of lemon, these lukewarm, pre-cooked, breeding grounds of deliciousness went down a treat for the Potato and I.

The Islak burger, or wet burger, is another Istanbul speciality and essentially a steamed hamburger with some tomato relish.

Hiking

A surprising disappointment in Istanbul was the kebab. When served in a wrap they come quite dry, and the theory the Potato came up with was that they are meant to be served as part of a plated meal, rather than as a convenient wrap-based street food. Indeed, when consumed in such a manner they tend to be much better, served with rice, salad and bread.

Omnipresent in Turkish culture is Turkish tea. Strong and served only with some sugar cubes, it is consumed religiously, and offered complimentary after a meal. We were not privy to this practice, however, when we dined at another of Bourdain’s chosen-establishments, our scepticism of the proprietor’s insistence that we have some tea—a product of a fleecing earlier in the day—led him to try and demonstrate Turkish hospitality with some free dessert, the offered ‘sweet balls’ and baklava oozing honeyed lusciousness.

Turkish tea

Indeed, Turkish sweets, including the 600g of delight we were complicit in being convinced to purchase, were surprisingly unsweet and not too overbearing as they tend to be when reproduced outside of the country.

But the scepticism that led to this most pleasant sugar-related revelation was a result of trying to be a good Samaritan when a passing shoe-shiner dropped his brush. Aaron and I pointed this misfortune out to him, and by way of what we thought was thanks, he insisted on dragging us over such that he might shine my shoes. Alas unwary Ryan was caught in a most tricksy of scams.

Anyone with an ounce of street-swindling knowledge would not have fallen for such an obvious ploy, but once he had my boot on his little wooden prop there was no escape as he scraped and washed and smeared mystery goo. For this most unwelcome service he demanded 25 lira per shoe. Offended more at the deception than the price, we reasoned him down to 10 lira total, but the damage was done, my tattered innocence scattered to the winds.

Kunefe

Bartering is another of the joys one can experience in Istanbul. One rainy day as Aaron and I looked for some cheap wet weather jackets, Aaron managed to talk one potential sales-suitor down from 275 lira to 90. Somehow, despite the excellent deal we were clearly getting, no rain jacket was purchased.

Speaking of swindling, this is effectively what you do to yourself if you are a tourist in Istanbul and don’t try to get away from the touristy centres. The city is spectacularly beautiful in many of its old parts, riddled with many famous buildings and ruins per square kilometre. Of course, these are the areas that attract so many tourists, and the prices adjust accordingly. Even a simple kebab can be as expensive as 10 lira in these areas, dropping to 2 lira mere streets away.

Fishing the Bosphorus

Similarly, shopping in the streets outside the Grand Bazaar or Spice Market yield bazaars with the same produce and wares at a quarter of the price. These bazaars are something to behold, thronging with people and boisterous vendors, with products stacked high and encroaching onto the narrow streets that weave endlessly up and down hills.

Despite the fondness for fleecing tourists, the locals of Istanbul are very helpful. Multiple times while we were looking slightly lost, locals would ask if that were the case, and were always useful and accurate in offering directions. 

Sampling sweets

But back to food, and no doubt the culinary highlight of Istanbul—for the Potato and I at least—were the shishkebabs we found at spot we chose purely because of the density of local faces within it.  Braving the curious looks from moustachioed men hunched over the white counters sipping their Ayran—a slightly salty yogurt drink essential for combating rich meat and spicy peppers—we ordered some lamb shish freshly grilled over coals, served with fresh herbs and salad on pita bread stained orange-red with spices and fat from having the meat rest upon it.

So good were these shishkebabs that Potato Mike, having already ingested one kebab and then one shish, insisted on going back for another in defiance of the repercussions of some inevitable indigestion. Complimentary with these meaty wraps were grilled peppers, which I rashly bit into, mimicking the locals like the foolish tourist I am. Almost reduced to tears by its spiciness, the only recourse was in the yogurty salvation of Ayran. 

Mountaineering in Goreme

With plans to eventually return to Istanbul after touring some more of Turkey, we took a gruelling overnight bus to Goreme in Cappadocia. The bus, however, only took us so far. At a place whose name eludes me, 60 kilometres from Goreme and with no one speaking English, Aaron cracked the shits, waving the ticket saying Goreme at people and insisting we get free transport there as that was what we had paid for. Never before have I seen this mild-mannered man conduct himself so aggressively, at one point almost raising his voice.

Eventually we arrived at Goreme but were turned away by the people staffing the hostel who insisted we were at the wrong place—something we weren’t sure about as the hostel we had booked claimed to be hotel in person. We wandered around in search of a similarly named hostel but to no avail, returning and dumping our bags at the first place and deciding to wait for someone with a solid grasp of English to turn up before we did anything else. With such a person two-hours away, we decided to pass the time by going for a wander.

The good stuff

Faced with the tedium of following a road going up a hill, the Potato decided off-roading would be better and so we cut randomly off the road. Breaching the crest we chanced upon awe-striking view after view, white capped rocks and hills in the wake of yesterday’s snowfall scattered by millennia of elemental determination like a mosaic on the earth itself.

Goreme is a place like nothing else I have seen. Famous for its fairy chimneys—flutes of rock into which the locals of moons ago had carved living spaces—it seems of a different world entire. With valleys and plains stretching out around in all directions, the surreal rock formations and distant snow clad mountains are such that there are astonishing vistas wherever you cast your eyes.

The order of just about every day in Goreme is the same: hiking and eating. As a result of this it is hard to do the place justice. Breathtaking vistas from walking are almost impossible to capture in words, or indeed in photos unless you have talents and equipment beyond mine. For more on this see www.traavlonweston.tumblr.com

Cats rule Istanbul

That said, we’d sally forth each day with some bread, a wheel of cheese, tomatoes and cucumbers, and many packs of 1 lira biscuits, and roam indefinitely with a motley crew of hostel degenerates keen to experience some of the great outdoors. One day we also ventured to Kaymakl, an underground city that once housed 4000 people, all of whom were midgets judging by some of the tunnels I almost got stuck in.

A similar crew would go in search of food at night, sampling the Cappadocian specialty that is the testi kebab. Incredibly amusingly named, this refers to a kebab-stew cooked in a clay jar sealed with dough which one breaks open at the table across its weak point with a hammer, the goodness inside still bubbling.

It was also in Goreme that I had the chance to sample Kunefe. Ostensibly a dessert of deep fried angel hair pasta soaked in honey, when one plunges into it with a spoon it reveals a gooey centre of salty cheese. Stringy, sweet, savoury and artery clogging. Diabolical.

From Goreme we eventually headed to Olympus on the coldest overnight bus I have ever experienced.

Definitely a change from the Balkans.