Istanbul - Escape to Prince's Island

Back at the hostel - a place that's becoming uncomfortably familiar. Now well into the quiet period before things pick up for Christmas, there are only a few hostellers to keep Stu (didgeridoo carrying cycle tourist) and I company. We meet Duane – a fellow guitarist originally from the UK, currently working in Iraq.

We spend a few nights playing guitar in a bar down the street from the hostel. The place has a good circulation of musicians along with a few guitars floating round. If they sold Real Ale I would think I'd died and gone to heaven. In said bar we meet a group from USA/Canada who sell us stories of making riches teaching English in Georgia. Had I not had my visa sorted for Iran, I'd have been mighty tempted.

I take one more trip to the Uzbekistan embassy and then Stu and I escape to Prince's Island (Buyukada) for some soul and liver cleansing.

While waiting at the docks for our ferry ride Bryan rolls up on his bike. Originally from the States Bryan now lives on the Island with his wife Gizem. The pair are cycle tourists and we immediately hit it off. They offer us the spare room in their house. So much for getting back to nature. We play lots of music and eat great food. Bryan takes a day off work, we take the kayaks out to a small cove and go diving for mussels – which we then cook for dinner. The guys are great company and we have a riot. After three nights we finally move out to find a camping spot. A sheltered rocky amphitheatre dotted with pine trees provide the perfect place. Though we continue to pester our new friends for this and that. Showers, food and company maily.

Gizem gets us to go and busk at a local organic farmers market. Before doing so she requests we take some pictures of us with our instruments so's to publicise the event some. Apparently our interpretation of "organic" was not culturally appropriate....
 

We have a ball and manage to make 95 Lira, along with 50 lira's worth of fresh veggies. We also get to sample some honey which costs a wopping 300 lira per kilo! Sweet aint the word!
 

Istanbul - CouchSurfing

So, with some sort of “plan” formed I turns my attention towards methods of time killage. The laptop sucks a few more days from me. I send emails to various wwoofing communities but the rather backwards application process puts me off. Too many forms, along with lots of emails – like I don't have enough of that with the visas.



Istanbul has an excellent CouchSurfing scene and so I post up a request for information/help on volunteering and accommodation.


After speaking with my good chum Tom from back home I realise not everyone is aware of CouchSurfing. So I'll tell abit about what I consider to be the most valuable internet invention....after porn.


Here's a link for those who want additional reading.

http://www.couchsurfing.org/


It's basically a database from which you request to sleep on peoples couches. You have a profile which describes yourself, your interests etc. You then search through a list of profiles in your city/town of choice, and send a request to your potential hosts. Not everyone can host, but some offer to show you round a city or meet for a coffee/chat - this can be an equally valuable service allowing one to miss all the tourist crap and get straight to the good stuff the city has to offer. I think of it as a cultural exchange as opposed to just a bed for the night. Though some use it solely for this purpose, I find I get more out of it if I put more in. In bigger cities groups hold meetings for hosts and travellers to meet up, find couches or just make friends.


My first host in Istanbul came in the form of Bashar, my post hadn't even been up a full day before his offer came in. And I jumped at it.

A meal with Bashar and his friend Sinan in Kadikoy

His house is in the Beykoz area of the Province, which is about twenty kilometres north along the Bosphuros on the Asian side. Bashar works in the day. I use the time to explore the city and sort things out (including my first trip to the Uzbekistan embassy).

                                                                                                     

Cycling north on the European side of the Boshporus is a nice ride, through some very wealthy parts of the city. I cringe at the properity as I ride past Bentley, Ferrari and Lamborghini garages. I guess there are several places in the world where owning a Lamborghini is pretty pointless - I'd say Istanbul is one of them. When you consider that a Lambo Gallardo can do 70mph in first gear before hitting the limiter, and at rush hour my bicycle can beat traffic across the city. Plus there are no areas for slow speed posing. But. I'm of course just bitter. Rant over.

Fairly unsuccessful on the visa front. It seems I can't get an application for over the counter, I have to download one and print it out - what ridiculous logic!! And so I leave empty handed.

Back at Kadikoy I hunt down a local looking place for some tasty Borek. Two guys sit at my table and the usual quesitons are given the usual answers. Sadly the conversation often revolve around money.

"you are very rich!"

I explain my diet to them, and that I drink the tap water (looks of disgust). And that I'm yet to see a millionaire travelling by bicycle. Still, to many, I probably am rich.

The owner Ahmen, treats me to my meal. Top man!

                                                                                          

In the evenings we cook and listen to music. Each night Bashar suggests I stay another night, and each night I gratefully accept.


My next host takes the form of Collette. Orignally from America she moved here a few years back and teaches English. This deal is a little different to a typical couchsurfing arrangement. Collette and her partner Nur plan to go on holiday for a few days. My services are employed to look after their dog Rufus while they're away. My payment comes as free accommodation in a flat in Fenerbache with access to a great film/book collection.


I have a blast looking after Rufus (an 11 year old Jack Russell). Like all dogs his requirements are fairly simple – food, love and a little bit of exercise. He becomes my daily alarm clock – jumping up and down on me at eight o'clock on the dot each day. My days are a leisurely combination of dog walking, internet and films. Sometimes I would hang out with Colletes flatmate Sabrina for coffee or beer sessions. But most of the time she was busy preparing for her own around the world travels.

 On Wednesday Collette and Nur return home. We spend the evening catching up. I also get to say hello to an old friend of mine – whiskey. Jamesons Special no less. We play boardgames (at which I get creamed) – but the blow to the ego is softened by good whiskey and good company.


I try to make myself useful for the next few days doing abit of handywork around the flat. Some skirting board and new light fittings. It feels good to be able to offer something in return for the roof over my head.


On Sunday I leave Fenerbache. Nur is studying for an exam – and does not need the distraction of a smelly cyclists around the flat. Back to the Big Apple for me.

The alarm clock

Istanbul...again

The hostel briefly quietened down, but this was only momentary. Seventy odd members of the Freiburg choir soon filled the entire hostel. It was cool to hear them warming up some mornings after breakfast. Sadly (thanks only to my lack of organisation) I didn't get to see them perform.




Clinton, a fellow electrician, from New Zealand was my beer buddy for the next few nights. Together we scoured some bars and crashed other hostels. Managed to end up dancing with a semi clothed Turkish belly dancer in front of a crowd of hostellers – less said about that the better...though I'd like to think we held our own in the "wiggling" department.


I did well for free alcohol at this time. Thanks to Virpi and Jouni (a totally cool couple from Finland) who donated half a bottle of vodka to the jimmyrathbone cause. Then a bottle of Russian vodka came my way as a guy was leaving the hostel! I didn't even get his name. But thankyou mystery man. As it was, I ended up drinking it with Russians no less.

My daily laptop sessions were only interrupted when Neil (a fellow cycle tourist) would come to visit me and drag me out for lunch. Clinton and I joined Neil and his friend Logan for a day trip out to the Princes Islands. A grand day it was too.

Princes Islands Ride from James Rathbone on Vimeo.






The following day Neil has the excellent idea to ride across the bridge. It sounded like a fun idea so I decide to join him. We manage to waste well over an hour trying to find a way on. We eventually do so, but as we pedal along the slip road I feel a chill as I spot an all-too-familiar green sign. This sign, as with many others, indicates that cycling is forbidden as this is a highway. Something tells me that by the end of this trip I will have forgotten the amounts of times I end up on such roads! We jostle on the hard shoulder with moped couriers. There are no exits before the bridge and so we continue on. At the start of the bridge there is a small cabin an a guard. He gestures that we should stop and we comply, pulling up in front of his cabin. He shakes his head and points back down the highway – suggesting that we ride back the way we came. I look over my shoulder and see a steady stream of motorcycles that would make such a route suicidal. We shrug at him, he shrugs at us. A car pulls up. They talk. All agree that it makes more sense for us to ride across the bridge. Scorchio!

The Bridge Ride from James Rathbone on Vimeo.

***I later learn that the reason they don't let pedestrians/cyclists on the bridge anymore is because it was a popular place for suicide attempts***

Happy thoughts....