Leaving Istanbul
August 9th, 2007
By Dan

“Do you ever feel like we’re duping these people?” OJ asked me, “I mean, I want to be good, I want to seem professional. But we are all such fucking idiots.”
Wise words as we arrive at a hotel room, paid for by a local charity, after managing to turn a simple 60km journey into a three-hour nightmare.
I sometimes feel the same. Should we be accepting the charity’s hospitality? We’re not raising money for them specifically, though I guess the press attention we’re attracting, and their stickers on our cars, may help in some way.
They were certainly very keen to help, arranging for us to meet the city’s ‘president’ or mayor, Halil Yenice.

Mayor Yenice is an important man, we were told, he runs a city of two million people, bigger than Budapest, and one of the richest cities in Turkey.
As we were already running late, and on a tight schedule, Dante’s battery decided it was a good time to throw in the towel. After ten minutes of trying to defibrillate the thing TP decided to full on change the battery.
We were in a tiny back alley while this was going on, with trucks trying to weave past, the Trabbis facing in opposite directions and a growing crowd forming to point and laugh.

Maybe it was because we were holding up so much traffic. Possibly it was because we were aiming the wrong way down a one-way street. Whatever the reason, the police showed up to escort us to the ‘President’.
They closed off streets along the route and when we arrived we were greeted by a mob of photographers and journalists, snapping away enthusiastically, and the big man himself, Yenice, who came down to shake hands, pose for pictures and look over the engine.
We were called up to his office for more photos and a press conference, and a chance to quiz him about the city.

He explained that Izmit was the former capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, and in the Fourth Century was the fourth biggest city in the world. Then called Nicomedia it was far more important than nearby Constantinople (Istanbul) as a staging point for Roman armies and navies heading along the Bosphorus. It was a perfectly placed administrative centre, and, surrounded by what was known as the ‘Sea of Trees’, it had a prolific shipyard.
But, explained Yenice through an interpreter, 80% of the Roman architecture remains buried underground. Yenice wants to bring it to the surface to attract tourists and help re-establish the city.

As a mark of how big a job he has, I told him that, despite Izmit’s imperial past, the city does not even get a mention in our guidebook – not so much as a paragraph. He nodded and said he hoped our presence in the city would help attract attention to it.
For a moment I felt like a British emissary at the court of a far-away king, rather than a scruffy, slightly odorous crackpot on a hair-brained folly across the world.

Mayor Yenice insisted we see Izmit’s museum, which was very modern, but extremely dull. Yenice’s face appeared on a poster at the entrance, and multiple time on monitors within the museum – Yenice opening something, Yenice handing a check to someone, Yenice at the mosque.
In fact, his image appeared throughout the city. Bemused by the constant site of Yenice, I asked our contact and guide, Adam who was from the local NGO, whether he was a life president or a particularly successful one.
“Oh no. Yenice has been president for three years. He has a four-year term.”
“So how come his photo is everywhere?”
“You have to ask him. It’s always the same. Whoever is president they put their picture up.”
‘But if Yenice loses the next election all this will have to be changed? The museum, the posters, the videos?”
“Yes. It is expensive. No-one is happy with it. You have to ask him.”
Unfortunately my chance had gone.

I did mention that I fancied a kick about with some kids – maybe from the NGO that was putting us up. I’d imagined a friendly footie game, bit of exercise for me, fun for the kids and shots for the film.
But Yenice can obviously pull a few strings. We were taken to a fully blown football academy, where forty or fifty kids were training. They were involved in a practise game, and it was clear when we arrived we were going to be horribly out of our depth, but there was no backing out.
After two minutes of being hounded by the little Turks, who seemed to be everywhere, my lungs burnt and I felt sick. OJ had given away a penalty with a handball, and I’d equalised directly from a corner.
Just when I thought I might feint, they brought on another team. Then after ten minutes another team. Then another. We were shattered, and by the end were being run ragged by 10-year-olds. Only some goalkeeping heroics from J Lov stopped us getting slaughtered. He reminded me of Sly Stallone in Escape to Victory.
Finally they equalised to make it an honourable 3-3 draw, suitable for both side, and the whistle went.
Damn that Yenice, I was knackered.

For lunch Adam showed us to a stunning mountain restaurant; where we feasted on his NGO’s generosity before retiring to a cool room built into the rock face to smoke hookahs, drink bitter Turkish coffee and nap.
Carlos had his fortune read from the dregs off his coffee – he left someone who loves him at home, he had a tough decision, the career opportunity he was hoping for will not present itself, but something else will come up.
We’ll see.
I left the city once again stunned by Turkish hospitality.

Ends
mrdanmurdoch@gmail.com