Welcome to Istanbul: Do Not Betray The Noise

By Javi Reddy

“Shisha?”
“Shisha.”
“Başka bir şey?”
“English please.”
“Food?”
“Yes. I’d like a burger. Chicken. Not beef.”
“Ok ok.”
“How can you make it spicy for me?”

The waiter’s pure hazel eyes gaze blankly at me padlocked in a silence that feels as though it may stretch out for an eternity. There are two sounds in Istanbul. The noise. And the noise that comes after the noise. There is not meant to be silence in this part of the world.

Amidst the glorious blaze of watermelon and mint shisha I adroitly cup my lips over the light blue hookah pipe opening before releasing a stream of perfect smoke into the hot sticky air of the cafe. The music beats on hard and implores me to smoke more whilst making my burger taste better than it actually is. It’s not a fillet. And it’s hardly spicy. How could it be? Language- it’s different to so many people. Silence- it universally penetrates the ears.

As I sink my teeth into this mundane burger with its mundane crumbed battering I sit in my own silence. Yet the noise rages on as my outsider scent brings with it tinges of hushed discomfort that only a non-Istanbulite would bring to these shores. My reservedness becomes contagious to the locals and disrupts the flow of a city that thrives on organised chaos.

The soundtrack is skipping. The vinyl momentarily derailing from the needle as my cloddish fingers slip themselves into pockets of this society. If one’s tongue rolls off the English language; if one hesitates within the bustle of the yellow street cabs and frenzied pedestrians; if one refuses to succumb to the explosively bright market stalls and all their big and hopeful promises; if one tries to evade the deepened scent of old sea bass; or if one refutes the blaring and eternal noise ringing in the ears; then one is to betray this city. I am the one who adds to the silence. I betray.

The waiter clears my plate from the miniature table that has no space for the hookah. As it rests peacefully on the ground a cat sidles towards me. Her semi-ruffled greyish coat streaked with black stripes and innocent emerald eyes appear closer and closer as she waits for me to lower my hand with any morsel left from my meal. There are no strays here. The cats live amongst the locals as family. There’s even a profession entitled ‘mancacı’ which translates to catsitter.

Istanbul’s feline friends are thought to have originated from Egypt where they were first domesticated. The ancient Egyptians considered cats sacred beings, and in ancient Mesopotamia they helped protect crops from rodents. I had tracked many a cat during my time here. The unafraid and almost determined strut towards whichever human they saw fit to share the afternoon with. The confidence of appearing anywhere in public at any time. The purr whenever they receive the affection of the locals. Knowing I cannot blend in like them, I drop some Turkish lira on the table and leave with my back firmly turned towards the café.

The shisha has not yet clogged my arteries which means I can venture further through Istanbul. I carve out an afternoon stroll near the Bosphorus river and wonder if I may cross over from the Europe end of the city towards the Asia side. My thoughts press hard onto my temples and imprint themselves deep within my mind as I put one foot down in front of the other. The dilapidated buildings, the ceaseless traffic, and the locals splashing down yesterday’s dirt at their store entrances with buckets and hosepipes all whizz by me. As I move another foot forward, I am now on the Asia side.

A bazaar bellows to me with its exploding vibrant colours and its exotic nostril-tickles. I feel the afternoon heat on my back scorching through the wilting cotton of my collared shirt. The hard uneven ground presses against my leather shoes. I have now betrayed the first rule of travel: dress comfortably.