Turkey “Walking the Streets of Balat in Istanbul”

• October 26, 2020
• By Daryl
• 2 Comments

I venture out into the village with thoughts of baklava and bread; a bakery for my destination. 

I will give you my impressions as I pass the broken stones and crumbled walls.

The walkway narrowed as it led to a brick staircase and the street below. A lady dressed head-to-toe in black, with a green paisley scarf over her head, passes me, going up. She stops several times, hesitant to take more steps till her breath slows. Another thin lady, carrying groceries does not hesitate, as she knows dinner will start soon. I pass the biggest mottle-haired dog who watched my every move in silence. A cab races up to me as I jump out of the way. He stops to ask me directions. I’m startled and laughing a little. I am no help at all. He mumbles something in Turkish and drives off, looking desperately side to side. 

I pass a group of ladies, who always sit sewing and laughing. I’ve seen them before. Small kids run and play in a dilapidated playground. Everything stops when a boy breaks glass in the play area. Every few feet, the stones and bricks of the road changes, as maintenance crews need to repair the walkways. A little girl walks with her parents, and is dressed like a princess. She sports a white cap with a white feather arched from the back to the front, dangling. Everyday a man sits beside a small table in the street, with handmade jewelry for sale.  His two prosthetic legs are crossed in front of him. Graffiti stains almost every vertical surface around this area. Men with carts full of castaway articles are gathered together; for sale at only a few lira. It’s better than begging. 

I pass a coffee shop with men sitting in the same spots everyday, drinking tea. Only men are there day after day. not women. At another coffee shop, the men are puffing on a hookah in heated conversation. Everyone has donned a face mask, most below the chin. It is hard to smoke with safety. I pass a fruit stand with more varieties of mushrooms than I have seen anywhere. The dirty orange ones interest me the most. I pass a friendly chap, who is always happy to see me. I come to a fork in the road and take it. I see a lady selling a bag of what looks like crystal sugar. Her shelves are full of herbs and tea. Her row of big jars, filled with something I know nothing about, looks like a witches apothecary. 

A fish monger has smelt and five sizes of mackerel, all with the red gills bent outwardly, to show how fresh thy are. Another store across from a butcher sells only muscles in their shells. The streets are so narrow, and full of people, and the cars have to come to a stop or back up to let facing traffic move past. I stop at a bakery and buy a hoop of bread, and a Rotisserie chicken catches my eye. Every barber is busy. A stubborn driver refuses to move as a delivery truck muscles his way past, with horns double honking. I pass a Hamam which costs 50 TL and 15TL for a massage. The baklava can not be passed up! A man with twenty three aprons on his neck, cries out as he passes. He want to sell them. A group of boys hang next to a building, all staring at a boy showing off his bottle of sugar water. You can see the other boys salivating as one grabs the bottle away and runs. Their cries fade as the distance increases. I see a grown man kick a glass jar away from his doorstep, down to the corner. He proceeded to break the glass, as I look down at my flip flops and bare feet. I think I see where the young boy learned to break the glass on the playground, earlier. I am back to the five women sewing in the same spot everyday. It is knitting day for one. A simple boy swings every day in a miniature hammock strung in the doorway. I trip on the tallest step on the staircase back up the hill to our home, thankfully staying upright.

I hear a group of green parrots land in a tree, nearby. It will soon be time for them to roost for the night. They take flight as a seagull watches. The Golden Horn is coming into view for a short moment. I join an old man at the top of the stairs and sit on a bench he is on. He sees I am not wearing my mask, so he slowly rises and walks off silently, breathing hard. I follow behind, soon, as my breathing has slowed. The call to prayer starts in the distance, with the one next door joining in, as a dozen green parrots land in the tree below.

True fact: Two hundred parrots escaped in 1997 from their cages, and have made İstanbul their permanent home.