2013 World Trip Part 7

Wandering uphill, we tried entering a museum thinking it was the palace (that being my bright idea, despite multiple signs that clearly explained that the entrance we were at was NOT the entrance we sought). After being turned around and pointed even further up the hill, we marched through a small, grassy area packed densely with other tourists. We spotted a gigantic doorway and combined with the torrential flood of pedestrian traffic surging through it, we deduced it was the entrance we were seeking. Mixing in with the rabble, we made it through the security checkpoint only to be stopped by a mechanical gate that demanded to see our tickets. Flustered, we pushed our way back the way we’d originally come – back tracking becoming something of a habit.

After a brief pit stop to replenish the fluid we were rapidly losing thanks to sweat – it now being the hottest part of the day – we scanned the area for a ticket booth and with a heavy heart, spied an incredibly long, snaking line. The line was populated with at least a hundred other sweaty, annoyed tourists. Those with children seemed to be doing it particularly hard and I did not envy them at all. The line was completely exposed to the sun and the giant ball of gas wasn’t showing anyone any mercy on this particular day. I would have thought that if this was a regular occurrence, a shade cloth or two wouldn’t have gone astray, but that’s just logical thinking to cater for the tourists that were coming in droves.

Regardless of the heat, Ian and I slowly made our way to the front of the line. By the time we had reached the front, my back was trying its hardest to emulate a waterfall. I was not particularly pleased by this, however there was very little I could do about it, so I was forced to let the sweat pour down my spine and into my underpants. If my back was pretending to be a waterfall then my underpants were trying their hardest to become a swamp. By the time I realized I was virtually a walking bio-dome, we were being waved forward by the staff behind the desk at the ticket station. We’d literally walked up to the glass and had begun speaking to her when, from behind the roped off section beside us, a man and his entire brigade of children pushed their way in front of us. And I was having none of it.

Ian’s mouth lay agape as the man looked us in the eye and with a smile waved his entire family to join him.

                ‘Uh yeah, actually NO!’ I yelled at the man, completely disgusted by his sheer disregard for queue etiquette. I mean, I understand that we were from two completely different cultures, but I don’t care where you’re from, a queue’s a queue. You respect the line, man.

                ‘Back of the line’s back there man,’ I gestured, jerking my thumb back in the direction we’d waited for ages. ‘Get back THERE. We were here first.’ The man simply waved my aggravated growls away with a warm smile, as if to thank me for letting him cut in front so generously. In sheer desperation, I turned from the fat, hairy pusher-innerer to the obvious authority figure of the situation, the lady behind the desk. With an uninterested shrug, she turned from me to serve the man. It was the worst injustice I had ever faced. This was horrible. This would not STAND! I swore from that moment on that anyone who tried to cut in fro---- oh, it was our turn.

Tickets acquired for both the palace and the harem that resided within (a fact that excited Ian and I more than it should have), we pushed once more into the fray, working our way past the security checkpoint for a second time. This time, I smiled smugly as we passed through the gate that required a ticket.

                ‘Try and stop me NOW!’ I thought to myself, feeling like a renegade the likes of which had never been seen before. Tales would surely be told about the time the man showed reckless disregard for policy and tried to push through a gate without a ticket. I was disappointed the story hadn’t made the BBC news when I checked later that night.

Without a map or guide of any sort, Ian and I found ourselves wandering aimlessly around the area we had just wasted precious time and money fighting to get into. It was all very pretty but honestly a bit forgettable. It seemed to me like we were visiting a hollowed-out shell of a palace, rather than a place of any importance. Each room we went into was as empty as they were similar. The only thing that seemed to differentiate them were the signs at the doorway for each room, detailing how THIS particular room used to hold the Sultan’s hats! And THIS room was formerly used for circumcisions! Thrilling.

We quickly grew tired of looking at empty rooms with roped off couches and decided to settle for finding some lunch. After a brief look, we literally wandered into a restaurant with a similar view to the café we’d eaten at hours before. After being seated by a very gracious waiter, I realized that we had stumbled into a high-class restaurant and now had to act like we belonged there. It wasn’t hard, the meal was fantastic, though once again I was slapped in the face with the difference of prices between Cambodia and Turkey. Once we’d finished, I felt it only appropriate to wash it all down with the apple tea my sister had suggested on the phone earlier. It was only when we tasted it that I realized how completely unprepared we’d been for this trip. The tea was delicious and yet if I hadn’t touched base with my sister who had alerted me to the drink with a ‘you DIDN’T know about it?!’ attitude, I mostly likely would have left the country never having known about it. For the briefest of moments, I almost found myself thinking that it might have been nice to have my sister along for the ride. Then, I remembered that she would take up space and oxygen and banished the thought to the deepest dungeon of my mind forever.

We left the restaurant with the mindset of getting value for the money we’d paid and set off valiantly to find the harem. We found it after looking for a good thirty minutes. I honestly don’t know how we missed it, there being signs everywhere. Must’ve been a ‘forest through the trees’ situation, I’m sure. Another gate similar to the one we’d passed through after the initial security check confronted us before the harem and I reached into my pockets, fully prepared to swipe my tick---

‘----wait. Where’s my ticket?’ I thought to myself. I spent the next ten minutes patting down my pockets, searching each one thoroughly and searching them again. I shredded the contents of my backpack and yet still remained empty handed. Somehow, during the mindless wandering and the tea drinking, I’d managed to lose my ticket. Luckily, there was a ticket stand for the harem right next to the gate but I was furious at myself for needing it. Ian had paid for the tickets initially and I didn’t like that I’d essentially just wasted his money. I paid for another ticket and we pushed through the gates, though this time I felt defeated rather than reckless.

Almost immediately on entering, I was forced to forget why I was annoyed. The harem was incredible. With its winding corridors and intricate mosaics, it was infinitely more interesting than the actual palace grounds. We made our way through the winding maze after a brief stop in a courtyard that overlooked the palace gardens and the park we’d been in before, we exited the harem knowing nothing more about it than when we had walked in, but agreeing that it was far cooler than the palace.

We bid farewell to the sweaty masses of tourists and left the entire complex. I felt slightly turned around though as we’d somehow managed to exit on the opposite side that we’d entered. It wasn’t long before I recognized a few buildings from the day before when we’d walked back from the river tour and we were back in front of the ‘Blue Mosque’ in no time. Using it as a point of reference, we wandered back up-hill, back to the area we’d had breakfast. Skirting around a few back streets, we took a seat at an honest-looking, shady restaurant. By this point, both Ian and I had sweated more water out than we’d actually consumed throughout the day and as such, had turned into the human equivalent of prunes. With desperation in our voices, we ordered as much water as our bellies could hold and it was after only a few minutes of sitting slumped across our table, trying to maintain our dignity as much as our level of consciousness when one of the waiters alerted us to two other patrons sitting slightly further down from us. They were now facing us, waving nervously. The waiter explained:

                ‘You…’ he began, hesitantly. ‘You… Australian?’ We nodded wearily, causing a genuinely gleeful smile to spread across the man’s lips.

                ‘THEY AUSTRALIAN ALSO!!!’ He cheered with far more enthusiasm than absolutely necessary. It was cool that we’d managed to find a couple that shared our nationality, but at that point, we were more concerned with re-hydrating than we were with socializing. It wasn’t long before we understood that the waiter wouldn’t be happy unless we started talking to them and we came and sat down with the other Aussies. The waiter wandered off into the background, overly thrilled that he’d brought us together, his random act of kindness done for the day.

The conversation felt a little jarring to begin with and it didn’t take long for me to figure out that I’d need alcohol to untie my tongue. Beer in hand, my words flowed freely once more. Ian remained quiet in comparison, not having quite found the energy to join in as yet. We found out that this couple – well into their late forties, early fifties – were from Melbourne. The man – David – was a financial something and the woman - ...?... – was a …?... I was quite annoyed at my brain for not remembering who she was or what she did because she was the nicer of the two. The hour pushed on and we parted ways, with Ian and I and we made our way back to our hotel. When we returned, we found that our washing – that I neglected to mention we’d given to the staff the day before in DIRE need of cleaning – had been returned, sans one shirt of Ian’s. After slumping onto our beds for a few hours, soaking up the free wi-fi and recharging, we slipped into something more comfortable and infinitely less sweaty. Picking ourselves up with more effort than should have been necessary, we made our way out of the room to once more face Istanbul. We were on the hunt for dinner.

Now feeling slightly more comfortable with the layout of the city, we pushed on up and down hills until we found ourselves in essentially the same area we’d had lunch. We’d honestly meant to be more adventurous, but had failed accidentally. Far past caring, we took a seat at the nearest restaurant and devoured as much as we could. It turned out, we were only a few metres down the road from where we’d dined the night before. Even now, writing this only two weeks after it happened, I can barely remember much about that place, save the fact the toilet was upstairs. Stomachs full, we pushed our way through the streets of Istanbul one last time in the fading light. We bid farewell to the Blue Mosque and in return, the evening call to prayer rang out. A little while later, we were back in our hotel room packing for the day ahead. It was going to be an early start – we were headed to Morocco.

Our eyes opened reluctantly at around 5am. We made our final checks of the room to ensure we weren’t leaving any donations to the cleaning staff and stumbled outside, still quite obviously half asleep. As promised by the rather young and disinterested hotel staff the night before, a taxi was waiting to take us to the airport. Unsurprisingly, we took the same route to the airport that we’d taken from it when we’d first entered the country, but I felt like I appreciated it more this time. The road wound along first through the maze of back streets until we found ourselves running by the beach, drinking in the stunning view of the waterfront littered with ships and boats of various sizes first thing in the morning.

The car slowed twenty minutes later as we arrived at the airport, ready for the next part of our journey. After checking our luggage in via the least helpful airline staff member ever, (I don’t think he’d really found his calling, sitting behind that desk all day) we set about pursuing our next and far more important objective – breakfast.

After a hefty amount of walking, we settled into a booth at a rather up-market café. It wasn’t long after I’d engulfed my FABULOUS pancakes and welcome espresso that I sparked up a conversation with a girl around my age who – like the couple the day before – was also from Melbourne. Also like the lady we’d met the day before, I almost instantly forgot her name as was my custom. She’d been travelling for some time now and was on her way to Budapest to reunite with other Aussies. Coincidentally, she’d actually just come from Morocco, so I picked her brain about any local customs we should be aware of. The best she could advise us about was not to wear short-shorts as she had in the old markets of Marrakesh. Though she understood that what she was wearing was inappropriate (she’d forgotten to pack longer pants when packing to leave Australia) she wasn’t prepared for the waves of inappropriate stares, remarks and molestation she received. She said she received a smack on the bum or two, nothing as bad as a worst-case-scenario would dictate. I was disgusted that despite her poor choice of attire, chivalry didn’t transcend culture. Before long, we bid farewell to… the girl (I’m sure her name started with a ‘T’. Tally? Talia? Tina?) and headed off in the complete opposite direction we needed to go.

With less than twenty minutes until boarding began, Ian finally announced that we were headed the wrong way and that he’d known since we first started walking in that direction. We altered our course and headed back the way we came and soon found ourselves on the plane. Having settled into our seats, we watched the screens embedded into the seat in front as they showed a real-time view of the camera nestled just below the cockpit during take-off. The flight lasted for six hours and was rather uneventful. If you call updating this journal and playing Pokemon ‘uneventful’. I prefer to think of it as nothing less than riveting. The time flew by – yes, I finally made that pun – and we began to make our descent into a new and unusual country. We didn’t know what to expect when we touched the ground near Casablanca, but it wasn’t long after we did that we were exposed to our first dose of Moroccan hospitality.

We lined up at the immigration office as we’d done in each country before. It took less than a minute to understand that ‘line’ was a very relative term. It was better described as a ‘straight-ish congregation’, one that continued to spread outwards with every shuffle towards the man behind the desk. It became obvious to me quite quickly that nearly everyone in the ‘line’ we were in had skipped the classes in ‘queue etiquette’ the same as the fat man in Turkey the day before. We were surrounded, shoved and completely ignored as people pushed past us to get to the front of the line before us. It took a little doing, but the two of us managed to spread our luggage out far enough form a make-shift barricade. The man behind the immigration desk soon reached his limit with his rude, pushy Moroccan brethren and promptly lost his SHIT! It was incredible to watch. He left his booth, screaming and flailing his arms wildly, pointing at other lines and back to us before he simply walked off, refusing to serve us anymore. I believe he had intended for his little tantrum to spur the people in the ‘line’ to straighten themselves out, which flat out did NOT happen. The full effect of his chastisement was lost on me, as I found it quite hilarious to watch the man scream in what essentially to me was gibberish. After a few minutes, he cooled off and returned to his post and painfully slowly, we each made it through to collect our baggage.

We now had new objectives:

1.       Find an ATM to be able to pay in a suitable currency

2.       Forage for food and

3.       Get to our hotel.

We’d barely even begun to attempt the first objective when we were pestered by three ‘helpful’ bystanders who were quite happy to point us in any direction, regardless of the fact that we couldn’t understand each other. It took a tiring amount of ‘shoo-ing’, but we managed to find our way to an ATM and use it un-interrupted. It was only after we completed the second objective at a nearby café that we realized

A.      I’d left my laptop on top of the ATM and walked off without it (which I sprinted back and collected) and

B.      The currency here was close to worthless; the food we’d just bought nearly wiping out the small amount of cash we’d just withdrawn.

Annoyed, we returned to the ATM and both pocketed huge wads of cash. It seemed unnecessary – and probably was – but I wasn’t sure when we’d be seeing our next ATM and wanted to be prepared for that eventuality. The next hassle came almost as soon as the doors opened to the great outdoors of Morocco. It was like a mixture of a ‘Jurassic Park’ and ‘Finding Nemo’. Around ten taxi drivers that were crowding around the doorway instantly started chanting

                ‘TAXI? TAXI!! TAXI?! TAXI!!!’ like the seagulls in the animated children’s adventure, but they only started when the doors opening had triggered them – their vision obviously movement based like a rather large character from the formerly mentioned dinosaur romp. We managed to swat our way past most of them and addressed the most honest-looking of the lot. He promptly delivered us to an old man who escorted us away in a beat-up, beige Mercedes. If you’re ever wondering where Mercedes go to die, I’d say a fair bet would be Morocco. They were everywhere. We’d barely made it onto the road when we realized we’d made a crucial error in trusting this old man to drive us to our hotel. He was quite obviously bat-shit insane.

He was a lead-footed senior-citizen, and had the delayed reflexes to compliment his age. There were no working seatbelts in the back seat, so Ian and I very quickly worked out we were entirely at this man’s mercy. For half an hour, he raced up behind other cars before slamming on the brakes and honking furiously at them for getting in his way – despite the fact they hadn’t changed their course at all. He played ‘Chicken’ with not only other cars and motorcycles, but quite gamely with other buses and trucks. There were two heart-stopping moments where I quite honestly closed my eyes and accepted that I wouldn’t be seeing my girlfriend, my family or Australia ever again only to open them again and be faced with the next pant-soiling traffic-based encounter. I couldn’t believe it, but the only traffic accident I saw on the drive in happened at a slower than walking-pace speed as one car blindly ambled into oncoming traffic and another one plowed into it seemingly out of spite.

Buildings began to replace paddocks and we soon realized we’d made it into the city of Casablanca. The first and most disappointing thing I noticed was how the movie of the same name had lied to me. Though black-and-white and made umpteen years ago, it painted a picture of a beautifully romantic city bathed in culture, none of which was on display. Amazingly, we made it to our hotel. I don’t think I’ve ever made it out of a car as quickly as I did that day. We paid the old man who sped away, never to be seen again. Shaken, we stepped inside the foyer of the hotel and checked into our room. While waiting, we were served tea and biscuits – it has only just now dawned on me that this must have been to calm the nerves of first-time travelers in Morocco.

Receiving our room key (with a hilariously large fake key attached) we crammed ourselves and the porter into the smallest elevator known to man and made our way up to our floor. With more difficulty than necessary, the door was opened (twice; there was an ankle-high section that had to be pushed open for some reason) and after receiving his tip, the staff member left us alone. The hotel was intricately decorated and looked fantastic. The hallways were adorned with wooden panels that appeared to be woven together. The colour scheme screamed

                ‘YOU’RE IN MOROCCO NOW! GET IT?!’ The beds were each dressed with mosquito nets that all added to the foreign air of being in Morocco, yet it did little to mask the drab, dirty streets we’d made our way through to get to the hotel in the first place. I was a little disheartened initially; Morocco was the place that I’d been the most excited to get to out of the entire holiday. It’s where we’d booked the most time in after seeing all the beautiful photos of the country and being swept up in optimistic, unrealistic dreams of what the country would be like. Having now been exposed to Casablanca for only a few hours, I was almost resigned to waiting out our time in the hotels we’d booked. I realize that this is an incredibly childish and stupid thing to think, but it was the first time I’d been exposed to a country like this and it was a massive culture shock.

We quickly hooked into the wi-fi the hotel had to offer and decided that because we only had the rest of the day to explore, we’d only see the main attractions Casablanca had to offer. It took the better part of an hour to realize that Casablanca wasn’t exactly a tourist hot-spot and it had very little in the way of things to look at. Between the two of us, we decided to check out the Hassan II Mosque and the Casablanca Cathedral as they looked the most impressive. We made our way back downstairs and after receiving a map from the front desk we plotted our course to the cathedral and pushed out again into the Moroccan sun.

The streets were filthy, lined with rubble and trash. I tried very hard to convince myself that this was what I had expected before I came to the city but it was still a shock to see people inhabiting this place and essentially ignoring the fact that the city was quite obviously decaying. 

STAY TUNED FOLKS, THIS BE THE END OF PART 7!!!

I really do hope you're all still enjoying this! (This one was a biggie, huh? Sorry about the lack of pictures, I didn't take any that matched the moments I described. I promise to make it up to you next time!) 


Follow the link to part 8:
http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/2013-world-trip-part-8-part-8-really.html

2013 World Trip Part 6

The city was like nothing I’d ever seen before and I was thrilled with this because it was EXACLTY what I had hoped for.

We set foot outside our room not knowing anything about the city or where we were. My thought process was basically

                ‘Head in *That* direction, find a point of reference, dictate all future adventures according to said point.’

This was remarkably harder than originally thought. Having come from the relatively flat Australian terrain, Istanbul’s first noticeable difference (geographically) was its verticality. The place was built on a multitude of hills and our calves thanked us in aching waves for exploring the city. Our first stop was a currency exchange to be rid of the US Dollars we had accumulated to convert to the Turkish Lira to which the country was accustomed. Next, we bought a map so we could figure out exactly where we were, something we had made sure to ignore as soon as we set foot outside of our room.

Though convoluted, it only took the better part of twenty minutes for my masculine path-finding instincts to kick in and we zeroed in on our position on the map. Feeling confident, we made for a deli that was closest to the point we’d designated on the map. During the first lunch we had in Turkey, I made absolutely certain where we were on our recently acquired map. This was particularly hard to do on the street as they were populated with ‘helpful’ merchants that wanted nothing more than to ‘assist’ you for a small fee, no matter how much you waved them off. Setting a course for the nearest mosque, we paid for our brunch and headed off.

It just so happened that the nearest mosque was the ‘Aya Sofia’ – one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever laid eyes on. Honestly, I’m not a religious person in the least (at least, not yet) but being at the base of this enormous building, I felt obliged to pay my respects. In front of me lay this mammoth effort that people had forged years before and here I was fumbling with my phone and camera. We’d barely made it inside the walls of the place before I noticed Ian was lagging behind. I tracked where I thought he’d be and noticed he’d been held up by a local vendor of sorts. With much enthusiastic head shaking to be as polite as he could, Ian was handed a book and then returned it. Thinking this was a local custom he’d picked up that I’d somehow missed, I asked him to explain himself when we were finally re-united.

                ‘Yeah, so, the guy was handing me this book saying it was “Free! Free! Free!” no matter how much I told him “No”. The moment he gave it to me, he said I had to make a donation of 10 Lira.’

Lesson learned – don’t ever hold anything offered by a street merchant- we made our way into the complex. We’d only made it a few steps into the walled off area before we saw the signs that described the expected dress code. Ian met the regulations by I – in my shorts and thongs – failed to do so, so instead of breaching the inner sanctum with my sacrilegious dress-code, we wandered around the outskirts which I found to be equally as beautiful. 

The area we had found ourselves in was quite obviously the tourist district as the sheer magnitude of cafes and street vendors was uncountable. We retreated to the solace of a shady area of grass whilst we indulged ourselves in a sweet pretzel each, but it was only minutes before we were approached by someone.

                ‘TOUR! TOUR! TOUR ISTANBUL!’

There was no amount of waving that we could muster that was dissuading this man, and let me tell you, we tried. This well-dressed Turk wanted to know everything about us; from where we came from, to where we were going and everything in between. He seemed particularly interested in telling us about a certain river tour that showed us Istanbul in its beautiful entirety. Already tired from the flight and unexpected trekking through the city, we gave in and listened to what the man was explaining. He flashed an ID card hanging from his neck via a lanyard multiple times like it meant something to us. Out of sheer persistence, the man managed to rope us into the river tour he’d described earlier. We parted ways in pursuit of alcohol, as was our (my) priority.

We didn’t even have to wander far before we found an incredible café opposite what looked to be some sort of ancient museum (which later turned out to be a graveyard thanks to a very awkward self-guided tour). We indulged ourselves with a few beers and a concoction of bread and meaty chunks. Were staggered back a few hours later to the same area we’d met the tour guy earlier.

We were only two of a group of approximately thirty other tourists that had quite obviously fallen for the same routine that we’d been duped by. Turks, French, English, Japanese, it didn’t matter; this tour attempted valiantly to cater for all backgrounds. After an easy-going twenty minute downhill march, the group found itself at the boat (that I’d honestly been doubting existed since I bought the tickets).

Surrounding the docking area we’d been forced to congregate at were multiple street vendors with multiple choruses.

                ‘WATER! WATER! WATER!’ chanted one, thrusting chilled, bottled water in the air to punctuate his point.

                ‘MELON! MELON!’ shouted another. He didn’t wave his produce in the air, but he was pretty much explaining his wares in one word, so he didn’t have to. Also nearby was a guy with a range of different BB guns. A few metres in front of him lay a variety of punctured balloons and shattered glass bottles. He simply stood in front of his ‘stand’, smirking. He let the scene describe itself.

Boarding, we made our way to the uppermost of the two levels the boat had to offer. It was covered by a shade cloth, though this was quite obviously an afterthought – the craftsmanship spoke volumes. Soon, we were headed out to the deepest water of the river that divided new and old Istanbul thanks to some hearty engines. The tour guide tried hard to provide a commentary that was thrilling, but it was largely lost on me. I was more interested in the behemoth of a man that attempted to sit in front of me. I say ‘attempted’ as he had his ass as far back in the seat as possible, and yet was still sliding off thanks to his back fat. It was rather amusing to watch.

The entire cruise took around two and a half hours. By the end of which, Ian and I had filled our quota of ‘Istanbul by Water’. Though cool, the views of Istanbul did not hold the thrill we were promised and we soon found ourselves hanging at the front of the boat, watching as the bow sliced through the waves. 

We passed under both Bosphorous Bridges, went past multiple mosques, palaces and clubs and at one point were headed towards the Bosphorous before we performed an eloquent 180° and headed back the way we’d come.

On the way back, we found ourselves passing a monument Ian and I felt personally connected to – Maiden’s Tower. 

You see, back in 1999, a little movie by the title ‘The World Is Not Enough’ was released – the finale of which being set in the bay we were currently chugging over in our oversized boat (I say over as it occurred in a submarine). However, prior to boarding this, Bond – yes THE Bond – was held captive in Maiden’s Tower by *SPOILERS* Elektra King in a Turkish torture device. Bond being Bond, he managed to escape, save his boss, kill his captor and escape to the aforementioned submarine. One thing we couldn’t help but notice was just how small the tower looked in real life compared to the movie. In the movie, he scaled several stories of stairs to confront Elektra. In reality, the entire tower looked – at maximum – three stories tall. Scorned by Hollywood, we took our places once more at the front of the boat and were periodically sprayed with Northern-Hemisphere salt water until we returned to port.

Once there, we faced the un-aided climb back to the tourist district we’d come from. Initially panicked by the prospect, I soon calmed down once Ian reminded me that we’d essentially come in a straight line from the Aya Sofia to the bay and could return the same way. Realizing that common sense had left me during the river tour, I followed as Ian led the way. A few labored steps later, we found ourselves at the same place we’d initially been harassed to join the tour and true to form, another man repeated the process. We waved him away (multiple times) telling him we’d just rejoined the mainland from the tour he was advertising (multiple times) and hastily made our way in a direction he was not. Soon, we found ourselves hungry and surrounded by restaurants. It was not a terrible position to be in.

We obviously chose the one with the most attractive girl at the front. After being seated and confronted with menus, we noticed with simultaneous throat clearances that the prices in Istanbul had dramatically increased from what we’d been accustomed to in Cambodia. Jabbing at the most expensive thing at the menu, we settled into the ‘House Red’ and sunk into our chairs. Another reality check ensued. A week prior to this, we were in Adelaide, preparing to leave the country. Now, here we were, about to eat steak cooked in front of us with Cognac-fuelled flames whilst the sun set behind hulking mosques and the evening call and the evening call to prayer rang out over Istanbul. Following this, we finalized the meal with an espresso (for me) and Turkish coffee (for Ian). Ian quickly realized the Turkish coffee wasn’t his particular cup of tea. Yes, I just made that pun.

The staff at this particular restaurant were overly friendly and it didn’t take long for me to realize that it wasn’t just for the fact we were buying the most expensive things on the menu. It was after our complimentary shots of liqueur were laid in front of us at the table with a ‘knowing grin’ did I realize that the staff believed Ian and I were a couple. And who was I to argue? Here were two adult(ish) men, indulging in the same meal with red wine as the sun set over Istanbul. It also dawned on me that as long as Ian and I realized we weren’t actually together (though we’d be AMAZING together, but that’s another story) and the staff didn’t cotton on, I was completely OK with this if we were receiving free stuff.

Once we’d paid, we left the amazing restaurant to the satisfied smiles of the staff, happy to oblige the international gays. Now knowing the layout of our general vicinity SLIGHTLY better (and I must emphasize the word ‘slightly’) we headed back to our hotel room. Though the sun was setting, the traffic was no less suicidal and the street vendors no less vicious with their sales attempts. If anything, there were more vendors out and about in the failing light as the temperature cooled . Knock-off shoes and rugs seemed to be the most prevalent of all wares and needing none of either, we made it back with our wallets (and their contents) unscathed.

The shower rocketed multiple geysers of hot, steamy water onto my skin once I was back at the hotel. I could honestly feel the water cut through the layers of sweat and grime that had accumulated underneath my clothes during the course of the day. Though I felt slightly safer in the water, I retained a shred of common sense and refused to drink the water of a foreign country whilst in the shower – as was my custom at home. The scalding water became a distant memory as I sunk into my bed, one day in Istanbul down, with another to come and no more insight into what it would hold.

I awoke sluggishly – as was quickly becoming normal for me – to a new day in Turkey. A persistent man was already up, dressed and screaming in the street a refrain that was as meaningful to him as it was annoying to us. We were yet to see any civil unrest or evidence of riots where we were, but this man seemed adamant to bring a small trace of them to us. With his disturbance of the peace noted and our willingness to riot against them growing, we made our way back onto the streets of Istanbul, still with no clear idea of what we were going out to find or why.

We headed in the same area we’d found dinner the night before and instead found multiple restaurants advertising breakfast which wasn’t entirely unexpected due to the fact that it was still morning. We found the most appealing of the lot and made a beeline for it. By the ‘most appealing’ I mean the one that didn’t have a guy out the front shoving menus in people’s faces, forcing them inside through intimidation. One inside, we were faced with a room-wide buffet of pastries, fruit, meat and yoghurt.  Mouths watering, we dove in for firsts, seconds and thirds. Appetites sated, we topped the whole ordeal off with strong, black coffee (good coffee being hard to come by in Cambodia) and left.

With no particular destination in mind, we decided to let the alleyways guide the way. After following a noticeable decline for more than a few streets, we found ourselves confronted by a stone wall. We traced it to an opening and found ourselves confronted with an enormous park. The park was filled with rows of various flowers and grassy knolls – all of which accentuated by a small accumulation of rubbish at one point or another. We moved past this, not giving it a second thought. Our minds were occupied with conversations of Pokemon and other ‘meaning-of-life’ topics. It was only really at that point that I realized how prevalent the fictional animals were becoming on our trip. Completely satisfied with that thought, we found ourselves at the opposite edge of the park from where we’d entered. The view we found was stunning.

We were standing in a small café teetering precariously on the edge of a hill. We were quickly ushered to small, wooden, hilariously uncomfortable seats by the gruff staff that had obviously drunk their fill of the incredible view and were now more interested in sucking tourists’ pockets dry. The café on a hill was facing the river we’d ventured on the afternoon before, and gave us a full view of both Bosphorous Bridges and everything in between. It was at this incredible point in our journeys that both Ian and I decided to test the limitations of our internationally capable phones and called home.

First and foremost, I called my girlfriend. This wasn’t the first time I’d called her on the trip but it was the first time I’d hit her message bank. It dawned on me that even though we were in relatively similar time zones, she was still in the real world, having to deal with things like ‘shift-work’. Failing to contact her, I touched base first with my sister and then my parents. My sister unleashed her barrage of tactful insults as is her duty and then proceeded to recommend apple tea and Turkish delight, both of which had failed to form blips on our radars of things to do for some reason. After a prolonged conversation with my parents – my father misunderstanding a delay between my speaking and his hearing it as an incapability of me being able to understand him at all, leading him to speak in drawn out sentences as if I spoke a different language – we left our table and worked our way to the grandiose buildings the park surrounded – the former royal palace.

AND THAT'S A WRAP FOR ANOTHER THRILLING INSTALLMENT OF MY LIFE!

Seriously though, stop trying to live through me. 

Stay tuned!!! 

Follow the link to part 7:
http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/2013-world-trip-part-7.html

2013 World Trip Part 5

Ian and I exited the Ta Prohm complex and found ourselves in yet another busy mess of stalls and the noisy Cambodians that ran them. It’s easy to write these experiences of as just ‘plain annoying’ as the owners of the stalls go out of their way to invade your personal space; flashing menus literally right in your face and repeating the same phrases over and over to the point that they just sound like moans. The thing is, they do this to draw you in because they have literally no other source of income. So what might be minorly annoying to us is living hand-to-mouth for them.

As mentioned, Ian and I were swamped by people begging us to buy our drinks from their stalls. One particular lady went out of her way to come right up to us, leaving her stall unattended. Out of sheer reflex, we fobbed her off with our now-routine

                ‘Not now, not now. Later!’ It wasn’t until we were halfway around our lap of the stalls that we realized that we actually were indeed thirstier than first thought, having sweated our body weight in fluid within the past two hours. The fact that our clothes clung to us unceremoniously was evidence of this. Avoiding all of the other stalls, we made a beeline for the first lady we had spoken to. I wondered if she had already written us off – I imagine that a lot of tourists have used the ‘Later’ line on her in the past – because she was positively STOKED to see us. Honestly, it was like we’d made her day. We’d perused all of the other available places to purchase drinks and we’d returned to her, just like we’d promised. I felt good about returning to her as – if appearances were anything to go by – she was the most in need of our money. Every other stall in the area had a canvas shade erected around it to give it some protection from the elements. Her ‘stall’ was literally an esky filled with rapidly-melting ice under a tree. We made our selection, made the necessary transactions and parted ways to find Mr. Van who – as usual – had found us long before we saw him.

Our bellies full of Coke and lukewarm water, Mr. Van now informed us that we were in for a slightly longer drive and to settle back into the seats. Not wanting to permanently mark the seats with my musk, I leaned forward for as much of the trip as possible. However, after what seemed like forever (which was in fact, most likely only five to ten minutes) I was fighting to keep my eyes open. We had only been awake for 5 hours maximum but I was exhausted. One look at Ian told me he was feeling the same. I fought hard to stay awake, but soon my eyelids felt as though they had weights attached to them and were shut without too much resistance.

We awoke pulling into a rather large car park and Mr. Van explaining that we would be here for a while. I couldn’t even tell you where ‘here’ was. We piled out of the car and Mr. Van took off to give us some space. The thing was, we probably could’ve used his guidance – we had no idea where we were, we were half asleep and absolutely no idea what we were meant to be doing. So, we ambled around the area for as long as our legs would carry us. It was kind of cool, not knowing what we were meant to be doing. It was like we were discovering something.

The first thing we were faced with was a large, well-developed area full of the same stalls selling trinkets that we had come to realize were very much commonplace. Just past that were a collection of open areas to eat. Our appetites not yet developed, we veered away from these areas and headed out towards a dirt path that seemed to be taking tourists towards something interesting. By this time, exhaustion had trumped our excitement and we were left feeling like we just needed to get this over with. Ian mentioned to me that by this stage, everything was looking the same. By that point, I found it hard to argue with him. By no means did we mean that each beautiful work of stone, each building was now unimpressive to us, but we now felt like we had been exposed to best of these and wished to retain quality over quantity. 

En route to whatever this place had developed around, we were stopped by some young children, hawking postcards and books to tourists. This was nothing new, but their sales pitch was.

                ‘Give me one dollar!’ It was bold. Direct. Concise. There was none of this

                ‘I will try my hardest to earn your money’ kind of attitude. It was more in the vein of

                ‘Give.’ Funnily enough, Ian and I were in no mood to oblige by this stage, and continued past the kids. They didn’t seem to mind though and continued their genius business strategy as we left. Further down the track were a collection of vendors, each selling a selection of fruits and juices that looked as if they were better off avoided.

                ‘Mango, one dollar sirrrrrrrr!’ Announced one lady and to her credit, her presentation of the mango could not be faulted. It had been skewered and hacked into an orange spiral pinecone. However, I’m not a huge fan of mango at the best of times, let alone when I’m exhausted and covered in my own fragrant juices. It wasn’t long after we’d had our tickets checked by the local authorities that we spied why Mr. Van had brought us here – another ruined temple lay ahead of us. This one was far less impressive than any of the others we had seen prior to this point, but we felt obliged to explore to make the most of our day trip. We had stepped one foot inside the complex and were comforted by a wave of shade when a Police Officer approached us. Having heard stories of corrupt Police in Cambodia, I was instantly on-edge, wondering what ‘tax’ the man could concoct to elicit money out of us. The truth was far more simple. He wanted to sell us souvenirs.

Though the man’s English was desperately limited, he had no problem in getting his message across – he flapped a badge marked ‘Police’ above an official-looking insignia pinned to his shoulder in our direction and punctuated the gesture with the same strategy the children had displayed just minutes before.

                ‘Ten dollars. Ten dollars? Ten dollars!’ He seemed incredibly excited about the bargain he was offering us, unfortunately we seemed less so. As politely as we could to avoid potential jail time, we backed away offering condolences for the income that the Police Officer would not be receiving from us. Undeterred, the man disappeared. I like to think that the man ran off to fight crime like a Cambodian Batman, obviously filled with a new-found sense of justice after his career in retail had fallen through.

Various signs pointed out various landmarks, but it wasn’t long before we’d seen all we cared to see. My stomach now told me it was ready to be filled again and RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT so we made our way back to the open food court and took our places at the best-looking one of the lot. With no tact, we jabbed at the menu, ordering spring rolls and sprite – exotic, I know. While we waited, we noticed a movie was playing on a nearby mounted flat-screen TV. It was a Blaxploitation movie of the highest caliber and both Ian and I were engrossed. Before long, our deep fried snacks had arrived, and we made sure we were as efficient as possible with cramming them into our stomachs to avoid prolonged exposure to the aforementioned movie. It seemed that simply being near it was diminishing what precious little intelligence we clung to.

With lunch finished, we had a hard decision to make. It seemed like we were only at the midpoint of Mr. Van’s fantastic tour of the temple region of northern Cambodia but we were absolutely exhausted. By this point, it was 12 o’clock. Mr. Van’s tour continued until sunset which was at least at 6, maybe 7pm. Having already trekked for seven hours, we came to the conclusion that we had filled our quota of temples and that to continue for another seven would be simply foolish. As stated before, the beautiful temples had already begun to lose their appeal, and to continue would surely continue to do so. With that, we found Mr. Van (that’s a lie, you KNOW he found US) and announced that we were going to have to cut the day short. We were headed home.

The journey home took around 40 minutes and gave us a wonderful view of the countryside. With every second we remained in the air-conditioned comfort, I began to feel better and better but I wasn’t prepared to tell Mr. Van that I had changed my mind again, and now wished to return to the temples. I was satisfied that I had seen what I had come to see and remained silent as I drank in the luscious green surrounds. We passed the ‘Cambodian Land Mine Museum’ and I’m ashamed to say, I don’t think I made the ‘that looks like a BLAST’ pun. I was obviously tired. We were now far more comfortable with the suicidal method of travel adopted by most drivers in Cambodia though I still cringed when we came uncomfortably close to vehicles that were going to win in a head-on contest (ie. Buses and trucks) which still happened far more often than I would have liked. One other cool thing we passed on the way home was neither naturally occurring or awe-inspiring architecture. We passed a shining example of Camodian innovation – a tractor that had been stripped back to bare essentials and morphed into a flat-bed truck of sorts. It was a technical marvel – particularly as the front section was at a 45° angle from not only the ground it drove over, but the tray attached to it as well. The man driving it was surely a maverick.

We returned to our hotel and made arrangements to meet Mr. Van one last time the next day. He was to escort us to the airport. It seemed a fitting conclusion to our journey in Siem Reap as he had been a part of it since we first stepped off the bus. Smiling from ear to ear as was his custom, he bid us farewell with an enthusiastic wave and disappeared. Alone, Ian and I now had the freedom to explore Siem Reap as we saw fit.

An hour and a half later, Ian gave me a few stern prods to rouse me from my sweaty slumber. Napping had won out over any exploring. We deliberated regarding the way we would spend our final few hours in Siem Reap and were most satisfied with a dip in the hotel’s overly-chlorinated pool, freshening up and hitting the streets to find a Mexican restaurant I had spied earlier in the Night Market district.

Smelling delicious post showering, we ventured out to find the restaurant. I realize I skipped describing the swim we had before cleaning up, but how much detail do you REALLY need? Moving on.

Sunlight was fading as we made our way through the streets that seemed to get busier as the hour grew later. It wasn’t long before we’d way past the incredible multitude of stalls selling scarves, jewelry and pirated everythings that we found the place we were looking for and settled into two outdoor seats facing the street on the direction of the frankly far too young waitress. After ordering dinner, another reality check set in. Here we were, sipping ice-cold Coronas in Cambodia. I couldn’t help but notice that the whole situation seemed like the set up for a bad joke:

                ‘Two Australians go to a Mexican bar in Cambodia…’ I’m not ashamed to say that the chimichangas I wolfed down was one of the most delicious things I’d consumed within recent memory. During dinner, we were confronted by two of the coolest kids I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. The first was selling two books, one regarding Pol Pot and the second describing the history of Cambodia. I was impressed not only by the kid’s grasp of English, but the ease and confidence he displayed when he approached us.

                ‘Buy book? Buy book, come onnnn…. Buy book!’ He said with a cheeky smile. I held pointed to the book about Pol Pot – ready to lie to the kid which I feel slightly ashamed about.

                ‘No thanks dude, I’ve read that one!’ Undeterred, the kid held out the second book in his other hand.

                ‘That no problem, this one second part!’ It was awesome. This kid had no issues lying straight back at me, and very nearly convincingly. However, I wasn’t sure that there WAS a sequel to Pol Pot’s life story, and if there WAS, I was sure I would’ve heard of it prior to this encounter. We gave him some spare change due in equal parts to his composure and to get him to leave. Next up was an absolutely adorable young girl selling woven arm bands. Both Ian and I wanted something small to remember the time we’d spent in Cambodia so we each fished through her container until we found a few we liked. The girl’s pitch was entirely dependent on pity – she had a story attached to the container of arm bands about how she was struggling to make ends meet with her mother – but I was won over by her beautiful smile. Her business completed with us, she ran off into the night to pester other tourists. We collected the check and left for home via the night markets.

On the way home, we stopped at a pharmacy. I felt a little silly having left Australia without my hangover cures – Aspirin and Maxolon – as well as not being prepared for a perpetual left knee niggle. I walked out with more pills than I could’ve hoped for and the sensation that I’d just broken the law. I hadn’t, it was just that in Australia, a bunch of the medications that I bought would’ve required a doctor’s prescription and here were simply available over the counter.

The day drew to a close and I grew overly excited as was my routine. Tomorrow, we were leaving for Istanbul, Turkey. Sure, the day was going to be lost through travel, but I didn’t much care for that. I was more keen to see what new adventures the place would hold – especially considering Istanbul was experiencing a period of heightened tension and civil unrest. Riots had broken out between the civilians and police and I was keen to see how this would affect the trip – if at all. We’d been warned about the riots prior to leaving Australia and had been keeping tabs on it. Colleagues at work had advised me to avoid the riots at all costs and I had quipped that I not only intended to disregard their advice wholeheartedly, but to join the revolution that I knew nothing about. It seemed to shut people up and that was the most important thing. Despite excitement charging through my blood like lightning bolts, I was soon off to sleep.

The screeching alarm next to my head pulled me kicking and screaming from my slumber regardless of whether I was ready or not. Having packed our things – a task which I was becoming marginally better at – we headed downstairs to check out, but not before we stuffed our final complimentary breakfast down our throats. Before long, breakfast was over, check out complete and we were slowly trudging to meet Mr. Van for the last time. As expected, he was punctual as ever and smiling broadly. If nothing else, the man had fantastic teeth. With more effort than it should’ve taken, he stuffed our bags into his boot and we were off to the Siem Reap International Airport. I felt a little bad about Mr. Van packing our belongings as they were basically 17kg weights, but I have the feeling he would’ve declined help even if he’d been stuck underneath his own car. He went out of his way to ensure we weren’t inconvenienced in any way. I would miss Mr. Van and I still wasn’t 100% sure that was even his name.

En route, we saw just how much of the city we’d missed on our brief stay and made a mental note to return in the future to complete the adventure. Five minutes into the journey, we found our car veering off the road, having been directed by policemen. After a quick glance down the road, I noticed that there were policemen lining the street at regular intervals, clearing it of all traffic.

                ‘What’s going on here?’ I asked Mr. Van in a far less obnoxious tone than those words imply.

                ‘It’s to make way for the Royal Convoy.’ He replied with a grin and sure to his word, a cavalcade of sleek, modern, black cars with royal insignias emblazoned upon them rolled past, unhindered by traffic. Our brush with royalty complete, Mr. Van pulled back onto the road when he was directed by the Police and we sped off to the airport.

My heart sunk when we saw the various aeronautical themes that advised us of our arrival to the airport – we’d be bidding farewell to Mr. Van. Once our belongings had been dragged from the car, we hesitantly asked the question we’d been dreading and Mr. Van had been avoiding since we met him –

                ‘So… howwwwwww much? How much do we owe you, Mr. Van?’ He lowered his head, almost embarrassed that he expected payment for his incredible work. Sheepishly looking me in the eye, he replied slowly.

                ‘…One? One thousand. One thousand US dollars.’ My heart stopped. I mean, it wasn’t as if I could argue with the man, but I just thought that because things were so cheap in the country that he’d be--- dammit. He was smiling. He was joking. His smile spread to reaches I hadn’t seen it extend to before and he explained $200 US would be more than fair. However, now I felt inclined to GIVE him the $1,000. He was such a warm, incredibly awesome guy and deserved far more than $200, so we tipped him generously. After many handshakes, hugs and a cheeky photo, he was gone. I hadn’t felt so alone since leaving my loved ones in Adelaide. It was stupid, we were in no different a position than we had ever been, but to me, it felt like I’d bid farewell to a lifelong friend. Don’t judge me for my man-crush.

We went through the same customs rigmarole that we’d been through a few times before and made it into the airport. Checking in proved confusing as the flight number had been changed with no clear indication anywhere of it happening. Looking back, it was fairly obvious – the flight time and destination hadn’t changed – but being first time explorers, we may have experienced a minor freak out. After making it into the departure lounge, we almost instantly noticed the price hike. Not only were flights and Visas hard to come by in this country, if locals were leaving they’d have to make it through the departure lounge without spending their life savings (harder to do than it sounds). Soon, we were a few beers deep and quite relaxed. The pain of Mr. Van’s departure was somewhat alleviated by alcohol. An obnoxiously loud digital bell sounded and announced that our flight was ready for boarding and with that, we left Cambodia behind.

We landed for the second time in Vietnam, now aware of the relaxed security restrictions in place. I walked through the metal detector without removing any weapons of mass destruction from my person as I had been encouraged to on our first passage through the country and was swiftly stopped by a security officer who clearly took his job more seriously than the first chump who’d waved us through. Left feeling stupid and with a valuable life lesson under my belt – you CANNOT waltz through security in a new country – we made our way to the closest café and again, stuffed our faces. We topped it all off with nuclear-powered and supremely welcome espressos and moved to our departure lounge. Thus ended our experiences in Vietnam. I can’t truthfully say we were fully exposed to the country, but I almost felt like we would have been cheating on Cambodia had we been.

It was approximately a three hour flight back into Singapore and confusion smacked us in the face when we entered at midnight. Everything was the same… but different somehow. The carpet had changed. The layout was subtly – but perplexingly – warped. It wasn’t long before the stupid rubbed off us and we realized we were simply in a different terminal than the one we had initially landed in. With six hours to kill, we took full advantage of what all three terminals had to offer and soaked up some light shopping, half a movie and soaked up as much electricity for our time wasting devices as possible. Twenty minutes prior to our flight boarding, I realized that not only was I not ready, but we were (according to the signs) at least a 25 minute walk from our gate. Spurred on by adrenaline and a newfound sense of purpose, Ian and I fucking LEGGED it, making it to our gate in 18 minutes. There we sat for another 20 minutes in our exercise and panic induced sweat – our flight having been delayed.

Once aboard, Ian and I were separated; he sat in the seat in front of me. Devastated, I napped for the first three hours of the flight. When I woke, I found that the couple in the two seats to my left were not only Australian, but annoying as all hell. I made it a point not to engage in conversation – something harder than it sounds for me. Along the way, I jabbed at Ian and he retaliated by reclining his seat onto my knees. Touché.

The flight went quicker than expected and before we knew it, we were on the ground in Istanbul. Having not been in a window seat, I hadn’t been able to observe for any signs that the city was on fire. Gathering my things, I simply accepted that if our hotel was engulfed in civil war, I would be throwing Molotovs with the best of them. After buying our Visa for our brief stay in Turkey (€45 EACH!!!) we stuffed our things into the car of the most polite taxi driver EVER! Just kidding, the guy was an asshole and he drove like a maniac. However the scenery was lovely. We sped by the waterfront where it seemed hundreds of container ships had moored a stone-throw off the coast. The car turned inland and soon we were lost in the twisting tangle of backstreets – and I mean that literally. Like our first Cambodian driver before, the Turk was soon pulled over on the side of the road getting directions from some locals who were none-too-happy to have been pulled out of their tiring regime of sitting, smoking and scoffing at outsiders.

The taxi came to an abrupt, wheel-squealing halt and the driver gruffly jabbed at the building beside us, kindly indicating that we had arrived. After a brief exchange of unpleasantries regarding payment for the ride, we were soon checked into our room with the owner of the hotel joining us to personally fix the television that we hadn’t intended to use. The settings had been fiddled with described the owner. He would not stand for it and as such, spent the better part of an hour jabbing buttons on the remote at the television while it refused to co-operate. It was only when we became emphatic that we simply didn’t care about the television that the guy got the hint and left the room. We dropped our things and completely unprepared, we headed out into Istanbul.

BOOM! AND THAT'S PART 5 DONE! That was a long one because it was a fairly hefty break between wifi hotspots. Cheers for reading and as always, hope you enjoyed!!!

Follow the link to Part 6:
http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.com.es/2013/07/2013-world-trip-part-6.html