Week 4: Some Cities Come Into Our Lives for a Reason, a Season, or a Lifetime

Leaving Greece was tough but necessary. I spent my last day naked on a turquoise beach, swimming in the sea, mentally preparing myself for the next stage of the journey the transition from Europe to the Orient.

The border crossing into Turkey was a sobering and novel experience. Leaving the EU for the gates of the East, I crossed a DMZ bridge. On each side, Turkish and Greek soldiers equipped with Ops-Core gear looked a bit bored, relaxing in the morning sun. I waved at them, empathizing with their mundane duty of standing all day looking at the other side with nothing else to do. The Turkish border customs officers were as stern as the tail-wagging dogs that roamed around the barriers. I tried my best Turkish to elicit a smile from the one checking my paperwork. No reaction. I kept at it, determined to see some humanity in this stern Turkish Official. Eventually, I saw a suppressed smile appear, satisfied he wasn’t a robot but a human after all—a victory under my belt. I had made it and opened up Tara onto the Turkish roads!

The thrill of arriving in a new country is intoxicating, and I momentarily forgot that even in Turkey, there are speed limits. My roll mat flew off my bike onto the road. I cursed my poor packing skills, thrown back to Lympstone (the commando training center in green Exmouth), where an angry DS (directing staff) once cut off all the buttons of my uniform because I hadn’t secured them properly... What would he do in this situation? Shame on me for my bad admin. A crazed Turkish driver tried to signal to me that I had dropped my gear, but I misinterpreted his gesture as an invitation to speed up—it was a race!

Unlucky for me, as I turned the bend, a police speed radar team lay in ambush and waved me over. The kind driver of the car pulled up behind me and spoke to the smiling police officer in Turkish. They burst into laughter and called me over. "There is good news and bad news," they told me. "Good news is that we know where your roll mat is! Bad news is, you have a speeding ticket!" They both exploded into another fit of laughter, and I couldn’t help but join them in the absurdity of the situation.

I told the police officer I had ridden from France and was visiting a friend of mine from the Turkish Army that I had served with in Afghanistan. He shook my hand and tore the speeding ticket up. "Welcome to Turkey!"

A few more hours on the motorway included a tea stop where I had a makeshift conversation with an old haji who told me of his pilgrimage to Mazar-e Sharif in Afghanistan. The East was drawing closer.

Next stop, Istanbul! The heat was rising, a sharp contrast from the cool sea breeze of the Greek Aegean coast. In Istanbul, my writer friend and mentor Ben had connected me to Emily, a renouned photographer I knew nothing about who had kindly offered to put me up for a few days.

Just before entering the city, I stopped at a service station to douse myself with some cold water and drink my tenth coffee and cigarette of the morning. I had been warned by other travelers that Istanbul traffic was the price to pay to discover the city. A waiter told me to avoid the coastal path due to traffic. What did he know? I wanted to ride by the coast to avoid the inland heat and the rushing trucks on the motorway. Big mistake. As I drew nearer to Istanbul, the urban sprawl began, and so did the traffic. Three hours of bobbing and weaving against the Ottoman behemoth to get to my destination, cursing and swearing in my helmet! "I hate cities, why the hell didn’t I stay up in the mountains?!"

I finally made it to Emily's flat in the old and stylish Taksim neighborhood. I parked the bike outside a carpet shop where two suspicious-looking Turkish men sat outside, drinking coffee and smoking roll-ups. I saw them smile and look at me; one of them had an inviting grin and mischievous eyes. I knew instantly we would be friends. I greeted him half-exhausted and buzzing on adrenaline from the 20 rounds of boxing with the Istanbul traffic. He laughed, invited me to sit down, and have a coffee. His name was Onur, also known as Onur_therugdealer on Instagram. He had just opened a shop on the street where he sells antique rugs. We got on like a house on fire, and before I knew it, I’d made a new brother. He has long greyish hair and looks like a Turkish version of The Big Lebowski. He’s funny, witty, extremely mischievous—a wheeler and dealer of the best kind, a true Ottoman rogue connected to both the city's underworld and upper classes, he navigates Istanbul's underbelly like a true street cat. Erudite and well-read, yet educated on the streets, he cares little for pretense—he cares for real people. His shop has three stools outside that are constantly busy with friends, neighbors, influencers, and other shady characters stopping by to chat with him. I felt instantly at home and hadn't even met Emily yet!

Emily emerged from her flat to find me deeply engrossed in conversation with Onur. Having just arrived in the neighborhood, she didn't really know anyone. Yet, there I was, three minutes in and already familiar with half the street. She burst out laughing and gave me a big hug, then invited me into her home. I waved goodbye to Onur, sensing more mischief would come our way later. Sometimes, you just know when you've made a good connection—we both felt it; we were brothers in spirit.

Emily is an accomplished adventurer, a renowned photographer, and best described as a breeze of cool mist—soothing and free. She welcomed me, a complete stranger high on coffee and nicotine, into her home amidst the rug dealers, antiquarians, wandering travelers, and the burgeoning art scene of Istanbul. Her presence felt like a breath of fresh air, a blend of timeless elegance and modern-day adventure. She was somewhere between Audrey Hepburn and Gertrude Bell. Her spirit shone through her observant green blueish eyes, guiding me in my writing. Her creativity seemed to seep from every pore, amused by my quest for wild spaces in the world's most famous places, and frustrated by my approach. She encouraged me to stop mythologizing the past and, more importantly, to "show, don't tell" and "stop being a whiny bitch" in my writing.

Write about Kate, the real reason I had to leave—what truly aches in my soul.

She provided a safe haven for my weary soul. A few days turned into a week as we discussed life and the meaning of truth. She shared her extraordinary stories with me. As a so-called tough guy, I found myself feeling somewhat inadequate around her. I worked hard to transform my insecurities into admiration. Once that was achieved, I could be fully present, a cliche for a man to feel lesser because a woman has achieved more—I'm embarrassed to have even thought it.

She understood me instantly, and for the first time since I'd left, I managed to take a full nap on her sofa as she diligently prepared a sumptuous feast of vegetables and spices. What a relief after the meat-heavy diet of the Greek farm. Body rested, belly nourished, we both ventured out to visit the Blue Mosque at sunset. I needed to swap my riding gear for walking attire, opting for cargo trousers, Solomon boots, a baseball cap, and a knife in my pocket. Emily burst out laughing when she saw me, teasing that I looked more like her bodyguard than a tourist. She suggested that the next day, it was time for me to soften up and switch to linen, to shed the aggressive military contractor skin.

As we walked to the Blue Mosque across the bustling Sultanahmet neighborhood, Emily set a brisk pace. What started as a stroll soon turned into a tactical advance to battle. Despite the emotional break I'd had in the city, I was barely keeping up, turning into a sweaty mess. Keen to not show my discomfort and lack of fitness, I kept smiling through gritted teeth. I later learned that she had trekked across Northern Iraq with nomads for over two months and had lived through the recent earthquake in south east turkey and northern Syria and the tumultuous ISIS occupation. Being in a bustling bazaar on the way to the Blue Mosque was not the ideal setting for someone with her background. A common reaction among soldiers, photographers, and journalists alike is to constantly risk-assess and prefer open spaces where one can feel safe and free—I understood her despite the sweat dripping from my cap.

We arrived at the Blue Mosque for sunset, not quite sure we had made it to the right one since Istanbul is filled with impressive mosques, all seemingly blue. Nonetheless, we entered and sat in the inner courtyard for a moment of quiet contemplation. Our peace was briefly interrupted by two portly middle-aged American tourists who strolled into our field of vision, ironically wearing "Welcome to Camp David" T-shirts, which felt as out of place as wearing a MAGA hat at a Pride parade.

We retreat to her apartment and continue talking all night. She recounts stories of living with nomads, meeting ISIS fighters, and the complexities of living in Iraqui Kurdistan and their lost identity. She speaks of the constant battle against ego-fueled exes and men not recognizing her talent or diminishing it based solely on her gender. A few days after this conversation, a similar theme came up in a discussion with a Turkish Freelancer who was denied recognition by a british media organisation because she was a woman and of color. It's exhausting to watch men degrade humanity like this—are we really so insecure that we feel the need to undermine half the world's population out of pure ego? This makes me even more aware of my own privilege as a 6ft 5in blonde white man with two Western passports... I really have little to complain about.

Emily has only just arrived in Istanbul, for the first time in many years finding a place where she can settle. She needs it; she's exhausted. Having seen much, lived passionately, and often fled, it's time for her to rest. Istanbul is the perfect sanctuary for a weary traveler to lay down their hat or helmet. However there is a strange irony about seeking stability and peace in a city built on a earthquake line. The city is a perfect blend of modernity and antiquity, economically thriving yet still gritty enough to remain intriguing, a melting pot of people, ten million faces and just as many faces. This city is a melting pot of all peoples—Ottomans, Turks, Mongols, Arabs, Westerners, Asians, Kazakhs, saxons, vikings, Africans—all coexist under the watchful eye of Erdoğan and the minarets. Istanbul is the cleanest city I've ever visited, home to tens of thousands of  stray dogs and probably an equal number of cats, yet there's not a single trace of them on the pavements. Parisians could learn a few things from Istanbul. It’s a city where cats can sleep safely during the day and dogs roam freely under the kind and watchful eyes of Istanbulites who view animals as sacred and never refuse to give them shelter and food. What a display of kindness and humanity—I'm falling for this city.

The smell of grilled mackerel on the Galata Bridge, the fast-paced scooters and bikes whizzing across the busy streets, the smell of shisha and coffee percolating in the morning. The cats a permanent moving and puring feature of every street. The constant artwork on the walls of Taksim, the towering art deco mosque of Galata Harbor. The ever-present minarets of Sultan Ahmet and of course, Hagia Sophia. I managed to make it to Hagia Sophia after a friend informed me of an ancient Viking inscription on one of the walls, calling me to the place. So, after a mad dash to get there and catching the last ticket before closing, I had the place to myself. Another symbol of the city's ancientness, once a Byzantine cathedral built by the Eastern Roman Emperor Constantine, then a mosque under the Ottomans. Since its inception, it has been a symbol of power, architecture, and desire for Western and Eastern empires alike. The lower floor is reserved for Muslims only, while the higher quarters, where Byzantine mosaics adorn the walls, are open to late tourists like me. Wandering around, I felt transported into the footsteps of the millions before me through the ages, who would have felt the same upon crossing its ancient thresholds. A sense of marvel and awe engulfed me. The Viking engravings on the marble handrails of the second floor, with the only recognizable symbol being the name "Halvan" engraved in the 9th century. The rest is illegible, probably just stating “Halvan was here!”—a reminder that times change, but people don’t. Despite the possibly mundane meaning of the engravings, it sent shivers down my spine to think that over 1200 years ago, a man similar in appearance to myself entered this sacred place and felt the same awe.

The modern Istanbul is a bustling hive of unending traffic jams and unchecked construction sites, a functioning chaos set against the backdrop of recent seismic events. The 2023 earthquake has left an indelible mark on the city, highlighting Istanbul's precarious perch on a tectonic fault line where Europe meets and separates from Asia. The city's residents live with the constant threat of another quake, spurred by the haunting memory of over fifty three  thousand deaths from the last two  major tremor in Kahramannmaras. A larger seismic event looms on the horizon, fostering a state of both beautiful denial and uneasy acceptance of fate.

The common adage here is that earthquakes don't kill people; poorly constructed buildings do. This underscores a critical issue in modern Turkey—corruption and greed have compromised the rebuilding efforts, leading to inadequately reconstructed buildings despite the frequent patrols of seismic teams. The sight of these teams, while reassuring, does little to assuage the anger and frustration of those who see profiteers exploiting their suffering. Stories abound of $20 million projects cut to $5 million in construction costs, with the difference lining the pockets of unscrupulous builders and exacerbating the public's distrust and resentment.

Educated Istanbulites express outrage at their government's failure to curb the corruption and greed that heighten their vulnerability. They argue that a government's fundamental duty is to ensure the safety of its people, funded by the taxes its citizens pay. Comparisons are drawn to Japan, where significant earthquakes occur with far fewer casualties, thanks to stringent building regulations and government accountability.

The call from Istanbul is clear: It's time for the Anatolian dragon to awaken and restore balance. While greed and corruption are not uncommon in any system, they must not be allowed unchecked, especially not when they directly endanger lives. In the face of nature's destructive power, it is our collective humanity and care for each other that must triumph over exploitation and greed.

Despite my anger and sadness for the people of the city Istanbul has softened me; something within is changing. Firstly, I've traded my former contractor cargo pants and baseball cap for linen trousers and a shirt. Secondly, I'm sleeping more, and there's a lightness to my step I haven't felt in a long time. My identity is morphing, the officer in me is regressing, making room for someone new, though I’m still unsure who that might be. There's still a long journey ahead, and much work to do. I could settle here, build something significant, become someone I respect—there's safety amidst the chaos. But I know I must move on; my journey isn’t over yet, and the horizon still calls. Yet, this is definitely a place where I could hang my hat.

Emily and I went for a bike ride around the city at sunset, a condition of staying in her flat. She hadn’t been on a bike for a long time and was understandably nervous. I reassured her that I was a stable driver, conveniently omitting that I had only crashed two weeks ago in Bosnia.

We rode over to the Asian side of the city, crossing the Bosphorus’s three bridges, and deep modern tunel. Tara, my bike, was eager for speed, perhaps a bit jealous of the attention I was giving Emily. I let her roar a little on the motorway. Emily, initially tense, soon screamed with exhilaration; she was hooked on riding. Motorbikes, adventurers, and risk-takers are all drawn to the same thing: risk—it makes us feel alive. The faster and closer we are to death, the more alive we feel. It’s what binds our particular tribe. I believe Tara got over her jealousy and let us breathe. We sat on the banks of the Bosphorus and watched the sunset, few words needed between us; we both understood.

Later, we met up with her journalist friends: Ed, a fresh young British journalist recently back from Ukraine; Tarek, a stylish Iraqi-born New Yorker filmmaker and former Vice News producer; Abdullah, a seasoned journalist from Baghdad working for Reuters and National Geographic; and Zeynep, a Freelance Turkish documentary maker. Zeynep, sharp and inquisitive, initially bristled upon learning I was British and a former soldier, ready to challenge my views. After some banter, when she realized I wasn’t the stereotype she expected. We discussed social class, the nuances of British politeness, and the hypocrisy it often masks. I don’t miss the UK. She invited me to her show, and Tarek and I planned to arrive there riding Tara, making a grand entrance.

Emily had to return to the UK; she offered me her flat, but I couldn't accept. Onur my Turkish rogue brother had already offered me a place in his compound. I decided to honor my agreement with him. Before moving there, we enjoyed a night of smoking shisha and tea drinking, which stretched long into the night. Onur shared insights into the criminal underbelly of the city. 

According to popular belief Istanbul and Turkey at large are controlled by the southern mafia (the Kurds) and the northern mafia (the Arabs), with the state, currently under Erdoğan's firm control, maintaining a tense but stable peace between these opposing criminal factions. Turkey is an extremely wealthy country, strategically placed, although the distribution of wealth is far from even. The gap between the ultra-rich and the rest continues to grow, and we all seem too preoccupied with making TikTok videos to care. Turkey relies on no one for its security or economic strength I feel that in some ways, it doesn't need the EU; perhaps it's the other way around, where Europe needs Turkey more for its strategic position and rich heritage. I have a renewed sense of admiration for this proud nation and a deep sadness that we didn’t lean more into Turkey in the early 2000s, what a powerful addition to the EU it would have been. I feel the time for the Anatolian dragon is yet to come. But then again being situated where it is, how can the influences of its powerful neighbors not be felt, the modern turkey must navigate a careful path for itself.

The shisha bar is located in the Sultanahmet neighborhood, controlled by the Arab mafia. The staff, all "reformed" prisoners with scars and broad, dangerous smiles, made the place feel strangely like home. I had been to many similar places in my youth in Brussels, making shady deals in backroom cafés. The staff liked Tara, my bike, assuring me she was safe outside. I pity the fool that might want to try something with her under their twitching watchful eyes!

After finishing our shisha, we rode across the city at 4 AM to watch the sunrise above his apartment block, the call to prayer echoing from the minarets as dawn broke. This early morning ride was a perfect end to a night filled with deep discussions and revelations about the city's layered society.

My time in Turkey was drawing to a close. I had made lifelong friends, found a mentor, and possibly even more. I had discovered peace, serenity, and a surge of creativity in this ancient crossroads where travelers from the old and new worlds have met and exchanged ideas for centuries. Leaving was bittersweet; the road called to me, with miles to cover, mountains to climb, and new people to meet. My heart still ached with the memories of Kate and the past, which I wasn’t yet ready to write about—the guilt and shame too raw, requiring more time alone with my thoughts inside my helmet.

Next, I set off for Georgia! Tbilisi awaited, and more importantly, a reunion was due with Mr. FUCKING Skirtlaze Shota. You should have seen the Gloucestershire Colour Sergeant trying to pronounce his name during the morning parade; it was a source of endless muffled laughter from our platoon. Shota, my brother from our Sandhurst days, had promised a mix that was sure to enrich the next chapter of my adventure: horns of red wine, motorcycles, and mountains. A perfect blend for the road ahead!

A long ride along the Black Sea coast awaits, back to the hills where I can free my heart and fully immerse myself in the landscape and culture. It’s time to live it all, feel it all, and embrace the full spectrum of experiences that this journey through diverse terrains and cultures offers.