The Story of Catherine and the Istanbulu

‘Catherine,’ says Abdulla, my mustachioed new Turkish friend, as we stroll arm in arm down Istanbuls Cankurtaran St, ‘you must have many men tell you that you are beautiful, and that they love you, and for this reason I will tell you that you are very very ugly,’ he pauses with a mischivous smile, ‘and that I hate you’, he concludes.

I laugh, still not quite sure what compelled me to give in to Abdulla’s entreaties to come back to his shop and have tea with him. I was, in fact, quite happy getting lost among the streets of Sultanahmet and had rejected many other other offers of ‘help’ from the smartly dressed men lying in wait on street corners for aimless looking tourists such as myself. But there was something different about Abdulla, something laid back and geunine, and the fact that he just happened to be getting a sandwich on the very street corner that I had paused at and had not been crouched in the shaddows ready to pounce on any old tourist worked in his favour.

When we arrive at the steep, narrow staircase that leads up to his shop I see that the walls are covered in carpets and kilims, and immediately my interest peaks. Not because I’m terribly interested in purchasing a carpet, but because of the book I’ve just finished reading, ‘The Carpet Wars’, by Christopher Kremmer, that details an Australian journalist’s travells throught the Middle East just prior to 9/11. The book is a fascinating account of the people and the political struggles of the time, and is punctuated by the authors encounters with carpet dealers . I’m wondering if I can impress Abdulla with any of the tricks I read about in the book.

Inside the small shop that is packed with coulourful woven items, we sit, and Abdulla gets started on his sandwich. I’m pretty hungry myself, having had minimal food on my 5am flight from Dushanbe, and I’m starting to regret refusing Abdulla’s offer to buy me breakfast. On cue, small cups of tea arrive, accompanied by a couple of surgar cubes that I know will see me through untill I can get some proper sustenance.

I try to make it clear that I’m not in the market to buy today, but that I’d like to take a look at the carpets he’s selling. Abdulla directs his collegue to display the rugs, and he does so, one after the other- rugs from Iran and from Central Turkey. I pick them up, examing the knots on the undersides, not knowing why exactly, but copying the actions that Kremmer details in his book.

Abdulla is enthusiastic about showing me around the Grand Bazar, and taking me to lunch for seafood by the Bosphoros, and I explain that I have a flight to catch this evening, and want to see as much of Istanbul as I can. Abdullah takes my arms and says, ‘My dear, I will show you the real Istanbul’.

We wnder into the Grand Bazarr, with all its shiny wares glinting in the light, and Abdulla explains a few of the do’s and don’ts of market shopping. Never buy from the stalls on the outside, for example, as their rents are the highest, and so must charge the most for their products.

I hover over some metal kebab squeres, that at 2TL each would make useful souvenieers, and I’m in the middle of selecting 6 when I realise that my checked baggage is being transferred from my flight from Dushanbe and that I only have my carry on allowance. Large pointy metal items ? Unfortunately I have to apoplgise to the shopkeeper and keep walking.

We come to another carpet shop, and I tell Abdullah I’d like to take a look. He watches from a few paces away as I interact witht the shopkeeper, asking how much per square meter, and whether the carpet is silk or a wollen blend. He lays out some carpets with a pleasing, although not terribly traditional looking, motif that he says is silk, from Iran. He quotes a price of USD$1200, which to me sounds extrodinarily cheap, for a silk carpet of this size and my suspicion is aroused. After I’ve seen a few carpets, I take the shopkeepers card and tell him I’ll keep him in mind if I intend to purchase.

Abdullah is fuming as we leave the shop.

‘Take this card, and throw it away’, he says angrily. ‘Throw it away!’.

He explains that the carpets in that stall are all imported from China, and worth only $20 or $30 USD, made from synthetic threads and mass to minimal quality.

‘Come with me’, says Abdullah, ‘I will take you to the man who sells the carpets to the whole of the Grand Bazar. There you will see good quality, real silk carpets’.

And we leave the Grand Bazar, with its pushy shopkeepers calling out to us as we exit, entreating us to take a look, to buy, all in English, not recognising Abdullah as one of their own.

Around a corner and down an alley way we find the carpet wholesaler, unfurling a new delivery of carpets. Their colours are so deep and natural looking. ‘Like an earth quake’, Abdullah says, quickly correcting himself to say, ‘earthy colours’, but I prefer his first description.

These carpets are like the ones I was shown from an ancient book by a Persian professor, and although I’m no expert, it certainly looks as if these are the real thing.

‘Look, look at this’, says Abdullah as one by one he throws the small carpets up in the air, flicking the around, so we can observe the colours changing under the light. He pulls me out side so I can see the vibrant display in natural light, throwing them down the stiarwell.

Back in the shop, he asks me which ones I like, and I cannot help myself pointing out a couple of striking carpets, one disconcertingly depicts a lion with a deer in its mouth, the other shines red and blue adorned with peacefull looking birds.

We start talking about price, and although I am wary about entering into this discussion, I guess that a good price for such carpets would be seven or eight hundred USD. Abdullah pulls me aside,

‘I have told this man that you are my girlfriend, and because we are collegues, in the same business, he will give me a good price. I could even get him to take five or six hundred for it’.

Now I know I’m in trouble. In the ethics of bargaining, it is terribly impolite to begin the bargaining process when you don’t intend to buy, and I have to let Abdullah down gently, but emphatically, explaining, that I have only 60 TL on my for the day, and no credit cards, which isn’t a complete lie, since although my mastercard is stowed in my shoulder bag next to my passport, it is close to maxed out from the purchase of flights to Tajikistan and my new notebook computer.

With my hand to my heart I thank the wholesaler (who speaks no english) for his time, and make a hasty exit.

Abdullah shows a flicker of disappointment as we leave, and at that point I’m sure that our meeting was not complete coincidence, and that, had I purchased one of the beautiful carpets, Abdulla would have received more than just pleasure at seeing the piece go to a good home.

I clasp his hand firmly and tell him that I have had a wonderfull morning, but that I intend to cross the river to see the other side of the city, and must do so quickly if I am to make my filght. I take his card, and promise that when I return to Istanbul I will visit his shop, and who knows, maybe even buy a carpet.

When my flight finally takes off that evening, I open the Inflight magazine, which says, ‘ If you want to get to know the real Istanbul, you must listen carefully, for she has stories to tell’.

And I am pleased with the story I have heard today, and pleased to have a story to tell.