I have taken to writing monthly articles for the International Women of Istanbul's http://www.iwi-tr.org/ magazine the 'Lale' (or 'tulip' in Turkish - this being the symbol used in much Ottoman imagery and ceramics). I know this is a blog cheat, but I may post a few of them here to make it look as though I am a more regular blogger! Here is one I prepared earlier but it is still true ......
I felt an insistent tugging at my shoulder. I had never believed this moment would come. Standing pinned between two young Turkish men, I was barely able to move to see who was assaulting me. During my travels in Latin America, I had been constantly on my guard, but in Istanbul the possibility of being robbed on a crowded minibus seemed remote. I jerked around to see the perpetrator – a comfortably-seated plump woman with colourful scarf and long skirt. ‘Bayan!’ she grinned at me – ‘Let me take off your coat!’. I had spent most of the journey on the stifling dolmus with my bag trapped on the floor between my feet and, unable to move my arms, attempting in vain to work off my heavy coat as the windows steamed up and my face grew redder. The men around me conceded to the older woman and granted her space to undress me – ‘The scarf as well, give it to me.’ She spread my clothes neatly on her lap and remonstrated with me for not having forced my way into a seat as she had done.
‘Pencereyi acar mısınız’ (open the window please) was one of the first phrases I learned for dolmuş rides in an attempt to persuade my fellow travellers that some fresh air would not kill them off instantly. In winter, nauseating waves of hot air blow out from the heating system over swaddled passengers whose stale breath is caught in this little tin box. It takes a lot for a Turk to feel overheated. This is where Brits differ – for us, cold air kills germs and is character building. It’s what toughens us up and got us where we are today. It’s also the only thing we know in our climate!
It is also not British to interfere in other people’s affairs and in the UK this incident with the motherly old lady would have left everyone dying with embarrassment. As a foreigner in Istanbul, however, I enjoy this friendly kind of meddling. It makes me feel part of the city and allows me to pretend I have an extended family. It is also one of the reasons that I use public transport. While it is very civilised to be in one’s own climate controlled space with music on hand and capacity to determine the velocity of your vehicle (which on a dolmus has only two settings – suicide and stop), I also feel too insulated from the reality of the world around me.
For my very first otobus ride the manager of my compound led me by the hand– pointing out the stop and waiting with me till the large municipal bus arrived ( ‘don’t forget - number 25c’). I observed other passengers press an akbil into the slot (the handy little disc that is charged up with credit for as many trips on municipal transport as you can manage). It was all very refined as I slid into my seat, steadying myself on the reliable safety bars.
Dolmuş are another matter altogether. These are the small, privately owned minibuses that conveniently pause at bus stops but also on street corners and wherever else you might persuade them to screech to a halt as you call out ‘inecek var!’ (‘Someone wants to get off here’!). Like hungry wolves they gather in packs at the bottom of hills near tea houses and kebab stands. Their drivers lean on the doors of their vehicles smoking and laughing until they lurch into their springy seats and hurtle off in hunt of prey. The willing victims go like lambs to the slaughter: happy to risk hanging precariously onto the back of someone’s seat, or leaning against the door, in order to enjoy a bumper car ride for a few lira that speeds them rapidly to their destination.
Dolmuş, like their drivers, come in a number of varieties. The overall concept is similar: a minibus with a light on the top that advertises the line the bus runs and a notice in the front window listing key stops along the way. The earliest model is the instantly recognisable faded blue or cream variety. These are the old guard and frequently driven by gruff war-torn men sitting on bouncy seats that threaten to spring them out of the bus altogether and whose diet is mainly composed of nicotine. There are also upgraded variants in beige and a bright blue stripe. These boast air conditioning and are often driven by sparkier, younger pilots who politely go about their business. Then there are the crème de la crème – the turquoise or bright green newcomers with tinted glass, wide windows and something of an attitude. The passenger seats are well upholstered and floors lined with clean rubber mats. Climate control is sophisticated and the drivers carry an air of importance.
The difficulty is that you cannot choose your model – you just hop on the vehicle that comes your way and hope Allah will bless you. In the end it depends on the driver. Having studied their habits over the past 18 months, I have observed some interesting quirks revealing their personalities and the passenger’s likely destiny. Regardless of the age of the vehicle, some drivers take a pride in their profession: coin trays are tidily separated into compartments for each type of coin with a clean towel to wipe their fingers after handling dirty currency. Some have neat holders for their mobile phones and organiser trays for other tools of their trade such as window wipes and sun glasses. These drivers tend to make courteous announcements of their destinations, invite passengers to pay with a ‘buyrun, efendim’ and do not drive off while you are still boarding. At the other end of the spectrum are the drivers whose work station is a haphazard box of assorted coins and other debris threatening to tip over at any moment as the driver takes a corner while people are attempting to alight. Their approach is to do battle with traffic and passengers alike. They spy their victims boarding in their wide rear view mirror and bark at them to pay their fare – there is nowhere to hide in their ship. The steering wheel is usually covered in tape, as is the seat. The hub caps often bear spikes – just so other motorists know where they stand.
There is also an entire Dolmuş Passenger Culture. The most important person on the dolmuş, aside from the driver, is the passenger standing closest to him. This person will have the fares from other passengers impatiently forced upon him and be required to pass them, along with their mumbled destination, to the driver so he can decide the appropriate fare. It is then beholden on this individual to pass back the correct change to the right person. I have spent some rather active journeys as the co-pilot trying to keep a handle on this situation. There are many challenges in deciphering destinations and remembering who needs which change. It frequently develops into a Chinese Whispers game for passengers trapped at the back of the bus whose coins have to change hands several times on the way to and from the driver. However, I felt immensely proud of myself when I managed my first trip in this important role! Most passengers move away from the hot spot as soon as possible. For me it is good practice for my Turkish and develops a sense of passenger camaraderie regardless of how flustered I get.
Dolmuş riding is a necessity for many Turks. It is a fast, efficient and very cheap service. My regular journey from Tarabya to Metro City costs 1.45 TL. Parking alone would cost at least 5 TL if I took the car. And it is much more of an adventure. The final word on dolmuş culture should rest with the motto inscribed on the back of many vehicles ‘Allah Korusun’ – literally meaning ‘God protect us’! Not a bad idea when you travel this way….
