The ferry sets off from under the bustling Eminonu Bridge with its seafood restaurants and simit vendors, fishermen and makeshift juice stalls. I pass the Golden Horn with its many minarets blooming like flowers from a field of trees. As we navigate the heavy current of the strait, I can make out ships moored in the Marmara, patiently waiting their turn to pass through the narrow thoroughfare into the Black Sea. Tiny fishing boats rock precariously in the wake of the cargo ships that loom over the tiny vessels like storm clouds. We enter the breakwater on the Asian side and pass the cargo port with looming cranes and brightly colored containers, and finally Kadikoy emerges as the captain manouvers a skilled 180 degree turn to berth.
When the dock hands open the flood gates, we spill out onto the pier and diffuse into the crowd. I make my way up the busy street, passing countless simit stalls and pharmacies until I've reached the far side of the peninsula, which overlooks the glimmering Marmara and Istanbul's pretty Prince's Islands. The Fenerbache stadium towers over the surrounding buildings, and I turn away from it and walk along a small and dirty creek where more fishing boats are moored and their captains gather to pass the time with cay and cigarettes. Alongside the creek is my office, and from the second floor window I can see it, protected from its slightly nauseating odor that rises with the summer sun.
Once at my desk, my watery world does not disappear. Before I left for the states, I started a job with Blue Wind, a marine insurance company, and I have dived headlong into shipping and cargo insurance. From drafting Protection and Indemnity policies, to chasing premium payments, dealing with a dead Albanian crew members stranded in a morgue in the Ukraine, and finding a way to dispose of spoiled low-grade corn cargo, I feel like I cannon balled into a fast and furious current. This was my second week and my boss was on business in London, leaving the new girl to hold the fort. Consequently, I spent most of the week on the phone with my wonderful predecessor, Helena, who has been dictating emails, for example, to the underwriters in Russia regarding a Turkish boat that has been arrested in Algeria.
The young and sweet secretary prepares fantastic salads, soups, kofte (meatballs) or manti (Turkish ravioli) for lunch, as well as countless cups of Turkish coffee and tea throughout the day. But she doesn't speak a word of English and is also brand new to her job. Alone in the office we are a hopeless pair. While the learning curve has been huge and I've had to absorb a lot of information in a short space of time, I am happy and think I will benefit from this new environment. I am even more pleased that it's Friday and I've managed to survive. The fact that it's the end of the month and my first pay check (however abysmal) comes in on Tuesday also helps...
But the maritime world is an interesting one, and not a day goes by when I'm not exposed to something unique and surprising. I have made some interesting discoveries about Istanbul's cargo industry in particular.
(Very) Random Facts about the Bosphorus and Cargo Ships:
- The Bosphorus connects the Sea of Marmara to the Black sea. On a larger scale, it connects the Mediterranean to the rest of Eastern Europe and Russia. It is a very, very important waterway (you can check it out on the map to the right).
- 1.5 million people commute by ferry from across the Bosphorus per day
- 55,000 vessels pass through the Bosphorus annually. That's 150 per day. Or six every hour.
- In order to navigate the Bosphorus, ships must change course at least twelve times. Four of these turns are blind corners.
- The Montreaux Convention, passed in 1936, gives Turkey full control of the Bosphorus Straits and the Dardanelles. However, the convention also guarantees merchant vessels have complete freedom to transport any goods at any time. Turkey provides skilled pilots to navigate the waterways, but vessels can (and often do) choose go it alone. The potential for disaster is... rather high.
This is a strange assortment of facts but these are the things that stuck out to me the most (ie. the only things I actually remember).
At the end of a weekday, I make my way back to the ferry (usually at a fast trot because I'm worried I'll miss my ride home). So far, gazing out at the same sight has yet to get old. I am still awed by the way the light plays on the water, the way the little fishing boats dance in the wake, and the evening haze gathers around an old tanker. It's magical.
Especially so yesterday, though. As we cruised into my home port, the sails of eight old and magnificent tall ships rose from the water, transforming the landscape of the Karakoy pier. They block the modern, industrial buildings that line the waterfront, making the Galata Tower and the Tophane mosque stand out, accentuating the beauty of the old buildings throughout the city. It also struck me that, like everything else in Istanbul, the environment is a living contradiction . Next to these beautiful old ships lies the cruise ship port, and the ugly and towering Celebrity Equinox bares down over the old vessels and no attempt has been made to provide an aura of authenticity or facade of a bygone era. It was a cool and greying evening, windy and verging on rain, and I walked back alongside the ships, heaving against the mooring lines like wild horses. With eyes upturned, I gazed at the looming masts, the fluttering flags and the strange figureheads, not beautiful mermaids as you might envision on the bow of a ship, but on the Omani ship, SHABAB OMAN, a handsome man in a gown and turban and a dark, tattooed man on the Indonesian vessel DEWARUCI.
As I huffed and puffed my way up the excruciatingly steep hill to my apartment, I reminisced about the last time I saw the Tall Ships. About a year ago in June or July, they came to Boston Harbor, dotting the coast with schooners and brigantines. I had just graduated from BU and was living in Boston, working as a waitress in the evenings and had been recently let go from my job with a small travel company. I thought I would be happy to have the summer "off," so I could spend lazy days doing interesting things like visiting the tall ships. It was a beautiful sunny day, and when I arrived I sat down on a patch of lush grass, and gazed out at the jungle of masts and sails. And then I burst into silent tears. I remember feeling disappointed in myself, having left college without a career ahead of me. I felt lonely, as if the world was moving forward while I stood still. And I was lost and directionless, unsure of what I wanted to do with my life post-summer. I got up and made my way numbly through the thronging crowds of tourists, snapping photos at things I thought were pretty along the way. But nothing made much impact. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to appreciate the beauty of the day, the ships, and my life.
Flash forward to today. I reached home, took the elevator to the fourth floor and climbed the precarious ladder to our Treehouse. I opened the doors of the balcony and looked out over the Tall Ships from above, their many masts rising from behind the waterfront buildings. I am much more at peace now, I realize, as I gaze out across the water. The Bosphorus reflects another setting sun and I watch it disappear into the darkness of the night, the waves saluting and ushering in another day.