It's a-me, Shoe Shine Guy!

Istanbul, Turkey

Trying very hard to calm down, prevent myself from dying of embarrassment, assess the damage, then find the silver lining so I can get on with enjoying my stay.

My very first act, in essence, at least of significance, has been to get suckered out of 80 lira. It was as brilliant, well conceived and executed as my trusting fatigue was pure.

I arrived in this country with two pieces of advice for getting from airport to accommodation. One, from my host, was to just get a cab it's not too costly. The other, directly from the hostel, recommended a shuttle to a transport square called the Taksim. Well the detail I have already embarked on gives away that I chose the latter. I thought it best to follow the official instructions, plus the shuttle had its own sort of 'backpacker' appeal to it that meshed with the point of booking into a hostel when my means and general ease with creature comforts meant I could have stayed in a boutique venue if I was so inclined. And already as I write this it is becoming the early links in a chain of a story that will prove a greater treasure than a smooth uneventful trip to my hostel.

So I arrived at the Taksim, ready to obey the second part of the second set of instructions: follow the tram line. Only there was no tram line visible from my vantage point. And as I wandered the sizable square, towing my luggage, as taxi drivers endlessly pursued me, my sense of vulnerability at so obviously being a lost traveler increased. I was feeling foolish, new, naive.

Finally I surrendered to the idea of getting in a cab, despite the implied proximity of the hostel. This, in retrospect, was also a naive assumption to make. But I digress.

I knew I didn't know any Turkish and am self-aware enough to admit the ability to communicate only in English is in fact my weakness. But I did think that pointing to my intended address would be sufficient. It seemed to puzzle my driver. I gather the Anglicised place names may render them as obscure to the natives as to me.

Anyway, to my rescue a small leathery old-ish man came, bearing a shoe shine kit and a kind smile. He looked at my address and made some encouraging utterances that I took to be a sign that I was not so far off and that he could help me and spare me the expense of a taxi ride. And damn those untrustable cab drivers!

So I followed him as he led me the opposite way. Already, the more travelled will see what is unfolding but I blush to confess I was trusting as a newborn foal, wobbling up the hill, dripping with mucus... figuratively.

Finally the sweet kind utterances indicated this was as far as I needed to be led, and my helper needed to return to his simple benevolent life. And so he set down his kit and gestured for me to put my shoe down so he could shine it. I didn't really want a shine, but I had been told Turkey is a tipping culture and after all he was helping me, so I acquiesced...

As I stood there, relaxing a bit that I would surely be on the right track again soon, not taking in that I was now in the middle of nowhere, the man suddenly took out a coin and gave it to me.

"Ataturk" he says, or so I remember it now thought it could have been something different. It works with the story anyway. I also knew, being the type to imagine I was not the typical western traveler disinterested in the cultural personality of my destination, or thought I knew, ok yes this is being applied after the fact for narrative structure, that Turks are very proud and loving of Ataturk, the most prominent figure in the modern nation of Turkey, or so my completely unbacked-up memory tells me. "A gift for you: my President."

"Where are you from?"

"Australia."

"Who is your President?"

"Uh..." How much detail should I get into? "We have a Prime Minister, John Howard. He is boring, though." Fucking brilliant. Thank god I took the trouble to make a political statement.

"Do you have a picture of the President? Your money?" The monster is chasing you through the woods, Rob, whatever you do, don't trip and fall now, the seasoned travellers shout in chorus. Oblivious, I merely think oh he's not on the money but the Queen is. Maybe that will make him happy?

In an all too brief flash of prudence, I decide to look for a coin. My Australian currency was already tucked away in a travel wallet that contained my passports and the 600 lira I just withdrew from the ATM at the airport. I didn't really want to show that in public, I was too road-wise for that! Hooray you're running toward the escape the audience dares to hope.

"No, no, the paper money, the paper money." Don't fucking do it, they shriek. But I am no longer free to choose this story is older than I am, I had stepped into it and now I could only play my role as it unfolded.

I open the travel wallet and he snatches it from me, and digs through it, finds my giant wad of 20 lira notes... "Make sure you get a lot of cash out at the airport" my host advised, "ATMs can be scarce in some parts of the city and can be unreliable with foreign cards."

I stiffen, and a fierce frown crosses my face and he restores the notes and gives it back to me. I watched him closely the whole time, eagle-eyed you might say. I was shaken but relieved to have averted danger and embarrassment. He seemed to apologise for distressing me and finished the shine.

I asked how much. "20."

I did not really know what the exchange was yet. It seemed very high, I did note the price of a few food items at the restaurant I passed, the price of the shuttle. Yet I was unsure.

Again the seasoned travellers already know I have already been royally ass-fucked by sweetie pie mustachioed Turk. And here he was, going at it again, I handed him the 20 lira note, but as I did finally had the confidence to decide I was being duped, or at least taken advantage of.

"That is very high!" I said. Take that, haha you cheating bastard, just try to sleep tonight with that rebuke burning in your ears. And I walk off in the direction he had last indicated.

It was only then that I realised I was in a high park, with only flights of stairs down to the street, and I was burdened with luggage. Had this man actually not helped me at all? The events played back in my head, and this time I could not miss what I missed as I was acting my part in it. I sat down, my back as much to as many Turks as possible and inspected my travel wallet. There needed to be 460 lira in it. But there was only 400. I counted again. And again. And again. And again. Still counting hoping the notes might split, like planaria, and in time, given enough work, would grow back to 460. It did not happen. I was suckered. And humiliated, and no closer to my hostel!

I dragged my luggage back down to the street. Burning. Burning. And the chorus of taxi drivers renewed. I was not capable of trust, not now, but what else could I do?

I show the address. The driver suggests 10 minutes. Not possible, the instructions from the hostel say to walk, it couldn't be a 10 minute drive. I am being played again.

Here again, the seasoned travellers will understand instructions given by hostels are for their intended audience: backpackers. Young, all they own in a heavy but toteable backpack, on a tight budget, limitless time; congruency intact.

"How much will it cost?" I asked, trying to let my burning peek out to show I was not to be trifled with. "10 lira," he said. Add this to the 9 lira shuttle from the airport and my shoe shine, that makes 99 lira to get from the airport to the hostel.

Burning, I surrender and board the taxi. And true to his word, in about 10 minutes, for 10 lira I arrived safe. Burned, embarrassed. With a story, now, but without a healthy chunk of money. I will find my sense of humour about it, but later.