Friends' School Saffron Walden

Sixth Form trip to Istanbul June 2000

 

And yea, it came to pass that a motley assemblage of nomadic students did book a passage from the port of Heathrow, voyaging to the East, reaching the strangely exotic and unknown city of Istanbul, nee Constantinople. There they were welcomed by local officials, who for the modest sum of £10 each allowed the travellers to stay for up to 3 months without hindrance. Some strange local law seemed to favour those to whom England itself had given birth, as only those so marked were considered worthy enough to make the payment. Others in the band were embarrassed by their humiliation, but were consoled by the thought that they could compensate their British brethren by paying for the first round of drinks.

 

We were met by representatives of the city dwellers who received us with great approbation and a carriage for our enjoyment and conveyance to our residence. This transpired to be one of the minor palaces along the bank of the Bosphorus. This provided welcome draughts of air and entertainment from passing craft plying their wares and other services. The accommodation was spacious in the extreme, except for the womenfolk, for whom a more intimate and cosy apartment had been provided, wherein the perfumes of cosmopolitan life could mingle freely and stimulate the imaginations. The young men, being manly, were provided with facilities commensurate with their stoic and tough disposition, challenges met with fortitude and success.

Days flew past, not on carpets which were freely available for purchase, but from the pleasures of companionship. The consumption of food became a twice, nay, thrice-daily occupation, feet were tested and beaten on hard pavements, chemical images were created from the lavish views of the essential elements of water, air and earth. Fire was absent, except it be invisibly present in the air, which burned with longing. The stars shone brightly in the absence of clouds, birds flew over the mosques, resembling fireworks in circular motion. People poured over the walkways and markets, producing and consuming, buying and selling as if it were Christmas. Visiting the well-named Grand Bazaar bore little relationship to our native land. Curious cries of 'Asda price' and 'aye bah gum' made us aware of the power of our own culture to the ends of the earth, yet we indeed felt ourselves to be the foreigners that we were. We were grateful for the friendly and supportive young guides with strangely exotic names who had been attached to us during these days. The Galata Bridge stirred and heaved with all this evidence of life and perhaps inspired a simpler but even more vibrant imitation in that far away city called London. Sadly a concomitant of all this humanity was the soiling of the seas, which sparkled bright and blue but which even a Christian camel would not have consumed.

 

 

Then it was that on one chosen day, the voyagers were transported far away across fields of poppies and sweetcorn, sunflowers and strange green plants to the land of Chanak. Here there had once been a mighty invasion from the continent known as Australasia, repulsed with great severity by our hosts, but now commemorated with care and compassion. There we were able to dance and swim, eat and talk in great comfort and repose, akin one supposes to the Ancient Greeks who had colonised this land. One of our party. the admirable Do-Yoon, found the ample presence of jellyfish in the sea to be discomforting, but no harm was done and the experience proved memorable for all. Crossing to the ancient city of Troy reminded us of a famous story but also that even the mighty turn to dust and rubble.

 

Sad to relate, the party was obliged to return, their hosts' hospitality felt to have been overwhelming in its generosity. Local workmen, enchanted by the fair among us had sought in vain to retain the pleasures of beauty by gifts of a sugary dark drink in striking red containers. To see and not to feel is indeed a frustration for those less fortunate than ourselves. To return to our homes was not the pleasure that it might have been as wind and rain struck out on the skins which had recently been honed with sunshine and silk, not to mention the masseurs at an ancient Ottoman bathing house. Memories are the bubbles of experience that build our souls, as they compact with one another. Who shall return? Some things are as vet unknown but. as the prophet sayeth, "to know is to grow." Thus shall the sowers of the seeds of experience reap their rewards and in turn spread their own wisdom and understanding unto the generations that follow.

 

John Searle-Barnes