Kad napuštate ono naše malo mjesto sa kraja Svijeta, o kojem sam ranije govorio, nekako vam nikad ne bude žao. Mora da to dosta govori, samo za sebe.
KAZLIÇEŞME – naš kraj – kraj svijeta.
To KAZLIÇEŞME sam nekako lako upamtio zato što me podsjeća na sintagmu KAZNIĆEŠ ME. Nije čudno poistovjećivanje turskih riječi sa nekim sličnim u našem, crnogorskom jeziku. Čudna je samo koincidencija ovog slučaja. Da, pri svakom povratku ovamo opravdano se osjećate kažnjenima.
Nije sve loše. I u kaznama ima nešto dobro. Obično se izvlače poruke i pouke, a i prosto se pokušava unutar slučaja pronaći nešto što će sam slučaj činiti podnošljivjim.
MARMARAY METRO STATION – KAZLIÇEŞME
Već sam kazao da pri silasku sa posljednje stanice posljednjeg javnog prevoza stižete u sve “ovo” o čemu pišem. E upravo ta posljednja stanica javnog prevoza predstavlja svijetlu tačku naše kazne, kako smo je od milošte nazvali. Ne bih da zvuči kao istina, vec kao opravdano pretjerivanje. Nema tu puno sličnosti sa pravom kaznom, osim igre riječi. Na kaznu vas neko natjera. Nas ovamo niko nije tjerao. (Ili možda jesmo mi sebe same. Mazohisti po definiciji? Ne znam. Bilmiyorum.)
Sastanci, rastanci, dočeci, ispraćaji, ručkovi, večere, kafe, raskidi, nove ljubavi, prvi poljupci, beznačajni poljupci, krucijalni poljupci, čudno maženje glavom o glavu, obično se zakazuju na Taksimu. Rekao bih – najevropskijem dijelu Istanbula. Dijelu grada u kojem najduža ulica uvijek prožeta rijekom naroda nosi ime isto kao i glavna ulica države iz koje dolazim. Ulica Slobode. ISTIKLAL SOKAK.
Mnogo sam slušao o konzervativnoj turskoj. Na moju sreću, to još nijesam uspio da doživim u potpunosti, i nadam se da neću. (Zanemarimo zaklane životinje u dvorištu studentskog doma, ukoliko je takvo nešto moguće zanemariti.)
Istiklal ulica je beskonačno dugačka prava linija ispunjena najrazličitijim ljudima koji šetaju zemaljskom kuglom. Ovdje možete sresti sve što ste ikad zamislili da postoji. Jer morate znati da već sve postoji. Međutim, kad to sebi priznate, nemojte biti demoralisani misleći da nećete izumiti nešto novo. Hoćete. Jednom je jedna spisateljica kazala: “Sve je kopija, kopije, kopije, kopije…”
Govoriću detaljnije o ulici, prvo moram do nje da dođem. Vratimo se na metro stanicu Kazlıçeşme.
Metro stanica je nejljepše “zdanje” u kraju. Funkcioniše besprekorno tačno. Prevoz nikad ne kasni. Osoblje je uvijek na svojim pozicijama. Karta se uvijek otkuca, sistem nikad ne zabaguje. Kroz providne zidove vidite zaposlene koji znaju svoj posao. Majstori zanata. Sumnjam da su tu “upali preko veze”. Pokretne stepenice nikad nijesu zakočene. Na desnoj strani mi lijeni ljudi stojimo, lijeva strana je uvijek prohodna za one koji žure.
Mi, crnogorci, svakodnevno potvrđujemo floskulu o lijenosti nacije. Skoro svakog jutra nam prevoz prolazi “ispred nosa”. Da samo pružimo posljednjih 5 koraka malo brže, uspjeli bismo. Ali geni su geni. Ili je možda “problem” u tome što znamo da će naredni prevoz doći za 5 minuta. A ako se zapričamo, doći će ponovo za 5 minuta. Metro stanica Kazlıçeşme zna biti zabavna. Ponekad.
Da biste stigli do Taksima, idete Marmaray metroom do stanice Yenikapı. Nakon toga, šetate kroz savršeno projektovano prevozno podzemlje, I uzimate M2 metro, koji vas vodi do mnogo stanica, među kojima je četvrta upravo Taksim.
Ne znam da li se slika nacije može stvoriti posmatranjem ljudi iz metroa.
Ne bi valjalo da je tako.
Za Istanbul ne bi valjalo.
Za roman bi. Za film bi. Za televiziju bi. Za fantastičnu maštariju bi. Mogao bih dane da provedem u tom metrou, I da analiziram ljude, smišljam njihove dijaloge, zadajem im radnje, tjeram ih na improvizacije. Uvijek sa rekvizitama. Ovdje ljudi ponekad nose sve sa sobom. Obično u ogromnim crnim najelonskim kesama.
U jednom momentu počnu da viču rečenice koje na početku zvuče nelogično. Ne znate da li izjavljuju ljubav, pjevaju, kukaju ili se vesele. “Çoraplaaaar, bir lira, bir lira, bir lira!” I ima ih svuda. Zaista svuda I gdje ih očekujete, i gdje ih neočekujete. Na njih se teško navići. Prosto su previše glasni. Čak i za nas, crnogorce.
Kad god se vozite metroom, pazite da ne promašite stanicu. Situacije u prevozu su ponekad toliko interesantne da se nepristojno duboko zagledate, i stignete ko-zna-gdje.
Stigao sam na stanicu Taksim. Prolazim par miliona pokretnih stepenica, par hiljada pokretnih traka, konstantno pazeći na oglasne table koje upućuju na izlaz iz metro stanice. Nije smiješno, treba čovjeku vremena da se navikne. Ja dolazim iz Kotora. Pa iz Podgorice. Istanbul nije skok, nego let!
Kroz prolaze su prodavnice sitnih stvari. Suveniri na svakom ćošku. Majice sa natpisima, prstenje sa gravurama, debele čarape, pletene kape.
Kad se jednom iščupate iz te kolonade koještarija na mermeru, dolazite do dugačkog, mozaikom urađenog hodnika koji vodi do posljednjih pokretnih stepenica. Na toj beskonačnoj pravini određeno je mjesto za muzikanta koji će svojim talentom pokušati da pridobije naklonost putnika, i zaradi koju liru (za Çoraplar, ili nešto slično.)
Nikad nijesam gajio određenu vrstu emocije prema uličnim sviračima. Ali, u ovom gradu, u kojem niko nije moj, nekako su oni postali moji, zbog toga što djeluje kao da su ničiji. (Sjetih se Ksenijine “Uspavanke za Vuka Ničijeg”. Ima sličnosti.)
Simpatični momak sa gitarom, sjedi na improvizovanoj stolici. Čini se da je gitara veča od njega. Kad podigne glavu, iskustvo se očita na licu. Nije da nema godina. Ima. Ali vidi se da nema život kakav je priželjkivao. Priprema se, uskoro će da počne.
Razmišljam kako ih je milion sličnih. Razmišljam kako nema potrebe da čekam, evo Taksim je tu, samo još jedne pokretne stepenice i stigao sam do “Slobode”. Pokušavam da protrčim pored svirača kako ne bih oklijevao. Međutim, već neko vrijeme sam slab na gitaru. Možda zato što se prožima na profilnim slikama koje sam ovjekovječio i online i offline, a koje su i mene ovjekovječile gdje god da sam. (Ćao Frizbi!)
Čujem prve taktove, tijelo se okreće samo, ne pita se sa bilo čim racionalnim. Dolazim ispred momka koji svira.
Počinje i da pjeva:
“Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one.”
Moje oči su ogromne. Ne znam što da radim sa njima. Ako ih zatvorim, rijeka suza ravna onoj rijeci naroda koja me čeka na Taksimu će samo da iscuri. Ako nastavim da ih držim raskolačenima, sočiva će da mi ispadnu. (Simple as that!)
Na momenat sam se skrajnuo, prekrio oči kilometarskim šalom koji sam dobio od Vlada, uspio da smirim novonastale emocije čiji izvor ne želim ni da pokušam da objasnim ni sebi ni vama. Vratio sam se do muzikanta, otvorio pregradicu novčanika u kojoj stoje kovanice, istresao sve u kutiju za gitaru. (“Sve” je značilo 8 turskih lira.)
- “Thank you for singing this song, and sharing your talent”, govorim.
- “People usually just give me the money, without looking or listening. Thank you for noticing me, and saying anything.”
To je bio najtopliji razgovor koji sam do sad vodio u Istanbulu.
Trajao je svega dvije rečenice.
Izlazim na Taksim. Prvo što me susreće je transdžender koji/a ponosno viori svojim rozim pernatim šalom. Na njega/nju niko ne obraća pažnju. Samo ja. Vjerovatno zato što sam iz Crne Gore. On/a primjćuje pa mu/joj simpatično. Šepuri se još više. Smijem se, I koračam Ulicom Slobode, o kojoj ću još u narednim pričama govoriti.
-
-
Metro People
-
-
Metro people
-
-
Metro People
-
-
Metro Stations
-
-
MeeLostInIstanbul
-
-
Immagine
-
-
Marmaray stations
-
-
Metro People
-
-
Istaklal street – Taksim
-
-
Metro People (with our very personal Indila)
-
-
Metro People
CHAMPAGNE KISSES
When you leave what we call “our little place at the end of the World”, of wich I spoke earlier, somehow you never fell sorry for it. It says a lot buy itself, for sure.
KAZLIÇEŞME – our neighnourhood – end of the World.
That word KAZLIÇEŞME I remembered easily because it reminded me of the phrase “YU WILL PUNISH ME” (word game. Turkish “KAZLIÇEŞME”, Montenegrin “KAZNICES ME” ). Identification of Turkish words with ours, in Montenegrin language is not strange. Strange is just the coincidence of this case. Yes, every time we get back here we fill like we have been punished.
But its not all bad. And the punishment has it good sides. Usually we find out messages and lessons, and also trying to find something inside the case that will make a case bearable.
MARMARAY METRO STATION – KAZLIÇEŞME
I already said that on the descent from the last station from the last public transport you can reach to all “this” I am writing about. Exactly the last station of public transport is the bright spot of our punishment, as we call it. I don’t want it to sound like truth, but a reasonable exaggeration. There are not a lot of similarities with real punishment, except word game. You are not forced to be punished. Nobody forced us to come here. (Or maybe we forced ourselves Masochist by definition? Don’t know. Bilmiyorum.)
Meetings, saying goodbyes, welcomes, farewells, lunches, dinners, coffees, breakups, new loves, first kisses, meaningless kisses, crucial kisses, strange cuddling head to head, all this usually happens at Taksim. I would say – the most European part of Istanbul. It’s the part of the city in which the longest street, crowded with sea of people, has the same name as the main street of the county I come from. Liberty street. (Ulica Slobode). ISTIKLAL SOKAK.
I have been listening a lot about conservative Turkey. Luckily, I did not ecperienced it fully, and I hope I will not. (Whe should forget dead animals in the yard of the dorm, if such a thing can be forgotten.)
Istikla street is infinitely long straight line filled with a wide variety of people who walk around the world. Here you can meet all you ever imaginated existing. But you have to be aware of existance of everything. However, when you admit it to yourself, do not be demoralized thinking that you will not invent something new. You will. Once one writer said “Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy…”
I will talk more about Istiklal street but first I have to get to it. Get back to the metro station Kazlıçeşme.
Metro station is the most beautiful place at our neighborhood. It functiones perfectly. Transport is never late. The staff is always at their positions, The metro ticket is always checked in regularly, system never bugs. Through the transparent walls you can see the employees who know their bussines. Masters of their profession. I doubt that they came there “trough some private connections”. Escalators were never restrained. On the right side are we, lazy people. Left side is always walkable for those who are in a hurry.
We, Montenegrins, affirm daily thesis about laziness of our nation. Almost every morning we miss transport. If we only hurry few more steps we can succeed and catch it up. But genes are genes. Or maybe the “problem” is in that we know that the next transport is coming in 5 minutes. And if we get talkative and forget about time, the next one is coming again in 5 minutes. Metro station Kazlıçeşme can be fun. Sometimes.
To get to the Taksim, you take Marmaray metro to Yenikapı station. After that, you walk trough the perfectly designed underground, and you take M2 metro which takes you to many stations, the forth one is Taksim.
I don’t know if you can create an image of the nation by looking at people in the subway.
It would not be ok if its true.
For Istanbul it would not be ok.
For a novel yes. For a movie yes. For a television yes. For a perfect fantasy also. I could spend days in that metro, just analyzing people, creating their dialogues, giving them some actions, make them improvize. Always with things in their hands. People here somethimes take everything with them. Usually in big black naylon bags.
At once they will start yelling senteces that at the beginning sounds illogical. You don’t know if they are saying love, singing, feeling sorry for themselves or they are just being happy. “Çoraplaaaar, bir lira, bir lira, bir lira!” You can find them everywhere, Really everywhere, where you expect them even where you don’t expect them. It is really difficult to get used to them. They are just too loud. Even for us, Montenegrins.
Whenever you take the metro, make sure you don’t miss the station. Situations in the transport are often so interesting that you can just stare deeply and get who-knows-where.
I arrived at the Taksim station. I am passing couple million of escalators, constantly paying attention to the information board which are pointing me till the end of the metro station. It is not funny. You need time to adjust. I came from Kotor. Then from Podgorica. Istanbul is not a jump, but it is a huge thing.
Small souvenir shops are placed trough the passages. Souveirs on every corner. T-shirts with slogans, rings with engravings, thick socks, knitted hats.
Once you pull out from that “colonnade of whatever” on marble, you will come to the long mosaic hall which leads you to the last escalators. On that endless way you can find a place for the musician who will use their talents to win favor of passengers and earn few liras (for Çoraplar,or something simillar maybe.)
I never had a specific kind of emotion towards the street musicians. But in this city, where nobody is mine, somehow they have became mine, because they look like they are noones. (I remembered Ksenija’s “Uspavanka za Vuka Nicijeg”. There are similarities.)
Interesting guy with a guitar is sitting on a improvised chair. It seems that the guitar is bigger than him. When he raises his head, the experience is evident on his face. You can’t say he doesn’t have a lot of years. He has. But it is obvious that he doesn’t have the life as he wished. He is preparing to play, he will begin soon.
I think that there are a million similar musicians like him. I think there is no need to wait for him to start, here is Tkasim, just one more escalators and here I am to “Liberty” street. I am trying to pass by the player and not hesitate. However, for some time I am falling for guitars. Perhaps because of some profile pictures, having guitar on them, which I took. And, where I go – they follow. (Hi Freezbeeh!)
I hear the first beats, the body turns by itself, it is not listeing to my brain. I came in front of the guy who plays.
He begins to sing:
“Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one.”
My eyes are huge. I don’t know what to do with them. If I close them, river of tears equal to the river of people waiting for me in Taksim will just flow out. If I continue to keep them wide open, my contact lenses will fall down. (Simple as that!)
For a moment I moved to the corner, covered my eyes with kilometer long scarf that I got from Vlado. I tried to calm down those sudenlly showed emotions which I do not want to try explaining you.
I returned to the musician, opened my wallet and putted all coins I had into huge guitar bag. (“All” means 8 lira.)
- “Thank you for singing this song, and sharing your talent”, Im saying.
- “People usually just give me the money, without looking or listening. Thank you for noticing me, and saying anything.”
That was the warmest conversation I have ever had in Istanbul.
And it lasted only two sentences.
I am going back to Taksim. The first thing I see is the transgender who is proudly waving with his/hers pink feathered scarf. Nobody pays attention at him/her. Just me. Probabbly because I am from Montenegro. He/She notices me and finds situation funny. He/She is waving even more now. I am laughing and entering “Liberty” street, which I will tell you more about in some other storie.
Translation: J. Bulatovic