As far as names are concerned, few animals have had it as bad as the Orca. Popularly known as “killer whale” – a connotative appellative if ever there was one – they don’t fare much better from a scientific point of view either: Orcinus Orca, as they are indeed known, means “Of the Orcus”, the Roman god of the underworld, punisher of broken promises. Quite how it became the name for a marine mammal is something that only Linnaeus can answer.
– § –
Olafsvík was in the midst of a snow-clearing campaign. Two tractors fitted with huge blades were pushing mountains of the stuff away from the thoroughfares and into the harbour so that the little port had, by the time we arrived, assumed a Siberian je-ne-sais-quoi. We were early for our tour and had little to do but to idle about on the pier, eyeing our fellow tourists and watching the crew shovelling the snow off the boat that, we surmised, was going to have the honours. Typically, it was the tiniest in the whole port.
No, it was neither of these two.
– § –
Evidently not satisfied with just giving orcas a whole host of bad names, the western world never really managed to build a decent relationship with the animal. Pliny the Elder, the Roman commander and Attenborough precursor, began the smear campaign with lines dripping with vitriol, effectively calling them savage murderers. Fast forward to the modern age and orcas have alternatively been used for target practice or were kidnapped to toil away in our aquaparks.
– § –
The crew working on the boat was as Icelandic as a Sigur Rós album: nice, courteous, wool-hatted and completely no-nonsense. A name check was followed by the distribution of padded, waterproof overalls. Transformation into Michelin men completed the sailors corralled us, shuffling like beached penguins, onboard. Soon after we were chugging out of the harbour and into the deep, cold waters of the fjord.
Our sea-faring skills ranged quite a lot: we had the lonesome guy, Moby Dick tattooed on the knuckles, who drank builder’s tea out of a flask the size of a submarine as he stood on the top deck, oozing comfort and savoir-faire. On the other side were those sad bastards whose knees and stomachs had already started trading places. If you’re wondering on which end of the spectrum I was, well, I’ll have you know that when Maria the guide found me I was already cowering in the lower deck, doing my best impersonation of an abandoned puppy. With well concealed pity she suggested I headed to the stern of the boat, stood up and looked at the horizon. Thinking it the stupidest idea ever I complied.
– § –
As years went by science managed to disprove the cliché of the evil and bloodthirsty orca that had held sway for so long. What Pliny described as a ruthless killer is now widely recognised as an incredibly intelligent animal with one of the most complex social life in the sea. Orcas have been found to live in a multi-layered social order run matriarchically, using a varied vocabulary that includes dialectal inflexions which they employ to organise some of the most astonishing hunting parties ever seen in the animal world.
Orcas have been observed teaching their calves a curriculum that includes both language and hunting skills: the pods living off Crozet Island in Argentina, for instance, coach their young on how to catch seals when they are wading through half a meter of water. Families in Antarctica would repeat attacks on Weddel seals – performed by triggering tidal waves that break the ice floes upon which the seals are resting – time and again until the calves can recite their part by heart.
– § –
Far from being stupid, Maria’s suggestion turned out to be a stroke of genius: as soon as I wrapped myself around a sturdy pole, breathing in the cold breeze (and occasional whiff of diesel exhausts) I felt immensely better. For starters, the weather was gorgeous: clouds sailed by, urged on by a lively breeze, so that sun and shade were trading places amiably and the whole world was either gold or dark blue. A fishing trawler bobbed in the sea and, on the northern horizon, the white cliffs of the Westfjords beckoned. “People think it’s Greenland” smiled a crew member.
The feeling of unease quickly washed away and I was getting used to the rhythmic rising and falling of our boat as we steamed out of the fjord, pointing east towards the open sea. In our wake were dozens and dozens of squawking seagulls: for a while I thought that we were following them in the hope to be guided towards the shoals of herring and the orcas, but then it became apparent that they were betting on us getting them to the fish. The whole thing was pretty ironic and even if it meant that we wouldn’t see any orcas I still felt good about being able to overcome my fears.
Precisely at that moment the blower came to life and Maria announced, “Good news everyone”.
– § –
Throughout the world, Aboriginal cultures nurtured views of the orcas that differed from the beliefs of the West under every aspect, views that – as scientific research intensified – were vindicated however posthumously. The First Nations that inhabited the Pacific coast of America from Alaska down to Oregon called orcas “blackfish” and considered them to be the most powerful fish in the ocean, reincarnation of famous chiefs or of drowned people. Almost every tribe considered their appearance to be auspicious for human activities. Yupik people living on the Chukchi peninsula, where Siberia ends in the Bering strait, offered orcas gifts as a way to ensure their support during walrus hunts; whenever they found an orca carcass beached on the coast they’d celebrate a funeral in its honour.
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I remember the day – cold, wet and miserable – when I saw my first blue whale off the coast of Sri Lanka. I remember the feeling of sheer, unadulterated awe that swamped me as soon as the beast came to the surface not far from our boat, how it nullified the discomfort of that journey. I often wondered if I’d ever experience something like that again and what would cause it. The sight of an orca pod off the Snæfellsnes peninsula did it.
The pod was swimming west, commuting behind the shoals of herring that constitute their main staple, their fins – tall and straight were the males’, arced like scimitars the females’ – emerging at regular intervals. Often their heads would pop out too, perhaps checking out this boatload of excitable bipeds.
Click or tap on any photo to start the slideshow.
For the next two hours we were to accompany these beautiful animals in their meanderings. We were to encounter three pods and, our resident researchers said, a total of 30 orcas, each and every one of them recognisable because of the white patch behind their dorsal fin. We were to see them from afar and up close, from above and from below too when our boat was sinking in the through of a wave and they were riding its crest; we saw adults, juveniles and even calves. In one happy moment I caught a fleeting image that will remain with me forever: an orca’s silhouette, pectoral fins extended, the delicate interplay of blacks and whites running across her body perfectly visible, as she swam inside a wave of green water illuminated by the shining sun.
Click or tap on any photo to start the slideshow.
Some around us were cold, some were feeling sick and some hadn’t quite finished vomiting since we’d left the harbour but, thankfully, we didn’t. The sheer beauty of nature kept us warm, happy and sprightly as Duracell bunnies.
– § –
Years of activism have succeeded in turning the idea of capturing juvenile orcas to turn them into attractions as despicable as the act of selling cigarettes to eight-year olds. Far from being killers, researchers will point out that no fatal attacks on humans have ever been recorded. Stories such as the remarkable one captured by South African photographer Rainier Schimpf – of a mutilated orca, unable to fend for herself – being supported for years by her pod sisters are, instead, the new anecdotes being employed when describing these animals. If ever there was a species in need of a rebranding orcas are them. Perhaps we should call them blackfish.
– § –
Suddenly the ‘home time’ marker was upon us. It must’ve come as welcome news to the sickest amongst us; for me, though, it was a farewell that I wished I could postpone. We turned east as the orcas kept on swimming nobly to the east. Their future is fraught with danger – climate change, overfishing, pollution, plastics – but, at least, everywhere they’ll go people will now meet them with the same respect and awe that our aboriginal ancestors tribute to them.
Iceland doesn’t score very high in terms of cityscapes. Granted, there are corners of beauty peppered here and there in Reykjavik but there’s no denying that, besides those exceptions, towns and villages all around this island have a utilitarian air. They were built to answer a function, to solve a need, not to be admired.
The village of Grundarfjörður was, at least from the outset, not that different. There was no promenade by the shore but a harbour where pick-ups and fork-lifts manoeuvred in and out of warehouses. Homes and civic buildings all had a Spartan look; even the café-cum-library boasted a nude concrete floor which, we believed, must’ve been easier to clean than wood or tiles.
Yet Grundarfjörður had an undeniable allure. There was an air of frank no-nonsense, of affable helpfulness. No one, there, had neither time nor the interest for playing politics or to mess about. And there was the landscape. Honestly, you could plop any eyesore in such a location and I’d still stop, awe-struck, in contemplation.
We stayed at a small cluster of homes just outside of town. Our window opened on a panorama of mountains softened by the snow that kept on falling every night, but the real treat lied waiting just past the front door.
Our stay was brief; yet, halfway through it, we’d already gotten the measures of the place: which brand of cheese we liked, how to get the coffee machine to work and, as it’s typical in villages, we begun recognising some of the villagers. The friendly bear-of-a-man who worked as the cashier in the store; the groovy café guy; the farm boys who drove snowmobiles every late afternoon.
Alas, we were to leave soon. On our last evening we stood outside the guesthouse as the sun sunk behind the horizon in an eternal crepuscule, hoping for some clear skies. Initially, though, that did not seem to be the case.
But then, at around midnight, a casual glance out of the window revealed a blanket of stars. We quickly tossed on some layers and braved the -8C armed with tripod and camera. Millions of stars twinkled above us and, before the camera’s lenses, they began their slow dance. A fishing trawler, meanwhile, chugged serenely into port, its mission evidently done.
In spite of being late in the season we had harboured hopes of witnessing the spectacle of the aurora borealis. It was our last night and, if ever it was going to happen, it had to be now. Suddenly and without noise, but for the quacking of two quarrelling ducks in the stream beneath us, a grey band materialised in the sky. It sneaked elegantly across the bay, describing an arc from Kirkjufell to the mountain range to our backs. It looked like a cloud, but stars shone through it. As we weighted options the band became two. And then three, four, like incomprehensibly large amoebas whose Petri dish was the entire celestial vault. As the grey bands went about their business we waited with baited breath.
Then it began. From behind Kirkjufell a faint green curtain appeared. Pulled by an invisible hand along an unseen railing, the curtain worked its way across the fjord and up our heads. There it remained, dancing into the night sky to a rhythm that no one on Earth could hear, for a good ten minutes before it disappeared as gently as it’d arrived. As far as auroras went, we would be told later, this was a pretty weak show and it only left the faintest glow on our photos. But, yet, the sense of child-like wonder, the shiver of excitement at the sight of such a mysterious phenomenon was the best parting gift that Grundarfjörður could give us.
The 9-18mm lenses I’ve just bought are, in the words of the photographer who won the chance of endorsing them, “perfect for panoramas”.
In a rare astronomical conjunction where marketing met reality and they both shook hands with user requirements a set of wide-angle lenses was precisely what I needed, for Snæfellsnes turned out to be panorama country.
Doubter are you? Master Yoga would say. If so, allow me to show you some examples that, hopefully, will explain. (Just remember can you can click/tap on any photo to see it in widescreen format).
A storm brewing across the fjord.
The day was blustery to the extreme, omen of the waves of snowstorm that were to lash the coast throughout the following 24 hours. We were driving along the Hvalfjörður as yet another squall rolled in from the howling sea. I remember thinking “What if we took bikes?” and shudder despite the heated seat.
It was a short drive from Lýsudalur – 3 houses, one stable, something looking like a school – to Búðir, one hotel and a chapel. Between the two places a volcano, now long gone, had left a trail of scoria: a tormented landscape of corrugated rocks twisted and turned by incomprehensible forces. A lava field.
A dance of snow and sun.
We were having to stop every half-hour or so to scrape the powdered ice that would inevitably plaster itself all over the car’s rear lights. As we did so the weather kept on turning like the mood swings of a spoilt brat: sun followed white-out and wind followed calm. Briefly, on the road between Hellissandur and Ólafsvík, we were able to witness that changing-of-the-guard moment.
The “most photographed mountain in Iceland”, or so some claimed, lived up to its fame on a rare moment where the crowds with whom we shared it trickled down to just a handful of visitors impregnable to the icy wind, as well as a dog apoplectic with joy at the sight of snow.
Within spitting (with wind in favour) distance from Hellissandur lies Ingjaldshóll. Once a farm; now a church, graveyard and not much more. As the story goes a young man wintered here after arriving at the nearby port of Rif on a ship from Bristol. During those long winter nights he came to learn more about the Vikings’ voyages west, to Greenland and further on to Vinland. That man was none other than Christopher Columbus.
On the beach.
Echoes of Neil Young would be welcome if only Ambulance Blues wasn’t so sombre. A beach just outside Grundarfjörður, deserted but for a man with a drone – thankfully far away. A black beach dotted with purple sea shells, flanked by white hills and covered, in places, by a thin water film over which the blue, golds and greys of the sky can run like a cinema screen.
Past Grundarfjörður is a road turning right, running over the mountains that make up the spine of Snæfellsnes. That road, sneaking as it does up an inviting mountain pass, is an utter joy. And it’s not just because of the driving pleasure: it’s also gifted by great, great views. More on that later on.
The medieval chronicler.
Not too far from the Laugarsbrekka farmstead that saw the birth of Guðríður Víðförla is a locality known as Staðarstaður. There’s a monolith there but, unlike that monolith, it hadn’t mysteriously appeared to make apes intelligent. Soiled as it was by a sacrilegious bird, the monolith is a monument to one Ari Þorgilsson, cleric and XII century chronicler. Author of Íslendigabók, Ari told the story of Iceland between the times where she was settled by Norse outcasts and the conversion to Christianity. I don’t know about you, but if, 1000 years from now, I could be remembered by a monument this grand in a place this supremely beautiful, it’ll be a great, great satisfaction.
We live in an age where travel is becoming a commodity. £300 return fares, London-New York, non-stop. £60 tickets for the train to Paris. Competition has brought low fares and low fares have shrunk the world: the jet set is no more, and we should all be thankful for that.
But what if today was AD 980 and you were a good eight centuries away from the invention of the internal combustion engine, let alone a Wi-Fi-equipped airliner? Well, in that case you’d be up the creek without a paddle. Unless your name was Guðriður Þorbjarnardóttir from Laugarbrekka in Snæfellsnes, Iceland.
The X and XI centuries mustn’t have been easy on the tourism industry in Europe. Carolingian unity was well and truly a thing of the past, roads were still those designed by people walking around in togas and I doubt that the postal service was much better either or they would be reading something other than the Epistles to the Corinthians in church. In facts, it seems to me that long-distance travelling was something that one would indulge in only if part of a band of Saracen pirates. Or a Viking.
Laugarbrekka’s many charms were a bit hard to appreciate on the morning when we paid it a visit. A cloud the colour of graphite hung above a sea that was on the tenebrous end of the blues palette, all while a vicious wind pelted us with ice goblets that flew almost horizontally. The very act of inching the car’s door open sent the thing flying, breaking some part that I dearly hoped was covered by the insurance.
This was the place that Guðriður, daughter of Þorbjarn, called “home”. Hardly surprising, we figured, that one fine day her family decided they’d enough and that it was time to head towards pastures new. Like Greenland.
Greenland, avid readers of Norse sagas will know, had been colonised by an enterprising Viking called Eirik the Red who, with a brainwave worthy of an advertising agency, decided to give such a name to island that is 85% covered in ice as a mean to entice gullible settlers. Still, for a while everything seemed to go just fine: the colony functioned and Guðriður had tied the knot with one Þorstein, son of Eirik himself and brother of none other than Leif, the chap who was first to discover Vinland. Perhaps it was Leif’s raving reviews that convinced Guðriður and Þorstein to kiss Greenland goodbye and head over there too.
As we sat in our car, listening to the storm rumbling outside, I thought about travelling through seas such as the ones just a few hundred meters away from us. I thought about boarding a drakkar made of wood, not much longer than a bus, and setting sail into a sea peppered with icebergs and freak waves. Even considering the thing was enough to send me shivering.
On that particular occasion, though, things didn’t work and the trip ended in disaster with Þorstein dying in the process. Such a setback would’ve been enough for anyone to call it quits with this thing called travelling, but not Guðriður. Newly widowed, the redoubtable Viking returned to her native Iceland by way of Norway (stopovers are always cheaper as we know). There she met a gentleman going by the name of Þorfinnur Karlsefni who, the saga points out, was “a man of good family and good means”.
The newlyweds didn’t lack vision and, evidently, Guðriður still had a bee in her bonnet when it came to Vinland for, soon after becoming Mr and Mrs, they led an expedition across the ocean. This time the enterprise proved to be successful and the party – the saga mentions sixty men, five women and an unspecified number of animals – made landfall in what today is Mr Trudeau’s happy country sometimes after the year 1000. The small colony was soon cheered by the arrival of Guðriður’s son, Snorri, the first European ever to be born in the New World.
Snorri was still a little more than an infant when things, though, started to go south. Relations with the First Peoples with whom the Vikings had gotten in contact soon turned sour and, faced with the perspective of annihilation, Þorfinnur and Guðriður opted to cut their losses and make sail for the friendlier shores of Greenland and, thence, back to Iceland.
In her older age Guðriður, once again widowed, didn’t lose that feeling of wanderlust that had evidently been flowing in her veins. Her sons had by then flown the nest and she had recently converted to Christianity: no better time, then, for a pilgrimage to Rome. So off she went and, some say, managed to chat about her travels to the Pope himself. Whether she met the big man or not is unsure, but I’d like to think she did; what is certain is that, on her return, she became a nun and lived the rest of her years in a church built by her sons, becoming known as Víðförla or “far-travelled”.
Somewhere in Laugarbrekka, we were told, Guðriður’s legacy lived on and there it was: a small plinth holding a sleek, metallic drakkar. On it, standing tall and proud like the woman she undoubtedly was, was Guðriður the far travelled, little Snorri waving from her shoulder. In that snowy, windy morning in Snæfellsnes, it looked as if she was smiling at us in encouragement.
The sky at night over London is alive. Perhaps not with immortal angels listening in to the thoughts of those down below but very much alive it is.
A camera, a tripod and an Internet forum thread with tips on settings was everything we needed but for the skies themselves. Then, for a handful of nights in February, the heavens pitched in to show that, yes, alive indeed they are.
A trail of white lights: a stream running from left to right like an avenue in the sky over the western part of the city. Further to the left and higher up, a faint halo: a stack of Plasmon biscuits made of red lines and dots. Planes coming in to land at Heathrow airport; more planes – or perhaps the same – patiently waiting for their turn in a ‘stack’, a gigantic three-dimensional racetrack where planes enter from up above and descend, slowly but steadily, until it’s their turn to line up for the runways. As they proceed, as they move about the sky, they leave a faint but indelible trace on the sequence of 1 and 0s that make the RAW file captured by my camera’s sensor. In the deepening turquoise of London’s evening, the sky is not populated by angels. It’s business consultants coming home, travellers transferring on to the late night long hauls, it’s pilots and cabin crews. People.
On our second attempt the twilight had well and truly been washed away from the sky. We left the camera on its tripod, quietly whirring away, and went about our business. When we returned, after well more than an hour, we had an unexpected surprise: not only had the sensor captured the pale, blinking lights of the jets but it had also recorded things we had never figured we could see. Strange curving lines – some green, some white, some stronger, some paler – bisecting the dotted vectors of commercial flights. They were so intriguing that we ignored the novelty of having been able to capture not just Heathrow’s but also City’s traffic: what were they?
The answer could only be satellites.
There are an estimated 4,600 satellites orbiting around Earth, not including junk. Tiny moons we can’t see with naked eye but that, still basking in direct sunlight, describe their serene trajectories as they allowed humans to communicate with one another, share Instagram photos or spy over unsuspecting fellow earthlings.
Night #3 brought a change. A breeze from the east meant a shift in air operations: airliners would no longer cruise over the city en route to Heathrow, opting instead for an approach that led them above Windsor. Take offs, on the other side, would aim for the city, swerving gently over north London to avoid the centre. Fully expecting a less crowded scene we nonetheless set up our camera pointing northwards, ready to capture whatever may come.
Boy weren’t we in for a surprise.
Beacons criss-crossed the sky in delicate networks, the lights of the departing widebodies bound for the East and Africa mingling with thin necklaces of green and red anti-collision lights of those flights that already were at cruising altitude. Here and there, like old friends stopping by for a quick greet, were the satellites, sailing higher than anyone could.
Days of morning fog ensued before, eventually, a clear dawn appeared. A clear dawn with no easterly winds. As they arrived from China, Singapore and South Africa the early morning flights lined up diligently and, one after the other, came in to land with their cargo of yawning families, execs straightening the knot of their ties and window seat dreamers. To the east, behind the towers of Canary Wharf, a golden glow announced a new day.
I’ve since long harboured the dream of having – or, more modestly, staying at – a house on the Bosporus. Something with balconies abutting the waterfront, or perhaps a terrace with a view of the passing ships, a bottle of Sipsmith at the ready and a supply of tonic water and cucumbers.
Alas, that dream hasn’t quite morphed into reality: as it seems, waterfront real estate is either occupied by Dolmabahçe Palace – which, I’m told, is not for sale – or by a monumentally large Four Seasons hotel whose clientele, at least judging by what I can gather from the outside, isn’t in the same line of business as I am. In the meantime I have to make do with Beyoğlu, that part of Istanbul that I loosely identify with Galata, Karaköy and the meander of streets fanning away from Istiklal caddesi. Don’t get me wrong here: as far as second choices go, this is the softest of landings.
The subconscious, as always, plays a big part. I love Genoa and the whole Liguria region in which she sits, pretty and smug: in Istanbul all you need to do is to scratch here and there and, voilá, the red-blue DNA of Galata will emerge. But there are also more objective reasons: chiefly Beyoğlu’s liveliness and relative libertarianism. Other parts of town might have sunk under the touristic onslaught or might be sulking in a sense of betrayal and abandonment; some will have evolved into soulless dormitories. Not here. Beyoğlu has what London lost or sold decades ago: charisma, identity and that very abused locution, “A sense of place”.
Lately, though, I’ve been coming here on tiptoe, as you’d do when entering the room of somebody who’s very sick. Encroached by terrorism on one side – the Daesh suicide attack in 2016, the Kurdish car bombs outside Beşiktaş’ Vodafone Arena on the same year and more – and authoritarianism on the other – why do you need water cannons outside Gezi Park? – I always dreaded to find the place a shadow of its former self.
I needn’t have worried.
Under a very British drizzle, Karaköy’s hipster scene was flourishing in the former docks that – the whole world over – seem to have been built with the sole purpose of being refurbished into bars and cafés.
Click on any of the photos to start the slideshow.
In the streets leading to the sea small-town life continues unabated with barbers flapping razors in the air when labouring a point; in Galata, meanwhile, the stairway leading to my hotel had been blocked by a music video set.
Click on any of the photos to start the slideshow.
Boys still needed just a guitar to hook up with adoring fans.
Above all, there still was Istiklal caddesi. Past the barricades erected around Lycée Galatasaray, regardless of the threat of bombings, the place still throbbed with people.
Click on any of the photos to start the slideshow.
Thousands strolled up and down as dozens of buskers played folk music from Anatolia. Writer Charles Bukowski is alleged to have said, once, that “people are the best show in the world”. If he really had said that, he must’ve passed through Beyoğlu on a Saturday afternoon.
There’s a concept I sometimes hear from my software engineer chums: abstraction, or the process of removing all sorts of attributes – be them physical, spatial, temporal – to get to the root of something (usually a system, since we’re talking software), to the basic elements that what really interest them.
I’m not an engineer so I don’t know if abstraction requires a vehicle. In case it does, I’ve found mine. For a cheap fare, the swipe of a pre-paid magnetic card, I can forego all those attributes – bundable under a generic, non-numeric scatological term – that do not add value to my life and concentrate on what I really want to focus on in the here and now. The vehicle can come in two forms: it can be green, white and yellow when operated by Sehir Hattari or, if it’s a Turyol, white and blue. An Istanbul ferry. A vapur.
There’s something, in this city, that keeps on pulling me in. It might be the history, the fact of having a XIV century home built by the Genoans as your neighbour; it might be the people, in all their fascinating contradictions. All I know is that a key element to explain why, every now and then, I end up here is the feeling of taking a vapur.
Karaköy Pier has been renovated and is a rather modernist affair, now. I swipe and find myself, by accident rather than by design, on the Turyol end of the building. Eyup it is, then.
The trip up the Golden Horn is a refresh of a history I have never lived. An hourglass of çay by my side, a train of squeaking seagulls in our wake and a crow perched on top the canvas cover is all we need for the trip. The vapur parades past Fener, Balat, St Mary of the Mongols: places where the Greeks made their last stand in 1453 and where their imprinting is still visible, ever so faintly. We chug on and I wonder about what happened to those I’d met there last time.
Eyup arrives all of a sudden, almost announced. The hill of the graves is there, grim in the grey weather. We’re almost out of water, the Golden Horn has become land and homes and streets and a cable-car. Somebody, down below, yells something that I take to mean to get off.
I disembark with a posse of cougars voluptuously trailed by a cloud of perfume and decide that, no, I don’t want to stay in Eyup. I turn and run back into the pier, Turkish Sarah Jessica Parker watching in disbelief, and abscond in the warm embrace of the lower deck, admiring the spectacle of those commuting to Eminönü. The tea seller, seeing me again, asks if I’d found his mother-in-law waiting at the pier.
Sunday. My Istanbul layover has come to an end just as a lovely sun is warming up the Bosporus. A flight beckons at Atatürk but I still have time for another ride. Eminönü pier is just to the left of Galata bridge and, berthed, is one of those beautifully démodé Sehir ferries, those with the razor-sharp prow, rounded stern, wooden viewing decks and pictures of Atatürk hanging from the panelled bulkhead.
I board as my phone purrs into life and begins downloading emails, buzzing as it does. After a Friday travelling I opted for not opening the laptop and, instead, drank beers watching TV. This is payback. But as soon as the mooring lines are off, and this intercontinental journey of 10 minutes starts, it’s all forgotten.
Out there in the narrow channel there’s no office, work or pressing problems. It’s just the sun painting Sultanahmet gold, the bridges, the light mist hanging above the water and the cargo ships going about their business. Sat aft on this beautiful ferry I daydream about the feasibility of reconfiguring one of these marvels into a private yacht with which to hop around the Med – Beirut, Alexandria, Palermo, Naples, Oran, Marseille – and beyond, to Tangiers and the Caribbean, perhaps flying the flag of one of those countries that register the container ships moored at Haydarpaşa.
A voice in Turkish drags me out of my shipbuilding dreams. A young man, meticulously shaven and coiffured, is asking something. All he’s missing to pass for a Mormon is a plastic badge, but I doubt he’s putting up a spiel on Jesus. A second well-groomed guy is summoned as soon as it dawns on them that I might look Turkish but, in fact, I ain’t.
There’s five of them, all soldiers. Squaddies on a free day, wanting a photo taken. Here they are in Kadiköy harbour, happy and proud as they should be, with only 70 days to go before the end of conscription. Sixty-nine days and a wake-up, as they said in Platoon.
On the deck below a man runs a tespih in his hands as we float near Ayasofya. We dock and I take the tram back towards Yusufpaşa. It’s only when I’m in the bowels of Atatürk, sitting in front of a 0.75 l glass of Efes, that I realise that I haven’t thought about work at all since I boarded the vapur.
It’s 6AM in Istanbul, but we’re a couple of hours ahead and Istanbul, well, s’éveille aussi. The guards at Aksaray metro station won’t come out of the sentry box because it’s 6AM and even Daesh is having a lie-in today.
The simit sellers are already out supplying the Galata fishermen who’d been out there all night, catching God knows what.
The shops at the foot of Galata escarpment are already open, or perhaps not yet closed. Cats slip in and out, dancing around empty bottles of raki. It’s a Saturday morning.
The New Mosque is all wrapped up in plastic and scaffolding, but Suleymaniye gleams up top and Ayasofya is still looking as if she’d got everything figured out.
It’s six AM in Istanbul. The transvestites are going for a pass of the Bic, the strippers have got their parkas on again, bolsters are crushed, lovers are tired and I’ve found my hotel. Perhaps I can sweet talk the consierge into really relaxing that early check-in policy.
Unless you’ve taken up a flatshare with Bikini Bottom’s Patrick Star, you’ll have heard about CO2 trading. In the EU version of the thing, a cap is set on specific emissions, which is also constantly lowered year after year. If you find yourself above it, then you’ve got to buy credits – effectively supporting schemes to reduce emissions somewhere else.
However, you might be excused to think this could apply only to large corporations and not to the average Joe (I certainly didn’t); after all, how much greenhouse gases could realistically a person emit?
I always considered myself to be a fairly low-carbon human being, at least based on my average peer group made of wealthy Westerners. I don’t own a car, I commute by public transport or, as the Latins would say, pedibus calcantibus; my purchases of cheap cotton clothes are limited to the absolute necessary, which is to say that most of my T-shirts have witnessed at least two World Cups; and my consumption of red meat has steadily declined. Yes, there’s the flying but… come on, how much can that amount to?
Forty point something tons for 2018.
Forty point something tons, or 40.19 if you feel numerically inclined, is more or less equivalent to the weight of an average adult sperm whale. Or 7 African elephants. Or, if you’re struggling to figure them out, 350 LeBron Jameses.
To quote very freely from Led Zeppelin, that’s a lotta fartin’.
How did I get to that? Well, by entering the flights made last year in climatecare.org’s carbon calculator. Climatecare is an Oxford-based NGO that offers carbon offsetting services not just to large corporations but, as I found out, to the average Joe too. All that one needs to do is to plonk in the figures of one’s flying, including classes of travel, and voilà the cost is returned at a fee of £7.50 per ton, or $9.67.
My 40.19 tons have been the result of 42 flight and have costed me, to offset, £301 and change. For those of you who use dollars, that’s 388 pieces with George Washington printed on it, which Climatecare will invest in projects aimed at reducing the footprint of day-to-day activities in developing nations. What I’ve learnt is that the plushier the seat, the higher the emissions. For instance a London-Tashkent return flight in economy accounted for 1.4 tons of the bad stuff, whilst a London-JFK in Business – for a flight of similar duration – emitted 4.41 tons. First is even worse.
Most of these flights have been done for work; should I have paid to offset them? My answer, ultimately, is yes. It was my bum on those seats and, ultimately, I agreed to go there. Following orders didn’t work at Nuremberg and won’t cut it here too. And, at the end of the day, it’s a nice feeling, the one of being as carbon neutral as one possibly can.