If you thought being sandwiched between a gas truck and a brick wall on a tiny sidestreet was the closest you’d come to serious street injury in Istanbul, then be warned that there’s a far greater menace out there: fellow pedestrians. They may not be motorised and metal-clad, but they can be as hazardous as any fast-moving vehicle. For me, the negotiation of pedestrian perils is an obsession bordering on a full-time activity, and the process of identifying offenders has lead to a full classification of the genus.
Let’s begin with the Phalanx formation: three or more men walking side by side like a Greek phalanx, usually blocking off the entire path. The female version of this is the Daisy-Chain: women walking arm in arm exchanging recipes, gossiping about whoever’s not there, and boasting about their children’s achievements. Like the Phalanx, this also blocks the entire path, and more than once I’ve thought it might be good to have a machete handy.
The motto of the Diagonal Long-Crossers is “The shortest way is to get in everyone’s way.” This involves moving in a straight line from point A to point B, even if it means cutting everyone’s path in between with a 30-meter diagonal cross as they bump and push and trip over people’s feet. Not to be confused with the Fast Walkers, the guys who move with the urgency of a dog on heat, with apparently startlingly important places to go and things to do, in contrast to the Unemployed who have nothing to do and nowhere to be, and they sure as hell walk like it.
Gaits are often marked with pride: observe the notorious Bully and the High Horse. The former is to be avoided at all costs unless you fancy a retributory shoulder slam. Avoid games of chicken and take solace in the fact that he was probably beaten and abused throughout his childhood. The High Horse usually has his hands linked behind his back with a prayer bead dangling from his fingers, looking at every girl without a headscarf as if she were a banshee, emitting the obligatory moralistic “tsk, tsk, tsk” at anything that doesn’t live up to his holier-than-thou standards.
From the proud step to the downright arrogant stride, look out for the Gigolo practicing his catwalk moves in the fancier areas of town: he knows he’s beautiful, in sunglasses, with carefully trimmed facial hair, a well-tended suntan, and possibly white loafers (with no socks). Until he learns to laugh at himself, we’ll have to provide the chuckles for him.
The arch-nemesis and number one threat to the Gigolo is the Cool Crosser: the guy who makes a simple act like crossing the street into an opportunity to demonstrate his unflinching coolness and fortitude of character. He will not rush even if a car is coming at him, and once he is on the other side he will lift his head up and look around to see who has witnessed this awe-inspiring display of grace under pressure. Cool Crossers were also probably beaten as kids, thank goodness.
Then there’s the comedy section: the ways of walking characterized purely by unconscious physical traits. The Head-Down does precisely that: keeps going, can’t look up, must get straight to destination, must keep going, make no eye-contact, proceed to point B immediately. If he’s not looking carefully enough, he might get a sharp one in the gut from the Arm Swinger, the loud whoosh of whose arms cuts through the air as he passes with legs spread a metre apart and a swagger akin to that of a primate with elephantitus of the testes. The Cop Swagger is an offshoot of this, but it only really works when accessorised by a machine gun. The Butt-Out is also a distant relative, with the rear-heavy posture and the head thrust forward, a pose indicative of a dire need to find a latrine.
The fish out of water on any Istanbul street is the Tourist, desperately turning this way and that with every paranoid step he takes, looking in bewilderment at pedestrian crossings, getting pushed aside on sidewalks, jumping a foot in the air every time a car or a scooter just misses ploughing into him and his family. It’s like he’s landed on a planet in an alternate universe where the concept of personal space has been warped into a giant gelatinous entity called Mob-Blob that feeds on crisp clothes and tidy blonde haircuts.
The Tourist is not too far distant from the Soaker-Upper who keeps a vigilant 360-degree watch with chameleon-like eyes and an exorcist-style spinning neck, as he walks with mouth agape. He’s taking in everything with his keen semiotic eye for authenticity, until he smacks right into you and nearly gets a slap in his cavernous chops.
My favourite is the Road-Blocker. This guy just stands right there in the middle of your path, either writing a message on his cell phone or talking to someone. Try stopping right in front of him and staring him down until he eventually notices you, and graciously steps an inch to the side like he’s doing you a favour. Unlike the Bully and the Cool Crosser, this guy has never been beaten up in his life although it would have done him a world of good.
