By the time I land at Istanbul Atatürk Airport, it’s already 10 p.m. So I hail a taxi into the pitch-black night. I wouldn’t regret it…
At this hour, I’m not about to wrestle with the subway in a city I don’t know, so I look for a taksi. Boldly, I ask the drug-sniffing dog whether you can take any taxi here or whether some of them are the dodgy kind you’d rather avoid?
His “I don’t know” doesn’t exactly help, but since everyone’s waiting for the orange-yellow crates and there doesn’t seem to be any other color, I grab one of these contraptions too.
The driver, an older gentleman, doesn’t speak English, but he does know roughly three words of German. “Ein bisschen” (a little) accounts for two of them. Well, with a bit of fumbling on the smartphone, some Google Maps gesticulating, and a phone number, he gets us on our way.
And HOW!
Istanbul appears to be a city where traffic signs and possibly even traffic rules exist — but they obviously don’t apply to taxis.
The older gentleman only knows one throttle setting: floored. He effortlessly leaves everything behind, regardless of rank or horsepower.
On the way into the city, he has to let a younger colleague overtake him exactly once. And one other maniac.
Mostly on the left — but on the right when necessary — he rockets along the Bosphorus through the Istanbul night in our boxy orange speedster, as if there were no tomorrow!
My brand-new tablet with NVIDIA Tegra 3 quad-core, Jelly Bean 4.2, and its Google Maps are struggling to keep up with the older gentleman’s position.
Luckily, I don’t have the speedometer in my line of sight. It’s enough to visually sort out the cars crossing in front of us like in Formula 1.
The older gentleman is not the SLIGHTEST bit fazed by any of this, and when his nose requires attention, he simply weaves one-handed through the wall of metal.
That he’s capable of this, he’d already demonstrated while making a phone call on the highway…
Shaken and stirred, I arrived at the hotel surprisingly quickly.
Taxi #2: Younger and (even) faster?
Taksi driver number 2 from the following evening is younger than the older gentleman, and I’m bracing myself accordingly for my next hellride.
I believe he speaks even less English than his colleague from the night before. On the other hand, I can now produce my destination “Ortaköy” from memory. Though probably not entirely accent-free, so he lets our Turkish conversation rest at that.
Anyway. Let’s GO!
In the narrow old-town streets, he demonstratively lays down rubber pulling away, just to announce the tariff. It only takes a few turns into the dense evening traffic, though, before the momentum of this taxi ride grinds to a halt.
But the driver knows ALL the traffic-light tricks the good Lord hasn’t forbidden: When a light threatens to turn red, he’ll — zack — swing left around the traffic island, or he’ll fake a right turn, only to merge back in further ahead and act like he came from the right all along.
Whenever traffic even remotely allows it, he prefers full speed right down the middle of the solid white line. At the last moment, he decides whether to go left — no, this time zack right around.
And once again: correct decision!
I believe the right-hand maneuver saved an estimated 30 hundredths of a second.
Much appreciated.
Only, somewhere the momentum faded and eventually came to a complete standstill. So he lights up a cigarette instead.
EXCUSE ME?!
Correct. A cigarette. I couldn’t make out the brand, unfortunately.
But in all fairness, I have to admit he’s being very considerate about it: the cigarette always hangs out the window, and to exhale he leans so far out that
the driver’s seat is practically unoccupied at this point.
So that’s not a problem either…
And so, in the staccato of two-lane traffic, he still gets me safely to my hotel.
And surprises me with a “Good bye”!
At least…
#3 — Morning edition: This time with a little address note!
I think I’ve mentioned it: English isn’t exactly the strongest suit of Istanbul’s taxi drivers — their focus is clearly on the gas pedal.
Thoughtful as they are at my hotel, they give me a slip of paper with the address of my next destination.
Because honestly, I don’t think Taksi Driver Number 3 even knows the English starter word “hello” anymore…
He too has to bow to the overwhelming traffic, but still lets his driving class shine through from time to time: for instance, when the big, rusty Otobüsü next to us suddenly swerves into our lane out of nowhere.
With a small evasive maneuver — but no horn — and a stoic closing of the eyes (!), this situation too is handled.
The real heart-stopper comes, though, when he suddenly cracks the window open and the full blast of street noise floods the taksi…
Good grief!
And slightly bewildered once more, I peer from the back seat as he ambush-brakes with the handbrake and storms into a McDonald’s…
The McDonald’s is mercifully still closed, so the ride can resume quickly. When he then asks every motorcyclist something out the window and navigates rather erratically through the streets, I deduce he’s asking for directions.
He did have the address on that slip of paper. But no GPS…
Eventually, he gives up in a one-way street (we’re the only ones attempting to drive in the opposite direction) and signals me to walk the last 200 meters.
No problem.
For the next appointment, I take the tram. But barely experience anything worth noting…
With #4 back to the airport — oh boy…
Fourth of four taxi rides: end of the trilogy.
Since I already know the tram and the lira in my pocket is just enough for one last taxi ride, I treat myself to the mother of all hellrides one more time.
This time, the daring Ferodun gets his turn. By now I have a fair idea of what to expect, so I at least want to know their name first.
As I already suspect, his slightly advanced age doesn’t slow this lead-foot down one bit.
The road to the airport is clearly his racetrack: traffic is dense but flowing, with enough space between cars — half a meter, mind you, not several seconds like in Formula 1.
This allows the guys to change lanes twice while mere mortals blink once.
Or to put it very slowly: your sense of balance tells you during the blink that the taxi must have moved sideways. But when you open your eyes, you find yourself — confusingly — still in the same lane…
That the gyroscopes in tablet and smartphone survive such maneuvers unscathed is actually a small miracle of engineering. And that our senses cope with it, too, is equally astonishing, because to my knowledge, cave dwellers didn’t have to withstand such lateral forces.
But anyway, the acceleration in these yellow flying crates is quite remarkable. You’d never guess it watching them idle in traffic.
That the road is littered with signs for the Elektronik Denetleme Sistemi (electronic slow down system) doesn’t seem to interest a single soul here: not the civilians, not the taxi drivers, not the Otobüsü, not the flying crates.
And none of these daredevils ever wears a seatbelt. That would probably be a sign of fear, and fear is something you must NEVER show, because in Istanbul the law of the jungle clearly applies: cars first, pedestrians second. Bicycles? I didn’t spot a single one.
But even here, with Ferodun as with his colleagues, you feel safe at all times despite the insane acceleration — and even have the leisure to scribble notes about the last turn on your tablet.
Thanks for the action, guys — görüşürüz!
And finally, for all those who now have taxi anxiety on top of their fear of flying: my descriptions may be ever so slightly exaggerated… I’ll gladly hop back in anytime :-)
But there are other voices…
For the love of God… If you ever get lost or need urgently to get somewhere in #Istanbul, NEVER ever take a taxi. You’ll LOSE YOUR MIND.
— Arie Amaya-Akkermans (@Dilmunite) April 23, 2013
And now there are English courses too:
New courses to teach English to taxi drivers in #Istanbul http://t.co/V85WGCxt
— Hürriyet Daily News (@HDNER) January 16, 2013
