Aladdin was always my favourite Disney flick anyway.

Anytime you plan to go anywhere, yer usually bombarded with the thoughts and opinions of the common man. Be it what they thought when they were there, or what they’ve heard about said place. And that’s respectable. Usually people just want to help, or something equally as heartfelt. (Though I particularly enjoy it when folks give you a negative opinion, or an opinion meant to instill worry or fear in you. We’ve all heard it. “Oh, you better be careful in _______. My second cousin’s dry cleaner, he stubbed his toe on a plane which was set to layover in _______.” I mean, shit, what are you supposed to do? “Oh dang, you know what, yer right! Screw all my plans to up and alter my life for the next year. I won’t go to ______ after all. I like my toes entirely too much.” Imagine the look on their face if you actually bought into what they said. Assheads.)

Anyway. As you can imagine, I was fed a wealth of this before leaving for Istanbul. And again, respectable. One bit of genuine “Insight” I was offered actually came from Gord Sinclair’s wife, somewhere outside of the Astoria in London. “Oh, that’ll be awesome, Istanbul. I’d love to go, just to see the markets.”

So naturally, I got a little excited about the markets too. Partly because the idea of paying some grizzled old dude for better produce that you’d find at some chain grocery store is one that got me excited. But until you step into an actual Turkish market (Istanbul Faction #2-A market in Turkish is called a “Pazaar”. And now I know where the word “Bazaar” originated from. Connecting the dots; sublime.) you won’t realize that it’s the experience and the atmosphere that’s the real hook.

It rolls a little like this. In every neighbourhood (Of which there are hundreds in the city of 12 million) one day is dedicated to a local market. The streets are closed off and tents are set up at the break of dawn, and remain there well into dusk. They’re taken down rather promptly, but traipsing through a market area around midnight will make you feel like yer traipsing through a war-torn neighbourhood, assuming the war was fought with oranges and pistachios.

Each dude hawks his shit as if his shit didn’t stink in the slightest. You could walk through street upon narrow street of dudes selling nothing but bananas, but damn those dudes if they don’t INSIST that their bananas come from a better region of Columbia, or whatever. And it ain’t price that’s the issue; the prices are fairly consistent, which is to say they’re dirt cheap across the board.

But do they ever try. If one dude gives you a sample, the next will give you an entire banana. And if you dude shouts at the top of his lungs (Re: ALL of them shout) then the next dude stands on a table and shouts. Just like Alladin, folks.

And to say these markets are crowded is an understatement. I rarely bring my photo gear to the market, as I can rarely keep my balance otherwise. If I see something I dig, I swim to shore and hang onto the table for dear life. And that’s where the fun really begins.

Let me say this; the markets in Turkey are an entirely legit and trying experience. You tell them you want three tomatoes (Complete with three fingers) those motherfuckers pack away three kilos of tomatoes faster than you can scream “Infidel!” So then you gotta talk ‘em out of their original plan. And that’s just as tough, but if yer hangover ain’t too persistent, it’s a fun gig. Haggling is all part of the charm. One of my favourite markets features a dude with the sweetest hoodies West 49 wishes they could get their hands on. I finally gave in and tried to grab this brown piece of warmth. He wanted 30 lira. (A fair price, but I was feeling daring.) I started low, and offered 15. He scoffed at me, and was ready to move on. But I encouraged a little small talk, and after teaching him the word for brother’s son (Apparently his nephew lives in Toronto) I was able to get him down to 20 lira. But I wasn’t finished. “How about 15 lira for a nice yabanci?”

Oh man. Imagine the look on his face when he realized I knew just one word in Turkish; the word for “Strange foreigner.” He was sold. He was 15 lira richer of a likely stolen hoody and I was just a little warmer.

If any you make it out t’Turkey, bring yer coins and be prepared to eat for days. On the way home the other day, I stopped into a market after dark, knowing the crowds wouldn’t be as overbearing. I had plans of cooking an arrabiatta pasta. I snagged a dozen tomatoes, 2 potatoes, a head of lettuce and a few bananas for a little over 2 bucks Canadian. And I managed to snag a few photos too. Not much, but whatever. If I go back tomorrow, I could find some dude throwing socks at me from a table top, stolen Nike sneakers priced less than those socks, knives that would make Crocodile Dundee shiver and the kind of fruit that makes you want to go vegetarian all together.

But apparently my work’s nowhere near done. I just got word of a market 10 minutes down the road which sells the most righteous hash and dope on Thursdays. Apparently I’ve just got to look for the guy with the moustache.

Don’t laugh at me if I come back with a block of mushy coal and a dime bag of oregano. There’s just too many moustaches here.

No moustache, so no grass. But man was this guy proud of his pommes de terre.

Does that cabbage look fucking gigantic t'you? It should. I don't know what they feed their cabbages, but the one to the left is double the size of normal cabbage. That's how big the middle one is. I thought I saw enough goddamned cabbage in Poland.

The result.