Istanbul in Ramadan.

There was a heightened buzz in the air as the sun dropped on my first afternoon in Istanbul. People marched with purpose, gripped by the energy of hunger, waiters supported large trays of mezze, and aromas from freshly cooked food lingered in the street as restaurateurs and cafe owners hovered around their entrances.

I had known my visit to Istanbul coincided with Ramadan, but I had not really appreciated how much that this Islamic holy month would colour the mood of the city and illustrate some of its paradoxes.

“Tourists, children, pregnant women and olden people not need to keep fast in Ramadan,” Mehmet, my local café owner told me. I was glad to hear it, being a fan of lazy slow breakfasts given the opportunity. The sunrise to sunset fast is the most superficially obvious observance that Muslims follow during Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar that commemorates the period the arch angel Gabriel revealed the Koran to the Prophet Mohammed.

The wider intention of the fast is that in abstaining from food and other sensual pleasures during daylight hours and being generally moderate during the period, Muslims can refocus their attention to Allah. Many people reaffirm their Muslim identities by making social events of the fast breaking; they attend mosques more and offer food or money to the poor. Wealthy people set up large tents round Istanbul in Ramadan to provide food for the poor.

Istanbul is, though, in many respects as cosmopolitan and modern a city as many Western European ones. During that first evening I began wondering whether how Istanbullus did or didn’t observe Ramadan might tell me something about Turkishness or at least Istanbulness.

Orhan Pamuk, an Istanbul resident all his life, describes Istanbullus in his memoir on the city as having Western minds but Eastern hearts. He suggests this has created a crisis of identity amongst some people; a not knowing whether to look right or left across the Bosphorus for their inspiration.

Later that evening, en route back from a travel stress relieving Turkish bath at the Cemberlitas hammam, a refreshing ancient secular institution I can recommend, I walked down to touristy Sultenhamet where the architecturally impressive Blue Mosque and the Haghia Sophia are situated. Having begun to wander if I might have found the city in an austere mood I was more than pleased to find a bit of a party going on.

An open air stage in the park by the mosque revealed a tuxedoed singer, his intonations accompanied by three perfectly spinning whirling dervishes in stunning white. This enjoyable popularized ancient/modern fusion had me transfixed for nearly an hour before I wandered on among corn on the cob munching families and groups of all ages until I reached the outer gardens of the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, the Blue Mosque.

Warning - those with a penchant for baubles and trinkets, take care here - neon Arabic calligraphy? Clockwork whirling dervishes? A flashing mosque? - walk on quick if this is you.

I made it past and found myself near one of the entrances to the mosque. It was so full inside that the surrounding gardens were also packed with hundreds of people bobbing up and down in graceful, synchronized prayer.

Back in the bar and communal area of the hostel, music videos were playing on a large screen, the gyrating bodies seeming somewhat out of synch with Islamic values. The young hostel workers twiddled on their laptops in the bar and travellers reclined with beers.

I was spontaneously given some delicious baklava and ice cream by one of the staff which typified the hospitality I generally experience in Istanbul. “We are keeping our Ramadan fast so we are allowed an extra treat at night," Ibrahim, tall and moustachioed behind the bar told me. Who was I to argue?

The following morning, on board the efficient, cheap and easy to use Bosphorus ferries, I felt my senses waking up to an enhanced sense of the city. The expansive views, the hills dotted with domes and minarets rising from the urban jumble, and the calls to prayer hanging and echoing above the water, held me in a sense of the exotic Orient.

Not being generally given to romanticism I was somewhat taken aback. Somehow this experience, away from the bustle and traffic, seemed to make sense of the city’s history and geography in a way that all the reading I had done could never do.

The busy ferries and terminals also provided an animated overview of Istanbul’s position as an Asian/European, genetic/cultural spaghetti junction. Wide flat faces, aquiline faces, freckly faces, big noses, small noses, black eyes, green eyes, black hair and red hair in any combination you like. Women’s clothing: tight jeans and flowing hair; flappy jeans, long shirt and tie dye headscarf with sunglasses on top; or, the full Islamic covering of the chador with only the upper face visible, told another story of the city.

Curious about the whirling dervishes I had booked myself in for a supposedly authentic performance, at the railway station of all places.The striking high ceilinged and stained glassed windowed room next door to the ticket office, though, more than explained the choice of venue. Banned by the newly sensitive secular government of the 1920s, the Dervishes endured as an underground movement before resurfacing again in recent decades, partly in response to tourism, but perhaps also because they represent a rich seam of Islam holding a place in the hearts of many people, as was testified by the large crowds at Sultenhamet for the popularized version.

After a very young Turkish boy had completed his impromptu unadvertised version of the whirling - I liked that he was allowed to do this without being pulled away by an annoyed or embarrassed adult - musicians started up and the Dervishes appeared enshrouded in black bat-like cloaks and sporting tall cylindrical hats, (symbolising tombstones – the death of the ego).

After ritualistic preliminaries, the black cloaks were removed to reveal single colour swishy outfits held round the waist by a broad belt. The spinning began slowly with the music waxing and waning in volume and intensity. The Dervishes’ arms were raised at angles, the right palm held up to heaven and the left palm downward to earth.

With one foot on the ground, the other effortlessly gave repeated deft pushes in an anti clockwise direction creating a mesmerizing grace and ease to the whirling. I felt I gained some appreciation of their meditative state of mind by watching at close quarters, but had to admit to myself, that as entertainment (which traditionally it isn’t) I had enjoyed the bastardised version at Sultenhamet more.

Last day, and after a delicious breakfast of olives, sliced tomato, feta cheese and bread, I set off walking. By the Galata Bridge a row of men with fishing rods were hauling out silvery fish wriggling for their lives in the bright sunlight, and a group of students munched kebabs from a nearby kiosk.

Having confirmed that he was “not really doing Ramadan” one of them with a pierced face and punky hair told me to take a walk in the western districts and go to Eyup for a different perspective on the city. Following his directions, I passed the impressive Bulgarian Orthodox Church of St. Stephen of the Bulgars, which symbolized to me another impenetrable layer of Istanbul’s historical and cultural complexity.

Gasping with the gradient as I climbed up through densely packed terraced housing and a small villagey shopping area I arrived at the Fatih Camii mosque, resting place of Mehmet the Conqueror, and one of the most sacred mosques in the city. Sunday has no significance in Islam, but as a secular day off, the Mosque and gardens were heaving with rows and rows of devotees.

Further meandering took me past impressive remains of the old Byzantine city walls that sheltered canoodling couples on one side and pigeon fanciers on the other along with an enormous unmanned pile of watermelons; I eventually arrived at Eyup.

The Eyup Sultan Mosque, dating back to 1459, was built on the warrior grave of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari, a companion of Prophet Muhammed who had died in battle. Shuffling past the Mosque and stalls selling Korans and other Islamic paraphernalia, I was squashed by pilgrims almost to being lifted up.

Although it was an easygoing enough atmosphere, the crowds sent me up a pine forested hill in search of air and space at the Pierre Loti cafe, named after the French writer and Turkophile.

Sipping tea in the airy pine shaded garden of the cafe amongst fasting refusniks, I was joined by a middle aged Turkish couple. Inci, sporting a blond bob and indulging in a bowl of ice cream, was clearly of the opinion that, culturally, this was a city of two halves. “Many of the practising Muslims are conservative immigrants from Anatolia; I find many of their ways unacceptable in this day and age. But I have fasted during some of Ramadan, it’s good for your health you know......”

Back near the hostel the light was disappearing and Mehmet was pacing at his door – “more stuffed peppers?.......”

Istanbul Information box
Turkish Airlines from London – from around £160. Some budget airlines also now go.
The cheapest from the UK is Pegasus.

Ramadan dates shift through the year, currently mid summer period

Accommodation I stayed at Cordial house – the cheapest hostel in Istanbul at about 10 Euros a night.

Public transport – excellent and easy to understand metro, tram and ferry systems.

Attractions – Sultenhamet at night, Whirling Dervishes, The Bosphorus, The Haghia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Pierre Loti Cafe and walking.

Cost of meals 1.50 L at a kiosk up to 30L plus

Visas – 1 month for £10 for UK citizens.