Big Island: jam on the island without cars

For: Ricardo Coarasa (text and photos)
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An idyllic island without cars in the Sea of ​​Marmara that, throughout history, it has been the refuge of princes who have come to fewer and millionaires with no more homeland than money. Prohibited to use any motorized means. Can only be traveled by carriage, bicycle or on foot. It sounded so good you had to get close. That's why we were at the pier that morning Pockets, in the Istanbul neighborhood of Beyoglu, waiting for the ferry to the Prince's Islands, nine was nine.

The price per ride is ridiculous., less than four Turkish lira (little more than a euro) with the Istanbul Card (a transport card that is topped up at tram and ferry stops) for an hour and a half crossing through the Lower Bosphorus first and then the Sea of ​​Marmara. The first stop is at Christian, already in asia, and the following ones on each of the four main islands (Kinaliada, Burgazada, Heybeliada and, finally, Big Island, the biggest).

Along the history, the island has been a refuge for impoverished princes and millionaires with no other homeland than money

Whenever I can I like to travel on deck. You often meet interesting people. This time, an incessant procession of hustlers parades through the stern: nightgown sellers, «simits» (bagels with sesame seeds), coffee, tea or ayran (a semi-grained salty yogurt) and charlatans who perform hasty exhibitions squeezing lemons or peeling melons (they were convincing, Well, I have in the kitchen a couple of those prodigious utensils that, course, I have never used).

The ship is packed with Turkish families and Western tourists. Beside us sits a young couple (she with a "niqab" through which brand sunglasses peek out) and in front of some newlyweds who do not stop photographing themselves from all possible angles. Chinese tourists deserve special mention, who make their way to the deck railing through thick and thin when they please and do not give up until they get the loot of the long-awaited photo. Although for this they have to spoil a few of the rest of the passage.
Big Island It's a peaceful-looking island, a blessed place dedicated to tourism.

On deck you often meet interesting people. This time, an incessant procession of hustlers parades through the stern

Next to the pier, one restaurant after another follows one another whose owners compete to convince visitors that they cook the best sea bass on the island.. I already came with my homework done. In Kabatas I had hit the thread with a guy who, In addition to providing me with all the information I requested about the schedules and prices of the boats, He introduced himself as the owner of the best restaurant in Büyükada.

petite and vivacious, He did not stop talking and gesturing while he enjoyed the benefits of his place and he scribbled on a card the directions to find it. Knowing that on the island the offers to tourists are multiplying, the owner of Ali Baba, “the oldest restaurant in Büyükada”, was ahead of its competitors by attracting customers in Kabatas. That alone was worth listening to..

In Kabatas I had hit the thread with a guy who introduced himself as the owner of the best restaurant in Büyükada

As soon as you set foot on the island, there it was at the foot of the pier. I greeted him and he returned to the charge, now without mincing words, warning me against the deceptions of the restaurants around. "don't listen to them, They are liars", he warned me. I was extremely lazy to run into dozens of guys like him trying to drag us to his restaurant to have the fortune to taste the best fish on the island., so -crossing my fingers so that the name of the place doesn't turn out to be foreboding- I booked on Alibaba for a couple of hours.

We wanted to tour Büyükada in a horse-drawn carriage, the main attraction of the island without cars. My interested friend showed me the way to the square where the phaetons waited.. I had thought, naive of me, in a cobbled corner with two or three carriages next to a fountain rocked by the relaxed insular routine. I could almost smell the bougainvillea and jasmine.

He had imagined a cobbled corner with two or three carriages next to a fountain rocked by the relaxed insular routine

But, as we got closer, an intense smell of excrement took me out of my mistake very soon. The small square was packed with dozens of carriages, ready the coachmen to pick up one client after another. There was not a free square meter. Three bins overflowing with fresh horse dung were huddled in one corner.. The smell of shit was unbearable.. In a second, the magic of Büyükada had succumbed to eschatology.

Fortunately, as it was low season, barely a dozen tourists preceded us in line, so very soon we were mounted on a couple of phaetons ready to tour the island without cars. The fee were 75 Turkish lira (about 25 EUR), regardless of the number of passengers (far from the 45 lire that, the owner of Alibaba had assured me, the tour cost). I didn't feel like arguing for ten euros.

The smell of shit was unbearable.. In a second, the magic of Büyükada had succumbed to eschatology

And so, one carriage after another, each drawn by a pair of horses, We trotted around the island between Armenian mansions, Jews and Ottomans camouflaged in the past. In one of those that mark the main avenue, Cankaya Street, lived between 1929 and 1939 Leon Trotsky. the coachman, en un alarde de entusiasmo por la historia de Büyükada, he doesn't even mention it, nor will it in a while when passing by the old Catholic cemetery.

The poor animals could barely bear their souls and the coachman, nonchalant, he spurred them on from time to time. I noticed that one had a sore on one of the hindquarters, suspiciously close to the area where he was whipped. We were going so slowly that several buggies overtook us uphill in the direction of the main hill of the island, breaking the discipline of the tourist caravan. You are right, traffic jams were possible on an island without cars.

One carriage after another, We trotted around the island between Armenian mansions, Jews and Ottomans camouflaged in the past

On the hill stands the old monastery of San Jorge, but the horses stop a little lower, in a wide roundabout surrounded by pine trees, tender, a recreation area and some restaurants, the Amusement Park Dirt Casino. We stopped five minutes, like the rest of the dozens of carriages scattered around the square, insufficient time to walk up to the monastery and enjoy an enviable panoramic view.

Dozens of phaetons are scattered around the place. I memorize our number, the 198, to locate it in case it moves from the site, as it will eventually happen without warning. I'm starting to regret not renting a bike. After all, comfort me, it is still true that it is an island without cars. But just start again, even that last alibi falls apart when we pass a delivery van and, a few meters ahead, a motorcycle overtakes us, I want to believe (i need to believe) how electric. Büyükada no ha sobrevivido a su eslogan, the one of an island without cars, already a mere claim for the tourist flock.

The latest alibi fades when we come across a delivery van and, a few meters ahead, a motorcycle overtakes us

The tour ends where it began, a stone's throw from the quays lined with seaside restaurants. The seagulls flutter a few meters, on the other side of the window, and now and then a hungry cat will peek out from under the table begging for a bonefish before the waiter kicks it away. In Büyükada it is better to be born a dog than a cat or a horse. At least the dogs melt in the sun, ruminating his reluctance, in any street without anyone bothering them.

The waiter brings us a sea bass and a sea bream on a tray, very beautiful both, that offers to cook for us. Message 2,7 kg. and they ask us 300 lyres (about one hundred euros). One is tired of buying sea bass and sea bream in the market and, although in this case they are freshly caught and we are on the front line of the Marmara, the price does not convince me.

In Büyükada it is better to be born a dog than a cat or a horse. At least the dogs melt in the sun

We eat only the sea bass, excellent, accompanied by some “mezes” (turkish snacks) washed down with some pilsen and white wine. The owner, as promised, invites us to desserts, finished off by a few shots of raki, el anisete local.

We finished eating just in time to get on the ferry, that leaves at half past five. the return journey, digestion in between, gives us an immense sunset in the Sea of ​​Marmara, when the fantasy of a car-free island has long since faded like the wake of our vapur.

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