Belching Out the Devil (13 page)

L
eaving, under the cloud of this calculation, is an unsettling affair. ‘This is a little thank you.' I say handing Luis Eduardo a bottle of single malt whisky.

‘This is for you' says Esmeralda, handing me a rolling pin and an
arepa
mould, ‘But you must promise to make them when you get home.'

‘Thanks, that is really kind of you and thank you for putting up with me,' I say.

‘These are for you,' says Luis Eduardo, handing over a bundle of photocopied death threats. Not a traditional parting by any means, but I don't think he had time to get me a presentation tin of regional quality biscuits.

E
veryone is a mere six phone calls away, so says the theory of six degrees of separation. It works like this: you can contact anyone in the world merely by phoning someone you think might be able to help track down your target and creating a chain of contacts until you reach your goal. Admittedly, anyone who has used NHS Direct at a weekend would beg to differ. But, for example, if I wanted to reach Vladimir Putin I would try and find someone who in turn knew someone else in the Russian Embassy and go from there. Admittedly, in Putin's case you would only have to make a couple of calls before he came looking for you, probably with a plate of sushi with a half-life of a few million years, but you get the point.

 

In practice though, this is far from foolproof. One unforeseen consequence of attempting to utilise the ‘six degrees' theory is that once you start the ball rolling, people come back with all sorts of unrequested information. You might start out looking to track down Eddie Murphy and end up getting through to Aleister Crowley's cousin.

 

And so it was that I had set out for Istanbul with the intention of talking with ex-Coca-Cola workers sacked for joining a trade union, and ended up nattering to a host of other, unexpected folk, including the man who wrote a history of Coca-Cola in Turkey. Someone I knew knew someone, who knew someone, who thought it might be interesting for me to meet with a Coca-Cola obsessive. Partly out of curiosity but mainly out of a desire not to appear rude I said, ‘Sounds great.'

 

Which is why I am sitting in a patisserie just off Taksim Square fighting to keep a polite smile from turning into jowl cramp. The writer opposite me is slouching across the table. In fact everything about him slouches, his sixteen-stone frame
slouches in the chair, his black driving jacket slouches, his shoulders slouch, even his thick-rimmed glasses slouch on his nose. He doesn't so much sit at the table as nearly melt over it. If I were him I would be worried in case the Buddhists are right and in the next life he comes back as an ice-cream.

 

He's a knackered guy in his mid-forties but has the glint of a young believer in his eyes. The front half of his head is bald and the back full of black curls, flecked with the odd grey. These same colours are sported by his stubble, making his chin look like a badger recovering from chemo.

 

Our man here has written a history of Coca-Cola in Turkey. Naturally he orders a bottle of the stuff, while I opt for the traditional Turkish apple tea. He slugs, I sip and I feel the better man for it. His book has not been officially ‘authorised' but is currently ‘with Atlanta' awaiting a decision. There have been a few hoops to jump through too as, according to our fellow, the company doesn't like any mention of their cocaine history - of all the C words to take offence at, it seems that ‘Cocaine' tops the Company's list. I imagine it must be quite a task, writing a history of a product with Coca in its name and not actually mentioning cocaine. But our slumped fellow avoided this pitfall by reference to alkaloid compounds throughout the book to avoid the dreaded ‘cocaine' word and is hopeful that he will get it published.

 

On mentioning that I am researching communities and groups who have found themselves in conflict with the company, his reaction is livelier than his posture belies.

‘There is no story here,' he says in good English, ‘there is no story about Coca-Cola in Turkey.' Pausing to looks at me directly ‘The only story here…' he spreads his hands out across the table top, palms up, Jesus-style ‘…is of a miracle drink…'
his eyes widen in wonder ‘…the miracle of Coca-Cola. The drink that unites people across the world.'

 

I don't mention the Istanbul Coke deliverymen I've just met who would probably interpret ‘uniting people across the world' in a slightly different fashion, seeing as they were sacked for joining a union. For the time being I'm not uttering a single word, as I have an unnerving feeling that if he's interrupted he'll go back to the beginning and start all over again. Blinking, I focus on what he has to say. ‘I was involved in one of the bridge projects, it was partnered by a Japanese firm and at the end of it there was a party to celebrate.' He leans forward in the way that racists do when they are about to say something they know they shouldn't. ‘The Japanese…' he says on cue, ‘served up this food…' his face is full of disgust, ‘…that soup with seaweed, really disgusting, you can't drink it,' he informs me as if this is scientific fact. ‘Then these vegetables and rice, it smells disgusting, like vomit, you know what I mean.' He looks around and finding no disagreement, sneeringly spits out the word again, ‘Vomit. No one could eat this shit. But all of us…' his faces smiles at his conclusion ‘….we could all drink Coca-Cola.' And he toasts the sky with his bottle.

 

This fellow is a zealot, Coca-Cola to the core, you could cut him and he would spill fizzy brown blood, possibly with a slice of lemon. His feelings towards Coca-Cola are intense enough to border on love, although this kind of love is the type one normally associates with restraining orders. I find his obsession fascinating, indeed it is almost an asset as it gives him a certain gauche charm. I do not, however, have much like for him.

 

It's not his physical appearance at fault, because to be honest I am at best only five years behind him. Nor do I dislike him
because he idolises Coke so much; life is too short to hate someone over a fucking fizzy drink. Believing Coca-Cola to be the greatest thing in the world is neither a crime nor an affliction. I actually don't even mind pushing cake around a plate, while he tells me all about his collection of Coca-Cola memorabilia - a topic that is as endless as it is dull. Nor do I dislike him because his obsession has led to the suspension of any critical faculties he must have had. No, all of these things are kinks and quirks, the odd strand of DNA that defines who we are as people. No, I dislike him for the simple fact that he is a bigot.

‘Coca-Cola has brought only good to this country.' He explains that he and his wife visited the east. As the south-east is the Kurdish region I wince in anticipation. ‘We went into a shop and the grocer used disposable gloves to cut the cheese.' He holds his hands up in wonder and mimes putting on the gloves. ‘Those people have never been able to understand basic personal hygiene…' In this particular instance the subtext is more ‘text' than ‘sub' and the message is quite clear: ‘Kurds are filthy'. ‘And do you know who taught them about hygiene? Coca-Cola. I talked to the shopkeeper and he told me how Coca-Cola had taught him about hygiene in classes…Their hygiene was terrible, no one could do anything about it, not even the government could teach them. But do you know who taught these people? Coca-Cola taught those people.'

 

If I have interpreted this correctly Coca-Cola are great because they and only they have managed to teach the Kurds to wash their hands. It is fair to say that logic plays no great part in our man's analysis. He sees a world where Coca-Cola brings western values and civilisation to the heathen hordes, where the company are missionaries travelling the globe for converts. It is a cap-doffing vision of ‘our betters' doing their bit to improve us, one drink at a time.

I finish the Turkish apple tea, and as I get up to say good bye it dawns on me that our man here is one of those rare people whose Ralph Steadman portrait would actually look prettier than the subject.

 

Yet while sitting in judgement, like some south-London Solomon, I have been equally delusional. I have gently sipped the sweetness of my tea and appreciated its fine apple aroma. I have dangled my tea glass by its rim between my finger and thumb, gesticulating with it like a contemplative sophisticate. Yet it turns out this traditional Turkish apple tea is neither, tea, apple, nor indeed traditional; it is made of a bright pink powdered concoction, that was invented by a pharmaceutical company and marketed to tourists. Indeed, it is Turkish only in the sense that powdered milk is traditionally English. More than that, the tea has enough sugar in it to make my man boobs go up a cup size at the mere thought of it. In short this Turkish apple tea is about as natural as ketamine, as healthy as a sherbet dab and I would be shocked if real fruit has been anywhere near the production process.

 

And to cap it all, do you know how I found this out? The drummer from Turkey's entry in the 2008 Eurovision Song Contest told me! I have been tutored in cultural authenticity by a man who aspires to be liked by Terry Wogan. Oh the post-modernism of it all…

It came about because Jess the photographer was to ply her trade, photographing an interview with a Turkish rock band called Mor Ve Otesi. Unfortunately the journalist who was to do the interview dropped out at the last minute.

‘You should do it,' she said.

‘I don't know who they are.'

‘So? They'll tell you who they are.'

‘Why interview a band I know nothing about?'

‘Because they were going to perform at RocknCoke...'?.>

‘What?'

‘Big festival. The biggest in Istanbul, sponsored by Coca-Cola and they pulled out of it.'

‘Oh great. I can see the headline, “Obscure Rock Band Snub Sponsor Shock!”'

‘No the point is that…'

‘Or maybe “Coca-Cola hardly notice as Turkish band don't take their money sensation!”'

‘No, there is more to it than that.'

 

And then she told me that the group who turned down Coca-Cola's gig were none other than Turkey's entry for the 2008 Eurovision Song Contest. The Cliff Richard of Istanbul, the Turkish Brotherhood of Man, the Katrina and the Waves of the Orient turned down Coca-Cola's moolah…And that extra sequin, well that puts a whole different set of goggles on the story for me.