The variety of life to be seen on the streets, squares, cafes and in the markets of Istanbul was quite astonishing. I hadn’t at that early stage in my life taken to people watching, but am inclined to the belief that my experiences in foreign lands during the early 1970s encouraged me to study others.

As life passed us by while sitting in the café in Grand Bazaar, I noticed an unfortunate who at some stage in his life must have suffered some terrible trauma. This chap appeared to be in perfect condition from what would normally be the waist up, but there was nothing below. The man’s body seemed to simply end just below the ribcage.

He was mobile, thanks to being placed on a square of wood fitted with a castor at each corner and two wooden blocks that he used like miniature ski poles. Whether he was in pain or not I’ve no idea, but he didn’t seem to be complaining at all. Hung around his neck was an old can that people dropped coins in. The guy wasn’t begging as such, just making his way through the bazaar and people were going up to him and just giving him the odd coin.

I was stunned. This was another new experience for me, having never seen anything like it before. Crippled people in the UK are taken care of and in my naivety I’d assumed this to be the case in other countries too. How stupid a young person I was.

Questions rose in my mind. How did this man manage? How did he exist? He obviously couldn’t fend for himself as able bodied men would. So many questions flooded into my head; questions I didn’t have the answers to and couldn’t even pretend to guess at in some cases. Seeing this chap was a life changing experience for me.

Leaving Alan in the café I made my way over. Not knowing quite what to do or say, I put the handful of change I had in my pocket into his collection tin. He looked up at me and smiled a toothless smile, his leathery features scrunching into a wrinkled mass. The smell, now I was up close, was intolerable and I felt the bile rise in my throat. To my utter disgrace, I turned quickly away and headed back to the safety of the café.

Fate I suppose, but every time I got ashore in Istanbul I saw this chap and every time I added coins to his tin. I promised myself that from now on I’d make a point of donating to charity on a regular basis.

However this poor soul managed in his life I have no idea, but when I next visited Istanbul some eighteen months later he was still polling his way along the streets so he obviously did manage. He looked completely unchanged; why shouldn’t he? I went over to give him change and to my utter surprise his face broke into a grin and he nodded animatedly at me. Not speaking any Turkish I’ve no idea what he said, but I like to think the recognition was mutual.

Sadly, I never saw him again and have often wondered how he was.