Roaming Turkey

Canakkale


After a day long bus journey I finally arrived at the Gallipoli peninsula, site of some of the heaviest fighting in World War I and of one of military history's most disastrous campaigns. Today the peninsula is littered with the graves of the fallen, memorials denominated by nationality and the colour of uniform. All around and under foot are the many more unmarked repositories of the forgotten dead. An excellent tour covered some of the more poignant places and facts, some of the names familiar from legend and song: Suvla Bay, shrapnel valley. The front lines were in many places separated by no more than the distance of a two-lane road. Grenades flung from one side sometimes changed hands and sides up to four times before finally detonating. A deadly game of pass the parcel.



I arrived at Canakkale a few days before the 92nd anniversary of the Gallipoli landings. A sombre time perhaps. Not at all. Millions of bright blue and posters hung around the town declaring that "Efes Beer welcomes you to the 92nd Anzac Day." A huge crowd of Ozzies and Kiwis - the mainstays of the Allied invasion force - were expected. This event has been growing year on year into a massive beer fest - a development warmly welcomed by Efes Beer. Ninety two years later and the locals are greeting their annual antipodean invaders with open arms. Stories abound of years when the town of Canakkale ran dry of beer. Less joyous apocraphies tell of drunken tourists urinating on graves and fighting in the dark streets of nite with local would-be-warriors. A tragic history does seem to have created a genuine bond however and the narrative most often proffered is one of shared tragedy. The area has a noticeable Australian emigre community and many of the Turks who speak English sound like they have stepped off the set of Home and Away.



I was feeling lucky to have got into, and to be leaving, Cannakkale a day or two before the arrival of the drunken hordes. After the tour i went for a beer with a pair of Ozzies who also preferred to get in and out before the twenty thousand seats being constructed for the memorial day were filled. One was an Australian soldier, holidaying from a modern day Gallipoli: Southern Iraq. Two weeks leave to visit Turkey with his sister. On patrol alongside the British troops in Southern Iraq he felt that things there were relatively peaceful. They patrolled without full armour and the response from the locals was overwhelmingly positive. He was not anxious about returning to his tour (of duty) but was looking forward to its end. Anyone anticipate Baghdad Beer welcoming them to the 92nd Coalition Day in Basra??



Satan's Altar



Pottering down the West coast of Turkey I came to a town called Bergamon. Here lie the ruins of the ancient Hellenic city of Pergamum. Interesting not in the least for being home to one of the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse. The Book of Revelations, written by St John, was addressed to the Seven Churches of Asia - of which Pegamum was one - and contains some of the most demented ramblings ever scribbled without the influence of acid. The venerable John lived to be over 95 years of age and in his later years it must be supposed that he succumbed to a senility dominated by thoughts of succubi and other perversions. And who could blame him? A touch of madness would be the least to be expected if you were first boiled in oil - to no obvious physical effect - and then banished by the Romans. One of the more interesting allegations is that the Red Basilica in Pregamum is the very seat of the Anti-Christ on Earth. The crumbling hulk of this once magnificent church remains intact and i went along for a little Satanic inspiration. The greatest evil i detected at the altar was the danger of the many pigeons nesting in the crevasses becoming more accurate with their frequent offerings from above.



Pammukale



Outside a small, rural Turkish village warm mineral water springs from the ground and runs down the steep slopes of the nearby hills. On reaching the air the minerals in the water calcify and cover the ground with a thick white crust that gives rise to a breathtaking, pristine landscape that looks as though a chunk has been cut out of the South pole and dropped randomly in the rolling green fields of the Turkish countryside. The spring water runs over the centuries-old accumulation of crust, in places carving in others calcifying, creating natural cascading pools of crystal blue liquid. Under the rising and setting sun the successive pools reflect all kinds of magical reds, yellows and pinks that generate a natural light show set against the arctic white backdrop.


Alongside the pools are the ruins of the ancient Roman spa-city of Hieropolis. Wealthy Romans, taking a deserved break from conquering the known world, would retire to this renowned health centre to bathe in the lustre-restoring natural baths formed by the calcification of the mineral water. Since those halcyon days the mineral crust has continued its formation and calcification, slowly chewing up parts of the crumbling ruins of Hieropolis. The isolated tombs of long forgotten togas now lie stranded in an ocean of blinding white. Buried forever in the crust of an illusory ice age.



Lake Egirdir



To get to my nest destination required a number of buses and bus changes. The buses in Turkey are generally excellent. Spanking new buses, great service, free snacks and endless tea. The best part of the journey is often the unfailingly friendly Turks you meet sitting next to you. Usually they will have little English, but this will not often restrain them from striking up conversation. Body language, sketches and goodwill form the bedrock of these interactions. And when time comes to disembark from the bus your new found friend will be at pains to help you out as you negotiate the transfers or trips to your hotel. Oftentimes on getting off the bus i have been surrounded by passengers all eager to help out the "tourist". At times however the too many cooks approach doesn't help. As on this occasion when three of my accompanying passengers successively approach the driver of my connecting bus, related my story and insisted that he look after me. The driver seemed to be more than pissed off to be instructed by three busy bodies on how to do his job.



On alighting from the second bus i discovered that i had missed the last bus to Lake Egirdir. No major problem i thought, hitch up at this one-pony town, then move on the next day. This was completely unacceptable to one of my fellow passengers, who bought me tea and instructed me to stay put until he returned. Shortly after he arrived up with a bus driver in tow. The driver was about to finish his shift and return home to Lake Egirdir - my destination - and was put under strict instructions to take me along. Gratefully i offered minor financial recompense. Instead of accepting he sat me back down and bought me more tea. Soon we were leaving the bus carpark in his Nissan Micra, one of his friends in the front passenger seat. A few streets along the friend pulled a six pack and twenty fags from his bag. I delcined the offer of smoke and booze. On the forty minute drive to the Lake the dude got through two cans, checking each one out of the window with mechanical casualness. In this part of the world everything outside of the car window is a de facto garbage can. Even on a drive such as this, through snow capped mountains to a pristine lake set in a majestic landscape. I thought to myself, they do this drive everyday, is this dude contributing 500 beer cans every year to the pollution of this beauty. Too depressing to linger on.

A restful week was spent at the Lake hiking, cycling, reading and gorging on lake bass. I met a few other wayfarers, most interestingly a Nordic couple on two weeks holidays from Darfur. Both were on the ground with NGOs. Their tales were amusing. Living in an armoured compound with minimal security, they are well equipped with vehicles and provisions but are unarmed - they're greatest protection being their pale skin and NGO status. However even their vehicles are of little use. As soon as they are taken outside the compound the militias stop them and steal the vehicles. The Janjaweed want anything they can load heavy weapons onto the back of. So a car park full of SUVs lies untouched and instead they venture out in Micras; these are too small to install a heavy machine gun on the back.

Sometimes in the evenings the Janjaweed militias come to the town to loot and terrorise, to display their untrammelled power. The NGO staff lock themselves into their compounds and listen to the militias shooting into the air and driving at speed around town. The walls and doors of the compound are heavily re-enforced to protect them from errant (or intended) bullets and shells. The design team forgot one thing though - the roof. On one evening of excess the JJ were firing all evening into the sky. And in a supreme example of the rule of what goes up, some of the bullets started returning to earth through the roof of the compound. So they hastily retreated to the basement and spent the evening under upturned metal baths. And yet they volunteer and are not afraid to go back. Respect.

Antlaya to Antakya and Irksome Bus Attendants

After the serene beauty of Egirdir i bused it to the South coast resort of Antalya. The South and West coasts of Turkey are littered with resorts where Western European, and increasingly Russian, tourists come to strip down and party. By day the beaches are full of blonde-haired red lobsters in bikinis. In the evenings the cavernous bars pump out thunderous dance beats while men in vests, gold chains and dark sunglasses prance and preen. These pits of debauchery sit incongruously with the sleepy, traditional villages lying only a few tens of kilometres further inland. Here Muslim values prevail. The main economic staple is agriculture and days spent under the sun more likely involve planting and harvesting than tequila and rum.

Antalya was not my scene. And with time running out for me to get to Syria i resolved for a long sprint across Turkey's Southern belly. A sixteen hour over nite bus journey to Antakya - biblical Antioch. Once on the bus i stuck in the earphones to soothe away the Turkish movie being played overhead. I ate my snacks and drank my tea and drifted to sleep. All along the journey the bus would stop to drop and pick up passengers. A pee-break every three to four hours. Midway through the journey the service attendant on the bus woke me at a stop saying "Antakya, Antakya." I checked my watch, i couldn't possibly be in Antakya. Puzzled i watched people alight and embark. Then we were away again. Thirty minutes later, the same. Antakya, Antakya. Unless i was very misinformed we were a good seven hours shy of Antkaya. Again people came, people went, i returned to a disjointed sleep. The third time around i got the joke. The attendant was amusing himself and his audience of passengers by continually waking the tourist. Haw de haw, hilarious. I laughed the conspiratorial guffaw, acknowledging his comic genius and slipped back to sleep.

The next time i was sure to be clear that i was in no way confused, now he was just waking me up for the sake of it. I considered how much i had paid in anticipation of getting a nite's sleep on the overnite bus, and when he did it again i gave him a frosty reception. By now the idiot was enjoying his power and continued with quips in Turkish to the nearby passengers. At the next stop i went to use the loo. There was a queue of other passengers ahead of me. Emerging last from the loo the attendant was there. He pulled my arm and shouted "Hurry, hurry tourist." By now in my state of punctured sleep i had enough. I told him so in English, and he feigned a lack of understanding. So i pointed at the ID badge swinging around his neck, and mimed a telephone call to let him in no doubt what my intentions were when i next got the opportunity. In horror he tried to hide the ID badge but it was too late. Now i thought wearily to myself, battle lines have been drawn for the remaining six hours of our trip.

On the bus i fell back to sleep. Unsurprisingly i was not awoken again before arrival in Antakya. Here the attendant wanted to know about my connecting bus, how he could help. I didn't want his help. It was only when he grabbed both my bags from me and insisted on carrying them that i realised how fearful he had grown for his job. The new-found obsequiousness was comic in its extent, the turn-around so severe. I felt a little harsh, but then my actions had not been unjustified. But i made no complaint to the bus company office. Clearly the job of bus attendant in Turkey is not one to let slip lightly from your grasp.

Antakya

I spent a couple of days in Antakya, just North of the Syrian border. This part of modern-day Turkey was considered by the Ottomans to be part of Syria and is still claimed by the neighbours to the South. The culture is more Arab than Turk, the landscape more dusty and arid than the great Anatolian plain. It was here, in Antioch, that St Paul created the first Christian church. I paid it a visit. The church is located in a small cave half-way up a nearby mountain. The slopes riddled with natural caves and dark tunnels criss-crossing from one side of the mountain range to the other. The caves are interconnected and it is for this reason St Paul picked this as the location of his first church. Suppressed by the Romans, he and his small community were at all times in great danger. Inside the church, behind the altar lies a small tunnel, big enough to crawl through into the heart of the mountain and coming out God-knows-where. I crawled a little way into the dark, following in the footsteps of a Saint.

After exploring the mountain and some of the caves i went to lunch in a fast food restaurant marked by its golden arches and named MyDonose. After this i boarded the bus to Syria.