Trip Through Turkey

Our trip along the entire north coast of the inland Sea of Marmara is marked by snapshot views. An old bridge, grey stone undulating like a long snake across the wide river mouth at an estuary, with roman arches tipped by the Muslim point, yellow flowers flourishing in the swampy terrain. Red poppies against a hill against a pale blue sky. A huge shrub sporting a mass of purple flowers in the midst of rocky ground. But first, we had to circumvent the outskirts of Istanbul. 

Upon every hill, initially, there are bumper-to-bumper flats and then, without warning, we round a curve and there is - nothing. Then just as we are beginning to settle down into the relief of finally evading the drag-net of Istanbul, we are amongst bumper-to-bumper flatland again. All the flats and apartment blocks are four-square and four sided and they do appear to relish their jutting balconies. As we finally, finally left the massive urban expansion that is Istanbul increasingly behind us, Fem became more and more intrigued by the fact that they always seem to build up rather than out. Even a tiny, isolated housing estate would be full of three-storied structures - but the base of each building would be only one room large. Maybe this was yet another example of “Turkish tricks” he wondered, whereby you pay according to the area of ground you cover, and so people build upwards not outwards. In the larger structures it appears that maybe a few families inhabit the same building since every ‘house’ has a chimney or two or three or four or five, of which some at least seemed to smoke. Also, most startling was the sight of huge hotels of skyscrapers in the middle of tilled farm land, which itself was wedged in-between masses of apartment blocks. But why the tilled land? And from every balcony, seemingly, hung a Turkish flag, and for those lacking flags, the balcony was adorned with a Turkish carpet or two. 

Marvellous spring weather accompanied us, so once past the horrible industrial sprawl that is modern-day Istanbul, it was red poppies in long wheat grass intermingled with a gorgeous variety of spring flowers - purples, whites and yellows - most of the way. In the cultivated areas, and sometimes even in the concrete barriers between the roads, a great favourite are full-blown roses, reminiscent of those seen upon the ceiling of the harem ladies reception room, in pinks and whites and reds. 

And now, with all due modesty and without undue boasting (ha!), I absolutely have to nominate myself for navigatress of the year, in direct competition to Louise and Michelle, nominated by Taki and Dean, respectively, for their various travels in Italy. Fem would call out a road to me. “Not on the map,” I’d say. (That’s what happens when you buy maps at exorbitant prices in a hurry in Istanbul the day you depart.) “Can you see the sea?” I’d ask. “Yes,” he’d reply. “Is it on your left?” “Yes”. “How far?” I’d ask. “Well, two metres to my left and 400 metres down.” “Good,” I’d reply. “You’re on the right track. Just keep it on your left, and we’ll be fine”. And that’s pretty much how we drove along the northern shore of the Marmara Sea. It’s so very, very simple when you know how!

A late lunch was had at a little restaurant by the sea where a dog made friends with us and chased after sticks in the sea, coming out to shake herself dry in our vicinity. Our salad consisted, literally, of our each receiving a quarter of a lettuce, a tomato cut into two and a quarter of an onion, deposited, without ceremony, on our plates. We laughed and laughed but fortunately the restaurant owner didn’t understand any English and I don’t think he’d have understood even if he had. We were especially pleased, later, that we’d finally stopped at this town since there wasn’t one for hours afterwards, but it just seemed like such a schlep to stop when the road kept beckoning us on. 

Having left the restaurant behind, the road got wilder and wilder. After an hour or so of going up and up and up and up a dirt track that’d be impassable in rain and muddy weather, and which got narrower and narrower all the while, we began to figure out that the Turkish idea of a ‘secondary road’ didn’t quite square with our concept of what this meant. Fem finally remarked after a very long silence in which we were gazing, half in wonder and half in fear, as this long road dwindled away to dirt track before our very eyes, “As I always say, the road less travelled is usually less travelled for a reason”. We were greatly comforted at that stage by the sudden reappearance of the sea, all blue and to our left, from where it had been hiding behind pine forests and mountains - even if it was very, very far beneath us at the time. 

Then, right up on the top of a series of ridges, we suddenly left the loads of pine forests, gorse and yellow broom, blue alpine-like flowers, flat, pink ones, nestling in the grass, with peony-like appearance, dog roses and mixed heather, behind us and found a little clearing of land - and there was a tiny little vineyard, with not even a fence around it. Fem found that fascinating, coming from a country in which land ownership is proclaimed by means of fences. All along this ridge we drove, through intermittent patches of cultivation, and then - twice in our journey we came across little villages in the middle of going from one place to another upon the map. They were neither marked by a signpost on the ground or a label on our (admittedly less than superior) map. At one village Fem found himself obliged to stop and take a photograph of a brand-new satellite dish attached to what looked like a century’s old grape vine which had become a veritable small tree. 

Wending our way down now, still heading west, we began descending in long loops in what amounted to a seven-hour car journey across 450 kms. At sea-level we were driven into a small road clinging between shale cliffs and the sea, with the road making a rather moth-eaten appearance in-between loads of little rivulets streaking across the road from the right and the sea itself eating into the road on the left. It was cold in the shadow of cliffs leaning one way and the layers of rock, out of which the cliffs are generated, leaning in precisely the other direction. Just as we came out into the sun again there was a little fishing town, all ramshackle stone houses with the male inhabitants thereof spilling out of what amounted to the pub, all hung about with red scarves with the crescent and star upon it, singing, swigging out of large bottles, tooting whistles and shouting. We assumed Turkey must have won something sporting. As the men straggled on, two little girls ran to the stone wall surrounding their stone house, and a young woman came out more slowly from another one and proceeded to lean over her wall, a deep scowl on her face as she slitted her eyes to see who was partaking in the festivities, and I think at least one of that merry band was maybe in some trouble. Just out of town we saw a hobbled horse which distressed us, and next, to our bemusement, we drove past a funny little scooter, towing a truck, to the back of which a horse was tied and was cantering placidly behind. 

And then we were in a more fertile zone and off the mountainous terrain entirely. “Corn, Wheat, Onions, Tomatoes - Locusts,” sang out Fem, as one hit the windscreen. Then the little series of towns again began, with concrete eagles a major feature of the balconies, and the predominant mode of transport became the little half-scooter, half-tractor type vehicles. They were most peculiar and looked like they should have come out of Communist Russia or China, except that these all worked. And then the fertile lands are to our left and to our right and you can see why Turkey is known as one of the bread baskets of Europe and all you can do is just look and look and look. 

We spent my birthday night in Eceabat, notable only for its proximity to the landing site of the mostly Australian and New Zealand Allied Forces at Anzac Cove, the place where the supposedly surprise invasion of Turkey began in WWI. However it happened - some blame an undocumented current - the ships did not make the harbour, but instead landed 2 kms or so up, at very unpromising and uncompromising series of steep little cliffs, only to find Ataturk’s regiment awaiting them there. So much for the elements of good logistical planning and surprise. But, in true bungling style, they pressed on - onwards and upwards, and close to 100 000 men lost their lives and nearly 500 000 were wounded over the next months in what were to become known as the battlefields of Gallipoli. We made our pilgrimage there mostly because every Australian man we have met here in Saudi, especially since they are all military men, has an ANZAC day T-shirt or two or three - it’s even a national holiday in Australia. They celebrate it every year in Saudi Arabia, with cookies or biscuits specially made for the occasion. 

For me, the most telling distinction between the Allied and Turkish sides was that the British commander made his residence on the far side of an island a good 45 minute ferry trip away from the battlefield, and which I couldn’t see from the mainland despite looking for it from where the guide-book told me I should. On the other hand, Ataturk commanded his army quite visibly from one of the peaks in the midst of the battle, despite suffering from malaria, and it was only his pocket watch which prevented his early demise from a piece of shrapnel entering his heart. As one of the directors of Fem’s company says, who was a military man and with whom I have grand discussions of battles long past said, “Poor leaders discuss strategy, great leaders do logistics,” and it is clear which was the logistician in this case. 

We got to Eceabat thankful that the sun sets so late, and put ourselves up at a very poor excuse for a back-packing hotel, which we had unfortunately paid for before we visited the “Vegemite Bar” which had recently transformed itself from back-packer’s tent-site into a real comfortable series of accommodations catering for a ranges of needs. Since it was my birthday I treated myself to a glass of red wine from the island we were to visit the next day, and our bar manager and host treated us, the only inhabitants of the bar, by feeding us little green plums called Erica’s, vegemite toast and giving us complimentary drinks. He also persuaded us that we could indeed ‘do’ Anzac, Troy and Bozcaada all in one day if we got up before-times, which, given the lumpiness of the pillows, turned out to be even less of a problem than we had thought. 

Next morning, early enough that the lumbering tour buses were still abed, we drove to Anzac Cove, and had the now National Park pretty much to ourselves. So were able to take our time in this now most peaceful of places, and spot the features sporting such very ‘Biggles’ names as “Plugge’s Plateau”, “Shrapnel Valley” or “Walker’s Ridge”, all which say a lot about the era as well as the youth of the troops. The cliffs look so steep but so little; it’s only when your heart sinks at the prospect of a hike to some of the graveyards indicated on the map that you suddenly realise the awesome brute force it took to capture some of these points, particularly given the trench warfare adopted during this period. I was affected much more than I thought I would be by the atmosphere of the place, and was caught out crying at the graveyards of all the young men. It all just seemed so immeasurably sad. Driving off, we saw a lovely big snake slithering all over the road, which sighting somehow cheered me up immensely. 

After grabbing a quick toasted salami and cheese breakfast from one of the cafes, we boarded the ferry that took us over to Canakkale, from whence we could proceed to Troy. I thought of my dad then, and how excited he always was - like a little boy - by anything like crossing a channel or boarding something big and powerful and technological and yes - despite the smell of wet paint and rust - there is something undeniably romantic about boarding a ferry and crossing from one point to another, at least the first time you undertake it, and well, the excitement held even for our second and third and fourth trips too. 

At Troy I was mostly struck by the seeing an example of what Homer had described as the “beautiful walls of Troy”, and by what that must have meant in that long-ago era. The site itself is tiny, comprised predominantly of what is left after the actual excavations themselves, which serve both as the first ‘modern’ archaeological excavation but also predominantly as a pre-eminent example of what not to do on such an expedition. The American who has left his name to posterity as the ‘discoverer’ of the site was essentially a very rich treasure-hunter who began by digging heedlessly and mercilessly through multiple layers of the city, thereby destroying the two bottom-most ones, though he did turn up a golden necklace and earrings with which he first adorned the throat of his lovely wife and which then went missing until the end of the Cold War at which stage they turned up somewhere in Russia. Having slaked his treasure thirst, however, he allowed other, less passionate types to remain and construct out of the remains a template for ‘how to go about an archaeological expedition’ (greatly aided, no doubt, by their having already experienced the ‘how not to’s’). 

The silliest bit about Troy was a big, stupid-looking wooden horse at the front into which you could climb and in front of which you could pose since apparently tourists had complained of not having enough places at Troy at which to take pictures (!!!) The mind boggles. 

From Troy we made our way through little roads towards the island of Bozcaada, boasting a large fort, nice restaurants, a relatively unspoilt farming way of life and small bed and breakfast places run by the locals. We were clearly in farm-land now, passing by farmers just lying down in the middle of their fields having a nap, their hands cushioning their heads at rest on the dark grey-brown soil, surrounded at its edges with dark green trees with black grey trunks. Throughout the small farming villages of this region, all the men can be found congregated around the local café, drinking coffee. But with this kind of agriculture, Fem says, all it seems you need is a farmer, a tractor and a wife - and in particular, a wife. The only people we ever did see actually planting or doing anything was a whole row of women. Through the small towns that we drove all the schoolgirls all over Turkey seemed to wear tartan skirts and black stockings, with white shirts and jerseys and they looked like they could have strolled out of the pages of an Angela Brazil novel of the 1920s. Grandma would have approved of their strong, straight, lovely legs. 

Fem and I are differentially generous, he can’t abide bargaining of any sort, and is perfectly content to let absolute charlatans waltz off with his hard-earned cash, citing the fact that they probably have children to feed - despite the fact that they are usually of the kind who’d snatch candy out of said baby’s mouth in my candid opinion. Needless to say, in such situations I undertake any bargaining and he gets despatched outside the shop to wait until I’m done. However, he gets really hardegat when it comes to institutions like banks and differential exchange rates and stuff like that, where I am a lot more complacent in that regard. All of which led to our very nearly “having a bad moment” at the town of Geyikli that was supposed to have a bank that took foreign cards but didn’t. It had closed down two week’s before, yet again, in contradiction to the Lonely Planet’s predictions. For a moment there, Fem became very stubborn indeed (an occurrence that is all the more frightening for its rareness) and actually proposed driving another hour to the next town, which meant we’d have to reconcile ourselves to catching the last ferry out to Bozcaada many, many hours later. However, I did manage to argue that I should be allowed to try my luck, so was able to negotiate a deal with the garage owner to exchange some of our US dollars for lira, out of which deal the garage owner did rather well, to the extent of offering to exchange as many dollars as we wanted with him! But at least we made it to Bozcaada in time for lunch. Fem did have the grace to very sweetly thank me, and I the grace to hold my tongue and we thereby averted our looming and sole crisis of the trip. 

Besides, Bozcaada was beautiful and who could remain cross even contemplating it from the other side? After a fish lunch during which we were visited by a large cat, and then another, and another, we drove ourselves right over the island, passing by the little Greek monastery vacated during the Cyprus crisis, and discovered, along with every other tourist who had come armed to the island with a Lonely Planet, that the road that wended itself all along one side of the island had in fact caved in. Despite this small set-back, we found ourselves a little private cove at which to dabble our feet in the very cold Aegean, overlooked by a big ship at rest. I had plans to swim, but they were soon shelved. The island of Bozcaada became wind-swept that late afternoon; a great bank of purple clouds took over the mainland, and there was lightning on the sea between the two. It was all rather thrilling, actually, though it put paid to our having a quiet and contemplative day of rest the next day.

We found ourselves an immaculate bed and breakfast, with a marvellous terrace view overlooking the town and the large fort, which unfortunately we couldn’t enjoy for breakfast the next morning since it was so full of wind and rain. Mine hosts consisted of a dear, bobbing little man and a wife with a clear obsession with regards to cleanliness, to the extent that, upon your arrival at their front door merely to enquire about accommodation, you are kindly requested to take off your shoes and are therewith furnished with slippers (they have the entire assortment of sizes) with which to pad around the very clean tiled floors for the rest of your stay. After the less than salubrious conditions of the hotel the evening before, the clean, starched, scratchy white linen and thick blankets - chosen I was sure since they can be boiled at high heat to ensure maximum germ repellence - were marvellous to snuggle under. The wind blew and rattled the windows whilst we were snug as bugs inside, and Fem, by now suffering from my head cold, was grateful for the hard mattress, soft pillows and warm bed. 

The next morning we were treated to a ‘traditional’ Turkish breakfast of boiled eggs, lots of fresh white bread, tea, honey, home-made jams, some sour feta-like cheese. After breakfast we wandered around the fort, awaiting the first ferry of the day, and bought ourselves a bag of the sour green plums, huge fresh plump red almost over-ripe strawberries and cherries from the local market, which constituted our lunch, mostly. Then we girded our loins for another long trip - this time into the interior, but with a very much less interesting landscape to travel through. 

Although Roman Pergamum which rises above modern day Bergama was really a bit out of our way, I had my heart set on a place founded by a eunuch (who was acting as ‘governor’, I guess, to one of Alexander the Great’s generals who then went and died leaving him with the treasure) and which gave the world both parchment and its name. The Egyptians, fearful that Eumenes would attract too many famous scholars from Alexandria, cut off the supply of papyrus to Pergamum. Undeterred by this setback, he asked his scholars to set to work on an alternative, and they came up with pergamem (parchment) made from animal hides. And the rest, as they so often say, is history. 

For Fem, of course, the real attraction was the Proper Roman ruins (as opposed to the improper variety of course). We arrived in Pergamum late in the afternoon, just in time to make a quick detour to the Asclepion, this medical site made prominent by Galen, considered possibly the greatest early physician, and who was born in Pergamum itself. Fem was pleased as punch to be able to proclaim, “At least I can say I stubbed toes with the Romans,” as he walked the large flagstones, and with great glee pointed out to me the drainage ditch which lay beneath and along the middle of the Bazaar street that headed straight, as Roman roads tend to do, into the Asclepion. “Now THIS is a Roman Road!” he said, triumphantly, having been very perturbed by all the little cobbled avenues we had driven along and over in our overland journey. “Hmm … they’re straight enough,” he’d mutter to himself, dodging chickens and cats sunning themselves and weaving the car in-between large dogs that found the roads by far the most superior place in which to sleep of a mid-day afternoon, “But where are the large flag-stones?” It was with immense satisfaction that he was finally able to pronounce that he had now finally walked upon a Real Roman Road. 

We wandered between army personnel tapping in pegs for tents, since the entire Asclepion is fenced off and surrounded by the Turkish army, so were told not to take photographs and hence left our camera behind, only to realise they meant - not of the camps! So are disappointed in not having a record of what was a real highlight for me. But since we South Africans are ‘mak diere’ I left the camera behind when we walked out of the car in quiet obedience to the “no camera” signs. In recompense, however, the lady at the front desk very gratifyingly decided we were students, and let us in at a major discount since the sun was getting ready to set on us anyway. 

We wandered around to the Temple of Telephorus, where the long grass grew and you could hear the few birds in the sky calling to each other. I loved the sub-structures of the rock and just being there made you feel like history was very present. On our way back, we walked along the underground tunnel towards the centre again. As we walked the route, down a few stairs then along a wide cool corridor, with little openings creating inlets of light into it, I could just imagine two valetudinarians of Roman past, hitching up their robes under their large tummies as they walked along the corridor, bitching and mumbling about why the new, ugly temple should have been built, and what was wrong with the old one anyway? “And what did they think building this underground tunnel - it’s not as if they felt a bit of weather could harm them, surely? You know, in their youth they’d have …” Then, as they were quietly grumbling away into the distance, you heard the one raise his voice, as he asked if the other had heard the latest on-dit with regard to the new Senator bribing the people for votes, and did you hear the latest about so-and-so’s wife?” Mumble, mumble, grumble, and then they went off in the direction of the library and we towards the exit. I’m sure, now that I think of them, that right now they’re sunning themselves on the seats of the Roman theatre, waiting for the performance to begin, still gossiping, still claiming to be sick, still lamenting living in this veritable back-water of the Roman Empire, still there. 

We spent the night at a wonderful old restored general’s house in the middle of the old section of town, after having had dinner at a traditional cuisine restaurant in town, where we chatted to two members of the British Foreign Service, which was delightful, particularly since Harriet is an unabashed fan of romance fiction. Again trying to dodge the tourist buses we got up as early as we could, and, after another lovely breakfast, drove to the top of the hill above Bergama and there it was - a rather miraculously restored Pergamum where a 10 000 seat theatre makes its steep way down the slope just beneath where the foundations underneath the Temple of Trajan end. In fact, we were walking along this wonderful corridor of arches that reached into the sky and where you felt that centurions could easily brush by you. And then, suddenly, I realised that the beautiful arches under which we were walking constituted the mere foundations, the vaulted substructures, of a Temple that would have soared above us into the sky, were it not that the very walls of marble had been stripped and used - for lime burning during mediaeval times. Although I had despaired at the fact that the stalagmites at Sterkfontein Cave had been sawn off to make white-wash, this seemed equally horrific. Fortunately the way to the top is steep, however, and there was enough bits left for the very clever Dutch team who set about work to restore it to a shadow of its former beauty. 

But in realising how gorgeous the arched but hidden foundations alone were, which were merely meant as back-fill into the mountain top, thereby extending it out for architectural purposes, I found myself caught in one of those amazing moments where you suddenly catch your breath in wonder and breathe out, “Now, I understand!” Why the Roman Empire lasted so long, how it could inspire so many over such a long period of time, why the British children’s authors concentrate so on that particular period of invasion, and how things that are both so inherently sound structurally as well as so incredibly aesthetically appealing just do actually endure (despite a mediaeval modification or two). 

Living in Saudi, we are very aware also of the Ottoman heritage, despite all Saudi non-efforts in that regard; most of the forts we have visited are in exceedingly poor repair. Recently, in a move that outraged many, they even knocked down a centuries-old Ottoman fort overlooking Mecca for no other reason than one of the princes wanted to build a shopping mall there. When Turkey formally protested, the Saudi government responded to the effect that the Turks dare not lecture to them, since they are neither Arab nor really Muslim. The Turks were not impressed. Needless to say, Turkish carpets do not sell well in Saudi either; the Ottoman-Saudi or Egyptian-Wahhabi war casts long shadows, and the Saudi national story holds that Saudi  has never been colonised, which is hard to reconcile with a long era of Ottoman domination of key strongholds.  

But both the Roman and Ottoman empires appear akin in so many ways; they both fully incorporated locals into ‘their’ ways, accommodating to a large extent other cuisines and cultures, and hence managed to manage vast geographic regions for such incredibly long periods of time, thereby bequeathing to us such richnesses of culture and history. Their inherently cosmopolitan natures are I think often overlooked in favour of militaristic reasons as a secret of their success. 

After our wanderings on the mountain-top we descended back into town and yes, I'm afraid to say, we bought ourselves a carpet or two or three or four or five (this time, small ones) from a young man in Bergama who is destined to do exceptionally well, but then again, he did say that he learnt from his father to look towards where he wants to be in the future and not just tomorrow. He offered us no haggling, just a very decent price and great service; he even wore square "German" glasses and spoke impeccable English, which figures, since he makes most of his profits from selling at Trade Fairs in Germany in particular. He proudly related to us the fact that he was the father of a 76 day old son, and I said to Fem, “Note that - not 80 days old, or even 11 weeks old or nearly three months old but - precisely and exactly, 76 days old.” Needless to say, the child was his first, and a boy (since the male owner of the pension in which we stayed, that morning, rather abruptly corrected the young American woman who was waxing exuberant as to how wonderful it was that Turkish men lavished such attention on their babies. “Only if it’s a boy” he said, which dampened her enthusiasm dramatically. “Oh,” she said, mortified and went silent on us, digesting this new and unpalatable piece of information.) Anyhow, upon reflection I am sure our Turkish carpet proprietor would have loved his girl child equally well, and it was an absolute pleasure doing business with him. He is clearly gearing his shop up to cater to the hordes of bus visitors for whom a quick stop is all their itinerary will allow. 

As we left, I took photos (since I knew mum would want them though the dreaded finger (mostly, it was mine) made its reappearance in the one of him and Fem) only to find the entire staff, young men and women alike, huddled on couches and crying - lamenting the departure of one of them for his 18 months compulsory military training. They said it was OK, I could take photos anyway - but they all look like shorn lambs, bereft of their shepherd, red-eyed and rather disconsolate. 

Our final night took us to a Thermal spa (at the town of Termal, naturally) where we had ourselves a 2 metre by 1 metre (or so) marble bath in the green waters from a "ferociously hot" mineral hot spring (mixed, naturally, with cold river water). The hotel and conference centre was full of large Turkish businessmen and their wives; the modern tourist clearly not the prime market for this rather old and worn-out facility; they hadn’t even changed the wine-stained table-cloths for breakfast the next morning. But it was only 10 minutes from the “quick ferry” which took only one hour from Yalova to Istanbul, and - I’d always wanted to bathe in the water from a hot mineral spring. They let us have a ‘family facility’ and Fem didn’t think he’d get me out the water before our hour was up, I just luxuriated in it so. Next day, after the ferry ride back to Istanbul, we flew back to Saudi Arabia, though Fem did very kindly undertake a brief, “suicidal mission” on my behalf through the centre of Istanbul, on a Friday, in order that I could spend another half-hour in the Yeni Cami. But fortunately all drivers fare well in comparison to Saudi ones, where, thanks to the gutra, they don’t even have peripheral vision so just drive on regardless. We did some last shopping around and then, tired but rejuvenated, got ready for the mugginess and heat of the Middle East in summer.