Day V- evening

…but we are readying to leave, for that very light is dying, and we wish to make it onto the streets before sundown…

So ended my last proper post, weeks ago; just as D and I had reached Fethiye, what is now months ago. We had dumped our bags into the comfortable looking Ferah Pension up at one end of the main town, past the marina and a up a little hill.

We set out toward this marina now; I find I still need to tell myself that I am sauntering past a bay in the Mediterranean littered with yachts much the way streets I have lived most of my life might be littered with bicycles or auto-rickshaws. It is an observation I will revel in pointing out, to myself, over the next couple of days.

Almost immediately, after a few places named ‘The Yacht Hotel’ or something similar, we curiously trundle down steps that take us from the road overlooking the marina onto the planked stretch itself. It is lined with luxurious yachts; walkways lead to more of them- posh in all their Hollywood-fuelled (in our minds) desirability. It doesn’t particularly feel like we are in turkey anymore, if that could make sense. It feels like we are more in a getaway for the rich- maybe the south of France, or the Italian coast, or the Med- but wait, this is the Mediterranean. Soon we realise our walk is a pleasure we are not allowed. This dawns on us when a guard tell us we cannot go on to the walkways leading off. Of course, we know that- “yacht owners only” only gleaming steel plates is quite clear. As it turns out, we are not allowed on the main stretch we have just finished strolling across either- but we have finished after all, so we continue to the more ‘normal’ area.

Fethiye is slowly being bathed in the gentle light that an evening sun brings, gradually yet quickly moving to disappear behind the hills on one side of the bay. These distant, nameless hills are and odd mix of gold and pink, and we find ourselves on a broad gangway pretty much in the middle of the marina. It is more empty that it suggests it should, and it is flanked by local boats rented out to tourists. At its end towers a large green boat that we peer curiously into. It’s open central area, much like a dining room and the rich coloured wood all around, are alien to our eyes. We climb a step or two to look into it, and resist getting right on. But we do sit there awhile- a gaudy green boat here, towering Turkish flags there, glimmering water ahead.

We pass by the statue of Fethi bey, a local hero tragically killed while flying, early in the 20th century. Its in a tiny park by the promenade (if that’s what one is to call it), in the midst of boat-operator booths and stalls selling postcards, handsome stray dogs and cafes invitingly offering a beer, all in Pounds Sterling.


As we sit on a bench at nearly the other end of the marina now, a family returns from a day at sea, and in it. Their diving gear drips with water, their fair but tanned skin looking completely at home in this haven for British tourists. We wait awhile for the orb to disappear behind the hills, then walk away, heading into the streets of Fethiye town.

Day V- arrival

Under clear skies and by windswept fields, gentle welcoming hills offering fleeting glimpses of blue between them, we come to the otogar at Fethiye- its size commensurate with the small-but-not-tiny-town feel that we get.

Tuna had told us to take the shuttle from the otogar, and ask to be taken to Ferah Pension. We wouldn’t have to pay. Um, ok then. Tuna is the owner of said place of residence, whom we spoke to communicated with in very basic English, before leaving this morning. The bus services seem to run these free shuttles (the same bus service that one came here by), and a half dozen of us pile into the mini van, a little befuddled.
There’s a surly bald English chap who has seemed generally unimpressed with life since we stopped and chatted for a smoke earlier in the day. He must find a place that will let him see the Champions League matches later that night and the next. There’s an old couple, older than our parents would be, and a young one who are surely not married. There’s an Australian girl as well, quiet and distant as hell. It is but a few minutes before we are passing by the marina, glimpsing yachts and water; but we’re more concerned about being taken to our pansiyon.

Ferah Pension is the cutest place as yet. Wait, let me be less lazy and more real. It is the only place that shows character, that immediately says something about itself. And Ferah immediately says that it is warm and weird. Everything about it is quirky, odd and smile-inducing. The dog that looks like he can’t decide whether to growl, bite or greet, so he simply looks away. The numerous plants hanging in the dining area that almost makes you think that it is not open-air. The many, many plants hanging in the dining area that are welcoming in their green-over the-lovely-wood table way. The cluttered bar/food counter at one end that seems like it is well-stocked, and a bachelor’s. The tiny sofa, the different types of upholstery and curtains and drapes and throws and meaningless fabrics. The little door that shows us the mess that is the home of Tuna and Monica…
Our room isn’t too bad either. There is something about it that is more inviting than the previous two, but I can’t be sure what. The walls are a white that is both clean, and Mediterranean. The wood on the bed, drawers and shelf is cheerily brown and fresh. There are two windows- the mess of green and bits of asbestos visible from it notwithstanding- and windows with light are always a good thing.

But we are readying to leave, for that very light is dying, and we wish to make it onto the streets before sundown.

Day IV- on the road

The roads are wide, clean and level. There are vast fields with thin trees leaning by the side of the road; hills and valleys seemingly made only of an odd combination of rock and vegetation; towns that seem smaller than they are, with neat one or two-storey houses and a generally quiet feel.


We are travelling through the day today, about 300km. From Selcuk to a short stop at Aydin to change buses, then out of the Aegean region via Mugla and so to Fethiye- a yacht-port and on the beaten path tourist town on the Mediterranean. The nearly 6-hour bus journey through the day seems like a bit of a waste at first, as precious daytime will whiz by. But the ride itself is pleasant- relaxing, even; the ‘on the road’ feel making us happily aware, again, that we are travelling.

The 10minute stop at Mugla is not enough to order lunch, but just about enough to pick up a sandwich and a half each, and start to chomp standing on the vast expanse that is the Otogar. It feels like you are at a very high place, where rolling mists and peaks in the distance would not be amiss. There are none of these, of course, but it is cold, breezy and interesting, in a very mundane sort of way, to stand there a while.

-a deserted ferris wheel we spotted behind the otogar-

And so we go on, with short naps, photos, conversations and sachet-coffee, to our last destination- one we know the least about, know the least of what to expect from. Except, given we are reaching the coast, we can only wish for a bright southern sun.

Day IV- decision making

At some point we realise that 2 days in Selcuk is one day too many. There’s Ephesus, and then there’s nothing much else in Selcuk proper. So that’s why people use it as a base to see things around, as far as 3-4 hours away. One of these is Pamukkale. White, strange, famous, much talked of and postcards-everywhere Pamukkale, with its white rocks and spa like calcium-laden natural waters used to heal the body since the Greeks figured it out. That’s what we will do, we decide.

Till we figure the costs. It is about Euro100 for the two of us for the whole day-trip, and thats way too expensive. An extended period of deliberation happens, where fundamental philosophies clash with pocket practicalities. We are never (never say never, but still, this is pretty much never) going to be in Selcuk again, a few hours from the place that heralds ‘tourism’ in Turkey in most any brochures you’d care to glance at. Money comes, money goes. Travel now, save later. Borrow now, travel now, repay later. What's a little more debt compared to seeing a unique part of the world you are so close to? The clichés are endless. The bank account is not. I must wrench my heart away from Pamukkale, while D is more ok with the whole thing.
“Sorry, ___, we won’t be taking your tour”
“We also won’t buy our tickets to Fethiye from you, because you’re charging us 4-5 liras as commission for two tickets that we can walk out of your hotel and across the empty and cold area outside and buy from the bus company”
“We are also a wee bit disappointed by your place, so we will not give you the India cushion covers we got as possible gifts”
“We are returning to our room to prepare our devious bottle of coke and go buy our tickets”

Tessekur ederim, anyway.

Day IV- a long walk

Lunch was enough to set us off, and since we could not see any mini-buses or anything else to take us back, we started walking toward the highway, deciding to take in the remnants of some ruins that fell outside the site area, and then see the Grotto of the Seven Sleepers before heading back to town. As it turned out, the remnants struggled to be even that, and were at a distance from the road, and barricaded. We marched on, insistently making our way around the hill toward the Grotto, though we hardly even knew what it was. After walking for more than a while, and past several bends in the road that we resolved would be our last, we finally stopped. There was the odd taxi going past us, so surely there must have been something to see somewhere up ahead, but we’d be damned if we were going to keep walking indefinitely, with no end in sight nor idea of what it was we were going towards.
So it was like this. We had walked right by the hill, and were parallel to the highway that went back to Selcuk, except the prospect of walking back all the way to the turn in the road and then going toward the highway was not a particularly enticing one. So in some sense of misguided- and frankly, minimal- adventure, we decided to walk across the field that separated our road and the Highway. Since there was an inviting path (above) just where we had stopped, it seemed to make complete sense. We walked on it, past orange trees and bushes, with grey clouds and silence accompanying us. After a few minutes, we passed a little outhouse. Tied to poles there were a handful of dogs. Angry, wild-looking inhospitable dogs that bared their fangs and barked and pulled at their chains to get a go at us. We quickened our step-though at first D was quite enamoured by them. “One gets free, D” I said, “and we’ve had it”. To date, she insists I over reacted. I insist I had vivid images of dogs canines sinking into vulnerable parts of my body, and merely reacted accordingly.
After that, we cut through bushes and bramble and reached the main road, and walked on the nicely laid-out avenue named for Dr Sabri Yayla (who thought laying out the tress lining it many years ago), stopping along the way to see the pathetic and depressing remains of one of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World- The Artemis Temple, that has but a pillar to show for its original 128, and finally reaching dull ol' Selcuk town where- horror of horrors!-a decision awaited us.

turkey trip musings

But the trip was not only about lunches, dinners and tourist Sight 1,2,3 (or ‘locations’, as we could not help calling them). It is a satisfying but easy thing to fall into- a chronological blow by blow account. But there are other things one thinks about, looks back on, and will write about. Probably after the ‘days’ are over... or maybe in between.

I suppose this is just to say one fully intends to, and will, write on whatever comes to one’s mind- which may or may not always fit in with the day by day accounts.

Day IV- lunch

Lunch was not particularly significant except it was the only reason we left the site at Ephesus. If we could have eaten something, anything within the site itself, we would have, and remained at the Grand Theatre till sundown. But our stomach grumbled, and rumbled, and we walked out eventually just past 3pm, and past this absurd sign.
Across from which we settled down and hungrily ate gozleme, which we had not tried before. They were moderately satisfying but nothing spectacular. Thin and crepe like-and stuffed with meat or cheese- they were drier version of kathi rolls back in India, except there was no tangy green chutney with them, only ketchup and mayonnaise.

Day IV- the Grand Theatre

What was, without any doubt at all, the most moving time of our day at Ephesus, was the time we spent toward the end. Some tourists/groups enter from the side we exited, and so come upon the great construction pretty much as the first thing in Ephesus. Maybe that leaves them sufficiently awestruck for the rest of the tour, or maybe it renders everything that follows less impressive, or both. We entered from the north end, and so, through statues and pillars and temples and inscriptions and stunning restorations, came to the very end.
The Grand Theatre took us like a sandstorm would a desert nomad. It entered our view, then our thought and made its way inevitably but movingly, to our emotions. It might just be rock and rock, but in it lies the ambitious grandeur of people who did not know the M of machines, but for whom the S of spectacular was all too frequent. In it lies the capacity to hold 25,000 people who could behold a spectacle and hear people talk far below with no electronics. In it lies the wonder of today, at the amazement of the past. In it lies the ability, at the very least, to make two people want to sit there for the longest time and just look at it.

(there's D!)

And then , weeks later still say very little but smile inwardly when they see photographs of themselves at it.

Day IV- Efes

We’re in a small run-down red car that serves as the shuttle from Jimmy’s Place. It’s a free shuttle, and it’s a shuttle to go to the one place that justifies the existence of Selcuk town on the tourist map.

Ephesus.
The site for Roman ruins is one of the largest in the world. And why not- Ephesus, or Efes, has been around since around 5-600BC, seeing people and civilisations come and go.
Its cold here as well. Not as cold as Istanbul, but not as sunny as our last day there either. We make our way past the YTL15 tickets booth and milling guided groups, into the site. On our left is an imposing but inviting hill, one of many that from one side of this ancient city. Ahead us the land stretches out for a bit before disappearing behind the curve of the smaller hill on the right. There is enough about the history of Ephesus that can be read, the stories behind the ruins, the imagination they provoke.
But what is ours entirely to absorb is the place, and being there by ourselves. Don’t mistake me, for all of the 5-and a bit hours we spend there, we are surrounded by tourists. Mostly large groups, being herded by guides who any or all of loud, interesting, showy and hurried. We are on our own pace, though- innumerable groups start after us, pass us by and disappear towards the other end, while we linger here and there, explore some rocks and sit on others, take photographs or just stand around, trying to take it all in. That the sun comes out soon after we enter and stays with us for the day is a blessing we are truly grateful for- suddenly everything looks richer.

I am surprised at how I have little to say about Ephesus now. Unless you are a history buff, you are not going to see it from an entirely historical perspective. Most likely you will enjoy the walk; be awed by the incomprehensible age of the things around you, by unfathomable and countless stories hidden in writings and rocks alike, by beautiful and imposing structures, by the desire to build them- of a kind that will never come back.

One has done no justice to this with words, so maybe you could go check out the photos, they might do a tad better.

Day IV- arrival

D does not sleep too well, but thanks to her shoulder and lap I don’t do too badly. We wake to faint morning light and a bus that has stopped for coffee and breakfast. It is just past 7am, and we try to call Jimmy’s Place again. This is where we are to stay, and we have not gotten through to them since Istanbul. Now we get through, but we might as well have not- the chap at the other end has absolutely no idea what we are saying. We get the café owner to help us, but he is not too good with English himself, so it’s a bit of a disaster. We shrug our shoulders and get back into the bus. Instead of 30-45 minutes, we arrive in just about 15 minutes. The bus is going to carry on, so we are the only two to alight on a deserted strip of road in the blandness that is Selcuk town.

Moahammed spots us and asks us if we have a place to stay. Then, he is trying to sell us the very place we are already booked in! So soon, after a walk of under 5 minutes we have made our way through the deserted otogar, the deserted marketplace behind it to a relatively quiet and dead hotel- this is Jimmy’s Place. The chap at the reception nods- this is who he just incomprehensibly spoke to a while ago. Soon we are in our room, hurrying to bathe and get ready so we can catch breakfast before the free shuttle which leaves about 9.30.

Day III- 5,4...3 degrees?

One tram ride, quite a bit of walking and a metro ride later, we are at The Otogar, which is as sprawling as it supposed to be. There are over 100 offices here, companies running buses to pretty much anywhere in Turkey, and to parts of Europe. It would be great, wouldn’t it, to buy a ticket for Prague or Greece or something from here? I suppose so, but at the moment we are clutching our jackets and making our way to the large and brightly lit office of the Metro company, where- yet again- almost no English at all leaves both of us fairly unsure as to what to do with our bags. Finally I check them in, smiling back at the man who asks and is pleased to hear “India”. That’s great buddy, but what’s happening to my bags? Nothing, it would seem. They lie right there and we are asked to move on.
Dinner is at a totally random lokantasi across from the main Otogar, and consists of bread, mixed vegetables and meatballs with lots of Oil. In fact, it is the oil fest season, we are told, and this place is not a lokantasi but an oilkantasi.
Or something.
The bus is pretty comfortable, and are served coffee and cake(!)- believe me, that is something unheard of in India. It is cold outside, and I love that. D doesn’t so much, so she stays in when we make a stop on the Asian side of Istanbul. I get off, with a dozen others who are reaching for their cigarette packs, and the biting cold hits me hard. When we return we are to learn that this day was probably the coldest of our stay- about 9-10 degrees in Istanbul.

Some fitful dozing later, we wake to realise we have stopped. The bus is not moving, but we are. Lo and behold, we are on a ferry! We had no idea this was part of the journey, so the novelty of it is interesting, as is the hot cup of cay we share above on the deck. Outside the sitting area, it is much, much colder. We somehow brave a photograph where we both look as if it is our very brains that are freezing, then D goes back inside while I, inexplicably, stay outside to click photos of water below us, rushing by in the darkness. There is a biting wind and my sweatshirt and jacket combination is woefully inadequate, but there is something about it that I am enjoying. I go back just as my digits threaten to fall off.

Day III- cheers!

We stumbled along, groping with the LP map around what was unequivocally Backpacker Central.

From the Spice Bazaar we had walked to Eminonu to catch the tram, entered it on the wrong side of the tracks and had an official tell us to jump them to the other side, and finally were back in Sultanahmet. This is ‘our’ area, but we’re staying a little away from this hub of pensions, hels, hotels, travel agencies, even The Four Seasons. Yet none of this seems at all like a market or like the complete and noisy chaos it should be. Maybe that’s cause it is only about 6.30pm- most people will still be out taking in the sights, not trudging back to their rooms or bars. Yet. We eventually locate Cheers!, right next to The Backpacker Bar, and go into the former solely because it is called a big favourite with backpackers in the LP. In the event, it doesn’t really matter- it is too early for either to have any people. Cheers! has one guy who probably runs the place, and another who looks like he is 16 and straight from a German punk-heavy-metal club. Shockingly, there is death metal blaring.
Of course that changes soon enough, as we sigh into our chairs on the tiny first floor which we have all to ourselves. It must be quite a place when it is full (which it might be in a couple of hours), but we quite like this as well. At 5Euros a beer, it doesn’t seem cheap though, but the beer is big and the place is quiet. We can look out and see the boards for names we had read so many times- Sultan Hostel, Orient Hostel…
The beer is refreshing and soothing and tasty, but soon we leave to pick up our bags from the Hotel and make our way to the Otogar or Bus Terminal. We’ve decided to not take the Metro company shuttle that leaves way too early at (report 7.15) for a 9.30 bus, and taking TTP’s trusty step by step guide, we are off.

Day III- bazaars

The Grand Bazaar is typical yet no bore. Coming from the West, I can see how this would be more eye-popping than it would be for an Asian, particularly and Indian. Think Palika Bazar In Delhi or Heera Panna in Mumbai, but more organised in some ways, much more colourful, and mostly very friendly. We wander around, relaxed and interested. Fortunately we are not looking to shop beyond the odd souvenir for ourselves and lubbed ones. We did not, somehow, take more than the odd photo- though the colours offer great subjects…


Unfortunately we can’t find a place to eat. The one- not so cheap lokantasi (where we decide we will share a dish) has little left- it is 3pm and way past lunch time. We walk out, and after buying some shot glasses (yay!) onward to Spice Bazaar. But our eyes and stomachs are aware, and at 4pm, we see this place:
and have these
They’re pretty good, filling and we are satisfied. As usual, on our walk toward the Spice Bazaar we are running a bit tight for time- so no photos are taken of the bustling street, the very small-town India feel of the roads (streets?) we walk on- with cleanliness thrown in- the number of interestingly-faced locals and kids(this is not probably the usual route to the Spice Bazaar- that’s from the Eminonu side). Eventually we reach the Egyptian Market or Spice Bazaar.
It is gorgeous. There’s nothing to it, really- but it seems to be in a cavernous few corridors with high ceilings and the subtlest of smells wafting past your nose- not assaulting it, just gently teasing it. Then we notice shop after shop of spices. There’s some other stuff, sure- the inevitable and gorgeous nazars- but mostly, there are heaps of spice- cardamom, cumin, saffron, Turkish saffron, pepper, chilli, paprika, oregano…..(check out these pics)

We see, we smell, we think that we should surely pick up something from here. We meet Dr Avijit Dutt, a Bengali in London who buys spices here all the time (?)- either orders them through people or buys them when he comes, like this time on a conference. And he is not joking- looks like he's buying enough to last a year! We, instead, look for soap- D buys a bar of olive soap. Olives? They are way more expensive than you’d think- and then eventually two kinds of chilli powder. ( we have yet to use them- but can’t wait!)

understanding

I met someone from Turkey some time ago.
Someone from Istanbul, someone who belonged to the place where I had had such a wonderful time in my life. There was this moment where all my learning of different cultures, different peoples and different places came together in a freeze of observation. I saw, in that little time, the beauty of meeting someone from a a different place in a wholly new light. One that gave the conversation the glow of satisfaction, the warmth of joy, the happiness of strangeness and familiarity.
I had to stop myself from sounding foolish, when I tried to make him understand what my visit to his country meant to me. How the country that he was trying, already, to justify and defend, had given to me such a special period of my life. How his country was such a deeply wonderful part of my recent past.
And when he told me he was going to visit India soon, I was overjoyed with the prospect; with the possibility of helping him have anywhere near as wonderful a time in my country as I did in his.

Day III

This day, Monday, is the brightest. It is also the lightest in terms of things planned.

We set out in the wonderfully warm sunshine towards the Arkeologi Muzesi or the Istanbul Archaeological Museum only to find that it is shut today. We’d somehow missed this from our agenda, but I assure D we will see it later. On the way back. Instead we sit down in Sultanahmet park, that atmospheric patch between Ayasofya and Blue Mosque. Here we write our postcards.

It was the most satisfying and happy 30-40 minutes, and I can’t really explain why. I suppose it was nice to put down in a few lines what it had been like, to know you were writing back to proud family…and there just is something about sitting in a foreign land and writing a postcard that is incredibly romantic. The fact that our spot was surrounded by history, and so gorgeous, only made it more perfect. We absolutely loved it.


Not being able to find the office for Metro (one of the better known bus companies) to buy our ticket for the night, we postpone it and make our way toward The Grand Bazaar. On the way, we bump into Ismail and Mahmut from our hotel, off on some errands. Though they seem a bit busy, as soon as they learn we haven’t bought our tickets yet, they lead us all the way back to Divan Yolu themselves to the agency that sells the tickets. Inexplicably, and incredibly sweet of them- and heck, we’d already checked out actually. With two tickets in our pockets (the little knapsack, actually) and 72 lira (or 72 million lira) lighter, we move again toward the Grand Bazaar. It’s a pleasant walk, and soon enough, we reach tourist-trap central.

Day II- night

Istiklal in pictures

That is not coke. well, not only coke. :) But that is a coca-cola sign in the background.

This place (left) was playing Coldplay but it looked too pricey so we looked for LP-listed 'Madrid' except we never found it and happily discovered tiny Cafe Pi instead (right).
This guy at Cafe Pi was probably a student, knew no English but was very friendly, and looked a lot like our friend Deba- in fact, from the back, exactly like him. No, really.
smack opposite Cafe Pi we ate, very late, and a litle buzzed, at Musa Usta Adana Kebap Salonu where the beans were absolutely nothing at all, but the eggplant was pretty decent. They charged us for the water, the rogues.

Day II- evening

We walk out of Suleimaniye Camii to a great sight. It is the beautiful game, and it is being played on concrete by a clutch of youngsters aged anywhere between 8 and 20-something. It’s the kind of sight you’d see in India with a makeshift bat and stumps stuck in the mud, or drawn on a wall. One of them sets on our way (we are looking to go to Eminonu)- it would seem its just one long street. As we begin the walk, we notice yet again the deserted look this street, too, wears. It is nearing iftar time again. We chance upon an open shop and buy some water and coke for later, and continue on what seems to be a completely dead stretch- shutters are down and doors are shut. It is only after a while do we realise that it is also Sunday- so this market is shut for the day anyway. It is a great walk- all downhill, all cobblestoned, and hardly any no people. It feels like we are in a ghost town, or survivors from some alien attack or something. (Calm down, my friend)


At Eminonu, D finally has her first doner kebap. It is only Day 2, but she’s been thinking about these (very cheap) snacks since we began planning on Turkey. It sure is cheap- only YTL 1.5, less than one Euro! She likes it but less than she hoped- the bread is crusty (though soft from the inside), and it takes a toll of the roof of her mouth!

Walking on in front of the Yeni Camii, and the now beautifully lit mosque we have just visited in the distance, we come to the Eminonu bus stand to take the good ‘ol T4 bus to Taksim Square, and so back to Istiklal Cadessi.