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Where snow clad mountains drop sharply to the shore
Where unspoilt sands meet the sea,
And deep blue skies hold cumulus clouds aloft.
Where sleepy villages snuggle about land-locked bays
Southern Turkey waits.
On street corners men slowly sip amber chai.
In simple cafes they idly linger, gazing into space.
Men with untroubled, expressionless faces
Waiting.
Few changes have occurred in the lives of most Turkish families with regard to normal everyday affairs. There is little opportunity for work at the moment and, consequently, an equally poor prospect for improving their living standards, short of moving to a large city. Some of the men eke out a living by shoe shining; others have their work in the fields. One cannot recognise that any material change in working methods has occurred over the centuries. Stolid lumbering oxen pulling primitive wooden ploughs still trudge ground untouched by mechanical apparatus. If lack of ambition is, as it has been said, an inherent characteristic of the Turks, then it is not at all surprising that these things should be so. I doubt if the peasants who live there could ever envisage a commercialised southern Turkey. The peace and unspoilt beauty of this Mediterranean coastline remains unique, but maybe it will not last forever. People are prepared to travel far and spare little expense to gain the luxuries of modern holidaymaking. The Germans are already in the forefront, and are even building their own holiday villas in certain areas. The Turkish government fully realises the potentialities of this coast, and is making great efforts to improve the amenities and increase tourism by good quality advertising. One fervently hopes that it will never become so exploited as some other parts of the Mediterranean.
Having passed through the militarised area of Iskenderun,[25] we rounded the gulf, hoping to reach Tarsus before nightfall. Already there were many familiar sights remembered from our journey across the north of this country some months ago. There were painted horse-drawn carriages, women in baggy trousers carrying bundles of sticks, and men with flat caps and droopy moustaches. At intervals along the road children stood with hands outstretched waving bunches of flowers, calling out to us to stop and buy.
We found one of the B.P. parking places, which was indicated on our map near Tarsus, but there was not much space, and it did not look very inviting, so we returned for short distance to a Turk Petrol Station. A few birch trees and a small green area was at the back the office. The owner, Hasan Bey, was thrilled that we had chosen to stay at his establishment and his excitement saw no limits. When we pushed up the roof of the Land Rover, he hurriedly brought his wife, two children and elderly mother to watch operations, and then when we were settled, they offered to carry water for us from the tap across the road. As we listened to them speaking, we realised that we had forgotten many of the words that we had learnt only a few months earlier.
Although it was our intention to follow the coastline as far as possible, we made one diversion to the region of Cappadocia, as we wished to see the fantastic valley of Goreme, the ‘valley of fairy chimneys.’ It certainly is a most appropriate name for one of the most remarkable geological sights we had come upon. Its origin can be traced back to a series of eruptions from Mt. Erciyas, which filled the valley with a sort of pumice powder, called tuff. This, in turn, was covered with a harder volcanic layer. Over the years water and sediment combined with the tuff to make soft sandstone. Subsequent erosion by the natural elements has produced weird shapes, many of them cone like, surmounted by dark, harder portions of black rock – the latter, unaffected by the weathering process, invariably balance on top of these at a rakish angle.
This natural complex of ‘fairy chimneys’ became a refuge for the Greek Christians who were persecuted by the Seljuks, Arabs and Mongols. These Christians who came to live in seclusion during the third century transformed the valley. In the same way as early man had before them, they carved out homes in the soft sandstone cones living as troglodytes. When they became established, churches and chapels no larger than any average sized room were formed and the interiors were decorated with frescoes and patterns. With the absence of light inside and the dry atmosphere, the paintings have remained in good condition through the centuries to the present day.
The combined effect of man and weather has thus produced this unusual place, which presents itself in different guises. At times it looks like some vast gathering of Klu Klux Klan members. On other occasions one could liken it to a planetary landscape, complete with multi-eyed inhabitants. It was as if we had walked into a science fiction story. As the shadows lengthened, the soft light brown, pink, yellow and white ones changed until they were strange black silhouettes. In this surreal area we stayed for the night.
In the morning we went with a guide into the four most important churches the Carikli Kilise (The Church of the Sandals), so called because of the footprints, which have been carved into the floor, the Karalik Kilise, (The Dark Church), where the only light appears from one small window in the narthex, the Elmali Kilise (The church with the Apple), which is the smallest and so named because of the dwarf apple trees growing outside, and the Tokali Kilise.This, the Church with the Buckle, was the largest that we saw, and it was in a good state of preservation, despite some desecration by vandals. The walls were covered with fine scenes depicting events from the Annunciation to the Ascension. In a number of these paintings, St. Basil, the patron saint of Cappadocia, could be seen. One particularly tall cone had been carved into several storeys and had been a monastery at one time. Scrambling up to the entrance, we followed the guide, crawling through dark shafts, feeling our way upward with our hands and feet. In one room we found a stone table and bench, and a basin scooped out from the floor.
We toured the whole area, taking a dusty track to Cavusin, up to the town of Urgup, passing thousands of rock cut caves. Pigeonholes have been formed in the soft sandstone too, and the guano collected once a year, is used as a fertiliser for the sandy fields around the cones. Apricot, pear, apple and walnut trees thrive, and we saw men with carts and donkeys laden with produce returning back to their homes. At the wells, women filling stone jars, were dressed in traditional costume, and still wearing the yashmak.
On our way from Incesu to Kayseri, we gained splendid views of Mount Erciyas, rising to 12,848 feet. In spite of the dazzling white high slopes, the surrounding hills and valleys were strangely sombre. It was almost as though they were shrouded in mist, but the dryness of the air rendered this impossible. Then we realised that this was dust swirling about. The general effect was as if a veil had been drawn across the eyes. The wind became stronger and the sand was whipped up and blown across the road from the fields.
Farmers continued with their ploughing for a while, but were eventually forced to stop and seek shelter. I had to reduce our speed to walking pace, for we could hardly see the road ahead. We pulled on to the forecourt of a petrol station, and a man came over to us, bent against the stinging sand. While he filled the tank, I held a rag around the nozzle to stop any dust getting inside the tank. It certainly was a most unpleasant experience to be out in these conditions, and I was relieved to gain the protection of the Land Rover. Within a short while, the fine dust was laying thickly over all our possessions, and our throats had become parched and sore. The wind increased in ferocity. Sand and grit particles flung themselves at the windows, and the road became invisible, so that we were compelled to stop, in a dull world of sickly yellow.
By the time we reached Kayseri, it was almost clear again, apart from the occasional flurry of sand being blown along the ground, as if in a race – chased by the wind. The town was hot and sultry, and after walking the narrow streets to see some of the Seljuk remains, we voted for a restaurant meal. As we were the only people in the room, we had the pick of all the tables, and chose one by a window overlooking the main street. The various items on the menu were translated in English, but gave us very little idea of what we might expect to eat. However, they made interesting and amusing reading. Here are a few examples:
From these exciting names we chose our meal, waiting eagerly to see exactly what we should be given. Our choice, an intriguing combination of ‘Lady’s Thigh’ and ‘The Imam liked it so much that he fainted’, turned out to be fried meatballs, accompanied by eggplants, onions and tomatoes cooked in oil. We followed this with a typical sweet consisting of a kind of pie stuffed with nuts and dripping with a sweet syrup.
From the old part of Kayseri, with its narrow streets and Seljuk remains, we returned to Incesu, where we stopped outside an old caravanserai, noting that a plaque over the entrance was dated 1660. Many of these inns were established on the main roads in the Seljuk times. Each one was about eighteen miles from the next, such that a laden camel could cover the distance in about nine hours.
A crowd of boys excitedly descended upon us as they made their way from school. Although some were roughly dressed, others looked smart in suits, ties, and the distinctive peaked caps of the Orto-Okol[26]. They all carried either a brief case or a satchel under their arm.
Eagerly they showed us their books, and the more confident practiced the few English phrases they remembered.
“Do you speak English?”
“What is your name?”
“How are you?”
When we answered them, some scuttled sheepishly behind their friends, or stood with eyes and mouths wide open.
At Nevsehir, an ancient and picturesque town in the Kizil Irmak valley, we saw pastel coloured houses and mosques clinging to a hill that was topped by a Seljuk citadel. On the left of the road, at the edge of the town, was a large cemetery. Rough, oblong stones leaned at all angles, topped by smaller stones which people had placed there. The effect was reminiscent of the cones that we had seen at Goreme. It was mid-March, and the trees were still bare, though the fine branches were gilded by the sun, and softened the arid slopes of the hills beyond. We continued over the Taurus Mountains by way of the Cilician Gates, a deep, narrow gorge, where the road and a river travel side by side.
It was almost dark by the time we had returned to Tarsus, but we did not intend to stop until we reached a B.P. Mocamp at Kizcalesi. When we arrived, we erected the tent by torchlight and settled down for the night listening to rain pattering on the canvas.
In the morning we realised that the camp was ideally situated beside the sea. Just along the coast we could see the ruins of Corycus Castle, and on a small island, about half a mile from the shore the Kizkalesi, or Maiden Castle. Legend has it that the ruling king of the time had an only daughter who was very beautiful.The king was told by a wise man that she would die suddenly at an early age from the bite of a poisonous snake. In order to prevent this tragedy he built a castle out at sea, so that the princess could live peacefully and without fear. Unfortunately, the story does not have a happy ending. On her sixteenth birthday a snake, which had slithered unnoticed into a basket of grapes sent by her father, struck, causing the prophesied death.
We spent the best part of the day walking about the ruins of Corycus, hopefully searching for coins and glass that we had been told could be found there. Although we cannot boast a treasure chest as a result, we did pick up some fragments of clay with raised animal designs and a few pieces of translucent blue Roman glass.
The mainland, sparsely vegetated, sloped down to a limestone foreshore. A kingfisher darted, a brilliant flash of blue, from rock to rock, then plunged for a small fish. Out at sea, the Maiden Castle rode like a ship, the waves breaking at her prow, the round towers gleaming in the sunlight. It had been a perfect day, clear and fresh after night rain, a complete contrast to the dust storm we had experienced near Kayseri.
It was raining again as we packed our tent the following morning. We were always reluctant to break camp under these conditions, as we did not like having a lot of damp materials in the Land Rover. Fortunately, it was not a problem that occurred very often. Over previous weeks we had heard of the risks involved driving round the coast of Turkey in this vicinity, due to the terrible condition of the road. Sure enough, we eventually came to a large notice stating that fifty kilometres ahead. The way was closed. There was a diversion to Anamur – a hundred and fifty miles extra – which we did not feel inclined to take. Trusting that the Land Rover would get us through, we carried straight on. It was a safe enough road at first, but after a few kilometres we run into the mud – thick yellow mud, water up to a foot deep and streams flowing across the track. Turning at a bend we surprised a camel, which began lolloping along ahead of us. Then a bull appeared from a dense growth of trees and it too, heaved its heavy body along. From an onlooker’s point of view, it would appear as though we were chasing a bull, chasing a camel – all of us slipping and sliding in the mud. An amusing scene, until the bull managed to find its way to the rear and began chasing us! Maybe the bull did not like our red curtains, faded though they were.
At last we arrived at the point where the road was closed. Enormous mounds of earth and rock had been dynamited from the hillside, and large quantities of soil had been washed down. A huge earthmoving machine was straddled across the track but we managed to get round it keeping the wheels turning, even though the mud came up to the axles. We crept along at walking pace, and it seemed ages before the road improved. Mercifully it did, and once again the speedometer was reading sixty miles per hour. Then the vehicle lurched and did a bit of a roll. Of all things, it had to be a puncture in the rear tyre. We had trouble changing the wheel, and had to use rocks to help support the weight after the inadequate jack had collapsed.
As we sat drinking our second glass of chai outside a B.P. Station in Alanya, waiting for the puncture to be repaired, a loud blowing of horns heralded a procession of cars and lorries. It was a wedding, and the bridegroom took pride of place in the front lorry, amongst excited well-wishers. The bride sat demurely, almost unnoticed, several cars behind. A man shouted to tell us that he had finished working on the tyre. Immediately a young, enthusiastic lad came over to us.
“My name is Mehmet, I will show you the pirate city”– he said eagerly.
“We can get there easily in your Land Rover.”
We had already been down to the harbour and seen some of the fishermen beside their brightly painted kayaks. They were busy tidying up nets and ropes, so we guessed that they had done their work during the earlier hours of the morning. A pirate city sounded exciting, and we felt in the mood to be led somewhere out of the ordinary, so we opened the doors and Mehmet jumped in. He directed us to a rough, stony track, which tortuously wound its way up through the old village of Alanya. Here, scattered old houses were surrounded by walled overgrown gardens, cactus and mulberry trees. The view from the top of the headland was splendid. Crenellated stone walls tumbled down over the hillside, between olive and cypress trees, beside the minarets of mosques, and down to the Red Tower by the harbour. The Taurus Mountains formed a backcloth for the modern red-roofed, white-walled houses of Antalya. The sea, a deep, cobalt blue, hundreds of feet below lapped upon the bleached yellow sands.
“This – said our young friend – is where Anthony and Cleopatra spent much time.”
“What about pirates?”– We asked.
Apparently, the castle on the headland was originally built by a pirate chief in the second century BC, but Seljuks reconstructed it long after for their Sultan Ala-ed-Din.
Some young children nearby were flying kites. They had chosen an excellent day, for there was a good, stiff breeze. While we were clambering about the ruins, we could hear the rhythmic sound of a drum. Standing on a wall, some young boys were watching one of their friends, who danced in time with a staccato drumbeat. With arms raised he moved deliberately, with simple, jerky foot movements, his face showing how seriously he was concentrating on each individual step.
Having explored a small Byzantine chapel, some storehouses and dungeons, we told our young friend that we must now set off again.
“Please, you must let me drive your Land Rover to the garage.”
He was so anxious to try our vehicle that we decided to let him have his fun.
No sooner had we set off, than we were besieged by a group of women offering us various silk scarves and lacework. Thrusting their hands through the open windows, each woman tried just a little harder than the next to persuade us to buy something. At times like this we wished that our budget were not so tight. The articles were all hand made and many winter months must have been spent preparing them. Any tourist on their way to the castle would certainly be seen, giving these women just time enough to gather all their wares together.
Once we had completed the descent, Mehmet insisted that we must see a very special cave.
“Not far”– he shouted, sounding the horn for the benefit of practically every individual that we met, hoping that he would be recognised.
The cave of Damlatas, which is known for its curative effect on asthmatic people, had stalactites and stalagmites and was floodlit with brilliant red and orange lights. With a recorded humidity of over ninety per cent, and a temperature of twenty degrees Centigrade, we were glad to see daylight again.
Mehmet drove back to the B.P. Garage and pulled up, with a screech of brakes, and much horn hooting in front of the petrol pumps. The men whom we had left earlier in the day looked suitably impressed, and Mehmet airily began telling them about his driving. We waved them goodbye and set off on the road to Antalya.
As we neared Aspendos, a group of children came running towards the Land Rover. When we stopped they all stood looking through the window. Then, delving into their pockets, they each held out various coins and pieces of stone, which they offered to us for us to buy.
“Çok guzel – very good”, they murmured.
“From ruins”– said an older boy, pointing in the direction of the ancient city of Aspendos.
“How much?”– We asked.
The bargaining process was a serious affair.
When we offered one youngster two lira for his handful of coins, his brown eyes lit up with pleasure, but the older boy intervened.
“No, not enough”– he said firmly.
Eventually we settled for a small, carved stone head, which after much deliberation, was handed over for one lira. When we gave the payment, the boy jumped up and down clapping his hands with excitement.
We thoroughly enjoyed our time spent with these bright-eyed children, although we knew that we had not acquired anything of great value. The strange-looking, greenish head was placed on the shelf above the dashboard of the Land Rover. Two days later we happened to notice that the green colouration was wearing off. Our antiquity was a piece of hand-carved chalk, which those enterprising youngsters must have made and left in a pond for several weeks.
Aspendos is famous for its magnificent theatre, the stage of which has several storeys. The architect Zenon constructed it in the second century AD. As we entered we found ourselves looking at the stone seats of the steep auditorium. Every year, this amazingly solid building still holds more than one thousand five hundred people for a special festival.
Forty-eight kilometres further on we had a view of an unusual, grooved, pink minaret, indicating that we were now in Antalya. Completing our shopping along streets busy with people and horse drawn cabs, we drove on towards the Bey Mountains which curve round the western shores of the Gulf of Antalya. As there is no coast road we had to cross these mountains to a village called Korcuteli, then follow a river valley down to Finike by the sea. The road wound up and up, and it became very much colder, then while we were eating our picnic lunch beside a large lake, it began to sleet. The peaks around us, some over ten thousand feet, were covered with snow and, as we passed some houses, we saw that the low temperature had frozen the water in the wooden water ducts and had created cascades of icicles.
Descending through pine forests to the village of Finike, we were delighted to see storks again, sitting on their straggly chimney-pot nests. From Finike to Demre progress was slower than we had anticipated, owing to a bad road with plenty of mud and potholes. Passing beside a marshy area, some children held fish up for us to buy, but we did not stop as it was beginning to get dark, and we had not seen anywhere suitable to camp for the night. We had hoped to stay by the sea, but the coastline was rocky, and the road had wound like a ribbon, clinging to the side of steep cliffs, giving no access to any flat area of land.
At one time Demre had been a port, but now it lies some distance from the sea. As we drove through the narrow main street, we were aware of the stares and apparent amazement of the residents. The entire male population, all cloth-capped and moustached, seemed to be standing about in the road. Conversations ceased as they moved aside to let us pass along. Reaching the outskirts of the town, we decided that perhaps we had better stay in Demre for the night, as the next village was a fair distance away. Our return caused a minor sensation amongst the crowd who watched as we pulled up outside the hotel, the door of which opened directly on to the main street.
The man who greeted us indicated that we should put on a pair of the wooden-soled mules that were provided. He then led the way up a flight of scrubbed wooden stairs and Audrey and I followed, making a hollow resounding clatter. At the end of a passage the man stopped and threw open a door. Inside the small room were two iron beds and a wooden chair, which was quite enough for our needs. Indeed, when we learnt that the total cost for the night was only half-a-crown, we were more than satisfied. Opening another door the man beckoned us out onto a large balcony and pointed out the communal washbasin and toilet.
“Can we have something to eat, please?”
“No food– he replied shaking his head – locanta[27] across road.”
By the time we had sorted out our belongings for the night, we felt extremely hungry. It was pitch dark, and the street was deserted as we walked over to the small restaurant. We entered, and I narrowly missed walking into a large wet fish suspended from the doorframe. We found ourselves in a small, dim room lit by a single paraffin lamp. In the customary way we were led to the kitchen, where the lighting was worse. We could scarcely make out the various pans of food. We pointed to what looked like soup, and chose small meat rissoles, known as kufteh, to follow. Garnished with onions, they were very tasty, and when the waiter came over to see how we were getting on, we conveyed our satisfaction. He said something, and we nodded and smiled, wishing that we could understand. It was unfortunate that we nodded, for after a few minutes, he returned from the kitchen with two more platefuls of meat rissoles.
Rural cafes are a male preserve, and this was no exception. The room was full of men and, although it is doubtful that many tourists had been seen there before, surprisingly they did not stare at us as they had done in the street. One friendly group sent over three oranges for us, before we returned to the hotel.
The night was velvety black, silent, and starlit. With our sleeping bags under our arms, in case we should need extra warmth, we carefully stepped over a couple of men sleeping soundly on the landing floor. Once in bed we were asleep instantly. It seemed only a few minutes later when a man calling with a full-throated voice from outside our window wakened us.
What on earth was the matter? Oh! Of course Allahu Akbar, prayer is better than sleep. It was the call from the minaret. Later, we were disturbed by music. Out on the balcony we stood looking over the apparently sleeping village. Some dogs barked in the distance, and then shrill voices nearby suggested that some sort of party was in full spate. The music began again, throbbing, vibrant music accompanied by a rhythmical clapping. We felt like getting dressed to go out and investigate, but our better judgment prevailed and we crept back into our beds.
Behind Demre lay the ruins of Myra, and among the various rock-cut tombs is one with a church. This was the resting place of the fourth century Bishop of Myra – St. Nicholas – no less a personage than Santa Claus. A legend tells how he gave some money to three destitute girls of Myra who, having no dowries, would have been unable to marry. The connection between this story and the red-cloaked, old man driving his reindeer and sledge full of toys to children on Christmas Eve, somehow eludes me. Another curious link suggests that the three golden balls of our pawnbrokers’ sign represent the three purses of gold given to the poor girls of Myra.
Further along the road we saw a stationary Land Rover, with about a dozen people standing beside it. We stopped, and discovered that the Land Rover had trouble with the prop’ shaft. All we could do to help was to take the driver to the small town of Kas, which was not very far away. We would also be able to have our puncture repaired, for when I checked the tyres earlier in the morning, I noticed that one was very soft.
Kas hardly seemed to have awakened for the day. A solitary man sat in an open-air cafe blankly fingering his prayer beads, but no one else was about. Our passenger thanked us gratefully for the lift, jumped out and disappeared inside a house. He returned with two young men who, he said, would remove the tyre and mend the puncture for us. One fellow was short and fat, the other tall and thin. Both of them worked so hard that they were somewhat out of breath before the final task of pumping air into the tyre was reached. Although he did not have the physique for such work, the short fat man was determined to start the pumping, but after a while he was breathing heavily for the hand pump required a lot of effort. Although sweat appeared on his brow, he stubbornly refused to stop for a rest, determinedly pumping – almost jumping up at each stroke to gain sufficient height. These efforts finally roused the man who had been sitting staring from the cafe, and he came over to watch. Three or four other people came to see what was happening, and with the added glory of an audience the little man was stirred to an even greater effort. His eyes began to roll, and we were convinced that he would collapse, but no, he carried on, getting progressively redder in the face, until suddenly the pump broke at the connector. The fat man fell back to a round of applause. We imagined that it was the greatest physical activity that Kas had seen all week.
Towards the end of the day, after a longish drive, we had seen only one place that we thought would make a suitable camping area, and had continued, hoping to find something better. After several miles we realised that it was becoming increasingly difficult to pull off the road, so we turned back to where a narrow, stony track wound steeply down to a small sandy beach. It was always satisfying to have the sole use of such a place, setting up our home in the most perfect and isolated of settings. In fact, we knew that there could not be anyone around for miles, because Fethiye was twelve miles away in one direction, and it was over double that distance to the nearest village further on.The narrow horseshoe sweep of the bay was such that we were enclosed by densely forested hills rising steeply about us on all three sides. There was no sound, bar the gentle lapping of water on the sand. A few goats picked their way across the beach, stopping occasionally to investigate the driftwood before disappearing out of sight. Dusk soon closed in upon us and we set about preparing a meal.
Later in the evening, just as we were making up the bunk beds in the Land Rover, we heard the distant chugging of a motorboat. Switching off the light, we drew back the curtains and looked round the bay. The sound of the engine was getting louder, but everything seemed pitch black outside and it was several minutes before our eyes were accustomed to the darkness. At last, we were able to make out a small boat, which came nearer and nearer, and eventually crunched on the gravel directly ahead of us. As the engine stopped the sound of raucous laughter came to our ears. Three figures clambered out of the boat and began to make their way across the beach towards us.
Why should anyone come to this spot at this late hour? There was no habitation of any sort around. They must have seen the glimmer of our light from somewhere out in the bay. We were obviously the centre of their attention. Pulling the curtains back across the window, we began to feel rather uneasy. Were we in for trouble? As they got nearer to the Land Rover, I jumped out, locked the door and shone a small torch towards them. In rapid succession, the narrow beam of light picked out the faces of three men. When I asked what they wanted there was complete silence. Then, one of them, who carried an earthenware pot, quietly replied,
“Su”
Although there was plenty of water in the Land Rover, which they could have had, I decided it would be preferable to take them to where a small stream trickled down from the hills. Carefully avoiding turning my back on them, I pointed the way. When they had filled their jug, I led them back to their boat, by a way that did not pass the Land Rover. There was no laughter now. Everything had taken a more sombre tone, and I began to feel rather apprehensive as to whether they would go or look for something more exciting. With a gruff farewell, they stepped into the boat, and it gently chugged away into the night.
The whole business must have taken about ten minutes or so, but for Audrey, who had only heard the first encounter, it must have seemed like hours. Locked in, sitting in the darkness, hearing nothing and not daring to switch on the light, she was imagining the worst. Having decided that I had been attacked, she breathlessly awaited her fate. When I reappeared, she was literally trembling with fear, and it took her some time to calm down. All the warnings that people had given us of the dangers of bandits, robbery and the like, had come flooding back in a terrifying ten minutes that she declared she would never want to experience again.
Once more we set about preparing for bed, this time making a cosh and putting the small airgun, that we had not yet thrown away, in a prominent position, so that we would be ready in the event of a return visit. I cannot say that we slept well, but the night passed without incident, and in the morning our surroundings looked sunny and trouble free. But, for Audrey, the place had lost the scenic attractions that had been present the day before, and she was not happy until we had negotiated our way back along the boulder strewn track through the trees, and were once again speeding along the road.
It is not surprising that, being strangers in a foreign country, one is at times distrustful of the activities of the people one meets under such circumstances. There are, and always have been, stories that lead one to expect the worst. Looking back over this incident, now that we were free from the intensity and vague influences of the night, we realised that possibly our reactions were unjustified and irrational and it was only a simple curiosity that led these men to come ashore. But who can say for certain that this was the case. We felt it was essential to have taken the precautions that we did.
From Mugla we drove towards the head of the Gulf of Istankoy and reached a very pleasant picnic site, with rustic wooden signs indicating that we would be able to camp. Wooden tables and benches had been positioned on flat grassy areas, and the rest of the site was pleasantly natural, with wild flowers, fir trees, and moss-covered boulders that one could clamber down to the water’s edge. Some of the fir trees near our camp were grown for their resinous sap. On their trunks were gashes, made with an axe, and beneath them were small containers, like flowerpots, to collect the treacly liquid.
When we awoke next day, we realised that there was a strange tilt to the vehicle. How disappointed we were, after such effort from the fat man at Kas, to find that our rear tyre was flat again. I decided that, perhaps, I ought to insert a new inner tube, and spent a whole morning trying to do the job, but the tyre obstinately refused to move away from the hub, although we battled hard with three heavy-duty levers. I then resorted to jumping up and down on the tyre, hoping that the extra weight would help. I must have looked like some mad, dancing dervish, for two local women, who were passing, stood still and stared for some while in amazement. Their gaze then turned to the attraction of the Land Rover. They had probably never seen a vehicle like ours before, with a red and white striped roof. Audrey offered the women a sweet each, which they took and quickly tucked into their headscarves. It was only when I drove the Land Rover over the edge of the tyre that the seal broke, making it possible to withdraw the old inner tube.
Now we were able to leave for Marmaris, which was twelve miles away, and known for its sponge divers and underwater fishing. No sooner had we pulled up in a small square, than a burly man wearing a pair of very faded, and much patched trousers approached us.
“You like to see sponges?” – He asked.
Well, this was fortunate! Laughing at the speed of his introduction, we followed him down to the sea. Leading us to an old, wooden shack, he opened the door and beckoned us inside. In the half darkness, where fishing nets hung about like giant cobwebs, we could see heaps of sponges of various sizes, many about eighteen inches in diameter and shaped like coolie hats.
Scattered all over the floor, spilling out of sacks, were masses of large, glossy brown cowrie shells, and, in the corner, were some large Greek amphora.The man lowered his voice confidentially.
“Amphora very good, very old”– he whispered, holding up a beautifully shaped vessel, green with algae and decorated with barnacles that he had gleaned from the seabed.
“I should really like a sponge”– said Audrey, and chose one from the great heap beside her.
“Amphora, yes?”– Enquired the man smiling persuasively.
“Amphora, definitely no!”– We laughed, thinking of our packed to capacity Land Rover.
From Marmaris we had planned to visit Bodrum, formerly ancient Halicarnassus, and the birthplace of Herodotus, but shortly after we had taken the rough road towards it, we had yet another puncture. This time, the outer cover of the tyre had swollen into a balloon on one side and would obviously present us with plenty of trouble. Seven punctures in as many days, and our rear tyres with little tread left. The position was fairly serious, particularly when, on enquiring, we were given an estimate of a hundred pounds for two new tyres. In spite of our careful budgeting, an expense like this would seriously affect our future plans. As we now did not have a spare, we decided to turn back, and were soon driving steadily on tarmac. It seemed to be the first time for many days that we had not been continually bumped about.
At one point we passed a graveyard where there were headstones, in the shape of fezes. These denoted men’s tombs, whereas rounded stones with carved lotus leaves distinguished the women’s graves. Tied to strings across some of the graves were waving streamers of colourful cloth. After the burial, relations and friends tied on their little scraps of material, believing that each time they were stirred by the breeze, Allah would be reminded of their prayers.
There was plenty of water laying in the fields, and we saw storks standing on one leg pecking for food, also many white birds which we discovered were egrets.
As we approached Ephesus, we looked out for the site of the Temple of Diana, knowing that very little, if anything, remained of what was one of the seven ancient wonders of the world. To one side of the road a shallow depression became evident, and on closer inspection it revealed a jumbled pile of stones. Originally this was a temple, the most highly revered place of worship in the Greek world, four times larger than the Parthenon in Athens. Eight of the original marble pillars we had seen in Justinian’s Aghia Sophia in Istanbul. Today little remains disturbed by the excavator’s spade huddle in silent tribute. The wind ripples against a marsh thick with reeds, aggravating any further vestiges of greatness that remain.
This temple had been dedicated to the goddess Diana, who inspired the Ephesians for a thousand years. Her popularity only declined after St. Paul came to Ephesus with the words of Christianity. His last journey to this city coincided with a time when the silversmiths of the town, led by Demetrius, enjoyed a lucrative business making silver shrines and images of Diana, which they sold to visiting pilgrims. The prosperity of these men depended, of course, upon their work. When Paul preached his well-known Christian sermon against greed, idol worship, and the involvement in religion purely for monetary gain, he said that gods made by human hands were not gods at all. The people were greatly outraged.
“Great is Diana of the Ephesians”– they cried with one voice, and the event almost caused a riot.
A small museum at Ephesus contains two gilt copies of the statue of Diana. The original was made of wood, although during the tine of St. Paul, it was of gold and ivory. She had the noble face of a true queen, but is strangely portrayed with numerous breasts, the effect being, as one may imagine, not in the least attractive. Her principle emblems included the date palm and the queen bee, symbols of fertility, and it has been suggested that her breasts, in fact, represent eggs. She was clearly worshipped as the great Mother of life.
The ruins of Ephesus reflect well its glorious past. Although now only tourists walk the Marble Street where St. Paul addressed and rebuked the silversmiths, one can imagine how the city would have been thronged with up to a quarter of a million citizens at the time of his visit. We stood on a high vantage point and looked along this famous street. From here we could see the splendour of a Roman city leading down to the ancient harbour basin, now silted and with reeds growing in profusion. To our right, a headless statue of a Roman figure gave us a picture of the dress of the time: the long, flowing toga, shining white against a stormy sky. Further down the street was the artistic arch of the temple of Hadrian, supported on slender, white, sun-bleached columns. Beyond, showing itself as a jumbled array of stones was an enormous theatre that had been built to hold an audience of twenty-five thousand. We did not venture far, but a short walk took us to some old Roman shops, the arched roofs of which were covered with clumps of grass and red poppies. Here and there were fragments of the figures of Roman soldiers. One comes upon them in all kinds of odd corners, leaning at strange angles, sometimes half buried by wild flowers.
After visiting the Church of St. John close by the town of Seljuk, we continued along the road to Izmir. As we pulled into the Inciralti B.P. Mocamp, twelve kilometres from the town, we saw a small Morris Minor van. No wonder it seemed a familiar sight, it belonged to Norman Barron, whom we had last seen in Jerusalem. He had met up with another veteran traveller, a friend of his from Australia. Together we spent some time talking about things, before preparing a meal and erecting our tent.
The next morning I made further enquiries at the petrol station about new tyres, and was horrified to find that they would definitely cost about a hundred pounds. A soldier, who stood listening to the conversation, said that a friend of his would be able to help us out. If we could take him to his home, he would change into civilian clothes and then accompany us to Izmir. Glad of his offer we set off. When we arrived at the house, his mother and sister were preparing to start the washing, carrying great, galvanised baths of clothes to the pump in the garden. They stopped to greet us and entertain us for a while, with the usual offer of Eau de Cologne to clean our hands, followed by some Turkish delight, known as lokum, and a glass of chai. Several minutes later our friend reappeared, dressed in a white shirt and suit, looking very much smarter than he had done in his crumpled, khaki army uniform.
In Izmir, which is a very busy commercial centre, we spent a long time looking around tyre depots in the hope that one would stock the size that we wanted. Unfortunately, none were available, and our friend’s ‘friend’ had no further suggestions either. The only solution was to try and get the outer cover with the six-inch split repaired. Finding a place where tyres were remoulded, we left it with them, and were told that it would be ready the following day. Discussions on the repair had taken a long time, and although interspersed with plenty of chai, we felt hot and tired, and anxious to be back at the camp. But our friend wanted to renew his driving licence, so we sat in the Land Rover and waited for him to return. On this day, more than any other, we realised how slowly everything moves. Nothing can be hurried in Turkey. Even in this comparatively large city, the pace seemed the same as on the Anatolian plateau.
Gazing out of the windows, we noticed various people going about their work. An elderly man with a large container strapped to his back was doing an intermittent trade, dispensing water, whilst a dozen shoe-cleaners were earning a few kurush[28], their smart, highly-polished boxes set up along the edge of the pavement. One man stood waiting to measure people’s height and weight. Two young soldiers walked unconcernedly past, hand in hand, looking as though they had been issued with the wrong sizes in uniform, and an old woman stooped to pick up from the dust a half-eaten orange, promptly putting it into her mouth. What interested us most of all was a peculiar arrangement on a stand, consisting of two dolls moving up and down in water, a couple of glasses and a burning device. We decided that it could be for telling fortunes, but whatever it was, it certainly drew the crowds.
Some farmers were having a terrible job trying to drive their flocks of fat-tailed sheep[29] along the busy main street. No amount of coaxing or aggressive action would encourage them to walk willingly. The men became bad-tempered, wielding sticks at some of the unfortunate stragglers. Half a brick was pitched at one that had strayed off trying to join another flock. The following day was a public holiday, and many of the sheep would be sold and slaughtered for the feasting. One man obviously anxious to have the best had already made his purchase and was struggling along the road carrying a fully-grown animal on his back. Heavily laden donkeys and horses tried to wind their way between fast-moving cars and lorries. The braying, baaing, and general aggravated hooting added turmoil to an already hot, sticky and unpleasant atmosphere. The smell was becoming quite revolting, so we closed the windows preferring to suffer the heat for a while. An hour later our friend returned, smiling and waving his licence.
“Please, can I come with you tomorrow morning?”– He said hopefully.
“All right, we’ll meet you by the service station at ten o’clock”– we said, miserably thinking how ghastly it would be to spend another day in Izmir.
In the morning we cleared up the breakfast things and waited.
Eleven o’clock came and went! At twelve o’clock our friend arrived.
“Shall we go? Are you ready?”– He asked.
At Izmir we were told that the tyre was not yet finished. “Tomorrow”– said the man. By now our patience was wearing thin, and even when we called the following day, I could see that the work was not satisfactory. The only answer was to sit and wait whilst it was being made good. Small boys played in the road as I sat drinking chai, and Attaturk, with an unsmiling countenance, gazed down at me from a large picture frame on the wall. A group of men from adjoining shops, with nothing particular to do, sat greedily devouring western style magazines of nude women. Glancing over at them, I saw that each ‘figure’ had three very small strategically placed black squares.
“What are these for?”– I asked.
“It is the censor”– one of them replied sadly.
“It doesn’t seem to hide very much”– I commented.
“It hardly seems worthwhile.”
The men laughed. Glancing across the road, I saw a woman shuffling past, clad from head to foot in black.
What extremes of women’s fashion these men had seen in their lifetime. I wondered what they thought of them, for in Izmir ancient and modern could be seen side by side. Pointing to the woman, I asked.
“Yashmak good?”
“Yashmak no good”– they replied in unison. “It is the old fashion.” Quickly they turned back to their magazines and continued flicking through the pages.
Finally the tyre was ready, at a cost of fifty Turkish lira. (£2).After many frustrations, we eventually left Izmir, but before we did, to cheer ourselves up, we bought a beautiful brass tray with a hammered design of the Aghia Sophia in Istanbul. We had wanted one for a long time, and fortunately it just fitted into our trunk on the roof rack.
We drove along a good road for over seventy miles, until we came to a sign pointing towards the Asclepion near Bergama. This place consists of a number of buildings erected in the name of the God of Medicine. Here the sick were cured by taking drugs made from plants and by having baths.
Later, we steadily climbed to the Acropolis at Pergamum, set on a hilltop overlooking the Selinos River and the modern little town of Bergama. It was here that the famous library of Pergamum was sited. It contained two hundred thousand scrolls, bearing witness to the creativeness of the Pergamenes the inventors of vellum, which they produced from the tanned hides of sheep and goats.
I do not want to get the reader to the state of one American woman that we met who exclaimed,
“Ruins, I’ve seen so many, I never want to see another god damned ruin as long as I live.”
However, I feel that I must mention the magnificent theatre at Pergamum seating fifteen thousand spectators. It is cut out of the hillside, and is the steepest in the world. It was an awe-inspiring experience to stand on the higher terraces and look down to the semi-circular stage below. We rested on the grassy slopes for some while, enjoying the wonderful view lit by the late, afternoon sunshine.
At the Tusan hotel in the vicinity we were shown to a clean and modern room, with large windows giving a view towards Pergamum.
“Isn’t it cold – Audrey said – I think I’ll ask for an electric fire.”
After five enquiries, an hour and a half later there was a tap at the door.
“Your fire”– said a boy, coming in with a one kilowatt circular heater fixed to the top of a metal pole about five feet high. It looked more like a sunray lamp. The only way to get any warmth was to stand beside it, but this was inclined to burn one’s face. A good, hot meal, put things right and, after a comfortable night’s sleep, a hot shower, and breakfast, we were in fine form.
The first few days in April are Moslem holidays, and there seemed to be evidence of festivity in the town of Endremit, where a small group of musicians were playing drums and pipes in the main square. As we drove across, some people pointed at us. Why? Was something wrong?
“You know –said Audrey – I have a horrible suspicion that we have another puncture.”
She was right. By now we had had a dozen punctures in less than a fortnight. As usual, some local lads were quick to help, and we had the wheel changed in next to no time. If we could make the tyres last out another few days, the chances were that we would be able to buy new ones cheaper in Greece than we could here.
Along the Gulf of Endremit, where the waters gently lapped upon the soft sands, we hung our washing to dry over the bushes just as we had seen done by the peasant folk. Soon afterwards we spotted a colourful group of young girls at the roadside. They wore loose baggy trousers in a variety of patterned cotton material and bright headscarves held in place with bands of folded silk. When we got out of the Land Rover with the camera, they all turned tail and ran off, scattering amongst the trees. We did not chase after them, but stayed by the vehicle holding out a handful of sweets. Slowly, one by one the girls returned and, seeing that we were friendly, allowed us to take a photograph.
Not all our sights were as pleasant as this. On the road to Troy, we saw several dead sheep, which had probably been killed by a heavy vehicle, ploughing through the flock at night. We also had to be continually alert for tortoises; they seemed to thrive in this area, and children even held them up to sell.
It must have come as an outstanding justification to the authenticity of the Greek legends, when between the years of 1870 and 1873, an amateur, German archaeologist, Heinrich Schliemann, using the Iliad as his guide, set out to discover Homer’s Troy. Homer’s writings led Schliemann to a hill called Hisarlik, only a few miles from the Hellespont. Enthusiastically, he cut a deep trench across the mound and, to his amazement, it revealed that no fewer than seven cities had each been reduced to rubble and then rebuilt. During subsequent work two more cities were discovered, giving a total of nine Troys. Notwithstanding the importance of Schliemann’s work, it is now generally regarded that his over zealous excavations destroyed some of the available evidence.
In the 1930’s, Professor Blegen, of the University of Cincinnati, made further excavations and categorised the various levels. Anyone acquainted with the Iliad and stories of the Trojan Wars has a basis to help in piecing together these various cities, which are apt to confuse any visitor to this historic site. Generally though, the most interesting city is the Troy of Homer’s Iliad. One recalls how the Greek army, under the leadership of Agamemnon, lay encamped for ten years about the city in order to recapture Helen, wife of the King of Sparta. At the end of this time, they thought of a plan; to leave a huge, wooden horse, filled with armed men, outside the city gate, then pretend to set sail for home. The Trojans fell for the trick and, that night, the city was burned and plundered.
Walking round the ruined towers and wall, and standing by the gate where the wooden horse had been left, we found it hard to believe that it had taken such fleets of ships, and so many men to conquer Troy, for the city was only a few hundred yards across.
We experienced some difficulty in obtaining a room at the Tusan Motel at Troy, presumably because of the Moslem holiday. The room that we did eventually get was the last available. From our window we had a good view across the Dardanelles. It was the first time that we had seen Europe since we left Istanbul five and a half months previously.
When we went into the dining room of the hotel that evening, we were greeted by a fantastic noise. There were many Turkish families there, complete with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, right down to the youngest children. The latter were making the most of the occasion, getting away with all kinds of bad deeds; it seemed that they were allowed to do what they wanted. One friendly Turkish lady, who sat next to Audrey, asked where we had left our children. When she was told that we had none, the poor woman looked quite puzzled.
The next day while we waited for the ferryboat at Canakkale a man approached us and showed us a photograph of a lorry precariously balanced on what looked very much like a small rowing boat. He then asked fifteen Turkish lira to take us across. Having another quick look at the photograph, I decided that we had better wait for the main ferry. After all, what was an extra few lira, as opposed to our Land Rover being tipped into the Hellespont. It turned out that our ferry trip was cheaper[30]. As the little boat slid away from Asia, we looked ahead towards a rather bleak and misty coastline. All we could make out was a white figure of Attaturk cut into the hillside.
After half an hour we landed at Eceabat, then drove along the narrow peninsular towards Gallipoli, observing dug-outs, tank traps and barbed wire, sufficient to remind us of one crucial event in the First World War; perhaps the classic example of bungling leadership and inefficient organisation.
Churchill had been advocating an invasion of Turkey for some time, and in April, 1915, it was launched. Both naval and land attacks tell a story of utter muddle and confusion. Ships were incorrectly loaded, such that soldiers found themselves without weapons or transport and, once on Turkish soil, heavily laden men found themselves with insufficient food or water to finish their manoeuvres. This chaos lasted for several weeks, during which time the Turks were able to gather their forces. Unfortunately, their leaders also lacked foresight and positioned many troops in the wrong places. Only one Turkish officer seemed to know what he was about and that was Mustafa Kemal, later to become Attaturk, the leader of the nation.
We gazed over the grass-covered, wind-swept ridges before us, and recalled how much human effort had been expended in what was virtually a lost cause. The final result, the failure to open the Dardanelles as a much needed supply route to hard-pressed Russian soldiers, was followed by the collapse of Russia and the Bolshevik Revolution.
Passing over nondescript country towards Ipsala, seeing only bullock carts loaded with wood and sticks, we arrived at the last B.P. Mocamp in Turkey. The tenting area was saturated after a heavy rainfall, so we asked if we could sleep in one of the rooms adjoining a large restaurant, which looked as though it had not long been built. This was agreed to, and we began setting up our cooking equipment, thinking that we would have a quiet evening. Just as we were eating our meal, a coach pulled up and a party of Turkish people came in. Bedlam broke loose! It looked as though they had been on a day’s outing, and although the children were sleepy, the adults were in jovial mood. When they had finished their sandwiches and had boarded the coach, the young fellow in charge of the Mocamp, whose name was Ismet, came to tell us that he had cleared a storeroom next to his office where he was sure that we would be more comfortable.
While we sat warming ourselves beside the old stove, Ismet began to play a long-handled, stringed instrument called a saz. Unfortunately, this originally nine-stringed instrument was reduced to three, but he certainly was able to give us an entertaining evening, in spite of the missing strings. Two of his friends arrived just as we had started tape recording, and they listened with interest. The tunes that Ismet played were well-known to them, so they began to sing some of the words. When we played back the recording they were greatly amused, and sat talking and laughing about it for several minutes. We asked if they knew any other songs. After some deliberation, one of them went outside cleared his throat and sang up and down the scale, then came back into the room and sat down beside the tape recorder. We pressed the button and waited. The first few serious notes were followed by smothered giggles from his friends who sat listening for a while, but unable to contain them for long, eventually crumpled up with laughter and literally rolled around the floor. There was plenty of good-humoured teasing before we finally got our song. It had a typical dirge-like quality, but was, by all accounts, about a beautiful girl called Rosa.
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