Turkey: Selcuk, Ephesus, Pamukkale

Reading: Or, just finished, Peter Carey’s Theft. God, that guy can write great books.

Watching: Schindler’s List. On my iPod. Lieing in a dormitory in Budapest, miserable and hungover. There was crying involved.

Currently …

In a hostel in Krakow. Miles and months away from Turkey, which I’m now going to continue writing about. My photos are back in Belgium, so there isn’t even any Ephesus or Pamukkale photos to show you. However, I’m so completely behind on my blogging I’m going to have get my arse into gear …

Selcuk and Jimmy’s Place

So after TJ’s, I was chucked onto a bus and left in Selcuk, a small town near the outskirts of Izmir (Izmir, from what I saw of it, is a shithole.)

Checked into my hostel/hotel: Jimmy’s Place. I was put into the ‘dormitory’: actually an empty twin bed room; it appears that Jimmy’s, despite other claims, doesn’t have dorms. You’d think ‘great! you got upgraded!’ but not quite: they still charged me for a private. Of course, like most of my dealings with Jimmy’s, I didn’t realise till later that I’d been ripped off. You’d think more of a place that is supposed to have links with foreigners (Jimmy’s brother has a Kiwi wife). The hotel itself was nice enough, though everything there was expensive (food, wine) and the breakfast was great (filtered coffee! Yes!) However, I think I should have been alarmed that there appeared to be only 10 guests out of a possible capacity of 50 or 60.

Similarly, I should have been on high alert when Jimmy pulled us aside and said, yes, I am not joking, ‘Want to buy a carpet?’. Turns out Jimmy has a carpet shop in a back room – no pressure! no hassle! Well, he did convince Surly Greg to buy one; I instead got hassled because I insisted I didn’t want to buy a rug because I had no house. ‘Most people who buy rugs from me,’ he told me, ‘have no house.’ He even showed us pictures of all those people who bought rugs without having houses. He keeps them in photo albums on his desk, grouped by nationality. Greg was his first Scottish customer, which I suspect had more to do with Greg buying a carpet than anything else*.

Anyway, my main disastisfaction with the place was Jimmy’s brother, who said he would ‘help’ me organise my onwards travel. In fact, he bullied me into taking their tour to Pamukkale, and staying there an extra night. I managed to stop him from bullying me into booking my Cappadocia trip with them. In the end, I overpaid by about 50lira for a tour to Pamukkale and a bus ticket to Goreme; I should have gone with my original instinct, which was to organise it all myself. To top it off, I realised later that Jimmy’s bro had charged me another night’s accommodation – and at a higher rate than I’d agreed in the first place. Wonderful. No wonder I was pretty bitter on the bus to Pamukkale, especially when I found out what everyone else’d paid. But more on that later.

My first wonder of the world …

One of the Seven Wonders of the World is in Selcuk …

The Temple of Artemis! (Photo stolen from Flickr).

Okay, so nothing expressly fantastic, a column and a lake. It’s all that’s left of the apparently massive Temple of Artemis. Woo hoo. Now it’s surrounded by dodgy old men with dirty beer bellies poking from the bottom of their tops selling plastic Artemis’s, statues with large penis’s* and 1 lira postcard booklets.

Ephesus

You go to Selcuk purely to see Ephesus (Efes), one of the largest and best preserved Graeco-Roman ruins in the world. It has – not one but two!!! – theatres***, colonnades of columns, and lots of rocks. There’s the ruins of a Mary church, and I think Mary maybe died here in popular legend? It’s a fantastic site, and I am so ecstatic I did it without a guide (one good thing about Jimmy’s place: they’re good on lending you books to explore the local area, so armed with an Ephesus book, I got to see everything – just backwards, as I came in the exit entrance).

One thing exceptional about Ephesus is the ‘Library’, a magnificent facade as beautiful and preserved as the Treasury in Petra (though not as big). It was covered – covered – in German and French tourists, and I found it difficult to get a decent photo:

The Library, at Ephesus.

No, it’s not artistic blurring, it’s finger marks on the lens (I didn’t realise till later).

Anyway, it’s an awesome site, huge, though I would recommend entering through the uphill entrance. The  entrance at the bottom of the hill is more of an exit. You’ll be fighting thousands of tour groups who are coming downhill if you go to the exit-entrance – like I did.

Be warned however:

1. Don’t buy a genuine-fake watch and walk down the Ephesus main street while looking at it, therefore tripping and re-breaking your arm (hey Carla?)

2. Don’t take the bus, it’s only 4km away, and if you don’t walk, you won’t be able to see the Second Brothers tomb.

3. Don’t get a guide. Turkish guides suck. Sorry guys, but it’s pretty much universal. Every Turkish guide (excluding TJ in Gallipoli and a nice funny guy I had in Cappadocia on the Green Tour) we had was dreadful. Unfortunately, by national law, the only guides allowed to operate in Turkey are Turkish. Just take a really good guidebook, you’ll get better, more accurate and more detailed information (‘This is the Temple of Hercules. This is the drain in the Temple of Hercules. This is a column.’ Thanks for that.)

There is, a little off the way, a place calle dthe ‘Cave of Seven Sleepers’. Grotty, less presentable, and aimed at the locals (not to mention absolutely empty), the site is mildly interesting. However, there was a really homey Turkish food place at its base, with decent Gozleme, which I quite enjoyed.

The Shishas, before they were Shishas.

I did end the day in a good mood, though absolutely exhausted.  I sat down in the TV area, which was crowded with one girl wearing a cast on her arm, another with her ankle strapped, and a grumpy looking guy with glasses. They turned out to be in a tour group, and besides these injuries, there was also another tour member at hospital, recovering from a bacterial infection picked up in Burma.

It turned out they were going to Syria after Turkey as well. Really? I asked. What tour group? Tucan? No fucking way.

By complete coincedence I ran into the Turkey leg of the tour group I was going to be meeting up with in Syria (or, in particular, Brett the Vet, Bronny, and Surly (and broken armed Carla) – later we’d get the nickname the Shishas, make several Macca’s runs just before the first am call to prayer, get in trouble for knocking on doors, shop for a wife for Brett the Vet in local bazaars, and take photos of giant rock penises, but at this time we all marvelled at the coincedence of running into each other, and went to bed.

Pamukkale

Pamukkale terraces – with dog.

Pamukkale is a volcanic hot springs site, where calciumnated water flows out, creating these awesome white terraces. You can walk along and swim within some of them (in any of them if you’re a slutty Mexican in a bikini, apparently). Romans built a spa in the vicinity (Hierapolis), and it’s awesome to walk along the ruins and actually find the rift which destroyed it. There’s a swimming resort (the ‘Cleopatra’ pool), which is only interesting because the hot spring water is naturally carbonated: want to swim in soda water? It’s also the only water in Turkey you can drink without getting sick. There is a theatre, a colonnade of columns and a temple***.

I went to Pamukkale the next day, taking the Jimmy’s Hostel recommended day trip tour, the one I’d been overcharged for. The tour guide, as many would prove to be in the Middle East, was awful: a rude arrogant shit who got grumpy at some clients for asking questions about what was involved in the tour, and yelled at a girl who was walking too slowly towards the bus (‘Time is money!’ Fuck head). This was before we’d even left Selcuk; clearly, being trapped with this turd as well as overpaying for the tour made my day; I found I was praying for the end of his tour, and the few glorious hours I would be alone.

‘Lunch is included! Wonderful Turkish lunch’, Jimmy’s brother had declared when he was trying to con me into taking the tour. Hmm. The lunch was ‘buffet’, but it was clear when we arrived how the tour operators made their money: drinks weren’t included, and they expected 5lira per glass of water, 8 per glass of coke, and 10 per glass of wine or beer. This, in a near empty restaurant that clearly only served tour groups. My mood (fueled by 1) being ripped off on the cost of the tour, 2) shitty tour guide, and now 3) shitty food and overpriced drinks) didn’t improve.

Our shitty tour guide took us through the gates to Hieropolis (‘That is the theatre’, ‘That is the west gate’, ‘That is a temple’), told us he’d buy a cup of tea to the first person to the top (he didn’t), made us sit for fifteen minutes in full sun while he talked in his bad English (‘That was the road,’ ‘That was the tombs’, ‘That was the spa’), took us in to see the Cleopatra pool (’23 lira per swim!’). Then he mercifully left those of us going on to Goreme to our own devices.  I so wish I’d visited the place on my own.

I did meet three nice Muslim South Africans on the tour, who gave me a lot of tips about travel destinations in the Middle East, told me never to go to South Africa (so violent and dirty) and rolled their eyes the same as I did at the flirty Mexican princess who swam in the banned Pamukkale ponds in a bikini (instead of pulling her out, the security guards took photos – even grosser, so did her ‘dad’. Ummm).

I sat and watched what little of the sunset was visible behind the fog, and headed down to the bus station. I ate an overpriced Ottoman kebab (served in a stone pot – nice!) and hopped on the Dolmus (minibus) that took me to the overnight bus to Goreme …

_________________________________

*  One thing aside from my sarcasm: I might even contact Jimmy in the future to organise the purchase of a rug through mail order. When I actually have a house. Shame, shame, shame.

** A local souvenir from Selcuk, little men with big penises are modelled after the statue of fertility god Bes found in the Ephesus site, and now on display in the museum I didn’t go to visit.

*** As Brett the Vet would put it, I am now ‘ruined’ out. There’s only so many times you can see Roman ruins and be enthusiastic about it: they all have bloody theatres, bloody colonnades of columns, bloody temples, and lots of bloody rocks lying strewn around.

Turkey: Troy, Assos and TJ’s Smiley Family

Doing: wasting time before the train back to Cairo and hiding from the touts by sitting in a smelly Alexandria internet cafe.

Reading: The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai – Man Booker Prize winner of 2006. I stole this copy from a hostel in Cairo, and laughingly it’s a pirated version someone bought in India. The pages are photocopied, with the print rubbing off on my fingers. However, it’s a really brilliant book, cynical and chaotic.

Currently …

Sitting in a net cafe in Alexandria. Technically the tour I joined four weeks ago in Syria ended last Friday, but I’d been hanging out with Bronny, Dr. Brett and Surly till yesterday, and it’s quite a shock being on my own again.

Anyway, it appears the Middle East is not flush with internet like Europe, and besides the fast pace of Tour Group Life didn’t really allow much time to jabber on as I do on this blog. So here goes …

Last I wrote was about Gallipoli. The tour I went with, TJ’s, included a guided trip to Assos and Troy, as well as lunch at TJ’s parent’s house in a small village nearby.

Eceabat and Cannakkale

Me and the Eceabat kangaroo.

The nearest town to the Gallipoli national park is Eceabat, a small little seaside town that has no claim to fame other than being the nearest town to the Gallipoli national park. Hence why there is a hotel called ‘Hotel Crowded House’, restaurants that serve meat pies, and roadside flower pots in the shape of kangaroos.

To head over to Troy and Assos, though, we had to go across the Dardanelles by ferry, to reach Cannakkale (Cha-nak-ka-lay), the nearest big city where most Gallipoli pilgrims end up staying (at Anzac House Hotel, mind you).

Captain Karen.

By the way, the ferry boat captain likes foreigners and will happily let you play captain. I didn’t want to honk the horn though.

Cannakkale has a different claim to faim, though: it’s also the gateway to Troy for a lot of tourists, which is pretty obvious when you see this sitting beside the coast:

The Plastic Horse of Troy.

If you don’t recognise this fellow, try thinking of Brad Pitt:

Brad Pitt’s in there somewhere.

Turns out Warner Bros donated this proud piece of plastic wood to the oh so proud Turkish, who are building a special hill top monument for it, so anyone sailing down the Dardanelles can see it. The Locals refer to the Trojan horse sitting at the Troy site (see below) as the Wooden Horse of Troy; this one is referred to as the Plastic Horse of Troy, as it’s more wood like than actual wood.

Anyway, there was some interesting bits of graffiti at the ferry side, and a smelly polluted ride across the Dardanelles.

Graffiti.

Troy

Said Wooden Horse of Troy:

The Japanese Wooden Horse Trap at Troy.

Personally I thought the Trojan Horse at Troy was only slightly less tacky than the Big Lobster or the Big Rocking Horse back home, and that the Plastic Horse of Troy at Cannakkale looked more interesting, but I suppose they decided to keep this 70’s monstrosity because you can climb inside it:

Me on the left, Leanne (Gallipoli buddy) on the right.

and other Gallipoli buddy Norm.

So, this site – known as Truva by the locals, but is also the ruin of the city of Illium – not far from Cannakkale is likely to be Homer’s Troy – or at least, more likely to be Homer’s Troy than the other sites scattered throughout the Aegean. The site has something like 7-9 layers of seperate cities and epochs, labeled by archeologists and historians as Troy I to Troy IX. Some fella back in the 1870s, Schliemann, went gangbusters excavating through  the several centuries of layers of archeological ruins to reach those of the legendary city – which he believed was Troy II – only to find out later he’d gone too far, and actually destroyed most of the Troy VII level, thought to be Homeric Troy. Ouch.

Anyway, theres not much to see except random excavations and rubble; more interesting is the story of the archeologists and their mishaps (like Schliemann’s), and how they came to prove this is The Troy. There’s a Roman ampitheatre (of course: it’s not a Roman ruin without a Theatre), and a trench, some mud brick buildings with wasp and bee hives in them, and that’s pretty much it.

No Smoking!

Ruins.

Schliemann’s Stupid Man Trench

Altars from one of the later (Roman) settlements on the Truva site.

More amusing was our guide, who, truth be told, did a good job of providing a narrative to our visit. ‘I will tell you about Troy, the reality’ (grand gesture to the left), ‘and Troy, the dreeeaamm’ (grand gesture to the right). In his whispy, dramatic Turkish-accented voice, he told us plenty about the Illiad (the ‘dream’), and lots of fiddles about the ‘reality’. The Pyramid-shaped mountains in the distance? One’s the tomb of Achilles, the others of Paris and Petrocles. Alexander the Great apparently danced naked around the tomb of Achilles. As you do. And did you know the Trojans were such wonderfully civilised and advanced people?

‘I bet,’ said a unusually sarcastic Indian-American who’d joined our tour late, ‘he’ll tell us that all modern civilisation came from Turkey.’

Sure enough, next moment our guide was pointing out that London was once ‘New Troy’. ‘Next,’ the Indian guy muttered, ‘he’ll tell us the Turkish were the first to the moon.’

But hey, the day’s best treat was to come; lunch at TJ’s smiley parents house:

TJ’s village and insistent grannies

TJ and parents.

TJ apparently grew up in a small nomadic village not far from Eceabat, where he ended up living with an aunt in his early teens. Apparently nomadic Turks are settling down these days, but most of the villages don’t have running water, relying on traditional wells like these:

Traditional wells in TJ’s home village.

His village proudly has it’s own water and waste water plant, so these wells are now only used for livestock or other nomads travelling down the roads.

Dinner was great – my first gozleme (pancake/crepe with cheese and spinach, sometimes mince meat or tomato, an addiction that was long to be sated in other spots in Turkey). His parents were smiley happy people, who made fresh yoghurt for us, and served Coca-cola in bottles.

Gozleme, roast potato, rice, spring onion, yoghurt, and Coke. Traditional Turkish meal.

TJ took us out to a neighbouring nomadic Turk village, without running water (he pointed out the rubble latrines), rusty utes and farm animals in rubble wall enclosures. Out came running one seriously cute pre-teen girl, selling handwoven bags and wooden charms (“1 Lira!”), smiling sweetly and modestly hiding behind TJ. Five minutes later, the square was a marketplace, full of unfurled rugs, bags, crocheted scarfs and colourful village grannies grabbing at our arms and gleefully shoving their products in our faces:

Carpet, laid out.

Quick! Foreigners to sell stuff to!

The prices were awesome: hand made, natural wool and dyed carpets, large sizes around 200 lira (about 150-180 Australian). Small around 50 lira. I ended up buying a couple of wood charms from the cutie girl, and a crocheted scarf from one of the old ladies.

Another story: there was a white scarf, with wonderful embroidery on it, which I expressed interest in – 20 lira, fair price. It was a little dirty, though, and I was contemplating whether I wanted to get something that would need serious dry cleaning; with TJ translating, the lady explained it was old, ‘antique’ even, explaining why it was marked; it was a wedding scarf, designed for a hope chest or a dowry. Interesting I thought. Then it was said, ‘Oh it’s from her wedding’, TJ said of the old woman who was trying to sell me the scarf. Knowing full well that the lady would really prefer to have 20 lira than to holding onto a sentimental piece (and, who knows, she probably hated her husband and would be glad to get rid of the rag), I just couldn’t bring myself to buy something that had such significance, for such a price that seemed so insignificant. It did occur to me later that the ‘It’s from my wedding’ statement may have been a ruse to get me to buy it that backfired. Anyway, I’m pretty happy with the scarf I got, and later down the track I bought a lot of things from wizened old nomadic Turkish grannies, who insistantly, tapped, shouted, grinned, and hugged me to make me buy their stuff. I bought some Turkish granny dolls to give to friend’s daughters as a souvenir of their extreme nuttiness – they look just like their living counterparts.

Mind, poverty is relative.

Of course, just when you think you’re in a place as impoverished as it can get, never forget that they have satellite tv, and you don’t 😛

I doubt they’re paying Foxtel’s exhorbitant fees, anyway.

Assos

Stalls outside Assos.

After the nomadic village, we went to Assos, an ancient greek ruin, with views across the Aegean to Lesvos Island (yes, that’s also known as Lesbos). It’s a tourist site that the foreign tourists rarely see – apparently the Turks swarm here at certain times of the year (we were outside the season, in April anyway). The Tout Gauntlet, a phenomenon which follows us everywhere throughout the middle east (where touts and shop merchants harrass you into buying their cheap trinkets), was relatively calm – especially since most of the stalls were closed. I did buy some socks from some more nomadic old ladies, considered the jewellery and contemplated more scarves (I was still undecided about whether it was the right choice to leave the white wedding scarf behind).

Assos is up really high, and there were some seriously magnificent views from up there. Otherwise, there’s not much of a reason to go there (as opposed to massive Graeco-Roman ruin sites like Efes and Palmyra), although the beautiful grey rock and the traditional village are interesting.

Panorama of the Assos site.

TJ demonstrates the best view.

View from Assos.

Cute lady at Assos.

Turkish ‘Culture’ Night

Okay, these nights are usually pretty lame, and avoided like the tourist plague, but this one was funny from several levels. There’s the belly dancer who was, admittedly, better than the other pitiful excuse we saw at the Orient Hostel in Istanbul, but a bit beyond her time (and clad in some serious sequins that would make Britney proud); paired with the hotel manager, Ramazan, who was getting into it a little too much. There were a series of teens from either a local dance troupe or a high school group, doing traditional performances; while the girls and most of the guys were more shy than outstanding, one of the boys was quite talented. However, the highlight was the food (some may complain about the over abundance of carbohydrates, but me being the carb-addict I am, loved every sticky-rice-potato-bread part of it); and a dear old man who played Waltzing Matilda on the accordion.

Mezze (appetizer plate).

Teenage dancers.

Nasty local liqueur.

Nasty liqueur ahoy!

Can’t remember the name of the local Turkish liqueur: raki? It’s NASTY. Aniseed flavoured tequila, it may as well have been.

Turkey: Gallipoli

Gallipoli

After waiting with a handful of other Aussies and Kiwis outside the Aya Sofia, I boarded the TJ’s Tours bus, and headed the five hours out to the Gallipoli Peninsula, to a small town called Eceabat: the closest to the Gelibolu (Gallipoli is an anglicised version of the Turkish name) National Park. From there, blue totes full of processed snacks and a couple of bread rolls were thrown into our laps (including an oh-so-tacky-that-it’s-cool red and blue bucket hat with embroidered Aussie, Kiwi, and Turkish flags), and we headed out to the organised chaos of the Anzac commemoration site.

Anzac Cove at sunset.

I’ve seen plenty of pictures of the scrubby place, which again reminded me of the scrublands south east of Adelaide (like near Wellington), but none with the massive infrastructure of the commemoration: it was like being at the Big Day Out, with big screens, volunteers and safety officers in fluro safety vests, and a ‘pre-dawn program’ consisting of documentaries and music performances to entertain the sea of sleeping bagged attendees. We were pretty late: arriving at 8pm, we were forced to find spaces to lie down on the fringes. Some people, arriving at 3am, had to beg spots to sit. I couldn’t see the main event, but being directly under a big screen, I could watch everything happily as I froze to death on the hard ground. I didn’t know anyone there – the bloke I’d been talking to on the bus disappeared (he hurried in to score a spot at the front), so instead I sat with a discontented and homesick beauty queen who alternately scowled and flirted with the cute guy behind us. Luckily, I sat near a Turkish Australian photographer guy who told me about the Turkish side of the event – he pointed out the young Turkish kids from nearby towns who’d come down to see what all the fuss was about. The Turkish who live nearby, he said, thought we were a bit silly to sit in the freezing cold (and usually rain) all night for a service at dawn, in the middle of a national park, in the middle of nowhere, on the other side of the world. I thought that was hilarious. Later when I saw some of the Turkish memorial service, I could understand their amusement: whereas the dawn service and Lone Pine services were solemn, reflecting affairs, the Turkish services were bubbly and full of life, with traditional dancing and up-beat music. Oh, our oh-so-British misery when it comes to memorial services.

But anyway, back to the music-festival-that-was-actually-a-memorial-service:

Sea of Sleeping bags

This year, apparently there were 7,000-8,000 attendees; previous years were as high as 25,000; last year were 10,000.

Big screens. I slept to the right.

Dawn breaks, everyone wanders around dressed in flags and sleeping bags.

I was impressed, though, at the amount of Turkish people who did come: I would really have thought it wouldn’t interest them. But I think the Aussie and Kiwi governments, who pay and organise the whole thing, would like greater Turkish participation in the day – the brochures issued included Turkish translations; excerpts from Turkish documentaries were shown (including one by a Turkish filmmaker that was excellent – narrated by Sam Neil and Jeremy Irons, I’m going to track it down when I get home), and the Turkish President apparently included a video message alongisde Ruddy and the Kiwi Prime Minister (however, I must have been asleep for that bit, because I don’t remember seeing any of them). There was also a lot about Ataturk, the commanding officer in charge of the Turkish forces who fought in Gallipoli, and who later went on to be the driving force behind Turkish independence and democratic reform; he later became good mates with Australian and Kiwi Prime Ministers, and it’s because of his goodwill and respect for us foreign invaders that we have such a good relationship with Turkey today (and can take over their sacred national park for a massive event every year like we do, and can host thousands of drunken 20 year old Australians, which is a hard sell in any country).

After the ceremony I hung around in a high position, waiting to see if I could find Brad and Pamela, who I knew were there somewhere (earlier in the morning, I’d been waiting in the toilet queue when Brad tapped me on the shoulder).

When I found them, we all headed up the steep hill that leads to the Lone Pine memorial site for the Australian service. Again, big screens and grandstands, though this time we sat amongst graves instead of grassed lawns (though, technically, given the amount of dead buried randomly throughout the peninsula, every part of the Gallipoli National Park is a grave site). At this point it was near impossible to stay awake – the announcer, an ABC journalist with a funny goatie, asked the crowd not to ‘lay down’ amongst the graves, but here and there people slumped dozing.

In the chaos after the memorial, some were choosing to head 6km uphill to Chunuck Bair, for the New Zealand service; the rest had given up already, crashing wherever there was shade. I lost Brad and Pam in the throng, and decided to head uphill. Mistake or not, I made up for the oily (but delicious!) Iskender kebab I would eat later that day in that grueling trek – and I didn’t even attend the Kiwi service. However, the sun was out, and the views across the Dardanelles were without comparison: I was kicking myself that my camera battery had died earlier that morning (tuckered out by Topkapi Palace and the Dawn Service). There was a reward at Chunuck Bair though: Turkish Icecream, chewy and wonderful, though no comparison to gelati, of course.

The NZ service ended at 1:30pm. Now, imagine getting 7500 Australasians onto tour buses all at once, in a tiny one-lane road, in a national park not that different to Belair. Imagine the chaos.  Our tour organiser was ‘mates’ with the local police, so our buses were the first to leave, thankfully – but some friends didn’t get out till 7pm. Meanwhile, we were ferried, exhausted, cold, and grotty, back to Eceabat, where we had a bizarrely civil three course dinner, and met the infamous ‘TJ’ responsible for all the insanity.

Enduring memories of the dawn service:

1. It was f___king cold. Thankyou thankyou thankyou Caro for that sleeping bag! It saved my life.

2. As I sat near the food stalls, the enduring sound of the night will be ‘kebab! kebab! Chucken kebab!’. The pushy capitalistic ‘Kebab/Kebab’ sellers penetrated even in this little fantasy zone, even though there were no other choices for food as we were a good 10 kilometres from the nearest market or take away store.

3. Turkish capitalism extended even further than in Istanbul. I expected to find a carpet seller just a few stalls down if I’d kept walking. Instead there were guys selling polyester rugs and cushions, starting at 30 lira at the beginning of the night, leading to 5 lira just before dawn; home printed ‘ANZAK’ t-shirts and jumpers; random second hand clothing, beanies and gloves; 5lira coffee (thats $5 AUD – not filtered, Nescafe of course); and even Aussie and Kiwi flags.

4. An appreciation of Ataturk – he was the Nelson Mandela or Abraham Lincoln of his country – guy did some good things.

4. And, a feeling of gentle horror, dealt by an Andrew Denton documentary – an excerpt of which was shown before the dawn service: he walked in a plow field on the peninsula, and picked up shell casings, bullet casings, teeth and human bones from the cracked soil. Every part of the peninsula is a cemetery. As I was walking up the gravel road to Lone Pine, I looked down with a sick feeling in my stomach expecting to find a piece of soldier somewhere.

Returning to Eceabat, I lay straight down on my bed after checking in and, like everyone else, slept until late evening. I had that Iskender kebab (lamb kebab with a tomato sauce and yoghurt – really really good), and joined the others to watch Gallipoli; I survived up to the point where they’re in Egypt, and went back to bed.

Battlefield Tour

My tour included a tour of the battlefields the next day. It was a case of revisiting everywhere I’d been the day before, except more awake and with a guide.

TJ is a Turkish Eceabat native, who grew up in a nomadic Turkish village, before somehow ending up living in New South Wales. He said his name refers to his ‘Tom Jones’ haircut. Now married to an Australian, he spends his summers alternately in Australia managing a Turkish restaurant in Aubury Wodonga, and in Turkey managing his hostel. He’d become somewhat of a Gallipoli national park expert, and his tour of the battlefields is the best of the (many) tours I’ve taken in Turkey (and there’s been some shockers).

Unlike the day before, which had been warm and clear, the day we returned to the battlefields (in which I actually had a working camera), it was rainy and overcast until the afternoon. Brilliant.

Geographic map of the peninsula - one long ridge, surrounded by beaches and scrubland.

TJ demonstrates where 'Anzac Cove' is on both maps.

Anzac cove, with WWII bunkers.

Anzac cove, now nicely reinforced with stone retaining walls, is also littered with World War II bunkers – Turkey stayed neutral in WWII but built concrete bunkers along the Dardanelles and Aegean seas ‘just in case’.

WWII Bunker.

Grave stone of John Simpson, the Donkey guy.

The ‘Sphinx’, named so by the Anzacs in affection for the Egyptian sphinx which they’d trained under.

Wreaths from the previous days ceremony dumped by the cleaning crew.

Statue commemorating the Turkish soldier who carried a Brit to safety.

Lone Pine memorial with wreaths.

the ‘lone pine’ at Lone Pine. Grown from the seeds of the original, which was cut down in the course of the hand-to-hand battle that happened here.

Australian trenches.

Aussie tunnel.

Turkish gravestone. It means the boy, Mehmet Jarahimoglu, from Gelibolu, born 1890, died at 23 years of age.

Turkish memorial.

Ataturk at Chunuck Bair.

Turkish trenches near Chunuck Bair.

TJ tour group, me on the left.

The tour continued the next day with a visit to Troy, Assos and TJ’s parents village …

Istanbul: Aya Sofia and Topkapi Palace

Istanbul Main Events

In Istanbul the biggest (and most ridiculously expensive) sights are the Aya Sofia, a 1500 church slash mosque built by the Roman Emperor Justinian, and the Ottoman built Topkapi Palace.

Aya Sofia

She looks like a big red monolith of bricks, bubbles and boxes from the outside; and she’s falling apart on the inside; but she’s still incredible. Incredibly huge, and architecturally ambitious, this shrine to ‘Holy Wisdom’ (‘aya/hagia sofia’) was built by Justinian as a Christian cathedral. When the Muslims arrived, the Byzantine mosaics were whitewashed and modifications done to convert it to a mosque; Ataturk had the wisdom in the 30’s, when Turkey gained her independence, to convert it to a secular museum. Now renovations continue, jostled by competing relgious interests over which period each section should be restored to reflect: the Christian mosaics or the Islamic frescos?

She’s in a bit worse condition than, say, St Peters in the Vatican (her only real rival for historical significance), but just remember 1500 years old.

Aya Sofia, exterior.

It was rare to get a shot of the Aya Sofia without a hundred white coaches included: the front carpark is usually stacked head to tail with tour buses. In fact, most tours to/from other parts of the country, including my tour to Gallipoli, departed from there.

Fountain outside side entrance of Aya Sofia.

Outside of every mosque there will be a fountain with sinks where the faithful can wash their feet and hands before entering the sacred place. The one outside the Aya Sofia was absolutely opulent and elegant.

Emperors Gate ... renovated by Tim the Toolman.

 I entered via the side Emperor’s Gate – armed with Anne Marie’s Rick Steves book (on a side note I’d always been dismissive of Rick Steve’s travel books, but they’re actually pretty good if you want to avoid taking guided tours, and still want to get as much as possible out of each site.) The door here is massive and gorgeous; only problem, at some point in history, someone had the bright idea of raising the floors so … the gates can never close. Smart thinking that.

Looking into the main auditorium.

She’s opulent. She’s big. She’s multi-dominational.

Restored cielings.

Side dome.

Ah - Holy Virgin Mary mosaic above the altar ... yep, definitely a Christian building.

 

But wait - isn't that an Islamic altar, subtly tilted towards Mecca?

Look at all the little ants next to the scaffolding ... now do you have an idea of the massiveness of the place?

So, yeah, it’s a huge massive basilica. Significant and worth seeing – especially when the renovations are finished, potentional in 2050.

Topkapi Palace

The other main draw is the massive opulent Ottoman Emperor’s palace, right behind the Aya Sofia, and with line of sight to the Blue Mosque.

It’s a bizarre mixture of traditional Turkish architecture with a little Versailles thrown in. It’s ridiculously expensive – $35 AUD in total, including entrance to the Harem – but, hey, I and thousands of others paid it.

Entrance gate to Topkapi - with minaret of Aya Sofia to the left. It is literally behind the Aya Sofia.

Above the pergola standing outside the entrance gate. I think it may be a tomb?

Italian influence cieling rose.

Well worn entrance.

Me not taking photos in the Treasury, very very sneakily.

 

Emperor's uniform in the treasury.

Summer palace cieling.

Gates near Harem entrance.

Now who is like Versailles?

European inspired decoration in Harem.

Harem audience room.

Cielings in Prince's quarters.

Emperor's bedroom.

Cieling in Harem.

Harem courtyard. Awesome architecture.

Gardens at Topkapi.Overall, I was a little under-awed by Topkapi.

I have been ruined by the amazing palaces at Versailles (France) and Potsdam (Germany); I was hoping for extreme ludicrous Arabian opulence; while there were moments in the Harem, most of Topkapi is quite plain; either that, or the more extremely beautiful rooms didn’t survive or aren’t on display. How much is there yet to see?Apparently I’ll get my fill of Arabian opulence when I head south … can’t wait.

Further notes on why Istanbul is awesome 

 

The Tulips. Seriously, this was the best time of year to visit Istanbul – did you know tulips originate from this area? They’re everywhere – ‘Flanders’ Poppies, too. I’ve gone insane taking photos of wild flowers, tulips and poppies.

Random bits of Byzantine/Roman/Ottoman architecture. Bits and pieces, excavated during renovations and construction, are scattered throughout the city. Ruins are everywhere. Wandering towards the Chora Museum, we discovered an aqueduct (Roman), and an old mosque (Ottoman) and of course, the Byzantine church which is the Chora Museum – 1600 years in one three hour trip. Nice work.

But I can’t get over the bits of Roman architecture just sort of … around:

Roman random architecture. And more tulips.

So, from here I loaded up my bag – sans any souvenirs as I was still in shock at Istanbuli prices – and headed to the Aya Sofia unofficial bus station and joined TJ’s Option 5 Tour: 5 days on the Gallipoli peninsula, including side trips to Troy, Assos and a ‘home cooked meal at TJ’s parent’s house’ …

Istanbul Again

 Reading: East of the Sun, about British women and their dreadful naievity in colonial India. Now I’m reading The Perks of Being A Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky, apparently one of the top 10 texts which American readers want banned for under 18’s (hence why I was reading it) and you know what, it’s excellent. Every kid should read it.

 Doing: Today, sleeping in a cave. Best sleep of the trip so far. I contemplating going down the street to get a kebab, but really didn’t feel up to dealing with the kebab-kebab!/want-to-buy-a-carpet? people today.

Watching: Who forgot to tell me that Good News Week is back on??? Thank god for iPod touches, I can download it on the road.

Istanbul

Finally, I’m on a computer that isn’t ready for the scrapheap, and due to the serious lack of occupancy in this hotel, I can pretty much use it for as long as I want, so I can talk about my trip so far.

Right now I’m in Cappadocia, on the tail end of the Turkey section of this adventure, and I’ve been to Pammukkale, Selcuk and Gallipoli so far.

But going back to where I left off, I was in Istanbul.

Like I said, it’s a pretty wicked city, if filled with crazy drivers, somewhat interesting public transport and want-to-buy-a-carpet sellers.

The Orient really was a shambles: Brad and Pam came for the Anzac party on the 23rd, but I was so sick of the place that I and another guest I met – Anne Marie – retired to our room with smuggled kebabs and ayran, and I missed them. The $5 kebab I ordered, which ended up being upgraded to the $12 kebab without my knowledge, is below: it tasted like re-heated spam and frozen spinach. The rich was alright though. And the wine was very very nice, although ludicrously overpriced.

This meal cost me $20. Not happy Jan. I thought this was supposed to be a low-socio-economic country?

 But anyway, I wasn’t there to sample to hostels.

The Grand Bazaar

Grand Bazaar

… is a lovely tourist attraction, but not quite the bargain hunters paradise I had hoped. I was in quite the disagreeable mood on the day, which doesn’t help when you are hasseled by “Yes! Madam! Please! Hello! Hola! Bonjour! Where are you from?” at every other moment. I did enquire about some prices, but wasn’t in the mood for haggling, especially when I felt I was being taken for all I was worth. I ended up buying my scarf from a seller who advertised his prices: oh how I love it when things have price tags!

For the traveller to Turkey, I do have this advice: if you’re only going to Istanbul, then sure, buy from the bazaar (if you’re prepared to haggle aggressively, you might get a decent price). But if you’re going to any other part of Turkey, then wait: I’ve found most stuff goes down in price once you get closer to it’s point of origin. For example, a backgammon board I looked at in Istanbul was 30lira; the same one in Selcuk 20lira, and I finally bought it in Goreme for 14 lira (from a lovely old guy whose items all had price tags! Yay!).

Also, with the Grand Bazaar, get out of it: go for a walk through the rabbits warrens of streets to the north, and you’ll find the bazaars that the locals shop in, eventually leading you to the Spice bazaar, another tourist attraction. It was rather nice (this was where I got my scarf from). I almost bought the place out of lokum (Turkish Delight), though, so it’s dangerous.

Spices in the Spice bazaar

 Basilica Cistern

Basilica Cistern

… is a Roman underground water tank. Awesome for photographs.

One of the Medusa statues

There are two Medusa sculptures in the cistern, one upside down, one on her side. They were apparently stolen from some conquered city sometime previously, and placed here to protect from evil spirits.

Medusa on her side.

Chora Museum

… is a Byzantine church in which magnificient mosaics were discovered covered in whitewash when the church was convertered into a mosque. The most interesting thing about the church though was the walk there. I went off with American/Brit Anne-Marie who was armed with a Rick Steves tour guidebook, and vague directions from the Orient’s desk clerk. We ended up lost, but wandering past several interesting places, including the remains of an old aqueduct, and the Fatih Camii, a rather pretty mosque (on the outside anyway); and down a main street lined with bridal shops, featuring the most decadent and frou frou uses of synthetic lace and taffeta I’ve ever seen. We did also see the ruins of the walls, and an old palace, now crumbling besides rows of slums.

The Chora Museum was really difficult to find: it’s in the middle of nowhere and it’s not until you burst into a square filled with overpriced tourist shops and touts that you find anything resembling a museum is nearby. It’s also surrounded by slums, shanty shacks and slowly degrading ruins, being a residential area.

But, with the help of a local and a Belgian couple in search of the same place, find it we did.

It was stunning. Incredibly wealthy benefactors at some point supported the creation of these mosaics which are so far beyond anything I’ve seen up to this point. They are so finely formed and detailed that they appear like paintings. Notably, they’re a lot more realistic and advanced than the medieval art I’ve seen much of in France, Italy and Germany – clearly the world lost a lot when the Roman empire collapsed.

Blue frescos, totally gorgeous.

Silk cut marble slabs.

There was a colourful array of marble brought from all over the mediterranean. Noticeably were the symmetrical marble sections as seen above – these are created by cutting marble blocks into fine slices using silk. Yes, silk, the only thing fine enough and strong enough to slowly saw through marble in those days. This kind of decoration is all over Istanbul, including the Aya Sofia.

Jesus mosaic, incredibly finely detailed. It's not a painting, it's done with mosaics.

Restoration works brought out what they could of the mosaics, then left the remaining spaces bare, showing the circular structure underneath.

Lovely dome, with spines structure, covered in gold mosaics.

Blue Mosque

One of the main draw cards is Sultanahmet, the Blue Mosque. Oh she’s pretty, and she’s big, and you know what the best thing is? She was free.

The Blue Mosque

She was also the first mosque I’d ever visited. It’s famous for having an unheard of six minarets – apparently, the Ottoman Emperor was a bit of a megalomaniac. When he was chastised for building as many minarets as the mosque in Medina – a big no no – and was ordered to tear one down, he instead paid for a seventh minaret to be built in Medina.

But the inside is gorgeous:

Interior of the Blue Mosque.

 

 

Well, now I’m dead tired and my cave-room is calling me. There’s still Aya Sofia and Topkapi Palace to come: the main events in Istanbul. Bye.

Misadventures on the way to Constantinople

Reading: The Host by Stephenie  Meyer and let me tell you it’s rather  dull, but bizarrely I’m still keeping with it. I was reading Dostoyevsky, which was much more interesting until the events to be described …

Doing: Walking around a lot from train stations to subways to airports; just recently have I managed to walk around a lot doing touristy things.

Misadventures

It’s begun! My first of ten weeks  of budget stricken travel, starting in Istanbul, taking in Gallipoli and finally ending up in Sevilla. My first stop was … Lille! Yes!  the same little uni city I’ve lived in for six months. Okay, not really, it was the most convenient place to take a bus to London (buses from Brussels run only at 6am – ouch), and I was only there for an hour.

First misadventure: bus was an hour late. I wasn’t so worried. Eurolines buses are famous for being late. However, I was more worried about the fisherman’s strike which was blocking ferries running across the Channel. This turned out not to be a problem: for the first time, Eurolines fronted up the extra cost to take the Eurotunnel train. However;

Second misadventure: the bus driver left me behind at the boarding gates. For real. I went to the toilet,  put the book I’d been reading on the toilet paper dispenser, and was then surprised by a man’s voice yelling in a slavic language. Assuming – correctly, it turned out – the bus driver had come to gather us toilet-goers. I hurried through my business, only to be met with an empty parking lot, and  the Eurolines bus disappearing into the distance. Arsehole. The Eurotunnel operators had a wry smile on their face – clearly this sort of thing happens all the time. They drove me out to the train, told me to wait till boarding had finished, and then let me walk up 20 train cars to  my coach, in the first car. The bus driver nodded and smiled at me. Prick.

Third misadventure: I’d left the book sitting on the toilet dispenser! Major big deal, I was really enjoying the bloody thing! Now I’m stuck on my travels with nothing to read.

Fourth misadventure: I had to sleep at Gatwick, and not on Brad’s sofa. I hadn’t realised it was so difficult to get to Gatwick at 2am in the morning.  But that wasn’t a big issue: by the time I’d arrived, there were about thirty other passengers doing the same thing – oldies included. When I woke up, I swear there more like a hundred. I laughed a little when I saw the sofas in the cafe on the second floor full of sleeping passengers,  some of which had even been decent enough to buy a cup of coffee before doing so.

Fifth misadventure: EasyJet are a lot stricter about their carry-on baggage size than Ryanair, and my backpack, sleeping bag and hand bag didn’t quite make it. I pleaded poverty to the assistant (checking in my backpack as hold luggage would have cost 13pounds), shoved my handbag into my desperately groaning backpack, and shoved the whole thing into the Carry-On dimensions gauge. It got stuck – I had to push it out the bottom. ‘You know, I really shouldn ‘t let you through?’ she said, before letting me through. She did warn me that the gate assistant may not let me in; however, the gate assistant didn’t even bat an eyelid at the dozen or so people bringing in three or four hold-sized bags each, so my little bursting backpack with attached sleeping bag was no issue.

Actually, from there, it’s gone pretty smoothly.  I estimate that 2/3rds of my flight were Australian or New Zealander; despite being a flight to Turkey, there were perhaps only a couple of non-English speaking travellers. I’d expected the transfer from Sabiha Gokcen airport to Sultanahmet (the backpacker hub of Istanbul) to be  difficult, but the Havas bus took me to Taksim easily enough, and from there it was relatively easy to use a map and a compass to get to the tram line.

Orient Hostel is a dump, but apparently most of the hostels in Istanbul, and at least it’s not terribly expensive: AUD $70 for three nights, not as bad as, say, a French hostel. I’m looking forward to Egypt, though, where the hostels are AUD$6 a night. Now here comes my usual money grump: my main hiccup here is food: I’d been happy to book into a hostel that doesn ‘t have a guest kitchen because I’d  expected to be able to buy cheap meals in their restaurant. Turns out their ‘restaurant’ is a dodgy money spinner, with AUD$7 house wine and $12 kebabs. Turkey is the home of kebab! Why is it that I can get a decent kebab (yiros) at home for  $5 in the middle of the city, but not here? Even in Lille, the most a kebab would put me back was AUD$ 10. My bag full of tea bags and spices are sadly going wasted here – here’s hoping the rest of Turkey has some monetary sense.

So, I’m already exploring alternative avenues of food, leading me to a dodgy conversation with a drunk  Turk in a nearby convenience store. He promised to pay for half a bottle of wine if I would share a glass with him, and then told me he’d pay for my chips (Lays, some bizarre Turkish flavour that was really really really good) and orange juice (Minute Maid – not not not good. Coca-Cola and Tetra-Pak have made it all the way out here it seems). I didn’t let him, of course, and the shop keeper gave me a sympathetic look when I paid. I later saw the same drunk chasing some middle aged British tourists, before stopping to chat to a local shopkeeper.

Istanbul

… really is a bizarre and cool city, though I do wish I’d come here with more money, and taken the time to choose a better hostel (I went with Orient cos they came highly recommended by Lonely Planet. I must have a really really old edition).

I’ve definitely been beset by ‘Hello? Where are you from?’, ‘Are you lost’, and ‘Do you want to buy a carpet?‘, followed by ‘Bonjour? Bongiourno? Hola?’  as I ignored them (touts and scammers are everywhere here). I went out to the Grand Bazaar, more out of love of the Tea Party song and out of a need to buy a scarf, than for any touristic interest. It’s gorgeous, ancient and full of action: but the goods are mostly the same sort of things I could find in Central Market back home, and the Pashmina scarfs were three or four times  the price.  I was quoted 45 Turkish Lira for a cashmere-silk blend scarf I’d liked; even haggling wouldn’t get it down to the price I was thinking about spending: 5lira (the Lira to Aussie dollar is not-quite-but-almost parity, and I’m working on a 15dollar a day budget).  So, I walked around a little more, and bought a 5lira scarf somewhere else (100% Cotton! Made in  Turkey! the sign claimed, but I’m sure it was more 100% Polyester! Made in China!).

It started raining after that, which, after eating  ( AUD$8 for a wrap and a cup of tea! I thought this was a low socio-economic country. Oh, I’m going to be broke really quickly), forced me back to bed for half an hour. I did drag myself out again to go to the Blue Mosque and the Basilica Cistern, of which I’ll talk about when I get my pictures in order.

Now, back in Orient Hostel (after my meal of Lays chips and Minute Maid), I’m here for the promised ‘Belly Dancing show’ which is actually so far the fat hostel assistant in shorts, a clown wig and a sequined skirt. Something tells me I’m going back to bed.