Turkey – Day 7

Turkey – Day 7

Getting up in the morning was not the easiest, but we did it. Walking the couple of hundred meters from the hostel to the train station, at 6am, we were accosted by someone who was very persistant in his enquiries about whether we needed help – no doubt because he was behind on his boy scout daily deeds of good. This sort of thing was beginning to wear a little thin on us, most notably Richard. The train to the airport at Izmir and the subsequent flight to Ataturk airport in Istanbul were uneventful to the point that I can actually no longer remember them at all, so I'll skip all that.

I remember getting back to Istanbul, though, because on the way back to our hostel, Richard and I jumped onto a tram that was about to leave, while Gareth had been fiddling with something, unnoticed, behind us. We found it hilarious, as you do, when the doors closed with him still on the platform, and had a good laugh about it until we realised that we'd jumped on the tram going in the wrong direction. Needless to say, Gareth did the gentlemanly thing and never mentioned the incident again (those who know Gareth can have a good cynical laugh at this point).

There were a few things which I still wanted to see in Istanbul – the grand bazaar, the aqueduct of Valens, the mosque of the conquerer, and the walls of Theodosius. The other guys, I think, were rather touristed out, but they came along anyway. We managed to find the grand bazaar pretty easily, but finding our way out again was a bit of a mission. I think it would have been much better to visit this on our first day, as, going through when you are tired and irritable, you're less inclined to think charitably of people grabbing your sleeve and trying to haul you into their store. I must say, when I got back to England after this trip, I actually appreciated (for at least a day or so) the particular English take on customer service where they completely ignore you. The grand bazaar is a pretty cool place, I guess, but I think it'd be a much better place if you're not a white guy. The rule of tourist Istanbul applied here too – prices hideously over-inflated, people not as nice as other parts of Turkey.

Finding the aqueduct was more difficult than you'd think – we had a map, and it runs in a great line right across the city. After much wandering around, two ice-creams each, and an unplanned trip to Istanbul university, we eventually found a rather disappointing remnant of the aqueduct. This was somewhat demoralising, as it's quite tough going wandering around in the Turkish sun. This was when we met the second shoe-shine merchant who “dropped” a brush in our path. I seriously felt like picking up his brush and keeping on walking, or flicking the thing over the nearest wall, but I think that common sense prevailed – spending your last day in a foreign country in hospital would be a dampener. Needless to say, Gareth and I had a good time giving Richard a ribbing about this. “You didn't pick up the brush, Richard?” “Are your sandals shiny enough, Richard?”

A little more walking along the line of the aqueduct paid dividends, as we came across a point where a main road had been laid at right angles to it, passing seamlessly through it, an intersection of modern and ancient. I felt that this was an apt analogy for Istanbul, as I'd seen it – a modern piece of infrastructure lying in the shadow of a glorious ancient construction, fallen into disuse and ill repair, but still imposing in it's form and history. We saw a couple of people sitting on top of the aqueduct, and thought that that looked like fun, but our attempt to find a way up led us into pretty slummy areas very quickly, and every way that we could see looked to involve clambering over chain-link fences and then a little monkey-work on the crumbling aqueduct itself. We abandoned the idea, intrepid adventurers that we are, and moved on, having first obtained some good photos.

The mosque (and tomb) of Mehmet the Conquerer was a bit further out, and we walked there in the sweltering heat. Mehmet was the man who conquered Istanbul and the surrounding area, finally putting paid to the Roman empire after almost 2000 years of continuous existence; but more of that later... Needless to say, by the time we'd found the mosque, we were in need of a sit-down, which is what we did. The complex itself is an excellent place to sit in peace, peace being what it has in abundance. Once recovered, we went and found the tomb. The tomb itself is pretty unassuming, given that we were now used to seeing buildings like the Hagia Sofya, but the solemnity inside was something to experience. We'd dressed for the day according to the heat, and not according to Muslim sensibilities, and I was acutely aware of the fact that I was in jeans and a t-shirt. I have never felt so alien as I did when I walked into this solemn place of worship, so obviously there as a tourist, and observed people deep in prayer or religious contemplation. I was so self-conscious of this that I couldn't bear it for very long – I got up and left, and hung around outside, waiting for the other two. This was an interesting turn of events, as it had been me that pretty much set the agenda for the day with the things that I wanted to see. When Gareth came out, he was somewhat annoyed at me for having left so early, as he had felt that he was sharing in something peaceful and profound. The fact that he was in shorts and a t-shirt, and therefore very much not dressed for contemplation in a Muslim shrine didn't bother him at all. I'm not sure to this day whether I was over-sensitive, or he was insensitive. From a purely selfish point of view, though, he had a better experience...

The other guys were feeling pretty knackered by this point, and were ill inclined to accompany me out into the slums to see the walls of the city. The Theodosian walls were famous in the dark ages as the ultimate in city defence – they were the benchmark with which other city defences were compared. As usual, if you want to find out more about them, look on wikipedia – some pompous prat with more time on his hands than this pompous prat will have written screeds on the subject. I felt that I had to go because my father, showing his oft-obscured poetic side, had texted me to say that I should “stand on the breach in the walls of Theodosius and weep for the empire.” So I had an obligation, nay, a quest, to fulfil, and fulfil it I did. The fascinating thing about Istanbul is the way it was conquered, and conquered again, and each time, the conquerors pretty much left things as they were and built around them. This had happened in Topkapi, the area around the walls, as well. When you think of “the breach in the walls,” you think of a small but discernible gap in an otherwise intact wall; this is misleading. Mehmet had a number of large cannons, which fired large stone cannonballs – the breach is the best part of a kilometre long, and the shattered walls were never rebuilt. Well, sections have now been restored for commercial purposes, but they were never rebuilt militarily – the slums just grew up around them. The nice thing about being out there on the walls was that it wasn't a part of the standard tourist package, so I was the only non-turkish face in sight, standing at a place where something historically pivotal happened. Well, symbolically, anyway – the Empire was screwed at that point either way.

Anyway, that was the last day that we had in Istanbul. We spent the night on the terrace at the hostel, drinking beer (yay for secular states!) and playing cards. The next morning we made our way to the airport and back to England.

Turkey - Day 6

I know that I've not been exactly punctual with these things, but look at it from my side - it's difficult to write these things and have a life at the same time!

Actually, looking at it fairly, that should really read "I'm too lazy to write these things. I am a failure as a personal communicator." There, happy now? Pushy bunch, aren't you?

Ok, on to Ephesus. This was the bit that I'd been looking forward to, but I hope that you'll forgive me for keeping this short - otherwise I'll give up and go do something more interesting - there's a bar just upstairs that's calling my name, you know. Be grateful for what you're getting!

Righto, we got up earlyish, and headed out towards Ephesus. As you'd imagine, by the time we got there, we were absolutely boiling, sweaty, and generally probably not the most pleasant to the olefactory senses, but in that we were in good company. Or at least lots of company.
The entrance to the complex was heaving with tourists, mostly with American accents, the more juvenile of which were heard to complain vociferously about the heat, the walking, the boringness and the lack of TV in one of the greatest places I've ever visited. Some people are an advertisement for "money doesn't make you better" (along with "bigger does not equal better" - they weren't the slimmest). Anywho,
gripe over, but that really annoyed me. I'd have given someone elses right arm to visit Ephesus on someone elses money in my formative years.

The place continued packed throughout, until the church and the magical bit of the day, but that's getting a little ahead of ourselves. Needless to say, we'd entered through the exit, and so we first encountered the upper agora. This was fantastic - what ruins should be. A vast flat area covered in the remains of steps, columns
etc, lined with walls. Have a look at the photos, but yeah, that was cool. We climbed up a small theatre, and had a look around from the top, posed (obviously) for a couple of photos, and then wandered onwards.

I won't go through all of the things that we saw, just touch on the main parts. Otherwise I'll be here all night. The facade for the library was magnificent, and we actually studied the back of it in immense detail. This had nothing to do with standing in the shade recovering for a length of time...

Then we got onto the impressive stuff. The first thing that strikes you when you reach the Arcadian Way is the mammoth theatre on your right. And I mean mammoth! You don't really get the feeling that you're in the capital of Roman Asia province until you're looking up from the floor of a theatre and the features of your friend
three-quarters the way up are reduced to "the guy in the shorts and the t-shirt."

The second thing that strikes you is the column-lined road stretching towards where the port used to be, dead straight in true Roman style.
This will come up a little later.

Pushing past yet another guy trying to sell me ancient coins that he'd probably knocked together the day before, we passed a really tacky show of people in vaguely Roman dress doing a five minute circus act, and headed further on. And struck paydirt. There was a side-track, poorly sign-posted as a byzantine church dating to the 6th century. Once we'd got down there, we were utterly alone, wandering around the ruins of this ancient church. Gareth and I had some fun framing some photos, and then we decided to wander out amongst the ruins, sitting tantalisingly close to the church, and intriguingly un-signposted.
Mysterious!

We actually didn't find out what those ruins were, but clambering through them, was brilliant. There was no one else about, as we climbed to our hearts content over fallen pillars and broken steps, the tumbled rubble that remains of the works of the mighty, against the backdrop of the enduring greatness of Roman construction. The
great prize of this, though, was yet to come. Clambering over a pile of precariously poised pieces of masonry, we came almost by accident on the port of Ephesus - the point where the harbour once came to. The Arcadian Way once stretched from the water's edge to the city proper, and there we were, standing at the end of the road, looking back up at the city. This is what experience should be, this is what I wanted out of travelling - a single moment of perfection, unadulterated by crowds and noise and dirt, the vision hanging inviolate in the baking air, as if we were the only people there, discovering the ruins for the first time. Casually sauntering down that marble-paved, column-lined road towards an ancient city was one
of the most magical experiences of my life. As you wandered up the road, watching the roiling crowds of tourists through the heat haze rising off the marble, you could imagine that you were looking at the city as it was in ancient times.

Anywho, the rest of the day was fairly straight-forward. Richard hustled us away from a man shining shoes, which we thought was amusing. It wasn't until later that we realised he'd done that because he didn't want us to see the man's price list. I wonder what it was. I'll bet it was nowhere near YTL35…

Day 5

This one is fairly short, and has no photos. The short version goes as follows:
We got on a bus at Cannakale. We got off the bus at Selcuk, some 7 or 8 hours later.

The longer version includes a few bits after that, such as the guy who accosted us at the otogar in Selcuk and asked us if we needed any help finding a place to stay, and then got very offensive when we said no. And having the worst meal of our journey in Turkey. I think we should have got the idea when there was noone else at the restaurant, but we didn't. We should have got a hint when we ordered drinks, and the waiter wandered up the street and came back a couple of minutes later with a clinking paper bag. Anyway, I'd recommend against that restaurant, if only I could remember what it was called. Mind you, I doubt it'll be in business long...

Coming into the town, the first sight that captures your eye is the crusader castle which sits atop the only hill in the river-plain town. A Turkish flag flies from the top of it, and you're not allowed into it as it's a military... something-or-other. We never found out. I'd really have liked to wander around inside a crusader castle. I guess I'll just have to wait 'til we do Syria-Jordan-Egypt, huh Gen?

We wandered around Selcuk after arriving and having shaken off the tosser at the otogar. We were told by the hostel that they had a pool, and trust me, when you're in Turkey in summer, a pool sounds like a good idea. They mentioned to us that you had to walk a couple of streets to get to it - that was alright by us. Unfortunately they were understating somewhat, and the pool turned out to be most of the way to Ephesus. It was certainly refreshing once we got there, but the amount of green stuff on the sides and bottom made the idea of putting your feet down slightly less than appetising. I think that growing up in New Zealand has spoiled me slightly. Still, the pool was, in spite of everything, very welcome. By the time we came to walk back to town, it was through the (relative) cool of the evening. Walking there along the side of the road, the temperature pleasant, the land stretching out ancient and alien and beautiful around me, I thought "I could get used to this." Turkey is not the lush green of New Zealand, it doesn't have the rugged alpine grandeur or the fertile rolling land, but it undoubtedly has a beauty of it's own.

Getting back to town and having a truly awful meal, we proceeded to wander the town, seeing the sights. There were bits and pieces of an aqueduct in varying states of repair, but generally there wasn't really too much to see. We went back to the hostel to get some sleep, because the next day we were heading to Ephesus, the place I'd most looked forward to seeing.

Day 4 - Part Deux - Gallipoli

Photos here

Please excuse the amount of navel-gazing which goes on in these posts. As you may have worked out by this point, "blown away" would be the most accurate description of my state of mind whilst travelling through Turkey. I’ve decided that while the bits and pieces that I’ve seen are fantastic, if you really want to know about what they look like, or the history behind them, or the stories behind them, the chances are that wikipedia will give you a better description than I could. Well, more accurate, anyway. What I can do here, on this page, is describe how seeing these things, and being in these places, made me feel. Unfortunately, with such an aim in mind, and in a "blown away" mind at that, navels come into direct focus at time, and are locked in the grip of a steely gaze. Yes, I’m being figurative. No, I’m not talking about actual navels. Get your mind out of the gutter. What I’m trying to say is: the navel-gazing will continue. Deal with it. If you don’t like it, read someone else’s blog. I suggest Scott Adams, the writer of Dilbert – he writes a good amusing blog devoid of navels.

Anywho, on with the Turkey day 4. Having left behind the wars of ancient history and mythology, we headed for the site of more recent war and mythology. The tour started off with a ferry trip across the straights, which, my tendency towards sea-sickness notwithstanding, was great. Gorgeous clear skies, flat water, a bit of a breeze tempering the scorching sun, a clear view of the forts guarding the Dardenelles… Idyllic. Getting onto the coach at the other end, we were driven to a restaurant which was providing the lunch that was included in our tour. After lunch, we bought a t-shirt each from a chap who’d set himself up outside the restaurant – Anzac day prints which he had obviously not managed to sell on Anzac day. We paid $5 apiece, probably a huge rip-off – they were the worst quality t-shirts I’ve ever seen. Not that it mattered – I accidentally left mine on the coach at the end of the day anyway...

Onwards we were driven to a museum of the Gallipoli campaign replete with memorabilia from the campaign - full kit from British, Kiwi, French, Australian and Turkish soldiers, numerous letters written by soldiers to various loved ones in remote corners of the world, plus munitions and all the other odds and ends you'd expect. It's remarkable how old the design of the kits was, and how simple, how spartan. When you compare it with the paraphernalia of the modern military, it really was pretty simple stuff that they had to rely on. I'd not like to spend a night out in New Zealand in that gear in the winter, let alone try to brave the Turkish winter in it...

After a short talk from Ali (During which he successfully baited a couple of Aussie girls remarkably well - "Turkish women are hard working - they have many babies. New Zealand and Australian women are lazy, and only have one or two babies...") regarding the perspective Turkish people take on the Gallipoli campaign (they have little or no anger about it, and welcome Anzac visitors in a friendly way), we moved on down to the sea shore.

There was a rather large graveyard fronting onto the shore, and that was the first thing that struck you. Then you turned around, and looked at the cliffs that they must have been assaulting, and you realised that that was what they must have been assaulting. You can't help but think that it could all have been a little better planned... Walking down through the graveyard you start to realise how many young men died in a fairly inconsequential campaign. The feeling would return with a vengeance as throughout the day we visited graveyard after graveyard full of British, and Anzac men who were (mostly) killed before they reached my age.

We went from there on through several graveyards, and then stopped at a point where the road passed directly between the two sets of trenches when they were abandoned. It's incredible - they're about ten metres off the road on either side. They could have had food fights when they got bored of shooting each other, if they'd had any food... Actually, apparently that was the coldest winter Turkey had had in ages - they MUST have lobbed snowballs at each other occasionally...

Wandering around the trenches doesn't really give you a sense of how miserable it must have been. There's a nice scent, and the breeze is refreshing, and the sun shines so cheerily down on you, you can't really get a feel for what those guys must have been through.

Capt. Ali had a few things to say here too. His main points were that the soldiers on both sides had a mutual respect for each other, and that by the end of the campaign neither side was shooting much at the other. I'm not sure how true this is, but it makes for a rosy view of the past. The most interesting thing for me listening to this speech was what it showed about an old submarine commander. He wasn't trying to get across, but Ali's speech and demeanour oozed with his respect for Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, his fierce pride in the Turkish military, and his support of a secular government and nation.

The last stop on the tour was the high ground, the highest point on the Gallipoli peninsula, the main objective of the Gallipoli campaign. The New Zealanders actually captured the high ground, but fittingly for the way the campaign was run, didn't have the reinforcements to hold it. The Turks, led by Ataturk, retook it, effectively ending hopes of a successful campaign.
The high ground commands an absolutely glorious view on both sides, and looking down from there leaves you in no doubt as to why so many men died in an attempt to capture it. Not a few of the people wandering around the memorial would have died of heart attacks if they'd had to climb up to it on foot, let alone against guns and determined opposition.

I'm having trouble summing the day up without sounding corny, so I'll leave you with these words from Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the founder of the Turkish Republic:
"Those heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives… you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours… You, the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land, they have become our sons as well."

Day 4 - Part 1 - Troy

Photos here

After arguing long and vociferously the night before about which of the package tours we were going to take, we eventually settled on the one that would pick us up from our hostel. This was because a) it would pick us up from the hostel, b) all the tours offered by the various agents cost the same amount, and c) we strongly suspected that all of the agents were actually selling the same tour. Oh, and d) we were knackered, and couldn't be bothered walking any more, let alone trying to hold another conversation with someone in Turkish.

Bright was the day, and high were our hearts, as we broke our fast on the day of our Troy tour. Events unfolded as I shall now describe - they include a Turkish submarine commander, graveyards and heroic battles.

Actually, to tell you the truth, I don't really think that I can continue the whole piece in epic style, but I'm sure that you get the point - this was an epic day in all sorts of ways.

To start the day off, someone came to collect us from our hostel, as promised. Unfortunately they were on foot, and we had to walk a way before reaching our motorised transport - a rather rickity old van. In the van, we met the main character of today's epic story - a tiny old man by the name of Captain Ali, who was (amoung other things) a retired Captain of the Turkish navy, a scholar specialising in historical troy, an impish story-teller with a knack for mischeivous humour, and (one suspects) something of a hard bastard underneath it all. He betrayed in flashes a disciplinarian streak and some very pro-secular-military political leanings. All in all, I liked him - I thought he was great. If you're ever in Turkey doing a Troy or Gallipoli tour with Fez Tours, ask for Captain Ali Efe. He was great.

Anywho, on with the story. Being driven somewhere by a Turkish driver in a rickity van is not for the faint of heart. Over parched landscapes, along dodgy roads, with no seat belts, we raced towards the site of western culture's most famous epic. The van's tires maintained a strained, tentative, but ultimately successful relationship with the road's surface, and it's suspension maintained a similar relationship with the wheels, and there were a couple of dodgy moments involving corners and speed and cars and narrow road and speed and potholes and speed, but we managed to make it to the destination in one piece. Piling with relief out of the van, into the already sweltering day, we looked through the gates at the Troy national park. Quite frankly, it was unimpressive. I'm not sure what I was really expecting - Achilles and Hector greeting me at the gates with a flash of bronze and a warlike cry? All that I could see were a bunch of low bushes and a tacky wooden horse which had been put up for the benefit of those who hadn't read up before arriving. Actually, those bushes were kind of elucidating - I'd always imagined the scenes from the Illiad being perpetrated amongst New Zealand-like greenery. The scrubby bushes and general yellowness of the surrounds were slowly bringing home to me what was meant by all those flowery descriptions - the flash of bronze from distant troops, the choking dust above the battlefield - this is the kind of country that I was looking at RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT. And that's when I really realised that I was standing in the same place that I'd read about a million times - looking back across 3000 years to a time when the way you recorded history was to write a song about it.

Before I left New Zealand, Genny said to me that the bit that she envied me for most was that moment, when you first stand there, realising the dream of a lifetime, and feel the overwhelming connection with history. Right now, I'd just like to say, Gen, you were 100% right. I can't wait for the Forum Romanum.

Enough soppiness. Ali led us to a little building which had a few information boards up describing the layers of historical Troy, and the dig which the treasure hunter, sorry, archeologist Schliemann conducted. And then, with little further ado, he led us to the ruins. Walking along the outside of the walls, slanted inwards as described in the Illiad, it struck me how solidly put together these walls were. Interlaced stonework for strength, the walls had survived the destruction of the city, innumerable earthquakes, and 3000 years. Actually, most of that is not true - those walls had only survived numerable earthquakes, and then only parts had survived. And the parts that had survived were helped by the fact that they were underground for most of that time. Still, it was impressive. It was cool seeing the tunnel and sharp turn before the gates, a measure to counteract the effectiveness of a battering ram which must have caused headaches for any merchant trying to move goods into or out of the city. Clambering up the hill to an unexcavated part of the site, we sat on rocks resting. Well, actually, I stood on a rock and looked out across the Trojan plain towards the water. Looking out, it was easy to imagine the armies of the Greeks and the Trojans charging back and forth across that flat land, as the ebb and flow of the battle raged. Somewhere below us was the river Scamander, but to tell the truth, I couldn't see it. The smallness of the site did nothing to diminish the wonder that I felt in standing in such a place - in fact, if anything, it made it seem more real.

Everyone was sitting there, waiting for Capt Ali to reanimate. Eventually, he began talking, telling of the evidence which convinced Schliemann that this was the site of Homer's Troy - the constant breeze (windy Illium), the picture-perfect plain, the proximity to the Dardenelles, the river in the right place...

Led around the city, we encountered the archeological uncoverings of different layers of the city. It was fascinating on the one level to find out about the evolution of technologies from one city to the next - how Troy II had unfired mud brick buildings, whereas by the time Troy III was built, fired brick was the material of choice. It was also interesting to learn of the various methods of destruction of each successive city - generally, earthquakes or people did for the city. It's a wonder that the people didn't give up and go somewhere else - they must have felt that they were constantly at war with both men and gods.

Needless to say, the largest and best preserved part of the ruins were those of Troy IX - the Graeco-Roman city founded in the reign of Augustus that died a slow death of asphixiation in the shadow of a burgeoning Byzantium. The fates of Troy IX and Troy VII (historical Homeric Troy) illustrate the truth of that immortal quote from the great poet Kurt Cobain - it's better to burn out than to fade away. Well, if you want people to remember you, anyway. Actually, if you want people to remember you, the Trojan cities probably indicate that you should hire a really good publicist, but anyway... We got a few pictures of ourselves sitting in various mock-imperial poses in the remains of the amphitheatre. I'm sure that in the future, looking back, I'm going to regret all the fun that I had posing for silly photos, but at the time it was all to the good. We also got a quick lesson in how to erect marble columns without having to carve the whole thing from one block, courtesy of our knowledgeable tour guide, complete with illustrative examples ("Here's one I prepared earlier!") Apparently you carve a little hollow in each section that you want to join together, and then pour molten lead into it, where it sets and holds the thing together. Those clever Romans!

Next came the best bit of the tour - we were led to site of the Scaean Gate, in front of which Hector fought bravely and died at the hands of Achilles, and Achilles in turn was shot by Paris. Needless to say, I was rather overcome by the imaginings in my brain, reciting bits and pieces of the story of the Trojan war in my head and fitting them to the landscape around me.

This pretty much concluded our tour of Troy, and we headed back towards the van. Gareth, Richard and I were headed back with Capt Ali to tour throught the Gallipoli battlefields that afternoon, which would provoke greatly different feelings - I guess it's easier to think of glory in conjunction with battle when it's coming at you across 3000 years accompanied by the polished phrases of a professional bard.

We entered the van, slamming the sliding door with a clash like arms on armour, and looked out across windy Illium. The van leapt away like swift-footed Achilles, a last vision of the site's structures glinting in the morning light like bronze touched by rosy-fingered dawn, and in the distance the broad plain stretching out towards the wine-dark sea.


Footnote: I am well-aware that the likelihood of the story of Troy being based more than extremely loosely on fact is not high. I am well aware that there is considerable debate still about whether or not the site I visited corresponds to Homeric Troy in any way. I believe that it does correspond, and that there is a good chance that the story of Troy has some grounding in fact. I believe this not from the point of view of a qualified archeologist, historian or anyone else whose opinion might carry weight - I believe it from the point of view of a romantic who'd like to believe. If you would like to make an acerbic comment regarding this, please leave it on someone else's blog.

Turkey – Day three

Photos here

Well, this one is going to be a short one, despite the day’s being quite a long one. We mapped out and planned our journey from Istanbul to Cannakale (Chan-nak-a-lay) the previous evening, even going so far as to practice getting there via the metro. I have no idea how we managed this – considering how full the previous day had been, it shouldn’t have been possible. Maybe days are longer in Istanbul – maybe they attach a couple of extra hours to the middle of the day. That would explain why it’s so hot – extra sunlight hours… This practice journey was interrupted at one point, when I noticed that a guy had followed us from the tram to the metro and was periodically stopping to wait for us to catch up every time he got too far ahead. This began to worry me the third or fourth time he did it, so I suggested that after he had gone through the turnstile, we go find lunch at a café or restaurant somewhere nearby. I have no idea what his intentions were (maybe he was just trying to be helpful…), but I’m glad that we didn’t have to find out. Funnily enough, this was the point where we finally met some people from outside the tourist areas, and found them to be honest, generous, polite and helpful. I’m afraid that we must have come across as rude and impolite, because we were so suspicious by this point of generosity that we tried to refuse the free bread that they put on our table. But we had an excellent lunch at about a third the price that we’d been paying so far, and I at least began to form some very definite opinions on how to go about this tourist thing…

So anyway, on day three, we got up and moving at an unreasonably early time, had breakfast on the terrace, and made our way out to the otogar (bus station), through the beginnings of rush hour on the metro. Fun. The otogar is a bit confusing at first – the website gives you where you have to go (get out of metro station, find otogar, building number 102), but when you get there, you interpret the information by comparing it with what you already know about bus stations. In New Zealand, we’d have been looking for one building, which was the bus station, with the word ‘Otogar’ written somewhere on it. In Turkey, they take the whole capitalist competition thing VERY seriously. We got out of the metro station, looking for a sign saying Otogar in the large (and I mean LARGE) square outside. It turns out, as we figured out after wandering around aimlessly, that every bus company has it’s own building, and that there are some 160-odd bus companies. It was a true forest-for-the-trees scenario…

So we eventually managed to get on a bus, having eaten another excellent meal at some place that didn’t consider tourists as people to be ripped off as much as possible, and found the bus to be somewhat more comfortable than otherwise expected. They have service staff on their buses for God’s sake! Unfortunately, however comfortable, you’re still stuck on a bus for 7 hours from Istanbul to Cannakale, so it wasn’t the best day of my trip. Still, we got to see a lot of the countryside, which can be best summed up in the word ‘arid,’ and a little entertainment, as the steward guy, having become bored, got into a water-fight with his manager, and then decided to come and bother me. Gareth, little **** that he is, ever quick to seize upon opportunity, whipped out his camera and pantomimed that the guy should pose for a photo, which I put up with, and then give me a kiss. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to put up with that, so Gareth got the picture you see on the site above.

In the end, we reached our destination, traveling the last bit by ferry across the Dardenelles. Having found Cannakale, we went for a bit of a wander around the town, found somewhere to eat, looked at their grossly touristy wooden horse exhibit, and then had a few drinks before bed.

Day 2 –Mosque, Mosque and more Mosque

I wonder if that title is going to trigger FBI alerts? Maybe I should add bomb, Allah, president, and clowns. The last one is just to confuse them…

Photos: http://s221.photobucket.com/albums/dd238/nickwalls/Turkey%20Day%202/

So we woke in our hostel on day two, having had very little sleep; Turkey is a pretty hot place to start off with, and then you have three guys in a small room – it’s less than ideal, let’s leave it at that… The morning wakening takes a bit of getting used to – an eerie wailing begins from every direction, as each mosque tries to outdo the next one in its call to prayer. The other guys later confessed that they found the call to prayer annoying after a while, but for me, every time I heard it, I thought “man that’s cool.” Probably I was just jazzed at being in somewhere that was so palpably different from what I was used to, but I never found it annoying…

I think that it was this morning that I received a message from Dad, telling me to find the breach in the Theodosian Walls, and stand there and weep for the empire. I wouldn’t manage to do this until our last day in Turkey, when I took my leave of the other two, and took a taxi ride to the slums, and wandered around by myself. With no common language at all. But more of that later…

So we got up, and headed up to the terrace to have the breakfast that was included in the price of the room. Call me provincial, but I am not too impressed with Turkish breakfasts. I ate the hard boiled egg, but the salad-type stuff looked decidedly dodgy, and the bread was stale. Looking at what I’m writing now, I’m thinking “God, Nick, you’re a bit precious, aren’t you?” But at the time I just drank a lot of tea, ate the egg and the stale bread, and enjoyed the novelty of eating breakfast in the morning on a terrace overlooking the Bosphorus.

The plan on out first full day in Turkey was to see the Sulan Ahmet Camii (Blue Mosque), and the Hagia Sophia, grab some lunch, then go and see the Topkapi palace. That’s quite a plan for a day, so we got moving relatively swiftly.

Walking up from our hostel, the road led through the square separating the Sultan Ahmet Camii and the Aya Sofya. Standing between these two massive and frankly mind-bogglingly impressive buildings, the effect was undeniable – both were built to impress the magnificence of the city and it’s rulers upon the populace and visitors, and it’d be a hard-bitten world-traveler who wasn’t inspired to awe. Architecture at it’s most imposing…

Heading to the Blue Mosque first, we wisely read up about it beforehand. The guidebook had several suggestions, the most useful of which was to sneak in the exit rather than wait for a half hour behind a million tour groups in the dizzying heat. Naughty guide book! What a thing to suggest! So we waited until the guy on the door was dealing with some question from a tourist, and then ducked through the door. The first thing which impresses one about the inside of the Blue Mosque is the sheer size. There’s not much in the way of internal structures, really – just an internal space of rather immense proportions. We got a little bit of tour guiding by standing in the vicinity of overly loud American accented tour guides, but generally, you’re there for the awe, not the tour (Yeah, I know the rhyme doesn’t quite work. Stop complaining. You don’t have to read this, you know. Right, well as long as you’re sorry, we’ll continue). The floors were entirely carpeted, which must be expensive considering the wear and tear caused by a constant flow of tourists (even if they are all barefoot). Having had a decent look around, listened to a few tourist guides (Gareth translated the Portuguese ones for us), and generally done the whole gawking around thing, we exited the same way we came in.

And onwards, to the Aya Sofya. I’ll let you do your own research about the history of the Aya Sofya. Let’s just say that it is ancient, and monumentally impressive from the outside. The statuary is a little worn, and there is much in the way of Christian symbolism still extant on the exterior of the church. As impressive as the outside is, however, it has not a patch on the inside. Even the antechamber is pretty jaw-dropping, but the vastness of the dome took my breath away. Unfortunately there was some work going on on the inside of the dome, and the scaffolding detracted a little from the mind-boggling awe, and the thumps, crashes and bangs impeded the serenity which one felt should be present in such an ancient place of worship. We got a few pictures, in a couple of which Gareth and I feature, looking gormless. I’d like to say that the awe-inspiring nature of the church removed all our gorm, but I suspect that we were both just born with a sub-normal quota of gorm. We sat a little while and looked at the ceiling, from which a few gold flakes would drop with each shattering crash from the “construction.” One can only assume that they knew what they were doing…

Up a flight of stairs, dips worn in the stone by centuries of ascending feet, there were some original murals to behold. It speaks well of the conquering Turks that they didn’t destroy these when they captured the city – it would have been fairly easy for them to destroy, rather than capture and convert as they did. The Catholics who captured the city during the fourth crusade were not so kind, breaking up the altar, tearing the hangings, stealing the silver, and generally being barbaric…

There are ancient murals on the walls, one depicting Jesus, Mary and John the Baptist, another depicting Jesus and Mary between an emperor and his wife. I’m not sure if that was to imply the emperor’s divinity, or his piety, or just his eagerness to get as far as possible from his wife, but they were impressive none the less. We ran into a couple of Japanese girls who were staying at our hostel, and so got a couple of pictures with them too.

Having seen the centres of religious authority in the city, we thought we’d better have a look at the centre of (ancient) civil authority, so we headed to the Topkapi Palace. The sun was beating down with a vengeance at this point – it really is rather unbearable at times – you spend the entire time dreaming of the cool glass of water that you KNOW you are not going to get, and those few moments that you can catch in the shade are precious beyond belief. Standing in line for tickets to the palace was a curse, as the line was in direct sunlight, and was just awful.

The palace is accessed by walking through a park/garden type of thing, which is a pleasant surprise after the crowds and dirt and hassling bystanders and such of the city, but most of the enjoyment is leached from it by the unforgiving sun. Once through into the palace proper (after they took my pocket knife off me – silly boy for carrying it in my pocket!), you can wander around a bit inside the grounds. After a little of this (again, the heat), we spied the line for the harem, which Genny had told me was the most fascinating part of the palace. Consequently we lined up there, thankfully in some shade. The various tour guides were hawking their services up and down the line in an impressive array of languages, some offering to conduct tours in several languages at the same time. Enduring some blatant and unapologetic line-cutting, we eventually got into the cool of the harem. Walking through the harem was interesting, though there was much consternation from my companions at the conspicuous absence of what might be deemed the harem’s main attractions. I’ll leave you to again do your own research if you want to find out more about the history and daily life of a harem girl. I must say, I found the power structure in the harem interesting, though…

Wandering through the rest of the Palace provided some incredible sights, too, not least a NZ$5 can of coke. But seriously, I was amazed by the immense collection of Chinese pottery and the treasury. I think that the pottery collection was what finally brought it home to me that I was finally standing at the gateway between east and west, that this was where Europe met Asia. The treasury was just incredible – it’s true Alladin-style riches – gems the size of hen’s eggs, suits of armour rendered useless through the weight of precious metals, swords so covered in gems that you’d blind yourself flourishing them in sunlight. The sort of wealth on display was ridiculous – by the end of it, you were just thinking “ho hum, another piece of jewelry” about things which would probably have bought Remuera…

On of the best memories I have from the palace, actually, was when the path I was taking spilled out unexpectedly onto a balcony, and you stood there, looking across the Bosphorus at Asian Istanbul, baking in the afternoon sun. It was just one of those completely breathtaking sights. Unfortunately, I don’t think I had a camera, but if I had, I don’t think it would have done the scene justice…

We wandered out of the Palace, and, after briefly stopping for an icecream (nice, but somewhat counter-productive in that heat – I was immensely thirsty practically before I’d finished), we wandered down a side street, searching for the archeological museum that was supposed to be somewhere nearby. Lucky for me that we did - I found it to be the most interesting part of the whole day. Walking through, past the meticulously organized exhibits, detailing the rise and fall of civilizations through tablets, statuary, weapons, and tombs, I was struck by a thought which was to be reinforced throughout our tour of Turkey – how many times has the world ended? How many more times will it end? Very melodramatic, I know, but I’m like that sometimes. But it’s a difficult thing not to think when you read a (translation of a) tablet detailing every day life four thousand years ago, 20 years before their civilization was wiped out by an invading neighbour; and then you read something else by someone in the conquering civilization, 50 years before someone came through and cleaned them out. It’s a sentiment which is echoed in the fall of Constantinople to the Turks, the first world war Gallipoli campaign (because they were fighting for their civilization as well…) – civilization has risen and fallen so many times, it would be absurd to think that it won’t happen again. But I digress – there were a large number of these tablets, inventorying stock, or recording legal decisions, or detailing history, all dating back before… well, anything else, actually. It makes you feel quite small to realize that your 70-odd year life span is set against a palpable history of at least 7000 years…

Anywho, enough of that sort of thing. The highlight of the museum were the sarcophagi, beautifully carved stone coffins for the burial of the wealthy and important. Foremost amongst these is the so-called Alexander Sarcophagus, exquisitely carved with scenes from the life of Alexander the Great. Apparently it is now accepted that this was not in fact the Sarcophagus of Alexander, due to the fact that he was known to have been buried in Alexandria, Egypt; it is now thought to have contained either a Phoenician prince or a member of the Seleucid dynasty. The metal weapons are now gone, having been looted at the same time the burial chamber was, but the carving is still breath-taking.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to stay too long in the Museum, as eventually a guard came along and made me leave because they were closing. This was a great pity, as I only got to go through about half of it. Oh well, I’ll just have to see the rest next time I’m in Istanbul…

After this, we decided that we were done for the evening, and after a brief stop at the hostel, we set off to find a bar where food wasn’t so expensive as it is in Tourist-ville. After a bit of wandering, and a number of entreaties to come and have a look at this or that carpet shop, we happened upon a football bar, which seemed to fit the bill pretty well. There were a number of locals there, watching Turkish side Besiktas take on FC Zurich in the Champions League. Besiktas, the favourites, were making all the running, and were up 1-0 as a result. We finished up our dinner about half way through the second half, and lingered over beers, waiting to see the end of the game. Gareth and I are both the sort to go for the underdogs, so when Zurich scored in the 92nd minute, we both shouted “yes!” without thinking about it. We were suddenly faced with a bar full of Turkish faces directed at us. Realising the error of our ways, we sat down immediately, making placatory gestures and generally trying to make ourselves as small as possible. Needless to say, we left at the earliest possibility…

Turkey - Day 1

Turkey – Day 1

Photos are here: http://s221.photobucket.com/albums/dd238/nickwalls/Turkey%20Day%201/

Rudely awakened after three hours of uncomfortable air bed sleep, I got up and stumbled into my clothes. To get to the airport at 5am for an 6am flight, we needed to catch a bus at 3am, then another bus from… somewhere else. I’m not 100% sure – my brain is not at its razor sharp best at that time of the morning…

Getting to the second bus station at god knows where at some awful hour of the morning, we met up with Richard, an Australian workmate of Gareth’s, who will be featuring extensively for the rest of this sordid tale. I’ll not bore you with awful tales of airport boredom, just suffice to say that I didn’t think that I’d ever spend that much on a sandwich…

Touching down at Sabiha Gokcen airport (without a Turkish keyboard, that’s the closest I can come. Don’t even ASK me to pronounce it…), the first thing that I noticed was that the place is dry. The second thing I noticed, as I stepped out of the plane, was the oppressive heat. I’m not going to say that it stuck like a hammer, or hit me like a wave, because those are not only clichés but are also inaccurate; a more accurate description would be “unrelenting.” Getting to our accommodation was a little interesting – taxi drivers trying to capitalize on their command of English and our lack of knowledge of local currency values tried to persuade us to take a taxi for an off-the-meter rate, but we decided to take a bus instead. After much to-ing and fro-ing and a lot of wondering, we eventually made it onto a bus, then a ferry (which was cool – I’ve sailed on the Bosporos!), then a tram, and finally made it to the centre of tourist-ville Istanbul. On our way to our accommodation, we passed between the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia – quite the welcome to the country!

Dumping our bags, and having a quick lunch, we headed out to see the city. After a little wandering around, we discovered two things – the first being the entrance to the great Roman cistern (and more on this later), the second being one of the many methods that are used to prey upon tourists by the less scrupulous of the Turks.

Before I go into this, let me say that once you get away from tourist areas, Turkish people are generally lovely (or so I felt, anyway), but in tourist areas, 2 out of every three are sharks.

Anyway, we were wandering along a narrow, cobbled street, just generally looking around and sweating lightly, when a guy walking past us carrying a shoe-polishing kit dropped his brush. Naïve as we were, Richard bent down to pick it up, saying “Excuse me, you dropped your brush!” Unoriginal, maybe, but it was to the point. The shoe-polishing guy turned around, thanked him profusely, and then said “Let me polish your shoes.” Richard, wearing sandals, should really have cottoned on to what was going on at this point, but he just stood there, looking embarrassed. After smearing some polish over Richard’s sandals, he charged him about NZ$30. Richard paid up. Gareth and I, of course, mocked him for this mercilessly for the remainder of our trip. When, on our second time through Istanbul, some creep tried the exact same trick on us, I was sorely tempted to pick up the brush and throw it over a nearby wall.

Anyway, on to the cistern. The entrance to these is rather less than prepossessing, but as you walk down some rickety walkway to the cistern floor, the first sight of it really takes your breath away. Lit from below, rows of columns stretch out into the distance, evoking imaginings of Moria and Pier Gynt. I’ve seen some incredible stuff in the last month, but I think that this first view of tangible antiquity was what struck me most.

I don’t think that anything that I say will do it justice, so I’ll leave you to look at the pictures, courtesy of Gareth’s awesome photography. I may have framed one or two…

Afterwards, having spent an awful lot of time in the cool of the cisterns, we came out, drank cold beer (hurrah for secular societies!), and talked, and ate, and drank in the ambience of Istanbul in the evening.

I was finally on my adventure…

London - Wanderings

Coming to you in this installment - my thoughts on London as I wandered through a Monopoly board of streets, camera in hand, photographing anything that took my fancy. Well, not quite anything, but some stuff anyway.

Photos for this section can be seen at this place

I set off to wander the streets of London, no real destination in mind, just to pound the pavement a little, see what I could see. I navigated the tube successfully to Oxford St, simply because I recognised it from the Monopoly board, and my first thought when stepping out of the station was "Oxford St? I'll buy it!" Having made the seriously unfunny joke that I imagine every single English-speaking tourist makes, I felt I could continue.

Walking down Oxford Street, turning onto Regent St ("I'll buy it!"), I marvelled at the shear beauty of the architecture around me, the attention to detail, the feeling of age. It really drove home that I was wandering around a place that REALLY had history. Just wandering the streets, there were constant reminders of the Napoleonic wars (though not as described by Tolstoy), and how much it had meant to win them; similarly the World Wars, and countless other battles, and wars, some of which I'd never even heard of (thanks social studies - I did the same Maori history half a dozen times, yet my knowledge of European history comes from Hornblower!)

I'm not sure exactly when, but I passed through the parade of the horse guards, which was cool. Seeing all of the guards with very serious expressions on their faces while Japanese tourists stood next to them to get their photos taken was kind of funny, but I refrained from snapping a few pictures myself - I kind of felt sorry for them. Looking out to the right of the parade, I saw the old admiralty buildings, which I'm sure were mentioned numerous times in Hornblower. That was pretty cool to see too. From there I wandered past Downing St, past serious looking men with serious looking rifles. Decided against pulling any funny business, can't think why...

After a few false turns ("Park Lane? I'll buy it!") I eventually made it to Trafalgar Square ("I'll buy it!" - yet another reminder of what beating Napoleon mean). Looking at Nelson on top of his column was cool; I hope that he wasn't prone to vertigo, that column is bloody tall! I noticed that the statue is of Nelson in his later days - you can see that one of his sleeves is empty. Tough job, admiral. You can keep it, if I can keep my limbs!

So after that, I wandered river-wards, more to see the Thames than any of the buildings on either side, but it being my lucky day, my route to water lead me straight to Westminster abbey, a confection of architecture, gorgeous, over-elaborate, and seeming more a symbol of vast wealth and unattainable status than a church. Still, nice to look at. I got some pretty pictures. Next to that, somewhat tucked away and paled by comparison, I found the remains of the Jewel Tower, a part of Westminster Palace which survived the great fire. It was built in 1365, and was used by King Edward the 3rd to store his treasures in. Interesting, no droves of people - strike one for the wandering around method of seeing a city!

Having got my fill of these sights, I meandered (a word that derives from the name of a river which I was to see a week later on the other side of Europe) my way across Lambeth bridge (I think) and got to the other side of the Thames. The Thames is filthy, but it looks deep, and looking down it, you can see many famous buildings abutting the water's edge...

On the other side of the Thames, I made what was, for me at least, the most fascinating discovery I'd made. I wandered into an old-looking churchyard, because it looked old, and was surrounded by graves which had had their inscriptions worn to near illegibility, and had a look around. The sign at the gate had said that it was now a museum of gardening history, so I wandered into the building itself to ask about the history of the church. Inside, I found out that the church had been standing on the site (in various incarnations) since before the conquest. After having been given a fairly thorough run down of the history of the building itself (which had been associated with the Black Prince), which was the site of the graves of two famous world traveling plant hunters, a father and son pair both named John Tradescant, and also of Captain William Bligh of "Mutiny on the Bounty" fame, I got directed to head down a side-street and have a look at what remains of the Lambeth Royal Daulton factory (the lady behind the desk was quite passionate about two areas - local history, and porcelain china). Odd though this was, I thought I'd spare a few minutes and wander down to have a look. It turned out to be fascinating. I'm not sure how well the pictures turned out (I'll have a look in a minute), but if you look at the fine detail and then imagine the whole building being covered with that... I picked up two interesting facts there - 1) Royal Daulton made the bulk of their money in the manufacture of sewerage pipes, not porcelain china, and 2) the outside of the factory was deliberately made over-elaborate as it was basically a showcase for the work that they could do.

Having been fascinated out for the day, I made my way to Waterloo station to catch the tube back to the flat.

London - arrival

Well, hello there!

Since everyone these days seems to have a travel blog, I thought I'd take a running leap at the bandwagon. Since I'm absolutely awful at the whole keeping in touch thing, this may very well be a very short-lived experience, but let's hope for the best.

I arrived in London, cramp-legged and exhausted, after a flight from Taipei. I can't imagine how I'm going to feel when I go back to New Zealand direct for Jungin's wedding in December. I'd like at this point to thank Mr Eddie Vedder for his invaluable contribution to my sanity on the flight over.

So, anywho, I arrived and to my relief walked straight through customs and found Gareth waiting for me at the airport. At this point I was carrying something in excess of 30kg in luggage, so having someone to lump with one of my bags was bliss, as was not having to find my way on the (at first glance rather intimidating) tube to an address which I had lost on the flight over. Eyes drooping, I remember very little of the tube ride to Gareth's flat, except that at one point we ran into an ex-colleague of his.

Reaching Gareth's flat by walking through streets that struck me as somehow quaint, but which are actually quite dangerous, I pumped up the air bed that he'd gone and bought me, and we talked for ages about nothing much before going to sleep.

This, usually, would be the end to an arrival story, except that on this particular night, at about 3am, a piercing female scream split the night. Being gentlemen of valour, both Gareth and I leapt from our beds and raced down three flights of stairs to come to the rescue. Unfortunately, this gallant attempt was somewhat diminished by the fact that we were beaten to the scene by the little old lady under whose window the crime had transpired. What had happened, we later learned, over the quintessentially English cup of tea, was that a little guy had been following her, and when she turned off the main road, he came running at her. Her instinctive reaction was to attempt to break the nearby windows with a scream, and then hold onto her purse (which he'd grabbed) in a death grip. Needless to say, when lights started to come on, the villain gave it up as a botched job and legged it into the darkness before the cavalry arrived, luckily for him!

So that, unembellished, is the story of my first night in London.

"I'm so sorry, I was miles away"