Turkey (2) - Ruinous fancies

Theatre at Ephesus

At 1pm my bike is still in pieces - a raw skeleton on the bench, the gas tank lying on the floor like a set of huge lungs.   Grubby tools are scattered around, the plastic faring is here and over there, next to oil rags: the bloody swabs of an operating theatre.  It's not a great sight, admittedly.  And the mechanic is... where?  On a break?

At the Nil Bar

I chivvy things along, patient and cheerful because it's the best approach.  Soon, three mechanics are putting the bike back together and I'm just getting in the way now.  They don't seem to mind though - this is a long way from the elite BMW operation rooms in London, where technicians will draw the curtain even for an oil change.

The bill is bigger than I was hoping, but they've done quite a lot: it would be twice the price in the UK.  Mustn't grumble, then, even if I suspect they've bled me quite hard.  No wonder they were so accommodating, eh?

At almost 3pm and I'm only just leaving Fethiye.  Although I won't get far before sunset, it's therapeutic to be riding again - I hate it when a day finishes and there's no feeling of progress: literal or metaphorical.  In the saddle, familiar and reassuring, my anxiety and impatience is fading away.

The ride north is speedy and I'm grateful for the smooth, straight roads.  I'm a little tentative, over careful even - worried that my front shock will fall apart half way around a bend.  It doesn't - there's no drama; no oil drips and the unnerving bounce has softened.

Worries eased, I'm mulling over whether I should have stayed in Fethiye for the weekend - it was cheap, friendly, healthy; and I could have filled my time easily.  There are lots of vague notions complicating the situation and I can't  straighten them all out properly in my head.  This is a problem with riding solo - you've got nobody to bounce ideas off.  Two 'Eds would have been better than one to work out the best approach.

I pitch my tent in the backyard of a friendly roadside diner.  They're amused, I think - or perhaps slightly impressed by the hardiness, foolhardiness or budget constraints that would induce anyone to sleep outside in this season.  They have a point, and in the morning all my kit is damp with condensation.  It's colder up north.

I scowl at the raucous cockeral, but once again these decisions - mistakes - are all my own.  And honestly, I'm fine with that.

-----------------------------

On the road to the large coastal city of Izmir, I call in at Selcuk - or rather, nearby Ephesus, "the best-preserved classical city in the eastern Mediterranean", as my guidebook notes. 

Once through the ticket gate, the approach path is decorated with large chunks of marble: column tops, statue bottoms; Roman mile posts; temple corner stones.  Off to the side, they're lined up in a large set-aside, like pieces of jigsaw you can't put in yet. 

Much of the site looks as if it's still being re-constructed - by archaeologists one hopes, or Bob The Builder just as likely.  The ruins give a very good impression of how the city must have looked, and have been fashioned into something appealing on the (tourist) eye.  However, this is no Pompeii and I guess few ruins were found well-preserved: over two millennia earthquakes, treasure hunters and stone theives would have seen to that.

I get up close to the magnificent library structure.  Three storeys with columns and windows create a marvellous marble front facade, glowing in the morning light.  Delicate statues grace the alcoves.  Good information plaques have representations of how grand the original building must have looked.

When I examine the stonework of the statues more closely, I recognise the texture: this isn't marble, it's concrete.  Tiny air-bubbles, raised seams and rough patches are giveaway signs.  My summer job in the UK one year was removing such classical forms from thick rubber molds, to be sold as concrete garden ornaments.  I'm familiar with a good or bad reproduction, and Big Frank - my old boss  - would have been unhappy with these.

The rest of the site is huge, comprising also houses and temples - some of which have yet to be excavated.  A huge amphitheatre (which would seat 25,000) is appropriately dramatic and dominates one slope.  The marble-paved Sacred Way (worn with ruts from wheeled carts) leads off to the agora - the market place.  It's interesting to see all these period features: I last read about them at school, in what was my favourite subject.  Nowadays, I suspect I've forgotten even more than I learnt, but feel curious nonetheless.  So too a few coach loads of Japanese, German and Turkish tourists, who obediently follow their guides around.  Ephesus is a theme park for grown ups.

----------------------------------

I find ruins interesting, for a while.  Mayan, Egyptian, Roman... it's all good.  But my interest fades when the sites come thick 'n fast.  Today my map and guide book trumpet loudly: this area of Turkey is thick with ruins!  Every five miles there's another brown sign pointing off to one side or the other.  I get fatigue, even though I'm not calling in at the 'lesser' sites, or even reading up on them.

After Izmir, the coastal road north; and on to Bergama.  Bergama boasts another set of Roman ruins, perched high on a rocky outcrop with a remarkable stone-stepped theatre clinging to the steeply sloping hillside.  I stare up from below, but decline the ticket-tour.

I'm not surprised, but a little disappointed at my reluctance.  I've already run out of enthusiasm?!  Yup.  I know that Bergama would be a highlight for me on other holiday trips.  Yet, when travel fatigue dulled even the massive Egyptian tourist attractions (bigger, older, more colourful) these later Roman sites were going to struggle.

There's more to to it, though.  I feel increasingly uneasy about tourist attractions in general.  I find myself wondering why I'm walking around such sites or taking photos of the views - there's now only a fleeting enjoyment from doing so.  I'd get a better buzz from going for a jog, more interest from reading a good book or magazine, and more enjoyment from eating a good meal or watching a film. 

Over the last few of weeks this kind of thinking has started to preoccupy me;  it's wearing a hole in my resolve, but triggering a reaction as well:  I feel bad at not visiting the attractions, not making more of an effort.

In quieter moments I can see this conflict for what it probably is: the process of my trip coming to the end.  I couldn't be satisfied with returning home if I still felt the urge to hike every hill, snap every vista and turn each page of the guide book.  I'm certainly not unhappy, not bored exactly - just 'full'.  I'm almost saturated by what I've experienced.

The photos and been-there-done-that list has it's place, for sure.  However, I can feel the need for reflection, consolidation: the sum of this trip will be greater than the parts, and simply adding more parts is pointless if I've not worked out what that sum is.  I'll be less mean to myself about missing the next 'must see' highlight, and try to draw down on what I've learnt (or not learnt) from the journey as a whole.  Don't worry - I'll minimise what goes in the blog!

-------------------------------------------

I'm grateful that the rest of the afternoon gives me some respite from the voices in my head.  Instead, I stumble upon a back road to Gomec and after checking my map, realise that this is probably a better, quicker and more direct route than the boring highway would have been.  I press on, and very quickly I'm caught up in a superb 50km stretch of riding that has me purring with pleasure.

Autumn fire-colours flare from an avenue of trees lit by the low afternoon sun.  The road curls smoke grey up and away from the valley floor, bend after bend.  It's a rollicking ride up, mostly free from other vehicles; lovely views soon open out from the mountainside, and across the plateau, as I pick up speed and skim along a ridge line.  Rolling plantations of fir trees fall off to either side.  They fade, replaced by fields the farmers are preparing for cereals. 

Across the lower slopes olive trees flourish in thick swathes; on tractors ploughshares are swapped for trailers full of field workers: zipped up against the chill, they sit on fat bags filled with rich pickings.   I'm descending down towards Gomec and the sickly sweet smell of freshly pressed olive oil hangs in the cold air.

Ah well, it was fun while it lasted.  I reach the dull monotony of the motorway.  Time for all those thoughts to come swimming back - better get the ipod out again and battle them back.

-----------------------------------------------

I stay in Canakkale, but think better of using my tent.  It's proper cold now, so I find one of the many hotels in town and haggle a good rate from the friendly staff.  The food's good, the wifi fast and the central heating soon thaws me out. 

Before I leave Turkey I have two final places I want to visit.  The first is the site of Troy, unearthed in the late 1860s but dating back some three thousand years.

Visiting Troy should raise in me all the fascination I found from studying the Homeric epics for four years at school.  Seeing the evidence of all those successive cities built on top of one another; noting the construction of those famously beautiful, formidably effective defensive walls; and looking out across the plains where so many legends were laid low.

I'm curious, again, but no more: my walk around the site lasts an hour only. I suppose I find some 'completeness' (if not closure) by the visit, but there's richer resources in the pages of a modern translation, if you recognise what you're reading.  I'm not sure it was worth the 30km backtrack - or maybe I'm just sour that I missed the turn-off in the dark last night? ;)

The second location is the Gallipoli peninsular.  From our friends at Wiki, refresh your history:

The Gallipoli Campaign, also known as the Dardanelles Campaign or the Battle of Gallipoli or the Battle of Çanakkale took place between 25 April 1915 and 9 January 1916, during the First World War. A joint British and French operation was mounted to capture the Ottoman capital of Constantinople (Istanbul) and secure a sea route to Russia. The attempt failed, with heavy casualties on both sides. The campaign was considered one of the greatest victories of the Turks and was reflected on as a major failure by the Allies.

The Gallipoli campaign resonated profoundly among all nations involved. In Turkey, the battle is perceived as a defining moment in the history of the Turkish people—a final surge in the defence of the motherland as the aging Ottoman Empire was crumbling. The struggle laid the grounds for the Turkish War of Independence and the foundation of the Republic of Turkey eight years later under Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, himself a commander at Gallipoli.

The campaign was the first major battle undertaken by the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC), and is often considered to mark the birth of national consciousness in both of these countries.  Anzac Day, 25 April, remains the most significant commemoration of military casualties and veterans in Australia and New Zealand, surpassing Armistice Day/Remembrance Day.

I'm expecting, in my ignorance, fields of white crosses.  Something like the images I associate with the WWI cemetaries.  But here's the rub: my expectation is founded on fluff:  the depth of my ignorance about Gallipoli is dreadful.

There are plenty of monuments, scattered across the hilly peninsular, but I've come ill-prepared to understand the scale of the undertaking here, or to feel much pathos from the plight of soldiers and sailors.  You'd think that simply reading this would have helped: 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gallipoli_Campaign

But, as you know by now, I can't keep up with the guide book these days.  To do the peninsular justice - to pay the respect due to those who died and survived - I ought to have spend more time in preparation.  When I finish a brief riding tour of the peninsular I'm rather ashamed of this.  I can find exhonerating circumstances and don't dwell on the sentiment, but it would be better - much better - if I didn't have to, right?

I think Turkey will have to be on my list of places to return to.  The history is too rich, the landscapes too dramatic, the people too friendly and the food to fine for me to pass through in a week.

Sounds like the motive for another trip...

----------------------------------------------------------

Memorial of Anzac Cove, commemorating the loss of thousands of Ottoman and Anzac soldiers in Gallipoli:

Those heroes that 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.

— Atatürk 1934