Living in the Turkish outpost of Hackney
for several years I’ve long been intrigued to visit the homeland. Whilst visiting Turkey the familiarity of
Hackney is comforting, sheesh and a bottle of Efes for tea, shopping at the
green grocer’s or being meticulously groomed at the barber. Arriving on Saturday evening into Istanbul
and meeting up with friends from London it could be a night out in Dalston.
Istanbul is a glorious world city, large in
my imagination, with fantastic perspective from its hills and light bouncing
from the various seas allowing panoramic views.
The sparkling Straits of Bosphorous magically connect the Marmaris and
Black Seas, a narrow conduit for chugging liners and connecting two continents
of possibility. Here, empires emerge and
religions interchange. Grand Byzantine churches can morph into Ottoman
mosques. Travellers and refugees pause
with anticipation and sychronise at this entrance to new continents.
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| Hackney???? |
From this springboard I dive into Asia
Minor, flying up above Anatolia before swerving down briefly into Ankara. Viewing the modernist capital from the sky is
enough. Onwards East to plunge into the ancient city of Sanliurfa, edging onto
the plains of Mespotamia, birthplace of civilisations and biblical myths, where
the trickle of the Euphrates springs before branching on into Syria. This conservative Middle Eastern city is the birthplace
of Prophet Ibrahim, attracting pious pilgrims and shoppers to the a historic
bazaar…a contrast to the stylish cocktail bars we frequented in Istanbul. Highlight of this city is visiting the
hammam, this Turkish bath is a real local male hang out. I get a double soap massage from an excited
19 year old apprentice and his uncle.
The Kurds welcome the prospect of peace as
PKK militants retreat into Iraqi Kurdistan and hope for recognition within new
laws. Denied their language and identity
for generations, the cost of a united Turkey where a single national identity
has been prioritized. However, the
hangover of European colonial shame confronts me again, given the redrawing of
country boundaries in this region which in 1923 deleted Kurdistan.
From Kathe we pass a whole afternoon
traveling 30 kilometres up into the hills, back to Asian style sense of time
where people think you’re barmy for asking how long journeys might take. The
mini-bus is late and when it arrives we need to go and pick up Grandma and
bowls of vegetables then pause for 45 minutes outside the hospital whilst a
passenger runs in and has an appointment then goes to collect her prescription.
Patience. The journey is rewarding when we reach the peak of Nemrut Dagi. Sitting at over 2000 metres groups of stone
heads of the Gods are perched, one set looking East to the rising sun and the
other West to the setting sun. Zeus,
Hercules and Fortuna have nestled here in the snow on the mountain for over
2000 years.
After a night in a lovely mountain Kurdish
village, we succumb to the care of The Godfather overcoming our caution of
insistent hoteliers, scarred by the trickery in India. The Godfather drives us off the mountain and
deposits his commodity at the bus station, not before parading us proudly
around Kathe. Our friends head East, a
young handsome Venetian couple hitching the Silk Road to China. A beautiful
image of youth silhouetted behind us.
Twisting North West, we trundle steadily up
into the Central Anatolian steppe. Vast
emerald spaces span out across an ethereal plateau, flanked in the distance by
snow capped peaks. As we approach the majestic peak of Erciyes, the setting sun
is distorted by a confusion of fluffy clouds.
The bus skirts the metropolis of Kayseri. Tiger city growing rich on burgeoning
technology. Standard Anatolian clone
city, characterized by a token of modernity, the sprawling pastel paneled
apartment blocks. A bland modern urban expansion
unfurls with walls emblazoned with quotes of Ataturk.
“Happy is he who says ‘I am a Turk’.”
Like El Comandante in Cuba and the King in
Thailand the people here revere Ataturk, the Father of the modern nation state
of Turkey. It remains illegal to speak
against him. The secularity of the state
continues, protected in recent years by military regimes. Now, a new Islamic government frustrates
young thirsty liberals with high alcohol taxation and the threat of an Iranian
style government. A period of limbo and
expectation as neighbouring states move out of an Arab Spring…Turkey maintains
its proud nationalism and rife homophobia.
We are greeted by an obscure futuristic
hangar like coach station where smartly dressed Muslims move into a new
dimension before hopping onto fabled Cappadocia.
It must have been idyllic in Cappadocia before
the troglodytes were invaded by bus loads of German tourists and neon lighting
was put up. Depressing tourism and unsustainable development. Sustainable are the underground cities built
millennia ago to provide refuge to civilization after civilization of
persecuted peoples. We venture 50 metres
underground to visit a city which housed 50,000 people before marveling at the
unlikely natural phallic rock formations.
Condemned to the night bus. The standard bus host who juggles hot water
to serve dangerous cups of chai doesn’t make it much more bearable. Morning and we reach the coast and land of
the Lycians. A Sophisticated people who piloted the modern federal democracy
for the United States years later to adopt. Their capital of Patara an ancient
city is gradually being revealed after centuries encapsulated safely in the
sand dunes. Emergent amphitheatres, pillars and baths glisten in the midst of a
vivid green paradise of swamps and frogs, smudged with brown goats. On the
second pilgrimage of the trip I visit the birthplace of Santa Claus. 
The Lycian’s left their sophisticated
influence with the stylish town of Kas. Decadent days lazing in the sun in
chilled bars on the cliffs, interspersed with diving into turquoise waters.
I fully appreciate the Turkish care for
their guests with the passport drama. Packing hungover we forget our money belt,
stashed under a cupboard! Horror on the
dolmus, we ask the bus driver to let us return.
No problem. The local bus driver
phones a friend, his friend visits the hotel, the hotel locates belongings and
sends said
Butterfly Valley, which is incredibly awash
with phlittering butterflies, a hidden paradise for hippies, run by a mafia, we
pay our most expensive accommodation in the country which is a hut but with a
wonderful roof where we can sleep under the stars. Escaping the mafia we
somehow find ourselves staying over at Oludeniz. Oludeniz is a scary Blackpool style resort
full of rosy tipsy English folk. Horrified departure to Antalya where we
attempt to visit a local gay bar, but fail because the only gay bar is hidden
away from the sight of the people.
