Despite the fact that I like to consider myself a decisive person, in actual fact, I am not really. I am driven by all sorts of winds of indecision, and nowhere has that been more evident than in the last few days.
I came to Cadiz because of a story that was told to me 8 years ago. My cousin Carlos told me about the madness that is the Cadiz carnavale... of Romeo & Juliet Venice Beach proportions: costumes, craziness, carnality. It attracted me, and for years I yearned to come to this city by the sea that promised Andalucian antics.
So I came. Admitedly, as with Greece, it suffers from end of season emptiness. I roamed the streets trying to find fiesta, but found empty bars and doldrum restaurants. I was devastated: where was my fabled paradise?
So in exasperation, after having stayed out til 2am trying my hardest to find that little pocket of mayhem, I decided to leave Cadiz. My Lonely Planet book suggested that Tarifa would be enticing due to its bohemian spirit and crumbling Moorish ruins, so I packed up my rucksack and jumped on a bus bound for the windy southern-most Spanish city of Tarifa.
It was a beautiful place. A 10km long beach tuffeted by winds and a breath away from exotic Morocco, and a beautiful old town full of Moorish ruins and fountained plazas. Lovely. But there I was as the evening approached, desperate to have a wild night, and my hostel companions had settled down to a dinner of hostel-cooked pasta and 80c cask wine. Determined not to be stuck inside a dingy hostel, I ventured out solo. I ate alone, which I have no issue with: in fact, it worked out well as there were a group of drunken Spaniards just behind where I was eating, falling over themselves in their stupor, and the waiter was so mortified that he kept giving me free alocohol. I then ventured out to a bar.
Now, the hardest thing I have had to do on this trip is walk into a bar and find people to talk to. Its hard. And very scary. But I braced myself, held my head high, and strode in. And I managed ok. I went to one bar, then went to another where there was dancing. Its was nicely average.
I got back to my hostel late, woke up, and thought to myself: I havent given Cadiz a proper chance yet. I just felt terribly guilty and weak that after yearning for Cadiz for so long, I had given up on it after 2 days. So in classic Me-style, I packed up my bags, and got back on a bus to Cadiz!
I turned up in Cadiz, and I am writing to you now from a rather more social hostel than where I was staying before. Its fabulous here, so I am now drinking cheap rose and trying to convince sufficient people to go out with me for the evening, to give Cadiz a proper farewell. I am off to Seville tomorrow, and I know that will definitely be more social. But for now, I just want to leave Cadiz thinking that it has lived up to the visions of my youth.
As to the allusions of this entrys title: on the way back from Tarifa to Cadiz today, my bus passed a swamp that had a bog full of flamingos. I have never seen flamingos in the wild before, and they struck me as a tantalisingly ridiculous thing to see on a swampy roadside. I loved it! Bring it on, I want more random roadside flamingos in my life! That says it all really.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
"Of Human Bondage" in Greece
As the name of this blog of mine suggests it will occasionally discuss fiction, its about time I actually do.
I am attempting a zen approach to book choice for this holiday: the appropriate book for me at that point in time will make itself known to me. And so far its worked better than expected. The "Von Ingelfeld Trilogy" awarded me my most startling coincidence of my life, thereby validating that I was on the right path. "Madame Proust and the kosher kitchen" was not fabulous, but I believe it was necessary for leading me to the next book I read.
I was at a hostel in Cappadocia and was wading through a box of books that I could swap my "Madame Proust..." book for... when I found a terribly tattered copy of "Of Human Bondage" by W. Somerset Maugham. I recognised the title as an English classic but knew nothing else about it. I flipped it open, and the first words I saw were "...Marcel Proust...". I took this as a sign I was meant to read this book, as my "Madame Proust..." book was all about the French writer Marcel Proust. So, I swiftly made my swap and launched into the 600 page novel written in 1915.
It is one of those books that makes you pause every few pages and shiver with glee. Maugham writes so simply yet with a subtle irony and humour that continually made me smirk and even giggle on occasion. Its supposedly semi-autobiographical, and it makes sense, because only if he was writing about his own experiences could he so accurately convey emotions of lust, betrayal, obsession, passion, despair and my favourite of all, joy when faced with beauty and freedom.
In brief, the book is about Philip Carey, an orphan crippled with a clubfoot raised by his indifferent elderly aunt and uncle. He suffers taunts and loneliness growing up, and retreats into a world of fantasy and intellectual pursuits, and yearns for the day he can be his own master. He travels to Germany to study, and then Paris to revel in the bohemian life of a painter, and finally London to study medicine amongst the poverty stricken slums of the south-east. Through it all he falls in love, loses everything, constructs his own sense of morality and faith, and searches continually for the meaning of life.
Its a beautiful book, and I am grateful for the new perspective on life, travel, art and beauty it offers. It is a sublimely appropriate book to read when travelling oneself, with its gentle humour and soaring philosophies. Its one of those books that I will come back to in a few years, and see so much more within its clever prose.
Unfortunately, because I love it so much, I cannot let myself swap it at a book exchange, so will need to invest in a new book... I wonder what book will make itself known to me now....
I am attempting a zen approach to book choice for this holiday: the appropriate book for me at that point in time will make itself known to me. And so far its worked better than expected. The "Von Ingelfeld Trilogy" awarded me my most startling coincidence of my life, thereby validating that I was on the right path. "Madame Proust and the kosher kitchen" was not fabulous, but I believe it was necessary for leading me to the next book I read.
I was at a hostel in Cappadocia and was wading through a box of books that I could swap my "Madame Proust..." book for... when I found a terribly tattered copy of "Of Human Bondage" by W. Somerset Maugham. I recognised the title as an English classic but knew nothing else about it. I flipped it open, and the first words I saw were "...Marcel Proust...". I took this as a sign I was meant to read this book, as my "Madame Proust..." book was all about the French writer Marcel Proust. So, I swiftly made my swap and launched into the 600 page novel written in 1915.
It is one of those books that makes you pause every few pages and shiver with glee. Maugham writes so simply yet with a subtle irony and humour that continually made me smirk and even giggle on occasion. Its supposedly semi-autobiographical, and it makes sense, because only if he was writing about his own experiences could he so accurately convey emotions of lust, betrayal, obsession, passion, despair and my favourite of all, joy when faced with beauty and freedom.
In brief, the book is about Philip Carey, an orphan crippled with a clubfoot raised by his indifferent elderly aunt and uncle. He suffers taunts and loneliness growing up, and retreats into a world of fantasy and intellectual pursuits, and yearns for the day he can be his own master. He travels to Germany to study, and then Paris to revel in the bohemian life of a painter, and finally London to study medicine amongst the poverty stricken slums of the south-east. Through it all he falls in love, loses everything, constructs his own sense of morality and faith, and searches continually for the meaning of life.
Its a beautiful book, and I am grateful for the new perspective on life, travel, art and beauty it offers. It is a sublimely appropriate book to read when travelling oneself, with its gentle humour and soaring philosophies. Its one of those books that I will come back to in a few years, and see so much more within its clever prose.
Unfortunately, because I love it so much, I cannot let myself swap it at a book exchange, so will need to invest in a new book... I wonder what book will make itself known to me now....
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Sunsets and donkey ass-hair
You would be fair in wondering why my sudden fascination in animal genitalia. Rest assured it is not a deliberate trend, but rather a very accidental one. Although as I type a cat is rubbing itself against my leg...
My last full day in Santorini was to be spend on a full day tour of the volcano and thermal springs just off coast of Santorini, followed by watching the sunset at an absurdly picturesque little village called Oia. I was looking forward to it, but the day began very warm, and due to a few last minute chores, I turned up to the meeting spot for the bus sweating profusely. This was to be the trend for the day.
We boarded a boat, along with apparently half the population of America and Australia. It was rammed, and there didn't seem to be enough seats to accommodate the crowds, especially not seating in the shade. So I sat in the sun, fanning myself hysterically, wondering why the boat didn't sail off rather than sit in dock as more and more people were crammed onto the small vessel. Eventually we set off, and landed on the shores of the top of an underwater volcano that can created the island of Santorini and a few other scattered islets.
The caldera (such is the name for these types of volcano tips) was visually stunning close up. Imagine you were Frodo approaching Mordor, with its violently black craggy path and crazy large sharp rocks all around you. The heat was incredible, and we trekked up to the top of the volcano sweating rivers. Worthwhile view though - from the top you could see the western coast of Santorini, impossibly sheer black cliffs capped with white-housed villages that looked like snow-capped mountain tops from a distance.
From there we were taken, sweatily and congestedly, to the 'thermal springs'. I put this in inverted commas as I think a marketeer working out how to pad out the daily tour with interesting sights thought, "Oh yes, tourists would love to swim into tepid orange water that stank of sulpur in the name of fun!". It wasn't great, and just left a rusty stain on our bodies. After our swim, we were all herded back on board, wet, sticky, hot and sweaty, to sit in the sun side by side again for another long and hot boat ride.
From there we were taken to the port of Oia where we disembarked and queued up (in the heat) for a donkey to ascend the torturous road up to the village on the top of the sheer cliff face. The ride up on the donkey was wonderful fun, as the ass cantered up the thin rocky path right on the edge of a sheer drop down to the ocean far below. However, my donkey was a little too enthusiastic, choosing to try and overtake other donkeys, but clumsily only resulting in making my knees rub up against the bottoms of the other donkeys. My sweaty legs proved a welcome sticking pad for many hairs from the donkeys bottom, or, if you will, the ass' ass.
And for some reason, the donkey ride to Oia only took you half way up, so we still had to plod on (in the heat) to the village. Once there, I managed to stub my big toe so badly it began to bleed profusely. I must have looked a state: red, sweaty, smelly, hairy, bloody, and reeking distinctly of eau de donkey. Needless to say, I was not overjoyed at the state of my body.
But of course, the day was not over: I had sunset to watch. The thing to do in Santorini is to watch the sunset at Oia. With its artistically architectured housing, westerly facing aspect, and peaceful ambience, its the perfect place to watch a sunset. But I was torn. I love to watch sunsets, but preferably when I am clean and well-kempt. With forbearance, I sat myself down on an old fort on the tip of Oia, and tried to not breathe in through my nose or look down at my toes while the sun sank slowly into the sea. It was breathtakingly beautiful of course. The golden light bounced off the white paint on the village housing, making the scene glow like some vision of a city in paradise. I managed to forget my earthly woes, and dived into the splendour before me.
Just want to add a special note of thanks to Sian for joining me on my Santorini jaunt. She was the most entertaining, delightful, amusing friend to have on holidays, and it will be a long time before I forget our experiences with evil hoteliers, insane russian gardeners with their chinese burns, the greek definition of 500 metres, and baked feta cheese.
My last full day in Santorini was to be spend on a full day tour of the volcano and thermal springs just off coast of Santorini, followed by watching the sunset at an absurdly picturesque little village called Oia. I was looking forward to it, but the day began very warm, and due to a few last minute chores, I turned up to the meeting spot for the bus sweating profusely. This was to be the trend for the day.
We boarded a boat, along with apparently half the population of America and Australia. It was rammed, and there didn't seem to be enough seats to accommodate the crowds, especially not seating in the shade. So I sat in the sun, fanning myself hysterically, wondering why the boat didn't sail off rather than sit in dock as more and more people were crammed onto the small vessel. Eventually we set off, and landed on the shores of the top of an underwater volcano that can created the island of Santorini and a few other scattered islets.
The caldera (such is the name for these types of volcano tips) was visually stunning close up. Imagine you were Frodo approaching Mordor, with its violently black craggy path and crazy large sharp rocks all around you. The heat was incredible, and we trekked up to the top of the volcano sweating rivers. Worthwhile view though - from the top you could see the western coast of Santorini, impossibly sheer black cliffs capped with white-housed villages that looked like snow-capped mountain tops from a distance.
From there we were taken, sweatily and congestedly, to the 'thermal springs'. I put this in inverted commas as I think a marketeer working out how to pad out the daily tour with interesting sights thought, "Oh yes, tourists would love to swim into tepid orange water that stank of sulpur in the name of fun!". It wasn't great, and just left a rusty stain on our bodies. After our swim, we were all herded back on board, wet, sticky, hot and sweaty, to sit in the sun side by side again for another long and hot boat ride.
From there we were taken to the port of Oia where we disembarked and queued up (in the heat) for a donkey to ascend the torturous road up to the village on the top of the sheer cliff face. The ride up on the donkey was wonderful fun, as the ass cantered up the thin rocky path right on the edge of a sheer drop down to the ocean far below. However, my donkey was a little too enthusiastic, choosing to try and overtake other donkeys, but clumsily only resulting in making my knees rub up against the bottoms of the other donkeys. My sweaty legs proved a welcome sticking pad for many hairs from the donkeys bottom, or, if you will, the ass' ass.
And for some reason, the donkey ride to Oia only took you half way up, so we still had to plod on (in the heat) to the village. Once there, I managed to stub my big toe so badly it began to bleed profusely. I must have looked a state: red, sweaty, smelly, hairy, bloody, and reeking distinctly of eau de donkey. Needless to say, I was not overjoyed at the state of my body.
But of course, the day was not over: I had sunset to watch. The thing to do in Santorini is to watch the sunset at Oia. With its artistically architectured housing, westerly facing aspect, and peaceful ambience, its the perfect place to watch a sunset. But I was torn. I love to watch sunsets, but preferably when I am clean and well-kempt. With forbearance, I sat myself down on an old fort on the tip of Oia, and tried to not breathe in through my nose or look down at my toes while the sun sank slowly into the sea. It was breathtakingly beautiful of course. The golden light bounced off the white paint on the village housing, making the scene glow like some vision of a city in paradise. I managed to forget my earthly woes, and dived into the splendour before me.
Just want to add a special note of thanks to Sian for joining me on my Santorini jaunt. She was the most entertaining, delightful, amusing friend to have on holidays, and it will be a long time before I forget our experiences with evil hoteliers, insane russian gardeners with their chinese burns, the greek definition of 500 metres, and baked feta cheese.
Monday, September 19, 2005
The most awful thing I have ever seen
I've been in the Greek Islands. Its been lovely. But there is nothing new or exciting to say about it that has not been said or seen by everyone else that has been here. So I won't bore you with the details.
However, I will tell you about a sight I saw last night that utterly appalled and amused me.
There are a lot of stray animals in the Greek Islands. Lots of idle cats and dogs prowling through your legs as you sit in an outdoor cafe; you constantly see dogs sleeping on the beach, cats leaping from balcony windows...
Understandably, none of them are desexed. So when a dog is on heat, it commands a lot of attention from nearby males.
I was standing outside a beach bar in Santorini when my conversation was drowned out by the hysterical barking of many dogs. I surveyed the situation: a pretty little Cocker Spaniel (clearly a female) was being chased by two very eager (male) dogs: a Dalmation (I think) and a Doberman. The male dogs were both violently vying to be the one to stick their nose up the popular Spaniel's bottom, she seemed quite bemused by the attention, and alternately let one and the other have a sniff and lick. She eventually started to give the Doberman preference, to the apparent insult and anger of the Dalmation, who proceeded to bark vehemently at the ass-licking couple. This, of course, is all very normal dog-mating behaviour.
The Doberman proceeded to mount the flattered Cocker Spaniel. Again, all very normal, albeit amusing while drinking a Sex on the Beach cocktail at Happy Hour.
It was when the insanely jealous Dalmation, still yelping and head-butting the enamoured lovers, managed to knock over the Doberman mid-stroke, resulting in the most curious sexual position I have ever seen in dogs (not of course to suggest that I am intimately familiar with sexual positions for dogs): bottom to bottom.
Unfortunately, all the stress of this thwarted threesome resulted in - what I was told by my travel companion, Sian, is a strange but true biological feature of mating dogs - the Doberman's penis ejecting barbs that entrapped it within the clearly confused Spaniel. Supposedly this is a feature that ensures continuance of the species, ie. if you are disturbed during sex, your penis traps you inside to ensure the sperm still reaches its goal; but I couldn't help but think it was a very badly thought out design flaw, and perhaps some practical joke by the Powers that Be.
For there, on the streets of Santorini, two dogs were trapped bottom to bottom, with the indignant Dalmation still barking furiously. The Spaniel and Doberman could not diengage, and waddled around the street, attached at the bottom. Whenever the Doberman attempted to walk, the poor little lady would be dragged by her bottom, backwards. It looked like some nightmarish vision of mutated animals, but no, it was these two dogs that couldn't detach from their interlude.
Various onlookers attempted to help disengage the couple, which despite all attempts to be serious, could only envoke hilarity from onlookers: "Aah, there is Pete attempting to coax a dogs penis down!" It was awful to see, like some car-crash that you were appalled but fascinated by.
For half an hour these two attached dogs walked (awkwardly) back and forth in front of our cafe. I tried to distract myself from the nightmarish vision, but every time I sneaked a look, yep, the dogs were still attached and barking furiously. They waddled awkwardly past a semi-posh restaurant, and it was darkly funny to see everyone inside work out what was happening, and then either burst into laughter or a shocked grimace or both.
What particularly amused me was the expression on the Spaniel's face. Like every patient woman out there, she bore an expression of calm grace, her beautiful face bearing the tribulation with a small trace of a grin.
Eventually the dogs detached to the immense relief of all witnesses. Off went the Spaniel, happy and (possibly) pregnant; off went the Doberman to nurse his no doubt injured manhood. The Dalmation was long gone in a sulking fit.
Apologies for the rather lewd entry - but I am in the very beautiful, tourist friendly, less tout-filled and less stare-filled Greece, but its tameness doesn't satisfy me as much as Turkey's rawness did. So when I see chaotic nature on the streets of Greece, I savour it as a sign the world isn't yet totally tamed or pretty or savoury. There are still sights that can shock and amuse and fascinate, even in the midst of normality and culture and blandness.
However, I will tell you about a sight I saw last night that utterly appalled and amused me.
There are a lot of stray animals in the Greek Islands. Lots of idle cats and dogs prowling through your legs as you sit in an outdoor cafe; you constantly see dogs sleeping on the beach, cats leaping from balcony windows...
Understandably, none of them are desexed. So when a dog is on heat, it commands a lot of attention from nearby males.
I was standing outside a beach bar in Santorini when my conversation was drowned out by the hysterical barking of many dogs. I surveyed the situation: a pretty little Cocker Spaniel (clearly a female) was being chased by two very eager (male) dogs: a Dalmation (I think) and a Doberman. The male dogs were both violently vying to be the one to stick their nose up the popular Spaniel's bottom, she seemed quite bemused by the attention, and alternately let one and the other have a sniff and lick. She eventually started to give the Doberman preference, to the apparent insult and anger of the Dalmation, who proceeded to bark vehemently at the ass-licking couple. This, of course, is all very normal dog-mating behaviour.
The Doberman proceeded to mount the flattered Cocker Spaniel. Again, all very normal, albeit amusing while drinking a Sex on the Beach cocktail at Happy Hour.
It was when the insanely jealous Dalmation, still yelping and head-butting the enamoured lovers, managed to knock over the Doberman mid-stroke, resulting in the most curious sexual position I have ever seen in dogs (not of course to suggest that I am intimately familiar with sexual positions for dogs): bottom to bottom.
Unfortunately, all the stress of this thwarted threesome resulted in - what I was told by my travel companion, Sian, is a strange but true biological feature of mating dogs - the Doberman's penis ejecting barbs that entrapped it within the clearly confused Spaniel. Supposedly this is a feature that ensures continuance of the species, ie. if you are disturbed during sex, your penis traps you inside to ensure the sperm still reaches its goal; but I couldn't help but think it was a very badly thought out design flaw, and perhaps some practical joke by the Powers that Be.
For there, on the streets of Santorini, two dogs were trapped bottom to bottom, with the indignant Dalmation still barking furiously. The Spaniel and Doberman could not diengage, and waddled around the street, attached at the bottom. Whenever the Doberman attempted to walk, the poor little lady would be dragged by her bottom, backwards. It looked like some nightmarish vision of mutated animals, but no, it was these two dogs that couldn't detach from their interlude.
Various onlookers attempted to help disengage the couple, which despite all attempts to be serious, could only envoke hilarity from onlookers: "Aah, there is Pete attempting to coax a dogs penis down!" It was awful to see, like some car-crash that you were appalled but fascinated by.
For half an hour these two attached dogs walked (awkwardly) back and forth in front of our cafe. I tried to distract myself from the nightmarish vision, but every time I sneaked a look, yep, the dogs were still attached and barking furiously. They waddled awkwardly past a semi-posh restaurant, and it was darkly funny to see everyone inside work out what was happening, and then either burst into laughter or a shocked grimace or both.
What particularly amused me was the expression on the Spaniel's face. Like every patient woman out there, she bore an expression of calm grace, her beautiful face bearing the tribulation with a small trace of a grin.
Eventually the dogs detached to the immense relief of all witnesses. Off went the Spaniel, happy and (possibly) pregnant; off went the Doberman to nurse his no doubt injured manhood. The Dalmation was long gone in a sulking fit.
Apologies for the rather lewd entry - but I am in the very beautiful, tourist friendly, less tout-filled and less stare-filled Greece, but its tameness doesn't satisfy me as much as Turkey's rawness did. So when I see chaotic nature on the streets of Greece, I savour it as a sign the world isn't yet totally tamed or pretty or savoury. There are still sights that can shock and amuse and fascinate, even in the midst of normality and culture and blandness.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
To float in the sky
I did the most wonderful thing. I woke up at 5am to be driven in the darkness to an arid pasture, stepped into a large basket, and got whisked into the sky for 90 minutes.What I am finding so breathtaking about this trip is the degree to which my expectations are constantly being exceeded. For someone like myself who tends to have high expectations about most things anyway, its a real surprise to find that even these lofty expectations are being exceeded in unexpected arenas.
Hot air ballooning was one very fine example. I thought it would be a scary sensation and not so exciting a view - I mean, how exciting can floating above the ground be? But I was wrong on both counts. It was not a scary sensation at all, in fact, I felt overwhelming peace and joy as I ascended angelically into the pre-dawn morning. Even someone as chronically anxiety ridden like myself couldn't find any room in my awe-filled mind to accommodate fears as we flew. It feels incredibly safe, and as I learn afterwards, I was in the hands of arguably the worlds best hot-air balloonist, a Swedish gentlemen called Lars who was been flying for 29 years.
And the view... well, I am concerned that even my ambitious vocabulary my struggle to explain how glorious it was (but I'll of course try!). The air had a golden translucence that grew brighter as dawn broke. The sunrise light turned the scenery into a Dali-esque vision... you see, I was flying in Cappadocia, an area of central Turkey where the soft rock has been eroded over millenia to create these undulating waves of rock and these surreal pillars delightfully called 'fairy chimneys'. Its the stuff out of happy hallucinations, to be in this otherworldly landscape. So to fly over it, and see the entire landscape in its raw whole, and to skirt down low into the valleys, so close to the ground that I pulled leaves from tree tops, was to see this wild landscape in a perspective that was most revealing and flattering. I leaned from the basket, and just smiled and gazed in awe.
Then there was the physical sensation. It was frightfully cold - I was wearing 3 layers and Lars still had to lend me another anorak to survive the cold. I was wearing plaits to keep my hair under control. So to lean over the basket, and feel my hands and face cold, and then to get a blast of heat from the hot air balloon on the back of my neck was a wonderful sensation. To be chilly then suddenly warm in a very sensitive part of my body was rather exciting!
Lastly, it was the tranquility. When you are in the air 1500 metres high, with no engine or other noise, its like being in a dream. Its almost an out-of-body experience, as if I could see myself down in the valleys, but for now I was floating outside my body, in a state of heightened bliss. It was sad to descend back to earth, to be returned to civilisation and noise and to my feet.
Thank you to everyone at Kapadokya Balloons. Their professionalism and spirit made the experience a truly life-affirming and life-enhancing one.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Photos at last!
These are photos from my farewell party that my beloved best friend Debbie coordinated for me. She did a STERLING job, w0rking with Phil, Phils, Ste, Broc and Paul, to organise the most special moving evening in my life. To have all my friends in the one room, for them to have written a limerick about me, and to have put together mementos and other titbits of memories into an album, and to have taken a polaroid of everyone on the night... words cannot describe how special that was to me. Thanks!
And here is my darling Ming, possibly one of the most beautiful people in the world! I love this photo because we took it both thinking of how much we loved each other - so you can see the adoration we have for each other in the photo!
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Turkey has stolen my heart
It was bound to happen and finally did. I fell in love with Turkey. I suspected it would, and although I thoroughly enjoyed myself in this beautiful country for the first 10 days, it was after I left my organised tour that I love affair really blossomed.
It started when I went to Patara Beach, which is rated by Lonely Planet as one of the worlds top beaches. I can see why: its quite challenging to get to, the village is down a dirt road that does not often see public transport, and from the village its a 30 minute walk to the beach. This means when you finally reach the 18km long beach after walking through millenia old ruins, you are greeted by almost no-one. The people that are there seem to be very local - lots of muslim families with the women in full garbs prancing and giggling in the water with their children. Its heavenly.
The love affair burgeoned further when I once again alighed onto a gullet (Turkish yacht) for a 4 day cruise from Fethiye to Olympos. I knew I was being a little indulgent: two yacht cruises in one week and all, but I was in the mood for decadence. My fellow passengers were all intelligent fun interesting people, and we leisurely spent the next four days swimming in the warm mediterranean sea, eating, drinking, playing cards, reading etc. We were especially blessed by the crew who were manning our boat: they were a family unit. The dad was the Captain, the mum the chef, and the two eldest sons - 17 and 20 years old - were the general ship hands. However, the mum and dad had to go to a wedding almost immediately, so we were left in the care of the two boys. Sounds precarious, but they were utterly delightful, and we all really felt we were privy to somethnig special. They were so warm and kind and clearly had a strong family bond.
The first impulses of love began when we visited St Nicolas Island, that had the ruins of an old church (said to be of the Santa Clause original). My words simply could not describe how beautiful this island was - from the high vantage point at the top I saw the evening sun paint the sea golden hues, and I saw the distant bays and coves glittering like jewels. We were able to roam all over the ruins and the island, and I shivered with excitement as I ran my hands over the old blocks of stone, wondering what kind of people lived here, pondering on how easy it would be to be holy in a place like this.
My love affair deepened the next night when we pulled into a little fishing port called Kas. It was quaint and cute, and we were only meant to be there for an hour, but the weather turned a little windy so the crew decided to dock there for the night. I was a little suspicious of the real motives - the wind wasn't that bad, and it turned out there was the annual Kas festival that night... but it suited me fine. We were lucky enough to be docked directly by the side of the stage where the Kas festival performance was to be shown that evening. So we spent the afternoon drinking gin and tonics on a terrace overlooking the bay and then spent the evening watching curious turkish opera performance while sprawled on our yacht. It was one of those moments when I step outside my body, look back at myself, and count myself extraordinarily lucky: I was perfectly happy.
When we couldn't deal any longer with the yelping that apparently is turkish opera, we all headed into town for the party that was the Kas festival. The air was warm, the people warmer, music and happiness in the streets everywhere. We spent the evening dancing away. Heavenly.
But the moment that true love hit was the next day. We pulled into a tiny fishing village called Kekova, that had no road access, only sea access. The village sloped sharply up to a high ruined fortress, the foreshore strewn with purple flowers and lush gardens. We all climbed up to the ruins, but whilst everyone else meandered off, I stayed dumbstruck. I sat on the top of the ruined fortress, staring in awe at the beauty around me. All around was sea, bays, mountains, ruins... and I was totally alone. I realised what I loved about Turkey was it was as rich in history and beauty as Greece, Spain or Italy, but was at this point in time still relatively undiscovered. Where else could I sit for 15 minutes on this pricelessly beautiful spot and be completely alone: no tourists, no tour groups, no souvenir shops... Where else could I climb up this rather dangerous old ruin that had no warning signs or gates or chains... It was at that moment that I realised I adored Turkey.
That night I slept on the top deck of the yacht, with nothing over me but a blanket of stars and a gentle warm breeze. I gazed at the Milky Way until I fell asleep, and then I awoke when the dawn sun teased me into a dozy alertness. I sat up, and felt awe. All I could hear was the sea gently lapping the boat, and the flag of the yacht flapping quietly. The dawn light had a tangible quality to it, and made the air shimmer.
So there you have it. Turkey is a country to be loved. It has stolen my heart and filled it with pleasure and joy.
It started when I went to Patara Beach, which is rated by Lonely Planet as one of the worlds top beaches. I can see why: its quite challenging to get to, the village is down a dirt road that does not often see public transport, and from the village its a 30 minute walk to the beach. This means when you finally reach the 18km long beach after walking through millenia old ruins, you are greeted by almost no-one. The people that are there seem to be very local - lots of muslim families with the women in full garbs prancing and giggling in the water with their children. Its heavenly.
The love affair burgeoned further when I once again alighed onto a gullet (Turkish yacht) for a 4 day cruise from Fethiye to Olympos. I knew I was being a little indulgent: two yacht cruises in one week and all, but I was in the mood for decadence. My fellow passengers were all intelligent fun interesting people, and we leisurely spent the next four days swimming in the warm mediterranean sea, eating, drinking, playing cards, reading etc. We were especially blessed by the crew who were manning our boat: they were a family unit. The dad was the Captain, the mum the chef, and the two eldest sons - 17 and 20 years old - were the general ship hands. However, the mum and dad had to go to a wedding almost immediately, so we were left in the care of the two boys. Sounds precarious, but they were utterly delightful, and we all really felt we were privy to somethnig special. They were so warm and kind and clearly had a strong family bond.
The first impulses of love began when we visited St Nicolas Island, that had the ruins of an old church (said to be of the Santa Clause original). My words simply could not describe how beautiful this island was - from the high vantage point at the top I saw the evening sun paint the sea golden hues, and I saw the distant bays and coves glittering like jewels. We were able to roam all over the ruins and the island, and I shivered with excitement as I ran my hands over the old blocks of stone, wondering what kind of people lived here, pondering on how easy it would be to be holy in a place like this.
My love affair deepened the next night when we pulled into a little fishing port called Kas. It was quaint and cute, and we were only meant to be there for an hour, but the weather turned a little windy so the crew decided to dock there for the night. I was a little suspicious of the real motives - the wind wasn't that bad, and it turned out there was the annual Kas festival that night... but it suited me fine. We were lucky enough to be docked directly by the side of the stage where the Kas festival performance was to be shown that evening. So we spent the afternoon drinking gin and tonics on a terrace overlooking the bay and then spent the evening watching curious turkish opera performance while sprawled on our yacht. It was one of those moments when I step outside my body, look back at myself, and count myself extraordinarily lucky: I was perfectly happy.
When we couldn't deal any longer with the yelping that apparently is turkish opera, we all headed into town for the party that was the Kas festival. The air was warm, the people warmer, music and happiness in the streets everywhere. We spent the evening dancing away. Heavenly.
But the moment that true love hit was the next day. We pulled into a tiny fishing village called Kekova, that had no road access, only sea access. The village sloped sharply up to a high ruined fortress, the foreshore strewn with purple flowers and lush gardens. We all climbed up to the ruins, but whilst everyone else meandered off, I stayed dumbstruck. I sat on the top of the ruined fortress, staring in awe at the beauty around me. All around was sea, bays, mountains, ruins... and I was totally alone. I realised what I loved about Turkey was it was as rich in history and beauty as Greece, Spain or Italy, but was at this point in time still relatively undiscovered. Where else could I sit for 15 minutes on this pricelessly beautiful spot and be completely alone: no tourists, no tour groups, no souvenir shops... Where else could I climb up this rather dangerous old ruin that had no warning signs or gates or chains... It was at that moment that I realised I adored Turkey.
That night I slept on the top deck of the yacht, with nothing over me but a blanket of stars and a gentle warm breeze. I gazed at the Milky Way until I fell asleep, and then I awoke when the dawn sun teased me into a dozy alertness. I sat up, and felt awe. All I could hear was the sea gently lapping the boat, and the flag of the yacht flapping quietly. The dawn light had a tangible quality to it, and made the air shimmer.
So there you have it. Turkey is a country to be loved. It has stolen my heart and filled it with pleasure and joy.
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