Te spectem, suprema mhi cum venerit hora,
Et teneam moriens deficiente manu.
May I be looking at you when my last hour has come,
and dying may I hold you with my weakening hand.
— Tibullus (50-19 BC)
EpisodeI had an epiphany one morning on the way that memory edits itself.
During my 2007 trip, I bought a small silver pendant representing the famous Phaestos Disc. Like those silver or gold hearts that can be broken in half to share with someone, this could be broken in half. So much is fact.
Over time I built a romantic little anecdote around this pendant. It started out simply factual, but each time I repeated the story I “improved” upon it. Not unusual — I’m a storyteller and it’s in my nature to attempt to make the most of a good yarn, filing off the rough edges to make it rounder, neater and hopefully more interesting. Usually I keep track of fact and fiction in my head and don’t confuse them, but in the case of the pendant, I actually came to believe the new version.
According to the ultimate version of the anecdote, I bought the pendant in Crete after a brief, intense relationship, to remind me of the event, planning to give one half of it to her should I meet her again, or else to some other fellow traveller who seemed deserving of it.
I did not question this story. I “knew” it so well that there seemed no reason to go back and check my records. But one night I was browsing through my photos from 2007 looking for something else and I came across a picture of the pendant — taken in Methoni, over a week before I reached Crete. There was an obvious contradiction here. If I already had the pendant in Methoni then I could not possibly have bought it in Crete!
I checked my record of expenditures on my 2007-2008 trip and the truth began to emerge. In fact I purchased the pendant in Corfu on the 11th of June 2007. I already had it in Crete. Indeed, now that I was looking for it, I could see it around my neck in photos taken on Crete. Therefore that part of the fable was not only false to fact but false to itself. If I’d really bought the thing with Helle in mind, I could have given it to her then and there!
Faced with these facts I dug back and gradually unwound the mysteries of the anecdote. I had indeed bought the pendant intending to give it to a travel companion somewhere, sometime, should the case ever arise, but I bought it in memory of the breakthrough in Corfu, not of the relationship on Crete. I did not give it to Helle on Crete because we were not travelling together — she did not fit the profile.
The truth is not as poetical or romantic as the anecdote. It has loose ends and too many characters. So I improved the yarn. And I liked the improved yarn so much that, over time, I forgot that it was just a yarn.
Writing about real events can be as much an act of creativity as writing a novel. Memory is not a video recording: each time we recall a memory, we change the memory minutely. Writing from memory alone, you run a real risk of setting down an edited, artificial version of events. If that fits your purpose, fine. Otherwise, there is no substitute for keeping an honest, clear diary as things happen.
In writing this account I have had to spend as much time and effort in removing the dreamer’s fancies as setting down the events that the adventurer remembers.
Table of Contents§
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Note on currencies: in this trip report, I’ve chosen to use Latin rather than unicode for some currencies. “$” on its own is always the Australian Dollar (aud) unless it's in a quotation. For the rest, in the rough order in which they are encountered,
us$ = US Dollar (usd).
€ = Euro (eur).
₺ = Turkish Lira (try).
₾ = Georgian Lari (gel).
֏ = Armenian Dram (amd).
₼ = Azerbaijan Manat (azn).
₸ = Kazakhstan Tenge (kzt).
kgs = Kygystan Som (kgs).
uzs = Uzbekistan Som (uzs).
tjs = Tajikistan Somoni (tjs).
؋ = Afghanistan Afghani (afn).
¥ = Chinese Yuan Renminbi (cny).
hk$ = Hong Kong Dollar (hkd.
mop$ = Macau Pataca (mop).
₫ = Vietnam Dong (vnd).
៛ = Cambodian Riel (khr).
₭ = Laos Kip (lak).
฿ = Thailand Baht (thb).
RM = Malayasia Ringgit (myr).
Rp = Indonesia Rupiah (idr).
I've generally left out prices except where they’re relevant to the yarn. Unless noted otherwise, any exchange rate in the text is the rate applying at that time in 2010–2011.
Here and there I’ve changed or omitted some names of people I met. I won’t warn you when I do that. It’s usually either because I’ve forgotten the name, or to protect their privacy.
“Life is like a dogsled team. If you ain’t the lead dog, the scenery never changes.”
— Lewis Grizzard.
Adrift in MelbourneSpurning Richmond, I took a flat in many-cultured Footscray. I also took a package from my job and spent a year off work, writing, and seeking my family roots. I tried to make sense of what I’d done, what I’d learned, what I was, and what I’d become.
I started writing a book about my 2007 adventure. It started out as a collection of diary notes, forum posts, and other bits and pieces, laid out by the calendar, and gradually transformed into a travelogue, then into philosophy. I didn’t know where I was going with it, but it organised my memories and I felt that if I kept working on it, it might help me understand what had happened.
The book was never completed — it became obvious to me that the story I was trying to tell was itself incomplete — but it did clarify many things to me. Ten months on the road had changed me, but not enough. I had found magic but I had not brought it back with me. My life was still empty.
Then the money ran out and I had to take contract work. Without an anchor, I backslid, rapidly falling back into my old ways.
A choice presented itself. I could stay in Australia and stagnate, or I could take to the road again in hope that once out of the matrix I could complete my transformation. Put that way, the choice was easy. I took the red pill.
My employer offered to extend my contract again, but this time I refused. Anzac Day 2010 marked the 95th anniversary of the Gallipoli landings. It seemed as good a time and place as any to restart my quest.
Man in the rainEvery so often on any trip I experience moments of sublime happiness — when I am where I need to be, when I need to be there, with nothing that needs to be done immediately and plenty of time to simply enjoy the moment.
My first such moment on this trip was yesterday at 10:15 on a tram back from Richmond, stopped for the lights at the corner of Bridge and Punt Roads. I had just arranged for my mail to be redirected from my former address, and for my Post Office Box mail to be held while I am overseas. These were the last chores I had to do before departure. I had been trying to think of anything I had forgotten or left out — and coming up empty. Suddenly I felt a smile spreading across my face and all the stress and tension of the last few days dissipated. As the tram rumbled across the intersection, I looked around me at all the scowls and tight faces of people still tied to the daily grind and had to resist the urge to laugh. For the next year, people, I would be among you but no longer of you.
This is freedom!
Packing was a process I’d gone through before. It involved deciding what was worth storing and what was better discarded, to be replaced, or not, when I returned.
Last time I had thrown out practically all my furniture. So this time a lot of nearly new furniture had to be stored. However, the TV and its stand went out; they were too big, and I no longer watched TV. I could buy a digital flat screen setup when I returned. The stereo was overdue for the junkyard too, but in the end I stored it (and threw it out in 2011). Washer, dryer and fridge were for the curb (not worth trying to sell).
In late March I performed triage on my books and discarded several hundred, packing the rest into the same cardboard boxes they’d occupied during my last long trip. My bookcases and shelves were nearly all kit sets and I reduced them to compact stacks of boards and tubes for storage. Most of my VHS collection got deep sixed, but I kept the DVDs. Several boxes of plastic and electrical bric-a-brac went to the curb, also a couple of old sets of drawers that I originally salvaged from the roadside; time I bought some new ones. My old desktop computer went to the curb too (ten years old and not worth trying to sell second hand; I industrial-wiped the hard drive first). Most of my work clothes also went in the trash, this time — I accepted that I would never wear them again.
Once my stuff was settled, I still had a few days in hand. I used that time to print bits and pieces and finish last minute planning. I slept on an air bed that rolled up and went to storage when I vacated the flat. Since I was throwing the fridge out, I kept it for now and thus had cold storage, so with pots, disposable plastic plates and utensils, the flat was habitable right up until I moved out.
But my last week in Melbourne I spent in a backpacker hostel, getting myself back into travel mode and saying goodbye to — all of that.
My laptop too went to storage on my last day in Melbourne. In 2007 I had looked around me in the hostel common room, at the people seeing their journey through a shining glass window, and decided I did not wish to spend my priceless time free in the world like that. As in 2007 I carried only my mobile phone (charged but hidden away, for emergencies) and my trusty Pocket PC.
It felt strange and yet familiar to be on the road again. Strange because I’d had months of sleeping in the same bed every night. Familiar, to be on the move, carrying all my belongings. My pack, the same one I’d carried on my previous long trip and on my other, more recent recent excursions, rode my back like it had grown there, but lighter now; all the dross had been identified and discarded during 2007.
At the airport, the internet Net-kiosk refused my coin. A quick manoeuvre with a key flipped someone’s jammed $2 coin from the slot. Score! It seemed like an omen.
The flight out of Melbourne was half empty. I spread myself across two seats and slept curled up. Some lucky people in the middle got four seats in a row and could lie completely flat.
At Abu Dhabi a hot shower spruced me up, and at a coffee shop in the mezzanine, a monster cappuccino in a cup with two handles — the “Massimo” — was just what I needed to wake me up. That, and excitement over the 14-month odyssey ahead.
From Abu Dhabi to İstanbul, the flight was completely full. I did not exchange a word with my neighbours the whole way. We communicated our few needs by grunts and body language.
cracks along riverbank
bubbles near water’s edge
— ad for Adelaide
We have reached the Colchian land and the stream of Phasis; and it is time for us to take counsel whether we shall make trial of Aeetes with soft words, or an attempt of another kind shall be fitting.
— Apollonius, Argonautica.
İstanbul ReprisedAfter a gap of nearly three years, I slipped back into İstanbul like a foot into a well-worn shoe. On a whimsy, I’d booked a room at the same hotel I used in 2005. It was in a side street off the end of the Hippodrome and was mid-range when my budget on this trip called for something cheaper, but a little transitional luxury seemed called for. I’d be sleeping cheaply soon enough.
The weather was perfect — not too hot, not too cold, and it was sunny. I had my first breakfast on my hotel’s terrace, overlooking the Hippodrome and the great mosques. Far out in the Sea of Marmaris I could see the Princes Islands. Coffee, cereal, thick slices of bread and jam, and an envious seagull standing witness. My journey was off to a splendid start.
I went to Ayasofya in the hope that the scaffolding concealing a quarter of the immense dome would be gone. It had been moved aside, so I finally saw the entire glorious dome. Another dream fulfilled.
I also went back to the Basilica Cistern and the Mosaic Museum, perennial favourites.
The sightseeing was a little bitter-sweet. Last time I saw these sights, I was showing them off to a pretty Chinese woman, seeing them afresh through her eyes. Evelyn cured the pain left in my heart from my reawakening in Greece. We had stayed in touch since. She had visited Australia and I showed her some of my favourite Melbourne sights, and I hoped to see her again on this trip, when I reached China. Meantime, I was again seeing these things from two vantages — from 2007 and from now. The present suffered by comparison.
While I was crouching to take a photo, I felt something give way at my waist. My belt had snapped. It was an old braided-leather thing that had been on its last legs. I brought it with the intention of replacing it with a better one in Central Asia. Well, now I could make an unplanned-for visit to the Kapalı Carsı to buy a new belt, identical to the old one. I paid too much for it, but my need was great!
Afterwards I sat at a tiny table in the market and sipped çay from a tulip glass to recover from the excitement and enjoying some illicit tourist-watching. Tourists were everywhere. This did not bode well for Anzac Day. If there was a bumper attendance like 2005, Gallipoli would be a mosh pit.
I did some other shopping. A sheet of plastic to lay on the ground — or over my head, should it rain — while waiting for the dawn at Gallipoli. Munchies for the vigil — cheese, coffee, chocolate bars. A blue-and-white glass eye to put on my daypack to ward off ill luck. I did some overpriced laundry.
It gave me an excuse to walk around the city, and the minor quests and the activity quenched my melancholy.
I found my New Thing of the Day — Black Olive Paste. The brand name was Marmarabirlick. Muggins decided this meant it was some sort of marmalade made from a dark fruit, like a plum. Surprise! The scent of olives when I opened the jar told me I had discovered a new taste sensation. Bread, cheese, olives and water for lunch: behold, the Mediterranean diet!
Gallipoli and the CoastAnzac Day at Gallipoli turned out to be a considerably smaller event than 2005, with only about 7,000 attendees. However, everything I had planned for the 24th was screwed up by security arrangements for the VIP dignitaries such as NZ’s Prime Minister and Australia’s Governor General and the Governor of Çanakkale. Owing to the obvious risk of World War III breaking out should any of these stuffed shirts brush elbows with the peons, the entire Anzac area was locked down and the public were excluded from 10:00 to 17:00. Instead of sightseeing, we wound up cooling our heels in Eceabat. I thought these clowns were elected to wait on us, not we on them! We were the ones who paid to be there — and we also got to pay for these politicians to be there.
Despite this, security at the site was rather spotty. My bag, containing a bottle of water and various esoteric electronic devices, sailed through the scanner unhindered. The gate beeped enthusiastically when my brand-new belt’s buckle passed through, but nobody even looked. One guy managed to smuggle in a bottle of Scotch. He would have been OK, except he went out and came in again. They spotted it on the return leg — and let him take it in any way! (It was a futile victory: as he sat in the stands, the bottle fell through a gap in the boards and broke.)
I made a beeline for the enclosure nearest the stage and claimed a sleeping-bag-sized patch of ground. It became my home for the next twelve hours. Due to the smaller attendance, I managed to retain my spot and even sleep there.
The event otherwise was much like 2005. During the closing stages I thought of the futile waste of human life 95 years before and wondered, really, how much we had learned.
We got away faster this year and reached Ayvalık in time for our free buffet dinner (drinks extra … and expensive). Fez Tours had managed to negotiate an upgrade to a “four star” hotel (Hotel Kalif). However, they must have been very small stars. My shower had a hand-held shower head and no curtain. The bathroom door would only open 45 degrees because at that point it hit the bathtub. The light switches for the bed lights were reversed — the left switch operated the right light and vice versa. You’d think a 4-star hotel would notice and fix things this obvious! But the food was good, and abundant. I’ll grant them that.
On the 26th we had three things scheduled — a visit to a carpet factory, a visit to Pergamon, and a visit to an onyx factory. We ran over time at the carpet factory and had to make it up — by shortening the Pergamon tour, as it was obviously impossible to shorten the onyx factory tour (they might want their commission back).
The frightening thing was that quite a few of the tour members really were more interested in the sales pitches, I mean, factory tours, than the ruins of ancient Pergamon.
I took a dolmuş to the centre of Kuşadası then a dolmuş to Selçuk, where I booked a bus to Bodrum before heading off to see the sights.
I skipped Ephesus, which was still fresh in my mind from 2007, but I revisited the site of the Temple of Artemis, the Archaeological Museum and the Basilica of St John. When I got back to the bus station, I learned that my bus had encountered “mechanical problems” in İzmir and was cancelled — translation, there were not enough bookings — and my reservation had been transferred to a bus departing two hours later. Grrr. Instead of browsing pensions in Bodrum, I was forced to pick one out of my guidebook and ring them to make a reservation.
But I made it to Bodrum, and my room was waiting — a better room than I expected, because they upgraded me to a room with bathroom at the same price, since I had rung ahead to reserve a place. Not that things went as smoothly as that implies. The bus ran late. Coming out of the bus station, I turned east instead of west and promptly got lost. No matter. I was in Bodrum as planned, and I decided to stay two nights instead of one.
Ancient Halicarnassus had changed since ancient times, but Herodotus might be able to remember the hills. It had changed little since my last visit. I wandered around and revisited places. I went to the Mausoleum — a rubble-strewn hole in the ground — and the Castle of the Knights — whence most of the missing Mausoleum pieces had been taken. I also sat for a fistful of visa photos. I had a notion they might come in useful.
Near the Mausoleum I thought of buying half a litre of water because the one I was carrying was mostly tap water. I paid 50¢ in Istanbul and 20¢ in Ayvalık — I expected 30¢ or 40¢ here, but he demanded 50¢. This may have been the correct local price (others charged the same) but I queried it with the jolly, unshaven shopkeeper. He affirmed it. I was still doubtful — at which point he reached over, took the bottle and handed me back my 50¢. That was no problem as I was going to back out anyway, but he laughed and made a remark to another customer, probably derogatory. That got my back up.
I went up to the Theatre and had a look round, as planned. But on my way back I took out my own bottle and made a point of stopping outside the shop to have a good guzzle. When I knew he had seen me, I laughed nastily, just as he had — and walked on. Hopefully, he wasted some skull-sweat trying to figure out where I got my (presumably) cheap water. It may also improve his manners, but I somehow doubt that.
Fethiye was a pretty town spread around a bay — quite reminiscent of Dunedin in New Zealand. There was still snow on the higher peaks. Until the snow melted, I was in no hurry to get to Georgia, where spring came later. Even so, the weather was changeable — bright sunshine in the morning, but a thunderstorm in the afternoon.
The view from the pension terrace was to die for, but the place had a couple of unfortunate quirks. They had a rule against doing your laundry in your room. This was reasonable, but they provided no alternative except their absurdly overpriced in-house service. The promised 24-hr hot water was decidedly tepid in the mornings — they seemed reliant on sun power and the afternoons while I was there were cloudy.
The sights that were open were overpriced. You could see the façade of the Tomb of Amyntas pretty well from the road below. The interior would have to be amazing to make entry worthwhile — and I had not heard that it was amazing.
By the waterside, I stopped at a roadside stall selling lightweight travel trousers and bought a pair. Too long, but they could be shortened. Then I found another stall selling packs and bought the perfect daypack. After that, I bought two spools of cotton thread — grey to shorten the trousers, black to attach secret pockets and caches and D-rings and webbing to the pack.
I continued along the waterfront and found a place with cheap çay and two resident pelicans. The pelicans provided plenty of entertainment when they “did the rounds” of the tables trying to bully people into feeding them. A seat cushion made a handy pelican defence, but it took a man wielding a broom to rout them.
Back at the hostel I had a beer while I did some internet on my Pocket PC, then I sat on a shady platform and shortened my new pants. The cut-off bits left over from this exercise suggested that I could now patch the old pair — something of a laugh since the new pair were supposed to replace the old!
At the Şaban Pension I plumped for a bungalow rather than a treehouse — a bit of a splurge, but breakfast and dinner were included. The food was well up to par.
I spent hours lying in a hammock beneath a shady tree or lying on cushions in a pergola. If I felt energetic, I could get up and take a walk through some atmospheric ruins down to a pretty beach. It was spring and the weather was perfect. I was surrounded by enthusiastic young backpackers ready for a conversation at the drop of a reminiscence. But it was still early in the trip and I was not yet lonely.
I took a Chimæra tour — in fact, I had come to Olympos specifically to see the Chimæra. We left after dinner. The drive from Olympos to the car park went via the main road and took 45 minutes. It was then a stiff thirty-minute climb up rough stone steps to the flames. The driver handed out bright LED torches to those who had brought none. Some smart people brought sausages and barbequed them at the bigger flame vents: remarks about “we should’ve brought some marshmallows” were common.
I did my laundry in the morning, then set out for Side around 11:00. The journey took about 4 hours and four changes, from climbing into one dolmuş at Olympos to climbing out of another at Side.
My 20 minute walk through the ruins of Side looking for accommodation was pleasant. The city was mostly open and free. The Theatre didn’t look worth its price (I got a good look from outside, though the panorama from the top of the stands might have improved the value proposition). The Museum was closed on Monday. but open Tuesday. The beaches looked good.
I booked into the Beach House Hotel for two nights, then resumed my walk.
My room included breakfast, so once I’d dropped into a couple of supermarkets on my way back to the hotel in the afternoon, my food needs were settled for my time here. That said, Side was a single huge tourist trap. Everything in the old city was geared to the tourist, and the shopkeepers were pushy.
§
In the morning, the breakfast was modest but very similar to what I had bought for myself the night before — coffee, cucumber, tomato, a slice of baloney, and egg, some cheese, spreads, and a loaf of bread.
I visited the Temple of the moon god Men, victim of some poor choices in the past (rusted steel reinforcing that allowed re-erected columns to fall over). Further on, the ruins of the Temple of Athena had been built over with a Byzantine basilica and only excavatad in modern times. A statue of Ataturk, hands in pockets, gazed casually out over the harbour.
The Museum, open today, was okay. A broken Three Graces had been crudely modified to provide bodyparts that they had lacked. A beautiful head of Hermes, wearing an ironic half-smile, was probably the most impressive piece here. Vespasian’s Fountain still had an arch.
I finished the afternoon in my warm, sunny room with a siesta.
In the morning I took a dolmuş to Manavgat, then a minibus to Alanya, where I caught a bus to Alanya big otogar, Where I boarded a bus to Anamur. But first, toilet stop at Alanya.
I booked into the Dedehan Otel, which I misrecorded as the Bededen, for two nights. It was epensive by my standards,but right next door to the bus terminal. And to a four-minaret mosque, which guaranteed a wake up call in the morning. I had an early dinner — stew and çay — and early bed.
§
In the morning I caught a dolmuş out to the roundabout (36°02'24.4"N 32°48'09.0"E) where Anamuryam Caddesi struck off the the ancient city. From there I walked. Once past the ticket office (36°01'45.5"N 32°48'17.4"E) at about 9:00, I could see the very substantial ruins of Anemourion spread across the hillside in front of me. I could pick out the lines of the walls.
Between the local map board and my guidebook — the Turkey Lonely Planet — I managed to identify the two baths, the theatre, the Odeum, and several churches. The map board was more art than map, but by working out where I was on the ground and using the placards that said what I was looking at, I had a pretty good idea of where I was and what else was nearby.
I worked up the hill, finding huge arched windows that gazed out over the sea, then down to the beach, where the ruins continued right out to the water’s edge on the pebble beach. Here and there crusts of marble were still draped over humbler foundation masonry.
As I started back I saw a suburb of the new city in the distance. It was like a scene from a time travel novel — ancient ruins by a sea, with mysterious tall white towers visible on a hillside in the distance.
The only residents today were tortoises. As I was leaving at about 11:20, I spotted one stalwart working its way sturdily along the modern concrete road. There wasn’t much traffic, but I feared for its life if a car came along, so I lifted it and carried it over to the roadside, pointing it uphill into some grass. It took the hint.
As I walked back to modern Anamur, the apartment towers lost their airy grace and became blocky and mundane. To walk down into the city centre was to enter a miasma of smoke and car exhaust. The road was not designed for foot traffic, but at least the western road edge was broad enough to give me a chance. By 13:00 I was looking at the big mosque opposite my hotel.
Although I had booked in for two nights, I had only done so in order to have the use of the room to rest up in during the afternoon. By 21:00 I was sitting at the otogar, waiting for an overnight Malatya service.
I suddenly thought that if I had extended my contract, I would be squatting in a dismal flat in Footscray right now instead of enjoying a mild night in Turkey waiting for a 21:30 bus after an interesting day’s sightseeing, while a muezzin chanted from the steps of a mosque nearby in a vain attempt to arouse some vestige of piety in the waiting passengers. It would have been the sensible choice.
My hammock days were behind me now. I was impatient, and the road legs were long. I arrived in Malatya after an overnight bus odyssey from Anamur on the coast that included toilet stops at 2:30 somewhere, at Kahraman Maraş, and at Elbistan, because of uneasy bowels.
The day really started at 6:00, with a splendid misty sunsrise somewhere on the road. I was supposed to change to a different service at 6:30 in Kahraman Maraş, but my bus ran late so they took me to Elbistan and changed me there. Instead of 10:30, I arrived in Malatya at noon. The next day I departed for Erzurum.
Malatya was the rudest town I had ever encountered in Turkey. From the moment I arrived I was jostled, cut off, hissed at and treated as a walking wallet; and it was an ugly place. My guidebook claimed that it grew on you — but after 24 hours here the only things growing on me were a film of stale tobacco smoke and a case of deafness from the ridiculously loud loudspeakers on the mosque across the street.
With a choice of spending 10 more hours in Malatya or spending those same hours out at the otogar, I opted unhesitatingly for the bus station. I doubt there can be a more devastating condemnation of a place than that its best feature is the departure plaza of its bus station.
When one chubby middle-aged Turk in an otogar hurdles a counter and goes for another — you just know that it’s not because they have just discovered that they are long lost twins!
Nor was Malatya done with me, even at the otogar.The toilet cost ₺0.75, but —
My humiliation is complete. I scouted the toilets and ascertained that except, maybe, for the (locked) disabled booth or something upstairs, there is no throne in the building. So when it came time to clear the storage facility for the long ride, I had to use a squat.
First I tried the standard squatting position. As expected, I couldn’t be sure my clothing was out of range of possible spatter. So I laid some toilet paper strategically and lowered myself — literally.
And my sphincter, which had been insisting it had some trade to conduct, clammed up totally. I squeezed till I was red and sweating and panting, with no result. Not even a fart.
I ate a chicken doner for dinner, then went back to the squat. Success! That got me on the bus, but getting to Erzurum required two more toilet breaks on the road.
By the time I got to Erzurum at 7:00 the next morning, my mood was as foul as the cold, thunderstormy weather. As soon as I was booked into my hotel, I declared the day to be “down time” and spent it mostly in bed, reading Robin Lane Fox’s 2005 history. The Otel Salim was clean enough, but the upper sheet on my bed was barely large enough and was secured to the blanket with safety pins! Fortunately the cold weather meant that I actually wanted to use the blanket. Gradually my body put itself to rights. I washed some clothes and hoped they’d be dry enough by tomorrow.
Not that the hotel helped. The wall electrical plug dangled loose on its wires. I used it, because I had no choice, but I cringed every time I had to plug someing in.
§
The next day was much better. The rain stopped, the sun came out — though it was only 9°C when I set out to see the town at 7:45.
Highlights: at 32 Menderes Sokak, the huge wall sculptures, one showing water wheels, and next to it one showing soldiers. Brave Turkish Mehmets versus guys in peaked hats who were busy stabbing and bayonetting children. The interesting this is that the brass mural I saw was there until at least 2017, but by 2020 it was black and clearly had different details. The children were gone. Figures were in more neutral stances. Odd.
I explored the Citadel/Castle, climbing up onto the walls to get panoramic views from the city. At one point there was a display of Ottoman cannon. Ekleswhere, a grassy lawn had been dug up to reveal ancient foundations. I saw a black and white bird with blue-flashed wings, apparently an oriental magpie.
Regardless, I had seen enough of Erzurum and I was gone in the morning.
Descending from the mountains, I craned up at the ridges for ancient ruins, and ahead for a first sight of the sea, but I could not claim to have seen either. My “Thalassa! Thalassa!” moment never came.
In Trabzon, my chosen hotel had moved upmarket. I tried to bargain them down, but the guy’s English — passable till now — suffered a sudden deterioration which lasted until I gave up and decided that for one night, I’d pay his price. Shame, as I liked Trabzon and probably would’ve stayed longer if the price had been nearer my budget. Instead, I moved on into Georgia. Though I saw the Kale, I only know it now because I recorded the fact at the time. I have no memory of it.
At the border, there was a huge queue to exit Turkey, but it moved fast, and the only delay was while the man made a mental calculation then said “Gelibolu?” to me. I said yes, Anzac Day. He smiled and waved me through. There was nobody at Customs.
Western GeorgiaThere was another queue to enter Georgia. My Passport seemed to puzzle them. They kept flicking through it. My 2007 Russian visa was discovered, and it worked some magic. They made a phone call, perhaps checking whether New Zealanders needed visas, then told me to stand back and look at the camera, then stamped me in (on an otherwise empty page of my Passport, damnit!) with a smile and a “Welcome to Georgia”. Customs was choked with cars and trucks and buses. They weren’t interested in a grubby backpacker and just waved me on.
I had no Georgian Lari but the marshrutka driver said Turkish Lira were “nye problema”, and they weren’t. I decided I was going to like Georgia.
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I wanted to spend several nights in Batumi to get a feel for Georgia, but they didn’t make it easy. It’d be a nice place if they’d just finish the streets! Half the main grid had been torn up. It was like the Wild West. There were gambling dens on every corner and the Hotel Inturist advertised itself as the “CASINO Inturist”. Batumi was not relying on its stony beach for its tourist appeal.
I rode the poky little Ferris wheel, and discovered my New Thing — a tasty square cheesy pastry — my first encounter with khachapuri.
On reflection, the torn-up streets in Batumi may actually have been a sign of prosperity rather than decline — the authorities may have received a windfall from some of the huge developments going up around town (notably Batumi Resort up by the lighthouse) and decided to spend some of it on replacing decrepit water, sewage, and drainage pipes. Getting in and out of my hotel became an obstacle course when a big trench they were digging reached my front door. The electricity each day was hit or miss.
Roads were a definite issue in Georgia. The road to Zugdidi was not good, but it did prepare me for the infinitely rougher road up to Mestia.
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——— watch this space ———
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