The
debarkation from the Greek vessel was painless, despite the tension between
these two neighbouring states. The billions of injected tourist dollars seem to
make cooperation easier, but that of course is the cynic in me. Perhaps they
are finally setting aside their centuries of old hatreds, seeing a better
future as allies and friends. I suppose it is a combination of the two. The
crossing from Rhodes to Marmaris had been quick and relatively wave free,
thankfully. Not all late summer voyages on the Aegean are so still. The thought
of the crossing from Crete to Rhodes, the massive ferry pitching and heaving,
the grey sea roiling angrily, still makes me queasy.
After being waved through customs
(being of European descent still has its advantages it seems, as we pass by a
group of swarthier people being held by the border guards for more involved
questioning) by a bored looking man who did not even make an attempt to look at
our proffered passports, we were set free on Asian soil. The dry heat of the Mediterranean afternoon
envelops us, but after a month on the meandering by-ways of Greece, it has
grown on us.
Marmaris, one of Turkey’s busiest
ports, and a major hub for its tourist trade, is subdued and quiet. Not many
people can be seen on the streets, and those that are out move about in a rush,
bent on the task at hand. No ideal milling, lazy meandering, nor aimless
wandering; as if to emphasize the stillness, even the side walk hawkers are
silent, the rug hustlers and shop keepers respectfully distant. A bombing can
do that to a city; steal its vibrancy, its personality, render it a shocked and
frightened shell of itself.
Less than a week ago, the group
calling itself the “Kurdish Freedom Falcons” set off a bomb on a downtown sidewalk,
hoping to hurt Turkey economically by targeting tourists. It is a thirteen
billion dollar industry annually, and so the “Falcons” feel that they are
therefore justified to kill non-Turks in an effort to scare us all away,
driving us and our money to other destinations. Judging by the number of large
pleasure craft still dotting the harbour, this endeavour was in vain. The town
may be subdued, but it is far from being broken.
Nevertheless, it is time to move
forward, ever on towards new things and experiences that can ignite a fire in
the mind. It is not that we do not like the look of Marmaris, nor are we afraid
of death at the hands of a coward dressed in the guise of a Falcon. It is
something more practical – Marmaris is expensive, and we are poor. So, we found
ourselves arriving in the late afternoon in Bodrum, further up the coast, after
taking the bus.
Bodrum is not exactly a niggard’s
paradise, but it is a little less jet-set than its bigger brother to the south.
The yachts still power into the harbour with regularity, but the town caters to
the backpacking crowd as well. Accommodation ranges suitably as a result, from
4 star resorts to small, sweltering, dorm roomed Pensions. One can guess where
my brother and I ended up staying. Oddly enough, you can and do grow used to
the snoring of complete strangers who sleep a few feet from your own head. The
stagnant air is harder to take, especially on those still nights when the
breeze dies, and the balcony windows open onto a bevy of chain-smoking Britons
who are doing their damnedest to become cancer patient statistics.
A cursory examination of the town
reveals many prior-to unknowns: This was Halicarnassus, and at various times
had played host to many of history’s significant moments; the birth of Herodotus,
the Father of History, the location of King Mausolus’ grand final resting
place, the Mausoleum (one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World), and the
final Asiatic holding of the Crusader order, the Hospitalliers, in their Castle
of Saint Peter, before the Turks drove the warrior monks out for good. Even for
a lover of history, it is almost too much; almost, but not quite. And so, we set
out to, and succeed, in losing ourselves to the cobbled streets, the faded
ruins, and the soaring castle ramparts. Some of the images stay with us; some
inevitably are lost, despite our best intentions. The sheer size and scope of
the Mausoleum still has the capacity to surprise me, the brilliance and vanity
of a king in life and in death. Juxtaposed to the phenomenal ziggurat, are the
miniscule prison cells in the Castle of Saint Peter, designed to neither allow
a man to sit upright, nor lie down fully extended, leading inevitably to a
manic, desperate scrawling on the wall in Latin, that reads horribly “Inde Deus
Abest” – “Where God Does Not Exist”. The various implements of torture that are
displayed in this now grim museum lend truth to that sentiment.
Settling in to a quay side eatery,
we decide to treat ourselves; local fare, and local wine. The food is served to
us upon a raki soaked platter, wreathed in alcohol fuelled blue flames. Within
the fire rest sealed amphorae, filled with hearty stew. The waiter uses a
hammer to smash off the lids to these “Ottoman Hotpots”, revealing the slow
cooked deliciousness within. The wine, from nearby Pamukale, is smoky, dry, and
very fine. Of course, the food, and the moonrise over the waves adds to our
enjoyment of this juice of the grape, but such is always the case. Wine, even
fine wine, is one part taste, two parts atmosphere.
And there, as my brother and I sip
our wine, watch the moon come up over the yacht speckled harbour, nibble our
food, careful to avoid any stray shard of terra cotta, we hear it, that lyrical
call to prayer. All over the city, minarets ring out with the Muezzins’ call,
entreating the faithful to come to mosque and exalt in the Lord. It is a sound
of great beauty, great romance, and great mystery. The call is something
tangible that smacks ever of the East, transporting even a faithless heathen to
the very brink of wonder. On this night, in this place, it is music.
A tribal thrumming can be heard,
growing louder, fighting with the Muezzin for dominance of the night. The
rave-like dancehall beats draw nearer and nearer, raw and powerful, until, just
as the Muezzins call is reaching a mighty zenith, the source heaves into view:
a flat bedded lorry, with massive speakers, filling the night with a different
more modern song. A pole is erected in the centre of the truck bed, and
scantily clad women gyrate about it, shaking their hips like belly dancers, but
dressing like street walkers. A banner proclaims that this truck and these
women are in the service of a certain local club, where one can dance, drink,
and carouse until the wee hours. Indeed, the way that the women move, the truck
as an advertisement seems to be promising a great deal more. The Muezzin
promises delights in heaven, the women, delights in the now.
The one eye of Turkey is looking
West, to Europe and beyond, the other looks East to a proud Muslim past, and
the two of us, Jeremy and I, are caught in the middle, suspended between them both.
No comments:
Post a Comment