The Expansive Experience of Travel, or The Aegean Coast of Turkey

"Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives...You are now living in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Jonnies (Anzacs) and the Mehmets (Turks) 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. Having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well."

-Ataturk 1934

These words are written at Anzac Cove, the "Normandy" of Antipodeans. The year was 1915, WWI was raging on the Western front, and Churchill thought a speedy finish to the conflict could be achieved by a naval conquest of Istanbul, the capital of the Ottoman Empire. But first they had to get through the Dardenelles, a narrow channel of water from the Mediterranean to the Marmara Sea. Well, that failed, due to heroic mining by moonlight that blasted seven European ships to watery graves. Committed to their venture, the Allied powers launched a land offensive. This didn't work out well either, as strategy had yet to overtake technology. Trench warfare ensued, horrendous conditions, and in blistering heat and warping cold Aussies, New Zealanders, Brits, Italians, Indians, Turks, and Arabs fought a bloody campaign marked by long stalemates, interrupted by incredible bloodletting. Pressing for advantage, the infantry would charge out of their trenches. Machine guns. Shredded units remained. It ran ragged for nine months, till 43,000 Allied soldiers lay dead, joined in Ataturk's bosom alongside 87,000 of his kinsmen. Near the end horrible weather conditions and disease, such as dysentery coupled with a shortage of water, killed more than bullets. Where the trenches were closer, the two sides would trade rations, tossing the tins across six feet of no-man's land. Once, an allied solder lay in this stretch, gruesomely wounded, groaning through tormented hours till, moved with sympathy, a Turk waved a white flag. The firing stopped, and he courageously proceeded to mount the trench, walk that lonely ground, stoop down, picking up the wounded and extraordinarily carried him to the Anzac trench. He then returned and the war resumed. How inane it all is, right? Thus also is the insanity that dissonates in each of our daily lives as we struggle between the good and the evil. Ataturk's statement appears touching, yet he continued to build Turkey's army, and who can deny that one day Anzacs may once again fall dead on Turkish soil?

Today, the battlefield is really quite lovely, bright baby pine trees sprouting up everywhere after a recent fire. The road across the monuments follows the old trenchlines, and cemeteries have been outlined with the opposing ends representing the old battle trenches. Every year, on April 25, thousands of Antipodeans make the pilgramage here and remember those "who sacrificed for their freedom". If you would like to learn more, Birds Without Wings, a wonderful work of historical fiction, brings the battle to life.

A torturous seven-hour bus ride from Gallipoli, and we found ourselves in Izmir. Nothing much needs to be said save our character-ridden hotel (read: dessicate), and that I beat David twice in backgammon. On to Ephesus by car as UM had a strong desire to avoid another bus. In light of topheavy swaying, constant stops to pick up passengers, and enduring a lustily screaming babe, the additional cost was a reasonable exchange. Ephesus was good, though I lack the imagination for such ruins. The Library of Celsus astonishes the eye in her intricacy, and it's fun to make out the greek names for the four ladies of virtue on the facade: Arete (Goodness), Ennoia (Thought), Epistme (Knowledge) and Sophia (Wisdom). St. Paul also spent time here, and St. Luke records in the Acts of the Apostles that the Spirit of God lay so heavy on him that a handerchief, blessed by his hand, could be taken by a breathless courier up the marbled and columned pathways to a sorrowful house and curing the sick, turn that mourning into joyful thanksgiving. This power also led him to fight "with wild beasts", of which we cannot be certain whether the beasts were literal, as in a staged fight, or representative of hostile elements in the city. Ruins speak of time's course, and the once flourishing city of Ephesus now lies derelict after the harbour silted up. The massive Temple of Artemis, one of the original seven wonders of the world, now is commemorated with a single standing column. Good luck imagining that. The column is off to the right of me in the picture below.

The Virgin Mary's purported home is near Ephesus, but I felt no need to honor a myth, albeit a myth so powerful as to persuade the ecclesiastical branches from monotheism to polytheism. Instead, we made our way up a narrow canyon wall, replete with exposed edges to Sirenje, a lovely town nestled into the hills above Selcuk. Eccentric fruit wines are the pull, and David and I sampled apricot, cherry, mango, blueberry, blackberry, melon, and peach wine. Sweet and syrupy, the cherry was best, though I will take a cab red any day.

In ancient times, a particular merchant vessel was caught in a dreadful storm, and found itself caught on the rocks. Below deck were gold scarabs, ingots, delicately-painted ostrich eggs, and among other valuables, a gold cup. This ship had passed along the Mediterranean lands for some time, witnessing the Pyramids and the wealthy Egyptians, at the time struggling with their slaves, the Hebrews. Northward to the Phoenicians, those famed voyagers of the sea, and across the vast lands of the Hittites. To the west Homer had not yet been born on Kas. So many places she had seen, and now to the bottom she went, to rest in peace for almost three and a half millennia. In the year 1984, a particular excavation vessel made its way to this watery grave. On board was a team of archeological experts, divers, and one Hollywood cinematographer. Down they went, over and over again bringing up ancient artificats. And to the heart of the story, through the camera's eye a diver surfaced, an earthenware goblet in his hand. The waves rose and fell, and the diver adjusted his grip to the chalice. A sparkle touched the lens, and to the uproar of the ship, what had appeared to be clay was merely the coating of 3500 years on the ocean floor. And in 2010, twenty-six years later, three travelers made their way to Bodrum to see this cup. The drive to Bodrum flew by, and at night they feasted with the captain of that particular archeological boat. The house was white and blue, Greek from floor to roof. A trellis extended over the porch, and vines clung to the surrounding posts, meandering up to lace the cool night sky. Over kebaps and raki Tufan and UM reminisced upon the dive and old friends. The conversation turned to Tufan's recent doings, the excavation of a Ottoman shipwreck off the coast of Japan. He had wanted to work on a project associated with his heritage, and though Turks appear sadly indifferent to the project, he has excited the Japanese, and when on site, writes a daily column for a national newspaper. The newspaper has 12.2 million subscribers. To put that in perspective, the distinguished New York Times currently has 1.1 million. That is slightly misleading, I know, but we can save that argument for another time. Tufan, meanwhile, had just debarked from another sea journey under the aegis of Bob Bollard, somebody whom for me, and probably for you, does not prompt recognition. Well, he's the guy who discovered the Titanic. It is startling to see the breezy, temperate Aegean wind swirling around us, palm fronds breathing in the air, up down, up down, to fro, up and down, the overhead lamp casting an intimate glow on the group, and Tufan sharing these mind-boggling experiences with me. Oh yeah, he was also on the cover of National Geographic, though you could not recognize him in the diving suit, an ancient artifact in his hands.

The next morning we went to see the cup. A reconstruction of the ship is in the nearby museum, atmospherically located in St. Peter's Castle, a bastion of the Hospitaller's Knights into the 1500's. The nautical museum is quite possibly the best in the world, this particular shipwreck the oldest ever found, and only recently had it been returned from the Metropolitan in New York City. In one of the castle's tower the finds of that site are housed. Through a doorway we entered and there she stood, gilded and graceful with age. The moment was very special to have with UM. Having the heard the story for so many years from UM, I am happy to have made the family pilgrimage.

The next night I feasted on shrimp pilaf and wine. Our hosts, friends of UM from the dive, have a lovely place near the water which has appeared numerous times in the Turkish version of Homes and Gardens. Their beautiful yard is shrouded by the candlelight on our table, their watchdog's impressive bark alone pierces the darkness, and Susanna regales us with her enthusiasm for the happenings of the Bodrum waste and management facility. Surprisingly, she has even taken a number of visiting friends and family there, here at the beautiful holiday resort town of Bodrum. I asked her to take me.

At four she picked me up in her jeep, the dog in tow, and we climbed into the hills surrounding Bodrum like an amphitheater. Past historical ruins dating back as far as the shipwreck, we progressed on the dirt roads, reaching the crest where a stunning view of both coasts greeted the eye. Bodrum, small in the foreground with its lonely castle, and the Greek islands stretching out beyond the sea's horizon. Descending to the south of the crest the destination came into view. The place where lady Bodrum, gem of the Aegean, comes to relieve herself of bodily excess, the dump. And what a fascinating place it was. The recycling facilities are man-powered with over fifty gypsies moving amongst the heaps of trash, sorting through plastics, glass, carboard, and every other unsavory material, the smell familiar to anybody who has dealt with their trashcan. Their homes stand nearby, suitable to the environment since, well, most of the building material is from the surrounding piles. Mattresses, chairs, plastic sheets, and a bicycle were the composite roof of one home. We drive past three men sorting through a hundred plastic crates; curious looks are exchanged, then they wave, and smiles are reciprocated. A girl of eighteen walks by, her nose sporting a jeweled stud, baggy pants and Adidas shoes. She looks away shyly, as do I, but the next moment a man who speaks a smattering of English has come over, directed by the girl, asking us if we are lost. Another attractively dressed girl walks by, yelling congenially at her colleagues. "It's really quite photogenic" Sauna says in earnest as the jeep makes its way down beneath a dangerously precipitous cliff of trash, boulders perched precariously waiting for a hard rain to come down on some unfortunate. Yes, it is a dump, smelly, dirty, and lacking the comforts of urbane living, yet these people are at home, and discerning from those who I interacted with, they are happy.

You can see more pictures from this blog's happenings on my facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2089690&id=1257302680