The Waning Days

I'm uncertain as to the route that the bus from Antakya to Adana followed, but as I gaze out at the mountainous backdrop in the fading light of the dwindling day, it becomes apparent that I have missed more of Turkey than I will ever see.

One could easily spend a month or two exploring this diverse and tantalizing land. Sadly, limitations of both time and finance have forced me to leave large swaths of this fascinating country on the cutting room floor. I am beginning to feel something akin to the last days of school. If this feeling had a sound it would be that of a dirigible with a slow leak.

The bus pulls in to a small terminal somewhere, and we take a break as more passengers board. I disembark and light a smoke. I see a family saying their goodbyes. It appears that Mom and Dad are taking the kids back home after a visit, and Grandma and Grandpa are there to see them off.

A poignant and not unfamiliar scene to any of us lucky enough to be raised by a loving family.

However, a few feet away from this Turkish version of a Norman Rockwell painting lay a very different reality. Two police officers are standing with AK47's at the ready. I try to reconcile this bizarre anomaly, while remembering not to make any sudden moves.

As I hop back on the bus I think about all the people around the world who live under some form of subtle intimidation by the state.

Then I think about the G20 in Toronto and realise that my own country is not immune from such excess.

With apologies to Mr. Disney, it is indeed, a small world after all.


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A Tale Of Tadmur,Syria

Adjacent to the ruins of Palmyra lay the town of Tadmur, itself a very old settlement. The main street nearest the ruin seems to be the "tourist area" , a scant three block walk.

But beyond that is a small town in rural Syria and my inquisitive nature forces my legs off the beaten path, and I find myself wandering through the bustling neighbourhoods of this enclave.

 I am careful about using my camera in town. I get the feeling that I am being watched. Most of the people who travel to this place do so in tour groups, and I feel like I am sticking out like a sore thumb.

As I turn a corner into a residential area, and from a block away, I see an opporutunity. I thank myself for buying a camera with a decent zoom, and I snap this shot.

The young lady is probably three or four, and she is clearing away water from the entryway to her home, and in this instant I see the beautiful and generous exuberance of a small child trying to help the family by doing a chore.

Much to my horror, a split second after the picture was taken her mother came storming out, hit the child sharply more than once, and violently dragged her into the house.

I put the camera away and continue up the street towards the house, slowly engulfed by the wailing of a child.

As I head back to the "tourist area", I wonder about that child, and what her life will be like and how a picture may contain a thousand words, but sometimes every word is a lie.

And then it occurs  to me that maybe someone saw me taking my camera out, made a quick phone call to a neighbour and the fact of my picture from a block away is the reason this child was beaten.

I consider the remote possibility, and it is not a pleasant scenario, albeit an unlikely one.

Perhaps I'm paranoid, but this is Syria, and suddenly, I'm unsure of everything.

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Me, Damascus, Machine Guns, and Iranians

In my last post I extolled the virtues of "figuring it out as you go", and while I still subscribe to that theory, sometimes a traveler with weak intentions is easily led astray. It was here that I learned an important lesson: even if all you have is a vague sense of where you want to go, you must always tell the cab driver at your point of arrival that you have already booked and PAID FOR another hotel and that you deeply appreciate his recommendation, but you have other commitments.


The fact is that if you're in a large urban environment and you get to a hotel listed in a major tourist guide, and you don't have a reservation they will likely accommodate you, or help you find another hotel in the immediate area. And if you don't have a plan or the appearance of a plan, then the cabbie is calling the shots, not you, and fake power is better than no power at all.

Having exercised neither, I find myself sitting in the lobby  in the early morning Damascus hours, exhausted and waiting for my room to be prepared at a rate about 50% more than I had budgeted for, but given that I'm a cheap bastard, fifty percent more is not a significant amount.

.

As we drive through the empty streets, I remind myself that it is Friday, a traditional day off.

The staff are kind, and they do their best to get me in my room well ahead of a standard check in time, but I'm starting to get a vibe that I have made a mistake.

As I wait for my room, I step out for a smoke and notice a definite lack of activity, and I'm starting to get concerned because I have no concept of where I am in relation to where I want to be and I have this immediate feeling that I need to get to my room and find a way to go somewhere else.

After a nap, I venture out, and as I do I begin to realize that I am in a hotel that caters  mainly to Iranian tour groups. The foyer is filled with fellow travelers, half of them wearing full on burquas. I begin to understand that I will not be harmlessly  flirting with some fellow travelers over breakfast.


Beyond the confines of the hotel, the backdrop is equally bleak. I am in the financial district on a day when nothing is happening and I'm getting a post apocalyptic vibe as I scour the almost empty streets. I say almost empty, because there are a few locals observing me, and they are poised in front of  buildings with machine guns at the ready.

I remind myself not to make any sudden moves, and that taking pictures is probably not prudent.  I feel like I'm in a bad Middle Eastern version of The Omega Man.

I'm ravenous, and I find a shawarma place, presumably open to keep the machine gun toting dudes from getting cranky from hunger. The place is a postage stamp, and I wait in line behind two locals, while rehearsing my point and order pantomime.

Suddenly, two suits enter, cut the line, and are served at once. No one says a word, least of all me. Though I do fume as I wonder why the people of Syria don't rise up against this kind of petty elitist bullshit.

"Ahh forget about it, it'll never happen", I tell myself as I head back to my hotel, armed only with a shawarma and a notion.

The little man inside is trying to tell me something, and my ears are open. I need to get out of here, because I am on the wrong path. I know that Damascus has a lot to offer, but my gut is telling me that I need to hit the reboot.

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Oops.....

Image by Arbo Moosberg via Flickr
Honestly, I don't know how it happened, but it is probably the worst mistake I have ever made as a traveler. I guess I was too fixated on entering Syria and I only recognized Antakya as a gateway into Syria, a place where I could crash for a night en route to Aleppo, Syria.

As I get off the bus, I feel that things have changed. While, I may not be in Syria I feel that I am now in The Middle East. As is my habit, I refuse cabbies, as I breathe in my new environment while breathing out smoke..

Again, I have no hotel booked here. My faint hope was finding a bus in to Syria, but it is not to be until tomorrow. No matter, as it is very beautiful around here.



So I resign myself to crashing for the night in Antakya.. I find a taxi and explain my needs through the language barrier. I begin to understand that language is going to be a huge issue from here on in, but I am lucky as my cabbie takes me to a nice hotel at a fair price.

I check in, change some cash and head out in search of food. As I walk around, I notice how beautiful this place is, nestled in the mountains with the beautiful ancient canal flowing through the middle of this picturesque locale.

The thing is that I only spent one night here, completely oblivious to the fact that I am in an ancient capital and trading centre known as Antioch. This place is rich with history, and I have not appreciated one iota of it.

As far as being a world traveler, Antioch is my Homer Simpson moment.

D'oh.

On to Syria tomorrow.


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Little Big Move

As I head to the terrace for my last breakfast in Istanbul I feel confident. Istanbul may be my arrival and departure point, but my plan involves more exotic locales and this is my first "big move" in the larger picture. A bus to Izmir, a minibus  to Selcuk and on to the magnificence of Efes (Ephesus).

I know it sounds daunting, but being the brilliant traveler that I am, I shrewdly booked the trip the previous day. It was here that I learned an important caveat about travel: many times it is the little move that can mess you up .

I had wisely booked a ticket to Izmir and a ticket to get me to the place where I would make a bus connection to Izmir, the Istanbul Autogar.  I knew that the Autogar (bus station) was a good distance from my quarters in Sultanmet. As I buy the ticket I am  informed with gravity that I must be here at 3pm, so that I may catch  the minibus that will take me to the 4:30 pm bus to Izmir.


Perfect. Being the cautious person I am, I show up at the cafe next door at 2:30 pm. By 2:50 I am parked luggage and all in front of the travel agent. At 3:05  I poke my head into the Travel Agents office. I am immediately  told "don't, worry he will be here". They are having lunch, and not only do I feel bad for interrupting, I note a pang of hunger as I inhale some of their delicious gnosh.

The delicious scent of their lunch sets off my peckish alarm. I remind myself that I need to grab a donair/shawarma/gyros before getting on the bus to Izmir. After all, I still have time to spare and the street food here is cheap, fresh,  ubiquitous, and delicious.

Around 3:30  I make another inquiry. Still nothing. The information I have is  that the next bus to Izmir is 12 hours later, not an appealing option. Tic toc.At 3:45 I have convinced myself that there is a serious possibility that I might not make this bus. I open up my guide book and begin considering options. Tic toc , 3:50 pm. By now I'm angry and hungry and I'm pretty sure that the odds of making this bus are pretty small.

Finally a minivan rolls up at 3:55.. By now, I've given up all hope and I'm pissed off, I hurl my luggage into the minivan. I spend the rest of my ride wondering if my stupid bravado has destroyed my beloved laptop, which is unfortunate because the ride is awesome, a weird combination of a French Connection car chase in a minivan and a wonderful tour through the real heart of Istanbul..

I begin to feel bad because I can see that the driver is doing everything he can to get me across Istanbul. I end up feeling worse because I know that I didn't buy travel insurance and I am now on a deathride to the autogar.

Astonishingly, we make it in one piece to the autogar.  It is 4:38pm. Even more astonishingly my bus to Izmir awaits.

I throw my luggage in the hold (more gently this time) and off we go with seconds to spare.

While I'm grateful that I made this bus, I lament the fact that my donair plan has gone astray.

Nonetheless, I tell my growling stomach to shut up and enjoy as we make our way out of Istanbul.

A few moments later I notice a refreshment cart being wheeled down the aisle, like an oasis on a bus. Complimentary snacks on a bus??? I tuck into some biscuits and coke for dinner as I brace for the road ahead.

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Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

 I once read a great post at http://travelswithtavel.com/   that compared traveling with falling in love.

But I would say that travel is more like dating, sometimes you want to get it over early, sometimes a one night stand is enough and sometimes you wish you could be together forever, and when you realize that you can't the goodbye becomes tearful.

Of course when traveling, there is always another "date" around the corner.

Thusly it was that when I left Istanbul it felt like a tearful breakup. The people and the city have a certain elegance, at once humble and dignified, towering and welcoming. The overwhelming sense of hospitality I have found here is both familiar and flawless.

"My Mom would like this place",  I think to myself as I mutter my goodbyes.

Tomorrow I jump on a bus for the long ride to Izmir, where I will transfer to a bus to Selcuk. From there I will go to Efes (Ephesus). Mostly I blame The Siren for this arduous sojourn. She gave me a book for my birthday that chronicled The Best Places To Travel On Earth.

So off I go in search of The Ruins Of Ephesus and Merrymana . (The Virgin Mary's House)

Apparently, my next "date" is going to be hot, and if she isn't it is all Brewers fault.

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