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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Over The Borderline, pt 2

Image by PanARMENIAN_Photo via Flickr
As I approach the Syrian border in to Turkey at Bab al-Hawa a Zen calm comes over me. I'm in a ramshckle vehicle with four people, none of whom speak English, and I'm pretty sure that at least one person in the vehicle is a member of the police.

As the car slows at the Syrian side of the border, I quietly hum Que Sera Sera to myself. At the border we all get out of the car and go to the trunk, where we are asked to identify our bags and open them.

My Zen fades as I open my bag. The dude with the big gun takes a cursory glance and directs me to the kiosk, where I present my documents.

I think to myself as I exit Syria, "any idiot can get out of a country, it is getting in to the next one that can be tricky". Welcome to no mans land, the place where one is out, but not yet in. However, I am encourged by the lads in the car. The one redeeming feature of being in no mans land is the opportunity to shop Duty Free, and my fellow passengers pile into the store with a zeal beyond anything I have seen so far on this trip.

An invitation to shop is proffered, but I decline, choosing to step out of the vehicle and drink in my desolate mountain surroundings. I drench myself in the hypnotic timeless beige beauty, I consider taking a picture, but my camera is big and my instincts tell me that this border installation might not be the wisest place for a photo-op.

Nonetheless, it is striking and beautiful.

The lads return from shopping, and by the look of their purchases, I'm starting to think that these are my kind of people. Nothing but booze and cigarettes.

We approach the Turkish border and I remember why Lonely Planet says to take the early bus. The lineup is longer than The Beatles Revolution #9 played at 16rpm (take that Dennis Miller).

Everything from here forward is speculation and an example of the folly that can strike a traveler when traveling under dubious circumstances. Due to language barriers, I cannot confirm anything other than the fact that the Turkish border officials did allow me to cross. Eventually.

I think that the first mistake came when my driver was ordered to jump the cue by someone in the back seat. Jumping the cue involved getting away from the commercial vehicle  line by driving backwards, then squuezing into the regular passenger line. I'm pretty sure that cutting the line is a practice reviled worldwide, and I'm even more certain that there are a great deal of cameras at this particular border.

As I said, the Turkish authorities did allow me in and they were polite and kind. Even better, the entry visa that I paid double the going rate for in Istanbul allows for re-entry. I just saved sixty bucks unexpectedly. (Turkey has punitive visa rates for Canadians, due to the official recognition by the Stephen Harper government of an "Armenian genocide"). I take no sides, but this is why people from Canada pay twice as much as Americans for a Turkish entry visa.

While its all well and good that I am in Turkey, I was kind of hoping that the car and driver might come along with me. I'm pretty sure that due to our attempted cue jumping we have been banished to the dreaded "truck line".

And the reason that the truck line is dreaded is because every truck must go through a giant garage like xray machine that takes ten minutes to scan one semi trailer. There is a set of lights and when it goes green, the gate opens and then the door opens and dude drives his truck in. Then the driver gets the hell out. There are radiation signs everywhere and the whole process takes ten to twenty minutes per truck.

And I'm in a car, and I'm in this line. Better yet the truckers are furious that we are here, but the driver has been given his marching orders.Because we are through the border, we are now trying to cut in to the truck line. Two line cuts in one day is a record for me.

My hopes to get to Adana by nightfall dissipate along with my fascination for the countryside of this border crossing as the hours pile up. However, there is no shortage of drama unfolding before me. Serious fights threaten to break out amongst the truckers as they jockey for position. I step back and avoid the fray as peacemakers intervene.

I spy another cab in the same boat and share a silent laugh with some fellow travelers as we glance across the interminable wait.

In a comic moment I watch a swamper jump up and down on goods piled high on the roof of a truck so as to meet the vehicle height requirement. Others climb up and join in, and a cheer goes up when the truck clears the gate.

Eventually I am asked to remove my luggage, so that our car can be radiated. By this point the two police station passengers have bailed out, angrily refusing to pay the agreed fare. I briefly consider walking through the final checkpoint, but I have another 50km ahead, and no idea what lays on the other side.

It occurs to me that like it or not, it is best to stick with the devil I know.

The car gets scanned, my luggage goes back in the trunk as the carrot of departure is dangled yet again. The driver and his buddy disappear and reappear, hunting sporadically for documentation in the glove compartment.

As I enter my fifth hour at this now godforsaken dump, we finally move in to yet another line. I don't know who recorded the song "The Final Countdown", but it is running through my mind as we try to cut yet another line.

Finally we reach and clear the last gate, but a border official comes running out of yet another kiosk, and orders us to the side. We pull over, and more documents are produced. The border guard returns to his kiosk as I think to myself  "I've had enough of this shit", and apparently my driver and his buddy are thinking the same thought.

Suddenly, an air of conspiracy permeates the car and despite the language barrier, I am fully cognizant. Dude in the backseat is looking back at the kiosk, waiting for the guard to be distracted, and when he is, he gives the "go" signal to the driver.

As we peel out, I think to myself  "this sh*t is f*cked up".

I wait for the sirens to come up behind us, but they never do.

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Otogar? Brrrrr! Otogar?Brrrrr!

My guess is that you have never tried to flag a cab in Antakya at 6 am, and up until this moment, neither had I.

My early departure requires a 5:30 am wakeup call, and I sleep fitfully in chronic fear of missing the bus combined with traffic noise that makes me feel as if I am camping on the interstate.

Not surprisingly, language barriers abound the further I move away from tourist friendly Istanbul and Selcuk. At this point the word "hello" is no longer a greeting, it is a question. As I get into the cab, I am entirely dependent on one word. Otogar.

Otogar is the Turkish word for bus station, and it is the only bullet I have in my  linguistic chamber. The dilemma is that most of the people in this part of Turkey speak Arabic. In fact, Antakya was once part of Syria, and briefly prior to WW2 it was a Monaco-esque city state.

And, as previously mentioned, there is a great deal more history here, all of which I have missed.

As I enter the cab, I ask "Hello?". A friendly nod but no verbal response. Ok, time for question number two. Otogar? He nods and I hop in, however, unknown to me, Antakya has more than one Otogar. We begin a game of charades as he tries to help me through my linguistic ignorance.

He indicates an upward slope and I nod ambivalently, recalling that the terminal was at an elevation. We hit the road, neither of us quite certain that we are going to the correct place.

As we drive, the cabbie tries to speak to me in Arabic. Clueless, I nod in agreement. At a red light he turns to me and says "Brrrrrr" Now as a Canadian, that is a language I understand. "Brrrrr", I reply.

At the next stop, he puts on his gloves and shows them to me, as if to emphasize the gravity of our climate emergency.

"Brrr", he says.

"Brrrrr", I reply. I wrap my arms around myself for emphasis, while thinking to myself that this guy should never visit Canada in the winter.

We arrive at the bus station.

"Otogar?" he asks.

"Otogar!", I reply, giving him the thumbs up. I pay my fare with a nice tip and step out into the slightly chilly Antakya bus station morning.

Next stop Syria, Insha'Allah

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Waiting For The Sun

As I lug my depleted carcass and burdensome luggage around the depths of the pre dawn emptiness that is the Izmir bus station. I curse my budget minded Scottish DNA . Part of the reason that I booked this trip is the result of a promise I made to myself that I would save money by periodically traveling at night, thus avoiding a hotel bill. I figure the money I don't spend on this trip is a downpayment on the next journey, and this is why I find myself at the cavernous and empty Izmir bus station in the wee smalls.

As far as bus stations go, this one is pretty nice. Multiple internet cafes, restaurants and smoke shops, almost all of which are closed. This is not a tourist area and finding an English speaker is a shattered and delusional straw. I find a place that is open, buy a juice and plunk myself down.

Its 4:45 am. A cabbie or two offer me a ride, but a ninety minute taxi ride will wipe out all my savings from the lack of hotel. There is nothing for it but to tough it out and hope that someone who speaks English will happen along and explain where I need to go to find a minibus to Selcuk.

As I sip my juice a Zen state washes over me. This is not a moment to make something happen, it is time to let something happen. And of course it does.

As I quaff my beverage, a young lad employed by the cafe engages me. I'm happy to talk. He regales me with stories of a debauched trip to Montreal. He warns me about the dangers of such activity in Turkey. I assure him that when I travel to any country I respect the laws and customs.

Like many young people that I have met in my travels, he wants to practice his english. I always engage these people. They humble me and my unilingual skills. They apologize for their bad English, I apologize for my bad Turkish,Cambodian,French,Arabic or Vietnamese depending on the locale..

Of course, I do have a little bit of self interest, like "how in the name of Zeus do I get to Selcuk from this place that is the size of a small airport?" Fortunately the kid sends me in the right direction and I eventually figure it out.

By 8am I am on a minibus to Selcuk. I'm dead tired and as we pull out I quickly fall asleep. When I wake up to the early morning sun,  I am instantly aware that while I may still be in Turkey, I am a world away from Istanbul.

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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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Istan - tastic

It took a few jetlagged days, but the magnificence of Istanbul has penetrated my conciousness.

Hip and timeless, historic and  sophisticated, modern and ancient. This place is a crossroads of humanity, an historic locale where everything meets everything.

Sure, I could try and explain in detail the stunning beauty of The Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace, The Hagia Sophia, The Basilica Cistern, The Grand Bazaar and The Galata Bridge, The Spice Bazaar, not to mention The Archeological Museum.I'll leave it to others to do that.

 I generally prefer to walk and Istanbul is a perfect a locale for a traveler on foot, as each of the above sites are within walking distance of Sultanahmet.

With a population between 12 and 16 million, Istanbul could qualify as the largest city in Europe, if not for the fact that it sits on the border between Europe and Asia and clearly one could spend weeks here before conquering Istanbul fully.

As I write this I am sitting on the Asian side of  the Galata Bridge, drinking a beer. The Galata Bridge is a favourite spot for locals to fish. Underneath the bridge is a bunch of bars and restaurants. As I quaff my pint, I find something comical in seeing sardine sized fish being pulled up by unseen anglers, a sort of piscatorian marionette show.

Of course, no trip to the Galata Bridge is complete without ordering a fish sandwich from one of the boats. At four lira ($2.50cdn) it is a local fave, and even on this miserable day these dudes are busy moving serious volumes of product.

I stand in line, lay down my cash, and am quickly rewarded with a fresh bit of fish on a fresh piece of bread with fresh onion and a delicious sauce. Simple, but fantastic.

Satiated, I head back to the bar for another pint and as I sit under a bridge watching people above fish as trams go by every few minutes, I can't help but think to myself; this place works, as I lament the state of affairs in my own hometown.

Noting that my lodging is a continent away, I cut the evening short and head back to my hotel room . As I hop on the tram, I can't help but think that Istanbul must be the easiest town to visit on the planet.

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