Gallipoli

So many Australian visit Gallipoli on 25 April each year. Its the official day of remembrance and recognition. There's speeches, the laying of wreaths and The Last Post.

We had no such fanfare.

There was a leaden sky; a cool wind carried voices. The beaches were deserted; so was Anzac Cove. Lone Pine was truly alone. I wanted to be on my own, with my own personal thoughts and connections.

There’s a lonely stretch of hillocks:
There’s a beach asleep and drear:
There’s a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken trampled graves:
And a little rotting pier:
And winding paths that wind unceasingly.
There’s a torn and silent valley:
There’s a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth.
There are lines of buried bones:
There’s an unpaid waiting debt :
There’s a sound of gentle sobbing in the South.

Leon Gellert 1892-1977

Hieropolous

           
               This jug was in the excellent small museum at Hieropolous, entry 3 lire.

Balloon Etiquette

'You may be small, but your always in the way', Connie said.

Now a tour leader with a thinner skin than mine might have taken offence and stepped on Connie's 200mm lens or if I was really offended leapt overboard with my parachute (except they didn't supply one.)

For those of you unfamiliar with balloon flight etiquette here are a few tips:

(Bear in mind there is VERY little room on board)

1. Restrict fluid intake before flight
2. Empty bladder before flight (or bring suitable receptacle)
3. Freshen breath - everyone is VERY close
4. Choose a section with attractive people
5. When you practice landing position refrain from saying 'Oh Boy this feels good!'
6. Board your balloon in as dignified a manner as age permits
7. Disembark your balloon same way but wear tight fitting clothing
8. Refrain from toasting marshmallows on gas flame
9. Avoid dropping anything on basket floor as finding it may lead to unavoidable anatomical discoveries.
10. Avoid saying 'You are only small but always in the way'
11. Try 'Can I use your head as a tripod its just the right height and shape' instead.

Mountain Hunger

In the bus I realise I have been suffering from mountain hunger for a long time. Our tour around Turkey reveals a constant, changing panoply of wild harsh craggy mountains, gently sloping hills and steep falling cliffs. Even on the flat, we know we are high up.

In 1970 at the age of eighteen, I migrated with my parents and two brothers from the north-eastern part of North America to Perth Western Australia. My father had been based in Australia during WWII, heading out in submarines as a torpedo gunner to battles in the Coral Sea. My parents married three weeks before Pearl Harbour. From the moment my father returned home in 1946, he tried to persuade my mother to move to Australia.

Connecticut has its mountains. They are not high, but they are all around. Coming to Perth was like landing on the moon, a flat, flat plain. Drive in any direction, a pancake. But I grew accustomed to this and many other differences which were buried under the benevolent weight of friendship, study, and work.

Sublimated were the mountains until two days ago when our group went for a balloon flight over the incredible terrain of Cappadocia. Mountains dropped away beneath us, real, tough, unforgiving, dark, high, brooding, Biblical mountains; weird formations shaped by tuff (pronounced too-fah), volcanic ash which has settled in deep furrows over the ground, and mixed with rain to form a soft stone. We float, rarely flaring the gas fire once we are up. A dazzle of balloons fill the sky and seems to touch the mountain tops.

From high above I see how everything relates. I am in the semi with the wide view, not a squat VW. The re-cognition of mountains jars something in my psyche, provides a sudden abundance of meat and drink for my hungry soul. I am completely seduced, once again in a place were I can climb a mountain. Perhaps it is time for a change.

Shutterbugs

Magic land at Cappodocia

Soft air, soft light, early morning, floating, rising to greet the day.

Soft pastel pinks, yellows, mauves and greens, unfurling folds of ancient rock at peace against the rising sunlight.

A new day began with excited anticipation driving through the still dark streets of Goreme to pick up four extra passengers. Reunited we shared hot coffee and pastries with other travel groups all talking loudly.

It was still dark as we drove out to the take off point.  The balloon was still being inflated.  All around other balloons were starting to ascend with the dawn light.

It was our turn and once on board lift off was more subtle that going up in an elevator.

The only sound to indicate human intervention in our flight was the rush and hiss of the gas flame.

We floated above and through a magic fairyland.  This ancient land was formed by mighty volcanoes spewing and blanketing ash 30 million years ago.  Continuing erosion over time by water and changes in temperature has shaped the landscape we see on this day from our balloon.

Rock formations appear to rise from the ground like cones. However the opposite is true: the land has been weathered from above.  The process is harsh and yet the result seems to be soft, unfolding, yielding, casting shadows.

Our pilot lowers the balloon.  We can see the ground crew ready to catch the ropes. Then oh so smoothly our basket is landed onto the back of a tray top truck.  Only then are we able to climb out. 

 In the basket my feet and body felt light and free.

On the ground following our celebratory drinks I wandered  a little way from my group.  The pilot had landed in a tiny field between grapevines.  In this field I felt so alive to the stillness and the beauty of this landscape.  I could have stayed longer.

Troy

I stood on the walls of Troy, alone for a moment with no other tourists, not even the sound of tourists, only the rustle of the soft wind over the stones. Beyond the walls and fallen columns lay the plain; fields and vineyards, green and gold in the September light. The sea has long since receded from the walls and the beach is distant, but it doesn’t take much imagination to hear the clash of bronze on bronze; the cries of men in battle; see the tall towers, their battlements glittering with spears. Then, suddenly, a group of French tourists appeared and my moment was gone; a small respite from the chatter of people and the clicking of a billion shutters.

It’s good to be here, but it’s people like me who make it hard for people like me to get a sense of history.

Turkish Hospitality 2

I had a further Turkish Hospitality experience on Thursday 6 October. Late afternoon while walking from Taksim Square to the Romance Hotel, I came across a shop I had seen when I first arrived in the vibrant city of Istanbul. This shop intrigued me as it is a corner shop with a lot of window real estate. It is in a prime position located on the corner of a busy street that is frequented by locals and tourists alike. The windows displayed trays of various baklava in different shapes, sizes and colours. Other treats on display were Turkish Delight, beautifully decorated cakes, and clear rectangular glass bowls filled with various jelly like substances decorated with almond slivers, coconut and tiny currants. I found it a little difficult to photograph at the side street window as a stream of people kept milling past and I found myself trying to move out of the way and take my photos whenever there was a break. Two men came and stood beside me looking at the treats so I stopped photographing and spoke with them. I asked if they were Turkish and they said yes. One of the men asked if I knew what one of the bowled deserts was, when I said no, he told me it was called zerde. He explained that it was a favourite desert for weddings and special birthdays and invited me to join him and his friend for a desert. I quickly accepted. There was a small table free at the back of the shop with two chairs. I was invited to sit on one of the chairs and a third chair was found. About this time I asked the gentlemen their names and Mustafa introduced himself and his friend Nezihi. I decided that I would have the same desert as Mustafa, zerde and Nezihi chose a chocolate desert. Mustafa told me that Nezihi was from the university. Nezihi explained that he was a retired professor and said that he is a historian working on the history of the Ottoman Empire. I asked if I could take Mustafa and Nezihi's photo and they agreed. Mustafa wrote their names and his email address on a napkin. The men were in a hurry to get home, so our interlude was a short but pleasant one. Mustafa bought a couple of small treats to take with him and paid for our deserts. They bade me farewell and I promised to email their photo, which I did the following morning. I think myself fortunate to have had experiences of Turkish Hospitality and I found this occured when I was on my own, so there is something to be said for travelling alone.

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People at Ephesus (revised)

Ephesus is steeped in history and is an ancient site with an interesting past. I find it hard to adequately describe what was once a very vibrant and important centre in ancient Greek and Roman times. I enjoyed not only seeing and hearing about the history but also having the opportunity to photograph. What I enjoyed this day was photographing people in the surroundings of this wonderful location. I asked Abbe to be my first subject and she willingly obliged. I then became a little braver and asked three sisters if I could photograph them and they agreed. They explained that they came from Germany, however, were originally from Iran and that they have Persian names. Parastu, Tarane and Ellenhe were initally a little shy but warmed to the camera and myself. Pat and Trisha happened along and joined in talking with the girsl and photographing them. Further into the site, I saw an attractive woman speaking animatedly into a small microphone, attached to a camera, held by a man. When she stopped recording I spoke with her. Danilo introduced herself and her husband Luah, her cameraman. Danilo explained that they were from Brazil and were recording the various sites they visited and were looking to put together a DVD. I asked if I could photograph her and Danilo agreed. I also took photos of Danilo and Luah together. I was given a business card and encouraged to view the blog on their website. After leaving Danilo and Luah I noticed the throng of people travelling along an old well worn mable road that led to the ancient library of Celsus built in AD 135. This particular structure is impressive and I wondered how I was going to photograph the library with the masses of people around me. I climbed onto some old stone steps and got out my long lens and was able to photograph at a distance over others' heads. I noticed a lady in blue being photographed and took a few quick shots. What took my attention were the number of umbrellas, which seemed in the main to below to tour guides. I imagine there was a dual purpose for their use, to block out the warm sun and for group participants to find their guide, which is a problem when touring in groups, particularly when there are many tour groups at the same location. What struck me as I walked along a road that was used so many years ago, was that the road had been well travelled over the centuries, and it is now being walked upon by the many thousands of tourists who visit each year. The city that was once very popular in its time, is now popular once more.

Bookends

Tour guide Omer and driver Salih are the Turkish bookends for our eminent group of photographers and writers.

Turkish Teeth

The head-scarfed women smile graciously at small acts of courtesy in their holy places. A step aside to let them come or go will, from the younger ones, incite a modest smile that invariable reveals good teeth. The men, on the other hand, smile less often: they are serious, studied, and thoughtful, though gracious and unassuming. But when the men do smile, for quite a few their teeth are brown and stained and crumbling.

Cappadocia - A Festoon of Balloons

Dawn, and to the east the sun is surging through the banked cumulus, filaments of pink and orange etching the sky like stretchmarks. We whisper up into the dove grey light, scarcely aware of any movement as the strange shapes of Cappadocia fall away below: the corrugations of deep valleys; the weird buildings, moulded like wet clay into whirls and domes and spirals as if by a giant demented potter.

This is my first hot air balloon ride and it’s magical, a truly sensuous experience: the feel of the chilly air, the smell of dawn over ancient Anatolia; most of all, the silence… the peace that comes from sailing – no, wafting – in the thermals a thousand feet over Cappadocia. Our mob, normally as noisy as a bunch of chattering monkeys, are reduced to quiet expressions of delight and wonder. We are divided into four pods inside the big wickerwork gondola which resembles nothing as much as a huge bread basket. The central pod traversing the gondola is for our pilot, a well-built, middle-aged guy called Serhan who, with his excellent English and purposeful action, evinces stolid reliability.
Suddenly the silence is broken by the roar of flames as Serhan triggers four gas-fired after-burners set in the rigging of his pod. They shoot tongues of fire into the cavernous interior of our blue and white balloon. Almost imperceptibly the huge balloon rises. Serhan snaps off the burners and instantly the silence returns as we float on the gossamer wind.

Then, in a wondrous moment that raises the hairs on the back of my neck I hear our roar faintly echoed across the still sky: once, twice… four, five, times. It’s the sound of the other balloons flaming up their afterburners. On three sides of us multi-coloured balloons are lifting into a sky now the colour of pearls; some above us, some below; some near, some distant. I count more than forty brightly-coloured bulbous shapes in stripes and circles and quadrants; a couple showing the blood red of the Turkish flag.

Once more our afterburners roar and across the sky we hear the faint roars in return… like the bellows of distant, solitary mastodons roaming the Jurassic tundra. The balloons hang, apparently motionless, festooning the sky, looking for all the world like fat, colourful exclamation marks punctuating the luminous light.

All around my eyes are filled with the sight of balloons in flight; below me the dun brown and gold land unfolds. We rise to two thousand feet for an eagle-eyed view of the country then drop airily into a valley, sliding past the craggy rock faces. At one stage we are only metres above a grassy plateau, moving, at about five knots, surprisingly fast. Then the ground suddenly drops away and I realise that we above a butte and ground level is eight hundred feet below.

Slowly we start our descent and all of us are sorry that we are succumbing once more to the bonds of earth. Serhan lands the gondola as dainty as a fairy on a flatbed truck parked in the middle of a paddock.

Over the champagne the company serves us after landing, I watch the yellow tee-shirted ground crew pack up the balloon and think it curious that the vehicle of such an enchanting experience should reduce to nothing more than a precisely-folded and roped package scarcely bigger than a wheelie bin. It’s a mystery…

The Road to Ankara

Salih was like an old racehorse heading for water. Not only was it his birthday but Ankara was his home. The big Merc powered effortlessly across the Anatolian Plains towards Ankara while John Harman delivered us another fascinating history lesson on Turkey.

More than once Salih pulled the bus onto the verge to allow the photographers to shoot the dappled landscapes with long lenses. Undulating grazing country gave way to a huge salt lake. We stopped in at the salt lake to take a few shots and glug our boots with slushy salt.

The signs at the cafe told me that that the salt would remove blackheads, make me slimmer and prolong life. I wasn't sure if one ate the salt, bathed in it or rubbed it on one's body. Anyway, the signs didn't mention improving my sex life so I decided not to buy any.

Balloon Magic

Eight years ago I took my first balloon flight over Cappadoccia and fell in

love with the idea of photographing from a hot air balloon. In 2003 there were just 12 balloons in Cappadoccia, today there are 100 adorning the skies above the spectacular landscape.

Our balloon company Kappadokya Balloons is one of the largest and runs like a smooth, well-oiled machine; from the 5am pick-up in a VW minibus to the coffee and cake, safety briefing and flight certificate.

The Carpet Baggers

It appears compulsory that every tour in Turkey must visit a carpet factory. Although a little groan went around the Shutterbus, Omer, our guide, promised us we would enjoy the half hour presentation plus a free apple tea or Turkish coffee with absolutely no hard sell at the end of it. Okey-dokey.


Where's the flyer version?

To see and feel silk worms in action was a treat. To watch the women weave the intricate silk designs on their looms was fascinating. Then we were shown upstairs to the big 'showing room',
A well-practised performance began with 18 of us feeling locked in staring at a huge pile of carpets ominously rolled up in the corner. It would have been easier to escape Ikea than this place.

Stuck in this huge room, with our shoes off watching these wondrous carpets being effortlessly rolled out by several young handsome Turks, we enjoyed the drinks and loved the fantastic carpet designs, each more complex, more beautiful and more expensive than the previous. I was desperate to take one home – which, for me was strange; their magic was definitely working.

Uh-oh -  hoards of male carpet sellers suddenly slipped quietly into the vast showing room as the show ended, honing onto each and every one of us. Surprise surprise. Nothing is for free after all.



More carpets and more carpets yet more carpets

‘Can I assist you in making your choice?’

‘No thanks’, I replied. ‘My husband has chosen his favourite.’

‘But that’s not your choice’, he persisted.

‘I will love whatever he chooses.’

Yay, he couldn’t top that one so made my way quick smart to the restroom thinking I’d escaped only to find he was waiting outside with yet another carpet and yet another winning deal. Thank goodness John came to my rescue and we clambered over the carpet sellers and ran down the stairs to freedom with wallets still intact.



Salih

Salih Karademir must be one of the best bus drivers in Turkey. He hasn't missed a corner, a location or a gear change since he picked us up in Istanbul. 'I think he's fabulous; I've sat right up the front and feel safe with him' says Heather 'He's obliging and patient, We're lucky to have him.'
Alih Karademir Türkiye'deki birlerce en iyi otobüs sürücüsü olan. O o İstanbul'da bizi kaldırdığı için bir köşe, bir yer veya bir vites değişimi kaçırmadı. 'Ben; sanırım; ben cephenin yukarısına doğru oturdum ve güvenli onla hissetirim ' söyler funda ' o zorluyor ve sabırlı, biz oluruz Onunki var şanslı.'
Babylon 9

Hot Air Ballooning in Cappadocia

Yesterday I experienced my first hot air balloon flight. I awoke about 4am and our group were collected from our hotel at 5am by our balloon company Kapadokya Balloons.

The whole experience was a wonderous one. It had been a dream of mine to fly in a hot air balloon for many years and what a magical experience in a magical place.

Our flight took about an hour over the Cappadocian landscape. We shared the airspace with 69 other colourful balloons, what a sight to behold. Balloons of all colours, some with signage, some without.

This magical experience will remain as one of the highligts of this wonderful country. Turkey has provided more than I had hoped for.

I floated in the Mediterranean Sea today!
After paying 10TL each to the attendant at the private beach, descended the wooden steps, walked around the many people  and straight in - delicious! Looking across at the steep mountains which form the other side of the bay it was a real re connection for me with this place.

Nice and Spicey

Wandering through the markets, the aroma of all the spices saturates the senses. I love the smells, the colours and the tastes. The shop owners won't let you pass without tasting their spice teas. Apple, mixed spice, hybiscus, mint - anything you can think of, they have it there. The tastes and smells are sensational. I wish I could take some home, but sadly customs would not be so enthusiastic.

The Great Library at Ephesus



Ephesus




Here are a few of my favourite photos so far of this amazing tour. Turkey is the most wonderful place to be. The Turkish people are friendly and charming wherever we go and love to be photographed which is so refreshing. Even the children love to be photographed. We all loved Troy. It was so peaceful. We could have stayed there for a couple of hours to take in the marvellous views and sense of history. Pergamon was on top of a very high hill and we took a cable car to get to the top. Wonderful ruins to be explored. Ephesus was an enormous site and quite crowded even early in the morning but we took a couple of hours to explore about two kilometres of streets with outstanding ruins. A photographer's paradise!



Annie in Aspendos

 
 

Lady on Bosphorus








Turkish boy near Pamukkale



Pergamon



A Texan in Turkey

"You'll need to donate $50 to my church" was his opening gambit when I asked to photograph the man with the long black sutan. Father Andrews hails from Dallas, Texas and stood out from the MCG size crowd with his cowboy hat. As a religious leader of the Coptic Church in Texas he agreed to barter on the shoot fee. I agreed to say a prayer for him and we quashed the fifty buck fee. 'Now let's do this right' he said. He put hi right hand in his pocket and took out his wooden cross.

Figs, Flags & Friendliness

Almost everywhere I've travelled in Turkey I've always been able to see a turkish Flag and smell a fig tree. They are every where. Fig trees dot the landscapes, line the streets and spring up in ancient Greco-Roman ruins. The flavour of the small green Turkish figs is sublime. Fig trees provide shade from the clear autumn sun and they also invade our senses. Visually unimposing but always there like an old friend; you can feel the sand-paper prickle of their leaves (like some of my special old friends); smell the sweet scent of the fig in the air and taste the sweet luscious fruit itself. Some consider the fig a symbol of life and love. The only sense the fig doesn't influence is hearing. Then again, like old loves, its probably a good thing that old fig trees don't talk.

The Travertines

A few days ago David showed me a photo of the travertines. Until then I had no idea what to expect. The night before our planned trip there, David, Connie and I decided to take a taxi ride up there for sunrise. It was less than 10 minutes away so we had time before breakfast. Sunday morning arrived and off we went, with our very enthusiastic taxi driver. It was well worth the early rise to spend the 45 minutes taking photos unimpeded by tourists and with time to marvel at the beautiful formations. Our very obliging taxi driver had a coffee with his friend at a nearby cafe while he waited for us. I should have taken a photo of him, it was remiss of me to not think of it, especially when he kissed the 45L we paid him, his lucky fare - "chance" was what he called it - the first fare of the day.

A little later we ventured back to the travertines with the Turkish Delight tour and again marvelled at the beautiful snow like formations and ponds of cool, refreshing water, which many people were paddling or swimming in. We chatted to a couple of french girls from Versailles who were touring around. They were very happy to be photographed and were delighted to learn we came from Perth, the next stop on their travels.

Gallipoli

Six frigates of the Turkish navy came from the south, sailing sedately and line astern out of the faint haze of the Aegean. I watched them from a small bluff on Anzac Cove, conscious of the poignancy of witnessing warships once more standing off this sacred site.

The Cove itself is insignificant: there might be a million like it off the Aegean. What is surprising is the height of the country: it rises immediately from the beach; cliffs of clay ascending into steep, gorse covered hills. Not that they were covered in gorse in 1915; within days of the landing all that was blasted into oblivion by the guns. Yet the sharp rise of the hills remained the same; every rising metre to be fought for and died for.

This was a battle for the high ground; our visit to Lone Pine tells us that immediately. This place dominates the coast line for miles. Howitzers here would have rained devastation on the beaches below. If you took the high ground you could take out the guns guarding the narrow Dardanelles; take out the guns and the British and French battleships could sail unhindered to Istanbul and take Turkey out of the war. Great strategy on paper: but one look at this country tells you that, against a superbly led determined and experienced enemy, it would be the hardest ask imaginable

I think maybe the generals in the panelled rooms of the British War Office underestimated ‘Johnny’ Turk. Men in the regiments under Attaturk had seen action and were hardened soldiers; six months earlier our boys had been farm hands and shop assistants. It’s a wonder that they hung on so long.

Which is perhaps why so many of the eulogies carved on the simple gravestones try to make some sense of the senseless; to reconcile the loss of young, long-limbed sons and brothers and husbands to the will of God and the certainty of meeting again on the other side.

But carved in stone on a grave marker at Lone Pine is a message that, for me, says it all. It’s the grave marker of a captain lying between two privates. Captain GW Brown was twenty-five: a captain at the same age our kids are starting their careers. What could a man who made captain at the age of twenty-five have made of his life? What could he have been at forty; at fifty?

Captain Brown, dead at twenty-five was the son of WA and EA Brown. They knew exactly what they had lost. They made no attempt at patriotism or reconciliation to an after life. On their son’s marker they had carved, ‘Our best we have given to the earth’.

This sombre, gorse-covered earth is filled with the best of at least five nations. The generations who have come and gone since they went into the earth have missed them sorely.

Troy

I stood on the walls of Troy, alone for a moment with no other tourists, not even the sound of tourists, only the rustle of the soft wind over the stones. Beyond the walls and fallen columns lay the plain; fields and vineyards, green and gold in the September light. The sea has long since receded from the walls and the beach is distant, but it doesn’t take much imagination to hear the clash of bronze on bronze; the cries of men in battle; see the tall towers, their battlements glittering with spears. Then, suddenly, a group of French tourists appeared and my moment was gone; a small respite from the chatter of people and the clicking of a billion shutters.

It’s good to be here, but it’s people like me who make it hard for people like me to get a sense of history.

Kusadasi

Driving through tunnels is not normally the most exciting thing I do on overseas trips. But as our bus entered a tunnel on the outskirts of Kusadasi I noticed the number of coloured lights in the tunnel. Shot on Shutter Speed priority with a speed of 1/2 sec and -1 set in exp modification.