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.

,

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.