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British Mensa Travel Special Interest Group |
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Turkey
alone by Liz Sasse All the little gulets were eager to leave Bodrum. Straining to leave their moorings like greyhounds locked in their traps, bobbing up and down... THEN WE WERE OFF.... racing out of Bodrum, packed with eager tourists full of dreams or complaints! All excited and gazing at the beauty around them, some through the lenses of their new camcorders, dreaming of film shows for their neighbours and families...their show of one-upmanship...missing the reality of it all. Behind us, our joumeys through a time machine on packed sardine tin aeroplanes..stern officials..battered luggage all bought from M & S...air conditioned coaches..there is always someone late..listening to the tour rep telling the same tourist rep jokes.. trying not to sound bored..showing off her two words of Turkish. Into the packed dolmus (means stuffed) and then up the shaky gangplank of our holiday dreams. Feelings of apprehension, I had never holidayed alone, recently separated from my husband of 30 years (sufferer of seasickness on previous gulet trips) "NO, I'm not a Shirley Valentine Wannabee," I repeatedly told my colleagues prior to my travels. Long ago, gulets carried a slippery sliding cargo of fish and fishermen singing Turkish sea shanties of bravery in storms and wives in ports..waiting...now they are filled with a slippery sliding cargo of Ambro Solaire coated tourists and welcoming Turkish tourist pleasers greeting their cargo like long-lost cousins..eyeing the exposed skin of the touristettes...wondering, hoping, clicking their prayer beads at the thought...touristettes gazing at the far horizons through their shades, with a `hope he can't see' sideways glance at Turkish manhood at its best.. puffed out chests of both... but of course my boat was different...quieter than previous trips of bellydancing to the Spice Girls and hazy mists of raki. Being an all-inclusive, no bellydancing crew to tempt us at the bar, just 7 passengers instead of 14..meant quiet nights of card games and pleading looks of the crew not to drink the bar dry before midnight. They lazily sat at their table to the sounds of Turkish classical music, clicking backgammon tiles and prayer beads. To some of my fellow passengers I gave nicknames. There was the H.P. man who bought his H.P. sauce and prayed for chips every day. There was the Ambrosia man who only liked his rice from cans, "not this wild rice rubbish". Every night, he had to be led drunkenly to bed by the patient crew, only to appear 10 minutes later back up on deck. Their wives longed for 'next week' when they could sleep in a hotel bed and unpack their finery which was still in their cases in their tiny cabins, on top of their lifejackets ( "please..if you sleep on deck under the stars they make excellent pillows...please take them with you!" pleaded the tour rep) One day drifted into another beautiful day. Turkish turquoise seas lay obediently flat, clear and glassy as our anchor and swimming ladder were lowered, a signal to the fish communities to come and get their picnic of tourist leftovers. No more nets to tangle in except Wednesdays...barbeque day. Our hot sunbathing babies gasped and protested at the joke the inviting seas made. Turkish crew jokes of tipping canoes, showering cold water over the side at the swimmers...each joke a special memory to be told at future coffee mornings... Surprised apologies from the captain that the decrepit windsurfer must have just broken. The only young man vowing to write to the tour operator...never to show his skill..was that a look of relief on his face? The food was so Turkish...much to the surprise of H.P and Ambrosia man. "Where's the nearest cafe?" was said many times when scanning the barren rocks. Oh lovely, lazy, doing nothing days of sleep and books, dreams and plans. Rocked gently like a mother soothing her baby we all (well, most of us) grew to love our beautiful gulet. Sometimes skimming through the waves to the strains of the Titanic soundtrack (supplied by my son), renewing spirits soaring upward in the seagull-less sky and plunging downwards to play with the dolphins. Gazing at the blue haze clouds that mask the distant hills that are mirrored in the turquoise sea beneath skimming flying fish.All coming to an end with an armada type race into Bodrum where it all started. Mooring next to a mosque.."oh no," said Mrs Ambrosia..early 5 o'clock call to prayer tomorrow...lovely spiritual uplifting Turkish sounds to lift the soul and remember the sins...click click of the prayer beads... I am left in the boat to write my thoughts..watching little boys catching big ropes for lira...lobster tourists bulging out of newly bought sweatshirts. Adidas, Armani, Chanel..."you name it, we have it" ...all genuine fakes. Men in cafes talking politics..looking at touristettes...old men tutting, young men with eyes on stalks, clicking prayer heads and drinking raki. Oh beautiful Turkey. The man in the Turkish bath says there is too much inflation and poverty - it will be best to return to the old days of Islamic fundamentalism and funny writing, to save pride and feed your children. Will I be able to return next year to do it all again? First published in VISA issue 31 (winter 1998) |