Monday, July 12, 2004
Part 1 - The Road to Pamukkale
I’m on my way back to the Istanbul airport for my first venture into Anatolia. It’s also my first taste of the renowned Turkish bus system, although this time it’s only a 30 minute ride from Taksim square out to the airport. The city still feels a little like Cairo, but there’s a European approach to nearly everything, and it’s more than a token influence: schedules are posted and seem to be followed. My bus leaves exactly on time, and the next bus has already arrived, ready to take its place. I hope this bodes well for the ambitiously precise itinerary I have scheduled for the next 5 days: a tour of western Anatolia that will take me to the Travertine pools and Roman ruins of Hieropolis, the ancient cities of Aphrodisias, Ephesus, Priene, Miletus… and those are just the highlights.
The shuttle-bus roams through inner slums and run down streets of Istanbul, away from the modern bustle of Taksim and the touristy refinement of the Sultanehmet, but still it seems like a crumbling European City, not a Middle-Eastern one: three or four story buildings with little balconies looming over the alleys, half-abandoned and half propped up by less elegant means…like Paris after it's burned...but still like Paris. I hope I eventually make it to the Asian side of the city.
---
At the thoroughly modern Istanbul Ataturk International Airport, the bus driver helps me with my bag and then adamantly refuses to take a tip. I’m amazed. Cleary tipping is it not only unexpected, but apparently inappropriate. Everyone at K’s conference is amazed by this sort of thing as well. For the most part, Istanbul is free of hassle. Eye contact with a merchant outside his store usually elicits only a polite nod, or perhaps a quick inquiry: “Are you hungry?” “Interested in carpets” but if you say no, that’s the end of it. No pestering. Just a smile and another nod. We have friends at the conference who’ve come from Cairo, Deli, Bombay, Tehran, Jeruselem – they’re all amazed at Istanbul. And very few of these people are here for the first time. They claim to hardly recognize the city, compared to 10 years ago. The streets are free of litter. The buildings may be old, but they’re clean. Rome and Paris have nothing on Istanbul in this regard. The bathrooms are for he most part spotless. And everyone is so polite. Even in the midst of what seems to be a potentially devastating lull in tourist activity, the merchants hang back. The kids in the street offer a shoe shine but rarely press their luck.
How can this happen? How can an entire country change in the span of a decade. I ask, and everyone seems to have the same answer: “They want to be European.” But surely not EVERYONE. And surely this can’t be enforced. In America we can’t get people to stop smoking or wear condoms – how on earth can an entire country “reform” (or conform”) spontaneously?
----
After running the gauntlet of triple-tier security at the airport (metal detectors and x-ray at the front entrance, after the ticket counters, and again at the gate) I’m confronted by a bizarre new form of convenience: The T-BOX. This is a vending machine for clothes. T-shirts and underwear, mostly the classic, middle-eastern tank-tops, compressed into dense little packages of fabric and plastic the size of a cigarette pack. I’m tempted to buy one, but at $15 for a little orange ball, I decide to settle for a photo instead.
----
On the flight and again the cola frenzy, but this time a third choice - Turk Cola. Must try this at some point. It seems the cheese-sandwich is a prime staple of the convenience-food cuisine in Turkey, and this makes me love the Turks all the more. Cheese sandwiches in the terminal, and more on the flight. The term “vejeteryan’ may only now be working its way into the vernacular, but it’s turning out to not be much of a problem.
----
Issues of Perception - I'm starting to worry about the language barrier. Not in a practical sense - logistics seem to be working fine and I've finally leaned how to greet people (Merhaba) and order Diet Coke (Bir tani Coke Light, lutven). Rather, I'm concerned that I'm missing something by relying on visual cues - prattling on about behavior I can only watch from a distance. For all I know, the Turks loathe cola in all forms, but have it foisted on them by global conglomerates. Someone at K's conference breakfast this morning insisted that the common Turk is a sad, bitter, oppressed person, and that the friendly smiles and courtesy they offer to foreigners is motivated by one thing: we're rich. She insisted that any friendly gesture belies this sinister reality.
I have a hard time believing it – when so much of the kindness I’ve experienced has nothing to do with profit. The bus driver this morning being an excellent example: He went out of his way to make sure I wasn’t making a mistake getting off at the domestic terminal, carried my bag all the way to the first security point, and then refused a tip. And my bag was a well-worn massive black backpack. Hardly a talisman of limitless wealth.
----
Finally – Asia. The flight into Denizli brought us down low over an astonishing feature of geography – what I can only assume was a dry lakebed with concentric circles of brilliant white radiating out for miles and miles across the scrub-land in the shadow of gray craggy mountains. From the air, I didn’t spot a town or even a village. Just some squared-off fields and then the runway, barely distinct from the hard brown soil beside it.
The nearly empty flight landed a little late (after only 45 minutes of flying-time), taxied along for a few minutes and finally we came to a stop. Leaning against the window, I could just spot what is unquestionably the smallest airport I’ve ever visited (and this includes tiny little outposts on islands in the Caribbean and the Galapagos). We climbed down the rickety metal steps and walked to the “terminal” building, actually a sparse steel shack about 80 yards long. One door for arrivals. One for departures.
The baggage arrived instantly and then I encountered the first little hiccup in my precise itinerary. Apparently the town of Denizli is planning on some major expansion. I say this because they've built the airport 60km from the town. But I had yet to find this out…
Once we'd arrived, the tiny airport/shack had two major vehicles serving it: our airplane on one side, and a large motor-coach on the other. No other form of transport (or sign of civilization) from one horizon to the other. I gathered the coach was the default way into town. I thought we were being swindled when the conductor asked for "alti million" lira - I double checked my phrasebook and yes, this meant 6,000,000 Lira! (It only cost me 7,000,000 for the 30 minute airport shuttle from Taksim in Istanbul – the most expensive city in Turkey.)
Then I realized - we had an hour-long bus-ride ahead of us. Late plane. Extra hour in transit. Hmmm. I decided not to worry. My plan allows for such contingencies.
----
3:04 PM – I’m sitting in the front seat of the coach (better view out the front window). Twenty minutes into the drive and a massive red-alert indicator begins to blink on the dash, accompanied by a deafening electronic whine. The driver casually pulls over to the shoulder and he and the conductor hop out.
They reappear five minutes later, and we're on our way again. No idea what’s wrong, but I start to worry about another delay.. To celebrate his victory over the red-alert lamp, the driver decides to start up a little music, fiddling with the radio as we careen along. Fortunately there’s no-one else on the road to flatten as we veer across the lanes.
I’ve decided that I almost like Turkish music. In Egypt, the tinny-techno drum-machines and nasal vocals may be heart-wrenchingly evocative when played on a decent sound system, but Egyptians seem to be forever ambitious when it comes to the wattage their stereos can provide. Result: constant distortion. Sadly, the questionable pop-production values combined with maximum volume over speakers blown long ago has completely put me off what K semi-affectionately refers to as “habibi” music (so deemed because “habibi” is the one word that every lyric composed in the last 20 years must contain by law. Or so it would seem.).
But the Turkish music – while equally exotic sounding – tends to involve less frenetic arrangements, a little more variety, and simply a vibe that I’m really learning to enjoy. Plus it’s played at a volume in-line with the capacity of whatever stereo it’s emanating from.
----
I count down the kilometers as the road signs flash by: “Denizli – 50k…40km…30km…” - then suddenly we jerk to a stop. "Pamukkale! Pamukkale!" the conductor screams. A few touristy-looking people start disembarking. I'd planned to go all the way to the Denizli Otogar (bus station) and then catch a mini-bus back to Pamukkale for about a dollar. But now I sense a way to make up time. Well, I hope that's what it is. Really, I just nod and get off the bus.
As the coach pulls away, I'm left standing in the middle of nowhere. With a little caravan of yellow taxis. Looks like I'm taking a cab.
In the end, I do make up massive amounts of time as the taxi zooms me from the motorway to front door of my pension in the tiny village of Pamukkale, but it costs me 30,000,000 lira - more than I'd budgeted for the whole day’s expenses.. I just try to smile and think that $20 here and there isn’t going to kill me. At least I’ve arrived. My new home in Asia.
|
The shuttle-bus roams through inner slums and run down streets of Istanbul, away from the modern bustle of Taksim and the touristy refinement of the Sultanehmet, but still it seems like a crumbling European City, not a Middle-Eastern one: three or four story buildings with little balconies looming over the alleys, half-abandoned and half propped up by less elegant means…like Paris after it's burned...but still like Paris. I hope I eventually make it to the Asian side of the city.
---
At the thoroughly modern Istanbul Ataturk International Airport, the bus driver helps me with my bag and then adamantly refuses to take a tip. I’m amazed. Cleary tipping is it not only unexpected, but apparently inappropriate. Everyone at K’s conference is amazed by this sort of thing as well. For the most part, Istanbul is free of hassle. Eye contact with a merchant outside his store usually elicits only a polite nod, or perhaps a quick inquiry: “Are you hungry?” “Interested in carpets” but if you say no, that’s the end of it. No pestering. Just a smile and another nod. We have friends at the conference who’ve come from Cairo, Deli, Bombay, Tehran, Jeruselem – they’re all amazed at Istanbul. And very few of these people are here for the first time. They claim to hardly recognize the city, compared to 10 years ago. The streets are free of litter. The buildings may be old, but they’re clean. Rome and Paris have nothing on Istanbul in this regard. The bathrooms are for he most part spotless. And everyone is so polite. Even in the midst of what seems to be a potentially devastating lull in tourist activity, the merchants hang back. The kids in the street offer a shoe shine but rarely press their luck.
How can this happen? How can an entire country change in the span of a decade. I ask, and everyone seems to have the same answer: “They want to be European.” But surely not EVERYONE. And surely this can’t be enforced. In America we can’t get people to stop smoking or wear condoms – how on earth can an entire country “reform” (or conform”) spontaneously?
----
After running the gauntlet of triple-tier security at the airport (metal detectors and x-ray at the front entrance, after the ticket counters, and again at the gate) I’m confronted by a bizarre new form of convenience: The T-BOX. This is a vending machine for clothes. T-shirts and underwear, mostly the classic, middle-eastern tank-tops, compressed into dense little packages of fabric and plastic the size of a cigarette pack. I’m tempted to buy one, but at $15 for a little orange ball, I decide to settle for a photo instead.
----
On the flight and again the cola frenzy, but this time a third choice - Turk Cola. Must try this at some point. It seems the cheese-sandwich is a prime staple of the convenience-food cuisine in Turkey, and this makes me love the Turks all the more. Cheese sandwiches in the terminal, and more on the flight. The term “vejeteryan’ may only now be working its way into the vernacular, but it’s turning out to not be much of a problem.
----
Issues of Perception - I'm starting to worry about the language barrier. Not in a practical sense - logistics seem to be working fine and I've finally leaned how to greet people (Merhaba) and order Diet Coke (Bir tani Coke Light, lutven). Rather, I'm concerned that I'm missing something by relying on visual cues - prattling on about behavior I can only watch from a distance. For all I know, the Turks loathe cola in all forms, but have it foisted on them by global conglomerates. Someone at K's conference breakfast this morning insisted that the common Turk is a sad, bitter, oppressed person, and that the friendly smiles and courtesy they offer to foreigners is motivated by one thing: we're rich. She insisted that any friendly gesture belies this sinister reality.
I have a hard time believing it – when so much of the kindness I’ve experienced has nothing to do with profit. The bus driver this morning being an excellent example: He went out of his way to make sure I wasn’t making a mistake getting off at the domestic terminal, carried my bag all the way to the first security point, and then refused a tip. And my bag was a well-worn massive black backpack. Hardly a talisman of limitless wealth.
----
Finally – Asia. The flight into Denizli brought us down low over an astonishing feature of geography – what I can only assume was a dry lakebed with concentric circles of brilliant white radiating out for miles and miles across the scrub-land in the shadow of gray craggy mountains. From the air, I didn’t spot a town or even a village. Just some squared-off fields and then the runway, barely distinct from the hard brown soil beside it.
The nearly empty flight landed a little late (after only 45 minutes of flying-time), taxied along for a few minutes and finally we came to a stop. Leaning against the window, I could just spot what is unquestionably the smallest airport I’ve ever visited (and this includes tiny little outposts on islands in the Caribbean and the Galapagos). We climbed down the rickety metal steps and walked to the “terminal” building, actually a sparse steel shack about 80 yards long. One door for arrivals. One for departures.
The baggage arrived instantly and then I encountered the first little hiccup in my precise itinerary. Apparently the town of Denizli is planning on some major expansion. I say this because they've built the airport 60km from the town. But I had yet to find this out…
Once we'd arrived, the tiny airport/shack had two major vehicles serving it: our airplane on one side, and a large motor-coach on the other. No other form of transport (or sign of civilization) from one horizon to the other. I gathered the coach was the default way into town. I thought we were being swindled when the conductor asked for "alti million" lira - I double checked my phrasebook and yes, this meant 6,000,000 Lira! (It only cost me 7,000,000 for the 30 minute airport shuttle from Taksim in Istanbul – the most expensive city in Turkey.)
Then I realized - we had an hour-long bus-ride ahead of us. Late plane. Extra hour in transit. Hmmm. I decided not to worry. My plan allows for such contingencies.
----
3:04 PM – I’m sitting in the front seat of the coach (better view out the front window). Twenty minutes into the drive and a massive red-alert indicator begins to blink on the dash, accompanied by a deafening electronic whine. The driver casually pulls over to the shoulder and he and the conductor hop out.
They reappear five minutes later, and we're on our way again. No idea what’s wrong, but I start to worry about another delay.. To celebrate his victory over the red-alert lamp, the driver decides to start up a little music, fiddling with the radio as we careen along. Fortunately there’s no-one else on the road to flatten as we veer across the lanes.
I’ve decided that I almost like Turkish music. In Egypt, the tinny-techno drum-machines and nasal vocals may be heart-wrenchingly evocative when played on a decent sound system, but Egyptians seem to be forever ambitious when it comes to the wattage their stereos can provide. Result: constant distortion. Sadly, the questionable pop-production values combined with maximum volume over speakers blown long ago has completely put me off what K semi-affectionately refers to as “habibi” music (so deemed because “habibi” is the one word that every lyric composed in the last 20 years must contain by law. Or so it would seem.).
But the Turkish music – while equally exotic sounding – tends to involve less frenetic arrangements, a little more variety, and simply a vibe that I’m really learning to enjoy. Plus it’s played at a volume in-line with the capacity of whatever stereo it’s emanating from.
----
I count down the kilometers as the road signs flash by: “Denizli – 50k…40km…30km…” - then suddenly we jerk to a stop. "Pamukkale! Pamukkale!" the conductor screams. A few touristy-looking people start disembarking. I'd planned to go all the way to the Denizli Otogar (bus station) and then catch a mini-bus back to Pamukkale for about a dollar. But now I sense a way to make up time. Well, I hope that's what it is. Really, I just nod and get off the bus.
As the coach pulls away, I'm left standing in the middle of nowhere. With a little caravan of yellow taxis. Looks like I'm taking a cab.
In the end, I do make up massive amounts of time as the taxi zooms me from the motorway to front door of my pension in the tiny village of Pamukkale, but it costs me 30,000,000 lira - more than I'd budgeted for the whole day’s expenses.. I just try to smile and think that $20 here and there isn’t going to kill me. At least I’ve arrived. My new home in Asia.
|
