Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Part 2 - The Road to Selçuk
Turns out the "direct" bus from Pamukkale really leaves from Denizli, 15km away, so I sit in the bus office and wait for a dolmush to pick me up. Again the hospitality is overwhelming. The office workers are having tea, and I'm invited to eat with them while I wait. But before I start to fret over whether or not to ask if meat or nuts are involved, a dirty white van careens up to the door, the horn beeps, and my bags are flung inside.
The van is full of tourists, and for the first time I'm really confronted with an organized tour group. Mostly French and German, but a Canadian family as well - a very loud gray-haired mother in loose flowing gypsy-chic hippy clothes along her two equally loud teenage sons; they’re clothes are nearly as loud as their behavior: enormous trousers hanging at their hips and boxer shorts pulled up to their navels. A little taste of home, a'la Canada.
The driver makes a typical joke, "you all go to airport, yes? OK. Airport." when he knows very well we're headed for the bus station. I play along, demanding the airport, and he keeps up the joke, now telling me I've missed my plane and will have to take the bus.
In the back, the Canadian gangsta-boys shout and complain about the van and the heat and the dust, while the mother extols the virtues of traveling. And I privately extol the virtues of traveling alone.
----
The dolmush arrives at the bustling otogar, and the driver asks for my ticket. As I show it to him, he snatches it away and motions for me to follow the group. With two-dozen coaches and another dozen mini-buses all humming around us, I decide I can use the help. I've overheard the group mention that they're on an organized trip, and that they're catching the 6:00 bus to Selçuk (as am I) so I figure it'll be ok.
The driver finally returns and doles out the tickets he's bought for the group. And then he hands me a ticket, but it's not the one I bought two days before. It's for a different bus line (Isparta - not Pamukkale) and clearly cost 8 million lira, not the 10 million I paid. I find this a little odd, but decide not to make an issue of it. Maybe time-tables have changed. Maybe the bus-lines have combined two buses into one. This sort of thing happens a lot in Turkey. I’m sure it’s all for the best.
The bus arrives, and the route-card in the front window bears a litany of cities: Izmir, Selçuk, Aydin, Nazilli... But Selçuk is there, and I know Izmir is further on, so it seems ok.
I ask the dolmush driver as he tosses my bag onto the bus, "Direct? Selçuk direct?"
"Yes." he says. "No stops. Direct to Selçuk."
I climb onto the bus and look for a nice window seat, but notice most of the chairs already have bags in them, their occupants having hopped off to buy drinks and pida at the station. Then I overhear a French conversation I can just make out, and realize there are assigned seats. Turkish buses operate like European trains - a conductor to check the tickets and assign seats (supposedly never a single woman beside a single man). And having checked my old ticket 100 times to be sure of the departure time, I realize my seat has changed too. Now it’s seat 45. I can't believe there are really 45 seats on the bus.
But there are.
If you count to the very back. To the last row.
I'm starting to worry.
The engine revs up and the long-haul passengers quickly file back onto the bus. The heat is stifling, but with the engine comes the A/C. I 'm quite aware of this, because the cooling unit is directly above my head. Which is why we have no overhead bin space. But maybe it will make up for the fact that it's hot to begin with, and probably even hotter back here, above the engine.
Except that where we would have overhead A/C vents, we have a cooling unit instead. Hmmm.
The bus fills to capacity. Locals patiently try to explain to the teenage Canadian Gangstas that there are assigned seats, and they can't all sit by the window. There’s a little bit of "I was here first" resistance, but it's all sorted out in the end.
The Canadian mother is hacking at her armrest, trying to swivel it down. I step forward and quickly demonstrate the admittedly convoluted maneuver, murmuring, "pull back, then down."
She then teaches this to one of her sons, observing, "They're so friendly here. And his English was so good." If only she could see the website I'd just finished, she'd be forced to reconsider. But I like being misidentified. She has no idea I can understand every word. I wonder where she thinks I'm from...
It's now clear that I've been swindled by the dolmush driver. My first victimization in Turkey (not counting the web-building enterprise). He cashed my 10 million lira ticket in for one on a less expensive bus and kept the difference. And in so doing consigned me to the hellish back row (which in addition to being extra hot and having no windows, also has no legroom and seats that don't recline). I watch through the window as "my" bus- the luxurious Pamukkale 6:00 express, pulls away on time (we're already running late) half empty. And it's not as if I'm having a more authentic "Turkish" experience on the cheap bus - it's mostly backpackers and Canadian Gangstas.
I guess the driver didn’t like my jokes. I would have gladly tipped him 2 million lira. I'd have paid him five to bring me to the right bus. But I've learned a lesson. 3½ hours stewing over my moderate discomfort, all for $1.50. And I knew, the minute I let him take my ticket, that I was in trouble. In any other country, I'd be immediately suspicious, but the Turks have been so kind, so generous. Every opportunity they've had to take advantage, they haven't. Never demanding a tip. Never leading me astray. But now my guard is back up.
----
I must confess, there is one fabulous innovation that even this lower-end bus has - there's a button overhead to turn off the speaker. To silence the driver's pulsing music. This I give thanks for many times. (Once on a 10 hour bus trip in Egypt, I unscrewed the overhead speaker and disconnected the wires, just to squelch the distorted racket pounding down from overhead.)
----
1 hour into the trip. We're pulling into a small town - stopping at the otogar. So much for the "direct" bus - I should have asked the conductor or the bus driver, not the swindling two-faced dolmush driver. Alas.
I try to tell myself: this way I'm seeing more of Turkey. I'm seeing the little towns. I'm not just speeding along on the motorway. (And I simultaneously dismiss any school of philosophy that endorses instant karma - my four hours of toil that afternoon are clearly not being rewarded quickly.)
As we pull away, I realize: it's all about expectations. It's standing room only now - men pressed together in the aisles, hanging onto the overhead racks and swaying as we trundle along the bumpy roads. But compared to Egypt, even this “low-end” bus is first class. In fact, the day before, I was perfectly happy to spend 3 hours round-trip to Aphrodisias in a run-down little van, with no A/C and springs pushing up out of the seats. It's only because I'd been hearing about these luxury Turkish bus lines - only because I was cheated that I feel unhappy.
But this must be how "real" backpackers do it: no expectations. Laid back. They're happy to get the bus. And if the bus doesn't come, they take the next one. And they certainly wouldn't have an e-mail reservation made 6-weeks before, explaining that they’ll be arriving in Selçuk at 9:05 and to please have a vegetarian meal with no nuts ready at 9:30.
The Canadian Gangstas are working magic, literally; slight-of-hand with coins and cards. The Turkish kids in the row ahead are eating it up. The Turkish mother turns back, insisting that the Gangstas have bread and fruit that the Turkish family has brought for the trip. Again - the hospitality is almost inconceivable. These obnoxious kids have quickly been adopted, and already the nefarious doings of the evil dolmush driver are fading into memory.
----
It's night by the time I reach Selçuk. Despite the detours, I’m not all that late. It's a "small" town, but compared to Pamukkale it's a metropolis. Where Pamukkale felt like the desert, Selçuk feels like a city. I work hard to dodge the salesmen at the otogar, touting their hostels and pensions, but I mange to saddle up my massive backpack and hike off into the dark, only my Lonely Planet town map to guide me.
Amazingly, the streets (for the most part) have signs, and so I feel fairly confident when I turn down a pitch-black alley and head up the hill. Finally I arrive at a little hole-in-the-wall pension, knock on the door and I’m admitted by two French girls who are in the midst of frantically packing for a night bus to Cappadocia. I drop my pack in the stairwell and they tell me to follow the voices up the dark, winding stairs to the rooftop restaurant.
Backpackers line the walls of the intimate dining room, sitting on the floor, eating at low circular tables. Crimson red carpets and hanging lanterns round out the decor. The owner, Dervish, greets me with non-stop chatter: "Ah, you are here! I know, you are very hungry. Eat now. No room. No toilette. Eat. Food is ready. Room, not quite ready. But food is here, like you. 9:15 bus from Selçuk. I know. Your wife is very good with the e-mail." He picks up a knife and fork as he passes a table of Dutch university girls, "Oh!" he grabs at his heart, "I can't find the fork because your eyes are so beautiful. I am in love with all the Netherlanders" He twirls round and hands me my utensils, whispering to me, "So many women in the world, I love them all. But don't tell anyone." And then he's off to the next table, plying his affections.
Along with my dinner, I have my “welcome drink” of red wine, which of course I won’t drink (though clearly everyone else would… in this “Muslim” country). And there’s a plate of chicken mistakenly put down, which I feel bad for skipping over. I play the “lone traveler” for a while and scribble aimlessly in my notebook, surreptitiously watching the other tables. Three people I make out to be “employees” sit at a corner table along with the French girls from downstairs, apparently for a farewell dinner. I take the wine over and suggest they have it, because I’d hate for it to go to waste. They nod and smile and carry on with their conversation.
Next the chicken. Dervish returns from the kitchen, spots the “special vegetable” mistakenly put on my plate, and takes this over to the French table as well. It seems my entire dinner is traveling across the room. But I feel I’m interrupting their farewells, so I return to my solitary scribbling.
Until one of the French girls delivers a salt shaker. “We thought you might want our salt. We don’t like it.” This begins an absurd exchange of objects between the tables, and it seems I’ve finally made friends with someone that speaks at least a little English…
Except that they’re chugging down their wine and devouring their dinner, because they’ve got to be on the 11:30 night bus. So bon voyage, goodbye, and farewell….
----
But before I can mope too much, my ever-appealing mini-computer draws more attention. I’m trying desperately to catch-up with my blog after dinner when I’m approached by Laura, Dervish’s French girlfriend (and the only woman in the building who isn’t lavished with extreme flattery and affection). Another lone traveler, a young Belgian guy named Sam, joins us as well. They of course ask if I’m a writer, start telling me their life stories, and before I know it it’s 2:00AM.
And I’ve got Ephesus to do in the morning.
|
The van is full of tourists, and for the first time I'm really confronted with an organized tour group. Mostly French and German, but a Canadian family as well - a very loud gray-haired mother in loose flowing gypsy-chic hippy clothes along her two equally loud teenage sons; they’re clothes are nearly as loud as their behavior: enormous trousers hanging at their hips and boxer shorts pulled up to their navels. A little taste of home, a'la Canada.
The driver makes a typical joke, "you all go to airport, yes? OK. Airport." when he knows very well we're headed for the bus station. I play along, demanding the airport, and he keeps up the joke, now telling me I've missed my plane and will have to take the bus.
In the back, the Canadian gangsta-boys shout and complain about the van and the heat and the dust, while the mother extols the virtues of traveling. And I privately extol the virtues of traveling alone.
----
The dolmush arrives at the bustling otogar, and the driver asks for my ticket. As I show it to him, he snatches it away and motions for me to follow the group. With two-dozen coaches and another dozen mini-buses all humming around us, I decide I can use the help. I've overheard the group mention that they're on an organized trip, and that they're catching the 6:00 bus to Selçuk (as am I) so I figure it'll be ok.
The driver finally returns and doles out the tickets he's bought for the group. And then he hands me a ticket, but it's not the one I bought two days before. It's for a different bus line (Isparta - not Pamukkale) and clearly cost 8 million lira, not the 10 million I paid. I find this a little odd, but decide not to make an issue of it. Maybe time-tables have changed. Maybe the bus-lines have combined two buses into one. This sort of thing happens a lot in Turkey. I’m sure it’s all for the best.
The bus arrives, and the route-card in the front window bears a litany of cities: Izmir, Selçuk, Aydin, Nazilli... But Selçuk is there, and I know Izmir is further on, so it seems ok.
I ask the dolmush driver as he tosses my bag onto the bus, "Direct? Selçuk direct?"
"Yes." he says. "No stops. Direct to Selçuk."
I climb onto the bus and look for a nice window seat, but notice most of the chairs already have bags in them, their occupants having hopped off to buy drinks and pida at the station. Then I overhear a French conversation I can just make out, and realize there are assigned seats. Turkish buses operate like European trains - a conductor to check the tickets and assign seats (supposedly never a single woman beside a single man). And having checked my old ticket 100 times to be sure of the departure time, I realize my seat has changed too. Now it’s seat 45. I can't believe there are really 45 seats on the bus.
But there are.
If you count to the very back. To the last row.
I'm starting to worry.
The engine revs up and the long-haul passengers quickly file back onto the bus. The heat is stifling, but with the engine comes the A/C. I 'm quite aware of this, because the cooling unit is directly above my head. Which is why we have no overhead bin space. But maybe it will make up for the fact that it's hot to begin with, and probably even hotter back here, above the engine.
Except that where we would have overhead A/C vents, we have a cooling unit instead. Hmmm.
The bus fills to capacity. Locals patiently try to explain to the teenage Canadian Gangstas that there are assigned seats, and they can't all sit by the window. There’s a little bit of "I was here first" resistance, but it's all sorted out in the end.
The Canadian mother is hacking at her armrest, trying to swivel it down. I step forward and quickly demonstrate the admittedly convoluted maneuver, murmuring, "pull back, then down."
She then teaches this to one of her sons, observing, "They're so friendly here. And his English was so good." If only she could see the website I'd just finished, she'd be forced to reconsider. But I like being misidentified. She has no idea I can understand every word. I wonder where she thinks I'm from...
It's now clear that I've been swindled by the dolmush driver. My first victimization in Turkey (not counting the web-building enterprise). He cashed my 10 million lira ticket in for one on a less expensive bus and kept the difference. And in so doing consigned me to the hellish back row (which in addition to being extra hot and having no windows, also has no legroom and seats that don't recline). I watch through the window as "my" bus- the luxurious Pamukkale 6:00 express, pulls away on time (we're already running late) half empty. And it's not as if I'm having a more authentic "Turkish" experience on the cheap bus - it's mostly backpackers and Canadian Gangstas.
I guess the driver didn’t like my jokes. I would have gladly tipped him 2 million lira. I'd have paid him five to bring me to the right bus. But I've learned a lesson. 3½ hours stewing over my moderate discomfort, all for $1.50. And I knew, the minute I let him take my ticket, that I was in trouble. In any other country, I'd be immediately suspicious, but the Turks have been so kind, so generous. Every opportunity they've had to take advantage, they haven't. Never demanding a tip. Never leading me astray. But now my guard is back up.
----
I must confess, there is one fabulous innovation that even this lower-end bus has - there's a button overhead to turn off the speaker. To silence the driver's pulsing music. This I give thanks for many times. (Once on a 10 hour bus trip in Egypt, I unscrewed the overhead speaker and disconnected the wires, just to squelch the distorted racket pounding down from overhead.)
----
1 hour into the trip. We're pulling into a small town - stopping at the otogar. So much for the "direct" bus - I should have asked the conductor or the bus driver, not the swindling two-faced dolmush driver. Alas.
I try to tell myself: this way I'm seeing more of Turkey. I'm seeing the little towns. I'm not just speeding along on the motorway. (And I simultaneously dismiss any school of philosophy that endorses instant karma - my four hours of toil that afternoon are clearly not being rewarded quickly.)
As we pull away, I realize: it's all about expectations. It's standing room only now - men pressed together in the aisles, hanging onto the overhead racks and swaying as we trundle along the bumpy roads. But compared to Egypt, even this “low-end” bus is first class. In fact, the day before, I was perfectly happy to spend 3 hours round-trip to Aphrodisias in a run-down little van, with no A/C and springs pushing up out of the seats. It's only because I'd been hearing about these luxury Turkish bus lines - only because I was cheated that I feel unhappy.
But this must be how "real" backpackers do it: no expectations. Laid back. They're happy to get the bus. And if the bus doesn't come, they take the next one. And they certainly wouldn't have an e-mail reservation made 6-weeks before, explaining that they’ll be arriving in Selçuk at 9:05 and to please have a vegetarian meal with no nuts ready at 9:30.
The Canadian Gangstas are working magic, literally; slight-of-hand with coins and cards. The Turkish kids in the row ahead are eating it up. The Turkish mother turns back, insisting that the Gangstas have bread and fruit that the Turkish family has brought for the trip. Again - the hospitality is almost inconceivable. These obnoxious kids have quickly been adopted, and already the nefarious doings of the evil dolmush driver are fading into memory.
----
It's night by the time I reach Selçuk. Despite the detours, I’m not all that late. It's a "small" town, but compared to Pamukkale it's a metropolis. Where Pamukkale felt like the desert, Selçuk feels like a city. I work hard to dodge the salesmen at the otogar, touting their hostels and pensions, but I mange to saddle up my massive backpack and hike off into the dark, only my Lonely Planet town map to guide me.
Amazingly, the streets (for the most part) have signs, and so I feel fairly confident when I turn down a pitch-black alley and head up the hill. Finally I arrive at a little hole-in-the-wall pension, knock on the door and I’m admitted by two French girls who are in the midst of frantically packing for a night bus to Cappadocia. I drop my pack in the stairwell and they tell me to follow the voices up the dark, winding stairs to the rooftop restaurant.
Backpackers line the walls of the intimate dining room, sitting on the floor, eating at low circular tables. Crimson red carpets and hanging lanterns round out the decor. The owner, Dervish, greets me with non-stop chatter: "Ah, you are here! I know, you are very hungry. Eat now. No room. No toilette. Eat. Food is ready. Room, not quite ready. But food is here, like you. 9:15 bus from Selçuk. I know. Your wife is very good with the e-mail." He picks up a knife and fork as he passes a table of Dutch university girls, "Oh!" he grabs at his heart, "I can't find the fork because your eyes are so beautiful. I am in love with all the Netherlanders" He twirls round and hands me my utensils, whispering to me, "So many women in the world, I love them all. But don't tell anyone." And then he's off to the next table, plying his affections.
Along with my dinner, I have my “welcome drink” of red wine, which of course I won’t drink (though clearly everyone else would… in this “Muslim” country). And there’s a plate of chicken mistakenly put down, which I feel bad for skipping over. I play the “lone traveler” for a while and scribble aimlessly in my notebook, surreptitiously watching the other tables. Three people I make out to be “employees” sit at a corner table along with the French girls from downstairs, apparently for a farewell dinner. I take the wine over and suggest they have it, because I’d hate for it to go to waste. They nod and smile and carry on with their conversation.
Next the chicken. Dervish returns from the kitchen, spots the “special vegetable” mistakenly put on my plate, and takes this over to the French table as well. It seems my entire dinner is traveling across the room. But I feel I’m interrupting their farewells, so I return to my solitary scribbling.
Until one of the French girls delivers a salt shaker. “We thought you might want our salt. We don’t like it.” This begins an absurd exchange of objects between the tables, and it seems I’ve finally made friends with someone that speaks at least a little English…
Except that they’re chugging down their wine and devouring their dinner, because they’ve got to be on the 11:30 night bus. So bon voyage, goodbye, and farewell….
----
But before I can mope too much, my ever-appealing mini-computer draws more attention. I’m trying desperately to catch-up with my blog after dinner when I’m approached by Laura, Dervish’s French girlfriend (and the only woman in the building who isn’t lavished with extreme flattery and affection). Another lone traveler, a young Belgian guy named Sam, joins us as well. They of course ask if I’m a writer, start telling me their life stories, and before I know it it’s 2:00AM.
And I’ve got Ephesus to do in the morning.
|
