Everybody Loves Raymond. I don’t seem to be able to escape
this second-rate TV sitcom. As if it wasn’t enough that it’s shown on American
Airlines transatlantic flights, it seems that Thomas Cook thinks it’s suitable
for flights between London and Dalaman, Turkey. Maybe it’s just cheap, because
I don’t recall it being that popular.
Arriving in Dalaman, you need to get a visa before going
through immigration. Fortunately, Brenda had forewarned me. £10, and they don’t
have change. And you thought Gordon was the king of stealth taxes! I was a
little nervous about this, because Turkey is a Moslem country, and I know how
neurotic the US is becoming about such things – I felt sure it would attract
some comment on my return to the US (in fact, it passed unnoticed). In
actuality, immigration was straightforward, and customs negligible (or
non-existent), and in no time at all I was picked up by Hilary (a friend of
Brenda’s) and we were on our way to Kalkan – about an hour and a half away.
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| Xanthos |
Brenda had already arranged a Sunday excursion – Ali (the
taxi driver) picked us up at 10am, and took us first to
Xanthos. Like Greece, the ruins
here are so extensive that they can’t possibly protect all of them. The
exquisite mosaic floors are covered with tarpaulins to preserve them until they
can excavate properly, and a few areas are roped off, but, for the most part,
you are free to wander anywhere. Brenda and I were dressed in shirts and
shorts; Ali wore a jacket, hat and scarf!
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| Brenda in Saklikent |
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| Traffic jam! |
After Xanthos, Ali took us on to
Saklikent Gorge. The season had not
yet started, so that, although we couldn’t wade up the gorge, it was easy to
get a seat at the restaurant on the river – sitting cross-legged on the floor
to eat fresh-cooked trout and salad from a low table. This was my first
introduction to the abundance of every kind of fresh food that is available in
the region. On the way back from Saklikent, we hit the rush hour, and were
probably held up for at least five minutes.
Monday was a relaxing day – at least, if you consider the
almost vertical descent into Kalkan village relaxing. Fortunately, Brenda
invariably takes a taxi back! Almost immediately on leaving the villa, we ran
into “Auntie and Uncle” – the cleaners who look after Brenda’s villa. “Uncle”
approached us holding out the stem of a plant, stripped of its outer layer,
indicating (because his English is non-existent, as is my Turkish) that we
should eat it. It was only after we had complied (and I have to say it didn’t
taste bad … actually, it didn’t taste of anything much at all) that he pointed
out the source – a thistle growing at the side of the road. If there’s one
thing that impressed me about the Turkish people, apart from the fact that they
are so friendly, it was that they are truly frugal. Almost nothing goes to
waste – Brenda’s discarded water bottles, for example, are snapped up as
containers for marinating olives.
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| Lunch at ... |
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| ... Alibaba's |
It’s not possible to “nip down quickly to the village”. Every
store you pass invites you in for “chai” – a glass of hot tea – and stilted
conversation. The language barrier is not really a barrier, either – as Brenda
has noted, the Turks are perfectly happy to sit together in silence, and do
not, as we would, find it at all embarrassing. We had lunch at a “kitchen
restaurant”, where you can view what’s cooking, and make a selection. Turkish
food is typically not spicy (in the hot sense), but definitely flavourful, and
always cooked from scratch, using the abundance of fresh vegetables.
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| Meis harbour |
On Tuesday, we caught the bus to Kaş (pronounced “cash”),
and from there caught the ferry across to the Greek island the Turks call Meis.
Because we were crossing the border, we had to give our passports to the
captain of the ferry. I must admit to some misgivings as the captain
disappeared on his motorcycle, our passports in his hand, advising us that he’d
come back for us when they were ready to cast off. A seemingly chaotic
bureaucracy, to be sure, but one that seems to work. The ferry to Meis (Kastelorizo to the Greeks)
took less than half an hour. The destination was as tranquil and uncomplicated
as you could wish for. Brenda and I walked up to the castle – others simply
found a harbourside restaurant (and I don’t think there are any that aren’t
harbourside) and drank Amstel Light. Brits abroad – don’t you just love ‘em.
The short but energetic walk left us with an appetite for callemari and Mythos
(the Greek beer). As we sat replete, a young couple walked past, lost in
conversation. He held some broad bean pods in his hand, and popped a raw bean
into his mouth every now and then – it seemed to sum up the cultural attitude
to the food that is so plentiful, and often free for the taking.
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| Overlooking Meis harbour |
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| No - they didn't let me drive! |
We spent the early part of the evening in a restaurant near
the harbor in Kaş, waiting for a festival celebrating the start of the tourist
season. The speeches were so long-winded (and, according to our waiter, almost
devoid of meaningful content) that we left early.
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| The amphitheatre at Patara |
We’d planned on taking the bus to
Patara on Wednesday, but met Ali
at the bus station, and asked him to take us instead. He dropped us off in the
town, and we asked him to pick us up later from the beach, a mile or two from
the town centre. Patara is an ancient Lycian city, and many of the ruins are
still being (slowly) excavated. The village itself reminded me of a scene from
a spaghetti western. We sat, drinking a beer, while clouds of dust swirled down
the main street in the occasional gust of wind. When the wind blew, the door
behind us creaked sympathetically. A three-legged dog hobbled down the middle
of the road, while an old man crossed, sat down at an empty table, and lit a
cigarette. In the restaurant opposite, a man and his wife prepared for the day
by painstakingly sweeping up the dust and laying fresh tablecloths. A woman
disappeared inside a shop, and reappeared with an armful of fresh baked bread.
We enjoyed lunch, and walked through the ruins to the beach,
imagining what it must have been like to sit in the amphitheatre several
centuries ago, before the river silted up, rendering the port useless. On the
beach, the wind whipped up the sand enough to make it unpleasant for more than
the briefest of visits. On the way back, we found Ali already waiting, talking
to friends. We decided to walk back to the village, and asked him to pick us up
there. On our way, we saw hay being scythed by hand – most farm work here is
manual – and came across some broad beans, obviously refugees from an earlier
planting, by the side of the road. I picked us a pod each. I can’t say I’ve
ever eaten broad beans raw before, but they were delicious.
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| Kalkan market |
On Thursday, we went into Kalkan, to the market. Fruit and
vegetables occupy a large part of the market, of course, but so do clothes,
household items, and things you would find in markets everywhere. We had lunch
at Fred’s Place, which, despite the name, is an authentic Turkish kitchen
restaurant. “Kofta at the tile” – meatballs sizzling in a cast-iron dish. Sort
of Turkish fajitas …
Kalkan is, of course, only a small part of the country, and
it’s always dangerous to generalize, but I found the Turks to be friendly, and
never “pushy”, the culture to be relaxed and informal, and the food to be
always delicious.
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| Kas |
Acquiring
the language may take time: an old proverb says, “Arabic is a language, Persian
is a sweetmeat, and Turkish is an art.” Somehow though, communication
transcends language.
