Pt2 - 5: WHEELING SOUTH

We exxed Selçuk at 9 and were clambering over the wet, grey sandstone ruins of Priene an hour later. We made the most of having the ruins to ourselves by planting our damp arses on the royal seats in the theatre and pretending to be Emperor and Empress, commanding the plebs to kneel before us. Our voices echoed off the dramatic backdrop of sheer sandstone cliffs which reminded me of the landscape around Delphi in Greece, but there wasn’t much else to engage us here so we jumped back in the car and made for Dydima via Miletus.

The big gape at Dydima is the Temple of Apollo. Sadly, it’s flanked right up to the fences on all sides by shabby carpet merchants and cheap pensions. We dined lavishly at the Apollo Temple Restaurant & Café Bar & not carpet shop, I on a chilli steak and Tess on a bubbling lamb creation called Gureçe.

Fending off swarms of second rate carpet hustlers we crossed the road into the Precinct of Apollo. Enough remains of the magnificent temple, now dominated by a hideous hand-painted sign for The Oracle Pension, to confirm it was once an awesome structure. The enormous girth of the huge columns on the forecourt were further testament to its substance, and the original well over which the first modest temple was built still survives inside the sanctuary. Although we didn’t stay very long, I enjoyed the temple more than anything else we’d so far seen today, pity about the low rent neighbours.

Back at the car we consulted the oracle, and the map, and cast our compass for Muğla for the night. A boring inland town of 35,000, it stood at a crossroads from which we could head to either the white terraces at Pamukkale (Pam-uck-ally) or along the coast to Marmaris, then Datça (Datcha). We were both temporarily ruined for ruins and were now in the market for something completely different.

As soon as we pulled out of Dydima the weather, which had been sullen and spitting much of the day, closed in. The nearer we came to Muğla, the heavier it rained. Visibility was down to mere meters at one point and it later became obvious the weather gods were warning us against Muğla. I won’t waste your time with the Hotel Pestilent, er Petek, except to say they subscribed to the tedious Turkish tradition of lying about the hot water and behaved like two-bit chisellers…down to the usual standards, ho hum. We derived childish satisfaction from accidentally spilling beer on the floor and accidentally forgetting to mop it up, and accidentally wiping our greasy utensils on their see-through bath towels.

*

Outta Muğla! We mooned the hotel, only paid them TL5mill instead of the six they demanded – a saving of A$10 we were soon to lose and more – and sped for the coast on another unpromising morning. This weather is getting DE-pressing.

We’d not been long on the steep, winding road to Marmaris when, caught behind yet another truck lumbering along at 20kph, I did what I’d watched local drivers do regularly and overtook. I wheeled around the next hairpin to be waved over by the boys in blue and comical white baseball caps. Apparently, they had a spotter car up the top of the pass radioing through the law breakers; I’d overtaken across an unbroken line. To be fair, the lines on Turkish roads look like they were painted before WWII by a bunch of hippies on acid. The apprehending officer overcame the language barrier by drawing a diagram on his hand in biro to show me what offence I’d committed, then whacked me TL3,600,000 (A$36) on the spot, just about all the cash we had. Midnight Express it wasn’t, but it left a slightly sour taste in the mouth. Karma for sticking it to the Otel Petek.

To rub it in, not two kilometres further down the hill maniacs were streaking past us around blind corners with apparent impunity. And where were the cops yesterday arvo when, in pelting rain on the way into Yatağan, that psycho truckie kept swerving across in front of us to thwart my efforts to overtake on a divided road?

We paused in Marmaris just long enough to visit the money machine, post some cards and grab a coffee, then set out for Datça, a small town on the southern edge of a narrow, gnarled finger jutting out into the Mediterranean

The seventy-six kilometres of unsealed, winding, treacherous, drop dead scenic road to Datça took nearly two hours to cover.  Up mountains, along narrow razorbacks, through saddles, down mountains with soft shoulders, gravel works and no fences; wild, hairy, breathtakingly beautiful and not a tourist bus in sight.

So now we’re in room 101 of the Otel Soytok. Datça is a summer playground still gearing up for a late season. Unfortunately, it is grey and windswept today, although in the clear blue waters of the odd sheltered bay there are glimpses of what this place will look like in a few weeks under a blazing sun. By then it’ll probably be crawling with a billion tourists, but for the moment it is all ours.

*

Yesterday’s drive back to Marmaris wasn’t nearly as hairy going out as it’d been coming in, mostly because I knew what to expect this time and the skies had cleared to produce a glittering day. At one point I rounded a tight corner to come up against the rear end of an old truck stopped bang in the middle of the road. I edged the Fiat slowly past and discovered why it was parked where it was; a large boulder had tumbled down the steep hillside above the road and crushed the cabin almost flat. It can only have happened since we drove the road less than 24hrs ago, but there were no signs of emergency vehicles or traffic management measures, the truck was just there. Can’t imagine what a shock the driver got, if he’d known anything about it at all.

As I pulled up at the roadworks outside Marmaris a battered old Fiat drew up beside me stuffed with burly young Turks who looked like they’d stepped straight out of a Mafia movie. I tried to ignore them, but I became aware they were waving to get my attention. When I finally turned my head they were gesticulating towards the rear of my car and miming I had a flat tyre. I’d heard about this kind of ruse: you pull over, get out to check the tyre and they jump you and nick all your valuables. I acknowledged I understood them but stayed in the car until we were flagged through the roadworks and they’d disappeared far ahead. I got out and checked the tyre and sure enough it was almost down to the rim, so the guys were good after all.

I whacked some air in as soon as we hit Marmaris but by the time we’d done a recce around town looking for somewhere to caffeinate it was down to the rim again. Fortunately there was a Goodyear place nearby and the problem, a split in the inner wall, was fixed in twenty minutes. The owner brought seats for us to wait out in the warm sun and provided us with the compulsory tea and cigarettes. We paid the princely sum of A$4, which included a A$1 tip for his kindness, and he stopped the traffic while we reversed out and drove off.

The road to Fethiye (Fett-ee-ya) was uncharacteristically smooth, a doddle to drive after Datça. We arrived at 2 and went straight to the Tourist Office which furnished us with a map and a recommendation for the Otel Ata, a new establishment right on the waterfront.

The Ata’s a real find. The room, with a small balcony giving out over colourful fishing smacks bobbing lazily on glassy turquoise waters, a wooded headland in the middle distance and a backdrop of snow-capped peaks, is the closest we’ve come to luxury for many a week. Actually, with the view it’s the best place we’ve stayed bar none. With central heating, gas hot water (yep, really!!), a fridge and a bathroom that doesn’t turn into a swimming pool after every shower it’s a steal at A$35 a night. What better place to celebrate Tess’s birthday today.

I rose refreshed this morning and threw open the curtains to reveal a cloudless ceramic sky, the white mountains clear and beautiful in the distance and the bright boats riding the gentle tide below. Towards Çaliş (Challish) Beach on the far shore a fine mist lay just above the water, a classic Mediterranean postcard. I presented Tess with the gift wrapped brass coffee grinder I’d secretly carried since the Egyptian Bazaar in Istanbul. After a light breakfast we drove around the point for a sublime view of the whole bay waking in the warming sunshine. I deposited Tess back in town for her birthday indulgence, a haircut, and some unaccustomed time to herself, then idled over coffee on the esplanade, watching the fishermen mending their nets and the placid comings and goings of the little fishing fleet, their engines pootling a rhythmical soundtrack to the scene.

*

We gave ourselves a couple of days exploring around Fethiye, firstly out to Çaliş Beach and picturesque Ölüdeniz. Although deserted, the popular black sand beach at Çaliş was set up for tourists, with deck chairs and flags fluttering in the stiff breeze. The clouds began to gather again over the white sand and blue waters of Ölüdeniz, but the rain held off. Yesterday we drove along the coast to Kaş (Kash) via Patara, a sinuous coastal road overlooking the impossibly blue Mediterranean. We treated ourselves to a farewell feast at the Villa Daffodil, a popular pension cum restaurant back in Fethiye. The owner Hüseyin Bey fancies himself something of a chef and he wasn’t half bad. Tess ordered the shrimp, fish & calamari extravaganza and I went the steak in mushroom sauce, both exquisite.

Way back in Bergama we’d noticed people walking multi-coloured sheep on leashes. Yep, you read that right, walking sheep like you’d walk your dog. I made a note for the Quirky Turkey file but then discovered it wasn’t just an eccentric aberration. It’s what Turkish families do on the lead up to Bayram, which just happens to be now. The custom on the morning of Bayram, the Turkish Easter, is to slaughter the sheep in your backyard, carve it up and chuck it on a massive barbie for the extended family in the evening. Suddenly, there were no more psychedelic sheep on the streets of Fethiye.

Being Bayram it was a challenge organising accommodation for our next stop In Pamukkale, but the Tourist Office was very helpful and nailed us a room at the Lycus River from tomorrow night.

*

From the Quirky Turkey file: Give a Turk an old soccer ball and he’ll boil it up to make tea.

Next time: The white terraces, and that’s a wrap for Turkey…