Dying to be a legend

It already seems an age ago that we visited Gallipoli but with Anzac Day approaching, it’s often on our minds.

We were both surprised at how much we got out of the visit – ‘enjoy’ is too strong a word to us when you’re visiting the site of such incredible loss of life – but having it explained in full, from background to conclusion, in the locations where various events occurred and – even more interestingly – being presented by a Turkish guide, was absolutely fascinating.



Bulent with Aussies Steph and Daniel at the Nek



Our guide, Bulent, has lived in Eceabat (the nearest settlement) all his life and has been working as a guide for about 25 years, so was pretty much fluent in English and had the story in all its remarkable detail fully memorised. Every warship, every date, every landing place, general, change of command, and exchange he had at his fingertips. Guide work keeps him busy seven days a week in season and only drops down to 1-2 a week or fortnight in mid-winter. When I heard it was to be a five-hour tour I was horrified – thought I’d be bored stiff – but he made it really interesting and I never realized there were so many sites; it’s a small area but there are 31 cemeteries and we only visited half a dozen.

Statue of Ataturk at Chunuk Bair

And if you think it’s all Aussies and Kiwis, think again – the weekend before we were there 15,000 Turks apparently visited on ONE DAY ALONE – no special reason; just visiting. Millions go every year, with government-subsidised school visits etc, although this is only a recent phenomenon (since the ’90s) I believe. It is seen as the birthplace of the Turkish Republic, as it is where General Mustafa Kemal Bey, who later became President and is still revered as Kemal Ataturk (father of the Turks), came to the fore as a leader. He is credited with being the essential difference in rallying his troops into standing their ground when they ran out of ammunition on April 25, which led to the Turks holding Gallipoli peninsula against allied attack, a key Turkish victory in WWI. So it’s big. 

Having said that, Aussies make up the second-highest number of visitors, and the guest house we stayed at in Eceabat (Crowded House, near the Boomerang Café…) is already booked out for the April 25 centenary in 2015.

At Lone Pine memorial

Bulent has attended 15 Anzac Day ceremonies, as well as the lesser-known August 6, marking the Battle of Lone Pine, and the biggest event for the Turkish – March 18, when they repelled the might of the British / Allied navies at the mouth of the Dardanelles. The event is so significant (amid all the other defeats that occurred in WWI, and their eventual loss and humiliation at the Treaty of Versailles) that schools, universities, businesses etc are often named March 18 1915, and a huge sign with that date is inscribed on the hill at Canakkale, across the Dardanelles from Eceabat.

Anzac Cove, then and now

The peninsula has obviously changed a bit since 1915 – then all the trees had been chopped for firewood so Lone Pine really was alone; now it’s a national park and full of birdlife among the pine and cypress trees. Erosion at Anzac Cove has led to a retaining sea wall being built – plus a huge main road went in last year, so the landscape still looks rather scarred and bare.

But what amazed us was the small scale of the various sites.

The allied line held on the first ridge above Anzac Cove is barely 1km inland, and the highest point – Chunuk Bair – that was briefly held by the Kiwis for two days in August before Turkish/German reinforcements reclaimed the ground – is only 3km inland. A road has been built following the frontline between the Turks and Allies for the summer-long stalemate – and it is literally just a single road width between the opposing forces’ trenches; about 10m.

Lone Pine

The Lone Pine battlefield, where the opposing sides together lost more than 7,000 in four days of intense fighting, is the size of a football pitch, while the nearby Nek site – another key ridge where many young men died (as per the Peter Weir movie) in the battle for its control – is barely the size of two tennis courts.

The trenches are still visible, although not as deep as they originally were.

Visiting on a sunny spring day was slightly surreal and we came away shaking our heads. But it’s a credit to the Turkish people and their government that the site is treated with such respect and that there is truly no ill-will held against those visitors whose countries once tried to invade, killing so many young men in the process. In fact reading the monument bearing Kemal Ataturk’s famous address to visiting British, Australian and NZ representatives in 1934, when the first ceremony was held commemorating the fighting, is the one time I came close to tears. It reads:

            Those heroes that shed their blood

            And lost their lives ...

            You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.

            Therefore rest in peace.

            There is no difference between the Johnnies

            And the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side

            Here in this country of ours ...

            You, the mothers,

            Who sent their sons from far away countries

            Wipe away your tears,

            Your sons are now lying in our bosom and in peace.

            After having lost their lives on this land

            They have become our sons as well.

Memorial of Ataturk's 1934 address

Lilies growing at cemetery

Anzac Cove being prepared for April 25 services

John Simpson's grave at Anzac Cove

Trenches above Suvla Bay - so beautiful, now.

Love in a mist

As a rule, I don’t expect much of cities. Previous experience has been that large gatherings of humanity result in noisy, dirty, impersonal, bland piles of cement without much soul, and people who are detached from nature and with a limited sense of community. Istanbul seems to disprove that.

The noise and dirt are certainly here – unfortunately we had to wade through a lot of it when hit by a heavy deluge last night that caused the cobbled roads to become flowing streams of detritus – but each street, area and district has a strong village feel, and the lack of government uber-control that results in potholed roads, dodgy building practices and a suspect sewerage system also means that people muck in and organize their own parking bollards (flower pots on the street outside their homes), meals on wheels (chai- and food-wallahs who race around delivering tea and meals at various shops and offices to order), and road rules (there is a fairly heavy police presence – all armed – but you have to park on a tram line to get attention; we saw someone who did and their car was towed. In other places we saw whole streets blocked off to through traffic by vehicles using them as car parks). 

Yes, these cars are parked here like this.

Friendliness also seems to be a national trait more than in some places, too, which helps. Sure, the touts are there to get their commission by delivering you to certain shops where, despite the promise of ‘no obligation to buy’ you will be plagued for at least half an hour by a sales spiel that makes all but the most hard-hearted feel awful about not buying anything. But it is done with wonderfully good, gentle grace – we’ve had some fascinating conversations with many touts, who are mostly very smart, multilingual experts at their dark art; within seconds of hearing John and I speak, Kris and Ali outside the Blue Mosque had already picked up that I had a different accent to John – a fact that often escapes native English-speaking Australians. And the shopkeepers, who order their lackeys around to get this carpet or that as they try to find a pattern, size and style to tempt your purse strings, also have an elegant style and show a genuine interest as they serve tea and dispense with the Introductory Conversation that must precede any sales pitch. It probably says a lot about dear John that he can quite happily chat and sit through these sessions then walk out with a smile but not a shred of guilt for not buying anything. He tells them on entry he’s not going to buy anything, but I think they see that as a challenge.

I’ve fallen in love with the gorgeous little tulip-shaped tea (Cayi) glasses that the strong black tea or apple cayi is served in, and I’m fascinated by the range of teas you see in instant-powder form or a dried leaves and flowers in the spice market. Visually, they are stunning, but all are served so strong they leave a thick layer of tannin on your teeth and curdle your stomach. Made a bit weaker here at the hotel, they’re much more refreshing.



There's a spring tulip festival on, so turkey's native blooms are everywhere.

 So we’ve done the tourist bit here in Istanbul: seen a zillion marvelous mosques and minarets; been amazed at the antiquity of the ubiquitous piles of limestone and granite, from the thick, Byzantine-era city walls so rudely cut down to make way for the rail line, to the brilliantly engineered Galata Tower, whose walls are 3.75m thick at the base and taper up to 20cm at the top; got lost in the carpets, silver, gold and leather of the Grand Bazaar and almost crushed to death in the spice bazaar where the huge piles of saffron are worth hundreds of dollars and even John was tempted to buy dry fruit, fresh nuts and beautiful baklava. We also caught a (clean, modern, brilliantly run) tram over the Golden Horn waterway  and contemplated catching a $2 ferry to make the 1.5-hour trip to the Princes Islands (a popular holiday destination for Istanbulites) but instead rode the funicular rail up to Taksim Square, where we drank Turkish coffee (our first) overlooking the Bosphorus in Taksim Park (and saw a bit of Brunswick culture transported in the form of a knit-bombed tree), then walked the main shopping strip of Istiklal Caddesi with all its international brand stores and explored more back alleys and mini shopping strips (the equivalent of walking off Collins Street or Knightbridge, but within metres the big-chain stores and expensive restaurants had been replaced by fresh food stalls, complete with chicken pecking around our feet) .

 After a gorgeous day on Friday, it started raining just as we reached the top of the Galata Tower, from where you can (on a fine day) see so much of Istanbul. It didn’t stop raining until late last night, by which time we’d been comprehensively drenched several times (we took refuge in the spice bazaar for a while, then sat on a Bosphorus cruise boat for 1.5 hours).

By the time we’d walked for half an hour on our way home we were so wet we’d hit hysteria point – along with many locals – and it reached the point where everyone you met just saw how wet you were, laughed, shook their heads and gave you a big smile/wave. One kind soul even gave us his umbrella – it was old and broken but it was the only one he had.

On the way home we walked through the dressmaking section of town – all the businesses flock together, like the old guild system in London – but even the rain couldn’t stop the (mostly women) shoppers from seeking out the perfect bit of fabric or wedding dress. Watching people cross the flowing rivers of stormwater became a spectator sport and all the shopkeepers were out watching, cheering on one tea-wallah when he nearly got taken out by a rogue umbrella.

But the highlight has definitely been the Hagia Sofia.

Interior of Hagia Sofia.

It was reading about the place years ago that made me first want to visit Istanbul and it’s on so many bucket lists that I was sure I’d be disappointed in the real thing. But, like Ayers Rock, despite seeing so many pictures in the past, the sheer scale and magnificence of it just took my breath away and left me speechless. Well for a minute or so, anyway.

By any standard the place is huge – several storeys and each with towering windows and archways – but to think of this standard of architecture and engineering being attempted with minimal specialty tools or infrastructure back in the 4^th and 5^th centuries is simply mind-boggling. 

That combined with its historical importance and the sights, people and events – whole eras and empires – it has witnessed and outlived just make visiting it an overwhelming experience. Plus it’s visually stunning, with gold mosaics dating back centuries, and the marble floors so worn you can only imagine how many feet have walked that way in equal awe and worship over the millennia.

If we’d only seen that, our trip to Istanbul would have been worth it. But we’ve taken in so many more wonderful sights that it’s sad to be leaving for the Gallipoli peninsula today on the start of our trip south. We’ll enjoy one more wonderful breakfast on the terrace upstairs then head off to the bus stop for the 5-hour trip to Eceabat, where I hope we’ll stay tonight.

Until next time, take care xxx

Grand Bazaar

Trinkets

knit-bombed tree

vine-yard

Hagia Sofia seen from Tokpali palace gateway

Hanging with the cats in Istanbul

Istanbul – April 13 (Friday, just quietly)

There is some magical and innervating about waking up in a new city. A new set of sounds creeps into your consciousness as you surface from sleep and the light emerges from a new direction with a different intensity and glow.

The view from our hotel

Add to that the most basic pleasure known to man – the satisfaction of a good night’s sleep, especially after 24+ hours of travel, three flights, two stopovers, endless patience-straining queues with only power naps to keep you going – and the supreme excitement that comes from this being Day 1 of the most anticipated trip we’ve made in years, and that makes for a pretty exciting wake-up.

With two mosques within cooee of our hotel overlooking the Marmara Sea in the old part of Istanbul, I anticipated the early morning call to prayer featuring in my slumber, but instead the first sounds have been the low throb of fishing boats busying about the nearby port, seagulls squabbling for first rights over any tidbits they bring, and the increasingly loud hum of traffic, plus a couple of early trains.

But the silhouette of the Blue Mosque’s minarets and a half moon hanging in pinky yellow mist of the sky was a visual treat.

We finally arrived at the hotel at about 7pm last night with pretty, new, pink visa stickers stamped in our passports (90 days for 15 Euro; travel memories = priceless). Apart from being herded with a few too many hundred people into an airline passenger equivalent of a cattle holding pen at Dubai airport (seriously; there was barely room to stand), the journey was uneventful. Or at least it was until we were put at the mercy of the driver of the hotel transit bus, who instructed us in the ways of Turkish traffic. Or Istanbul late-rushhour traffic, at least.

Basically, road lanes are there for herding people out of your path – don’t feel you need to submit to their white-line rules personally; the horn is for warning people that you are about to hit them and they should move (especially cyclists and pedestrians); the speed limit is designed to slow all other traffic on the road so you can pass it; drive on the right unless it is easier to get past cars on narrow laneways by using the pavement of any other ingenious solution. There are a lot of laneways on the way to this hotel.

But, like everyone else we’ve met so far, he was incredibly friendly and helpful.

It’s funny how the body reacts to adrenalin. From being dead on my feet and barely able to stay awake while watching the same suitcases go round and round on the baggage conveyor belt, while our backpacks and the bags of a couple of hundred other passengers were apparently being held at a secret location somewhere in the bowels of the airport (why does that always happen? Who do those unclaimed bags belong to?), by the time we’d been reminded by our driver that life is a precarious thing and every moment should be enjoyed as if it was your last, we checked into our cosy but cute room with Juliet balcony overlooking the silky blue Marmara Sea (with only a sports complex, railway line and four-lane highway between us and its tranquil shores) then headed out to explore the town. 

The immediate laneways are cobbled spaces that barely fend off the encroaching push from the jumble of homes that various builders with mixed ideas on architecture have crammed into the available space over the years. Most are 2-3 storey terraces, with an array of balconies and different-shaped overhangs eking out as much extra space as they can for their residents to live in. Doorways can be half-sunken below street level or in need of a makeshift step to be reached, a foot or two above the pavement. Occasionally a grape vine or geranium is given space to grow where a half-brick is missing from the roadway or a pot can be squeezed onto a tiny balcony or entranceway.

A few doors or curtains were left open, offering a glimpse into comfy couches lining narrow corridors or women and children sharing the evening cooking duties.

A couple of homeless men were sharing out the few cigarettes they had as we walked into a nearby park with water fountains in its centre, surrounded by fenced-off lawn and threats to those who thought they might make a good bathing pool.

But John says I need to mention the cats. They are everywhere: White, marmalade, ginger and semi-siamese, but few blacks or tabbies, they seem to emerge from the shadows and dumpsters at night and take over the streets. Some are a bit mangy and skinny but, on the whole, they look fairly healthy and probably have pet people somewhere rather than being purely feral. Not so many birds (quelle surprise?) – few grey and black ravens/crows, sparrows, thrushes and seagulls so far.

So we discovered we’re within easy walking distance of the fish markets and restaurants by the waterfront, plus another pedestrian area dedicated to restaurants and cafes, all decked out in colourful strings of lights and with a gathering of wandering minstrels on every other café table or serenading dining tourists. A lot of guys sitting around smoking hookahs, and a few wandering around offering hookahs to diners. We met Cesar, who has an uncle in Holland (and can nearly say Acht en Tachtig prachtig grachten without losing his teeth), and had a puff of his apple tobacco mix, which was surprisingly mellow and tasty. The area reminded us of Carlton’s Lygon street with all the spruikers out to lure in passing trade – most of the diners appear to be tourists – and all with the multi-lingual charm down pat: “you want eat? Come my restaurant – best fresh fish, good and cheap – you from England? Sweden? Germany? America? Best price! Not tonight? – maybe tomorrow – ask for Ali – here’s my card.”

As well as this little area (complete with ice-cream making display – it looked like dough, truly) nearly all the ‘main’ streets (over 3m wide) have little shops selling sweets, offering to patch or stretch your shoes, fix you a bowl of beans and rice, sell you some soggy looking vegetables or cut your hair (boys only). In fact we barely saw any women out who weren’t tourists, and I was glad to be part of a couple.

The fish all looked fairly fresh tho, so we may eat there tonight – turbot and gurnard were expensive ($50 a kilo) but locally caught stuff from Black or Marmara seas (mackerel, silver bream, sea bass, sardines, and a huge ‘el’ fish (? Phonetic name – about 2m long and silver like a bonito but fatter)) is pretty cheap – 15Lira per kilo ($8-9 or 5-6 UK pounds).

Pix to come when I can find software to edit on this (new to me) netbook. Paint doesn't seem capable of such basic functions as reducing file size.

Right – off to explore some more today – we have two more nights here and heaps to see.

Stay well and stay tuned.

Jane and John

PS did I tell you how much I love my backpack? Feels like home having that back on.