on the move

Late Night Writing

I haven't yet made the switch to posting in the mornings. The good weather shoulders the blame: who can stay in on a beautiful morning? But as a result, I'm posting late at night, continuing even later, into the middle of the night. I would say that on average, Ed is getting about three times as much sleep as I am. Though read that as being mainly a comment on the sum of the many naps he takes while "on vacation." And of course, on his early to bed habit.

The goal had been to come closer to his sum total on the (coming soon!) rainy days. But I mess with that plan when I decide that we should pack and move on, away from the Datca Peninsula. Explore a little more, while we can.
Ed wavers. Why travel on a day that isn't yet delivering the heavy rains? (They are set to arrive Friday, but not until late.)
I have an answer to this! If we wait here for a day and then travel, effectively we will see nothing of the new place. Because of the rains. (I should explain that we are just a little constrained in our explorations by having to be on the coast in Bodrum on Monday to catch an early ferry the next day.)

And so we check the bus schedules and get ready to leave.


Datca Reconsidered 

And yet, we've grown accustomed to the face of Datca. Maybe it's that day of generous sunshine that now is embedded in our souls. Or maybe it's that our room looks out to the bay, yes, lovely view, sure, but also, to the right, we see the playground of an elementary school. Their laughter at recess is our joy. (N.b. the school color is orange and all the girls have long hair.)





We like, too, the staff at our very basic hotel (I make no comment on the beds that slide, or the shower that never heats up, or the random wires hanging from the ceiling). They are young, earnest, sincere. And to give them credit -- their standards are evolving. Thus far, they haven't had many international (meaning fussy) visitors. With the exception of Russians in the summer. Who seem not to mind a little mold in the rickety shower stall.

And we grow really fond of this simple working town. Friendliness and helpfulness are the norm in Turkey (I say that on the basis of now four trips here). The local face may look gruff to us ever-smiling American types, but behind that is a heart of gold. They just want to help you. They really do. No common language? No problem. Somehow they figure out what you're saying. But in Datca, we're getting now repeat encounters with those special people who cross your path daily. The bakery clerk. The cafe staff. All of them. We're sorry to be moving on and starting afresh elsewhere.

(Not sure how I feel about the Datca dogs: they have nightly barking Olympics outside. It's surely loud, but sort of evocative at the same time.)





Still, after breakfast (a repeat of yesterday's basics)...





...we move on.


On the Road Again

We go to the bus stop and catch the small bus to Marmaris -- the sprawling resort town at the base of the peninsula (1.5 hours from Datca). We're in the very last row and the man to Ed's right says something to us in English. And before you know it, he and Ed talk a sailor's language and he knows where we're going and we know where he's going and I'm thinking once again how I would never get out my boat's soft shackle for the spinnaker to show to my foreign looking seat mate on a bus ride from Madison to, say, Chicago (and no, not because I don't really understand sailboats).

In Marmaris, our back-row seatmate tells us we should change buses with him, but when we pull into the bus depot, he quickly shoos us out -- you can take the local! It'll drop you off where you want to go (Akyaka). Hurry! One just pulled up to see if there are any passengers from this bus!

Taking a "very local" bus means that everyone on board this tiny old van has to adjust seats when we get on. There are no vacant places, but the driver tells the little kids to get on their mothers' laps and he moves one young man to the top of a cooler and there you have it! Seats for Ed (next to a mom and her lap kid) and myself (next to another mom with another kid on her lap) and, too, a seat snuggled next to the driver for yet another passenger from our bus. 

The girl next to me is seven, but she looks more like four to my Americanized eyes. (Kids are much shorter here. So are adults actually.)  I know her age, because her well cloaked mom (grandma?) prodded her to speak to me in her school girl English and the girl asked ever so shyly and sweetly -- what is your name? And then the next question taught to kids -- how old are you? And there I had to laugh. I'm not sure she understood my "very old!" so I admitted to being "sixty," which, too, was beyond her reach. Her mom had to translate it to her.

We got off at the junction in the road where the offshoot leads down to the river, the shore, and the village of Akyaka.


Akyaka, First Glance

Why Akyaka? Well, because I am struggling to find something with "just outside the door" walking possibilities (in case the rains take a pause). Something that is calm (please -- no grand resort type place!). Something that will reveal a face of Turkey for us. Something that has a hotel that's open year round. A decent one, without multiple Internet complaints about how the WiFi doesn't work. One that's on the bus line to Bodrum. One that's not too big. One that has a place to eat nearby in case it really really rains and pours. That's a lot of qualifiers. Akyaka (and the Kerme Homan Konak hotel) fits the bill on all fronts.

Sort of.

It's not really on the bus line in that we have to tap a stranger's shoulder and ask said stranger to please call our (new) hotel on his mobile phone to tell them we are here and to ask them to please pick us up (they offered!) because it's three or four kilometers down that hill and we are anxious to get there before the rains come.





And you could say that I really went overboard on the "town of a smaller size" requirement because later, when Ed and I walked through the village, he comments -- there really isn't that much to it, is there (beyond quite a number of now empty summer apartment rentals -- the Turkish person's very modest version of a holiday condo)?

And the hotel -- the mouthful of words hotel? Well, it's also not really us -- one might say it's a bit over the top (take a look at our gold draped bed), in an Ottoman Empire sort of way.







Nonetheless, in this off off season it is within budget (meaning under $100 per night, with breakfast and taxes). At least as negotiated by me and the supremely kind manager. (Nor should I keep talking about the off off season any more. I am told that today is the last school day before the official Turkish winter holiday, which is a two week affair. The manager tells me we cannot have a river view room because they're all booked by vacationing Turkish couples.)

A word about architecture in Akyaka, which is in the province of Mugla. The buildings here follow the traditional patterns of Mulga design: wooden balconies, carved wood ceilings, elaborate wooden stairs. Our hotel looks less formidable when considered along side the neighbors.




(the hotel, by the river)





(Muglian styled windows)



 
(the hotel dog)


Okay, we're checked into the room with the gold bed. It has a lovely windowed seat and a little balcony! -- I say this with utter delight. Ed reminds me that having a balcony in heavy rain is sort of pointless. I give him that "can you be any less enthusiastic" look that I know to carry with me for these special times.



 a window seat


And now it is 1 p.m. and as predicted, the skies become terribly overcast, but the rains are holding off. So we drop our bags and head out to explore. The river first. We are about a kilometer or two inland, right on the banks of this rapidly moving body of water.







 
A path along the banks reminds me that like so many southern countries and, too, southern parts of countries (Italy comes to mind), Turkey is still not entirely onboard with clearing her land of litter and discards. Getting better, but not there yet. (And we're not there yet either! You need only walk along our rural road and count the empty beer cans on both sides of it.)

Still, the river itself is enchanting. So much so that we are smitten with a restaurant that sits virtually over the waters. It's warm enough (though I am in my jacket) that we can sit outside and have a light lunch there.

(We eat their version of a Greek salad and a smoked eggplant and pepper salad. With fizzy water.)








We linger. It's just so lovely to sit and watch... The geese (not the Canadian ones!).







...The people who bring a couple of beers and sandwiches to the banks and share some of the latter with the geese (who then come to us for a handout and we oblige, making sure that each one in the pack gets at least a chunk of bread).

...And the occasional fishing boat. And of course -- the water. The wonderful, clear water.







Okay, time to raise ourselves from our lovely perch at the river's edge. 

We continue the walk toward the beach. Akyaka is at the curve of a large inlet on the Aegean coast. The beach isn't a too die for affair, but now, in winter, it's good enough. People are drawn to beaches and even on this January day, there'll be the occasional family or couple. And fishermen. Always the fishermen. Peeling tiny shrimp from Ismir (I asked) for bait. Or throwing a line. Or chatting to a fellow fisherman.







In these early explorations, we can't really figure out the village itself. Where is its heart? By the beach, the summer apartment rentals prevail. Closed now,  of course. Some restaurants are open, but overall, the street that parallels the beach feels very empty. I tell Ed that it feels bleak in its emptiness even as it would probably drive me nuts were it crowded with summer vacationers. Eh, maybe it's that the skies are gray...

And that's sort of the feel of this place -- shuttered, just a tad gray. We can't (yet) find the school. The mosque. The bakery. Here, along the water, it's just a low key tourist destination.

Though as elsewhere along the Aegean Sea, the coastline is magnificent.






Here's a look back at the Akyaka beachfront: 





 We continue a bit further , coming into a park of summer cabins. The cabins themselves are, of course closed, but the park itself is rather popular with the locals who, like us, are out for a stroll. We pause to watch a wedding photo shoot. And Ed sits down and promptly dozes off. Just for a few minutes, he mumbles. A standard reply to my trying to nudge him out of a nap.


Cats Once More

So I leave him for those "few more minutes" and I continue along the coast and here, I come across this most unusual sight: there is a platform of sorts and it is built maybe six feet above a ledge which fishermen use for fishing. On the upper ledge, some six (maybe more) cats are poised, ready to scramble in case there should be a catch for them. 







The fisherman just below demonstrates: he detaches a caught fish which he deems to be too small for culinary purposes, but just fine for a cat. He tosses it in the air. The cats jump for it and to my surprise, the littlest one catches the jackpot.







And further down, a group of men cast their lines as yet another cat perches on the rock. Waiting, waiting...






For what? For that flying fish? And will he fly for it too? Landing in the water?  Cats have unique thinking systems which I oftentimes fail to completely understand.







But I do know this about cats -- Ed reaches out to them and they reach right back. I warn him about approaching feral cats, but he ignores me. Sometimes they scamper off. Oftentimes they do not.
















And this really is the end of our walk for today. My traveling guy wants a full blown nap. Me, I'm still searching for my shot of coffee. Not likely to find it in this village of tea drinkers. Likely to find it in the hotel. And it's good! And it's their treat! Nice people, I tell you. Super nice.


Fish Once More

Late in the evening I nudge Ed to see if he is up for dinner. He isn't, really, but he wants to be more obliging. In what has to be a state of partial sleep, he walks with me to a riverside restaurant -- just a few steps from our hotel. The place is lively and quite packed and there isn't a menu really, just freshly caught fish to choose from.

Ed tells me he is not up for a whole portion of anything and so we do some combination of me eating and him artfully passing forkfuls to my plate and I can tell all the while he'd rather be sleeping.

That notwithstanding, it is a superb meal! The appetizers -- local greens, local shrimp, stuffed mushrooms -- are delicious and the fish -- a sea bass from the Aegean waters -- possibly the best ever. 





before





after (one fish, split in half)



They bring the two odd Americans -- where one half sleeps and the other mostly eats -- a complementary dessert of fruits and a crepe baked around a delicious paste of halva and honey.






I surely stuffed myself silly on this day. Never mind -- who can go wrong on bunches of fresh arugula and a roasted fish?  

At the hotel, Ed resumes his sleep, I write. The village is quiet. Except wait -- is that rain I hear?

sunshine

Oh, the pressure! Trying to fine tune a stay so that we can see everything that I wanted to see, take every walk, touch every blooming almond branch -- a week's worth of stuff -- into one day. The one and only day that we are to have good weather. Today is that day.

I don't know how the weather forecasters could all speak with such certainty, but they do: they say heavy rains are coming our way.

And so we have to reap this day of gold and make good use of every minute.

But how? It was to be a leisurely pitter patter through the coves, forests and villages. A bus ride here, a hike there... How do you do this in the space of ten hours?

Ask a local about best hiking options and you get a blank face. Local people work, they drink tea with their friends, eat meals with their family, play backgammon at the village cafe. They don't take hikes on search out signed trails. That's foreign tourist stuff. No one I ask knows of trails, no one really thinks that hiking on one is a great idea. So I am on my own piecing it all together. I do know this: the mini-bus travel has to be scrapped. It's not possible to visit more than one place and connect with a public transportation system we do not fully understand. A missed bus could leave us stranded on the other side of the peninsula. I'm not keen on that.

And so, very reluctantly, we rent a car for the day. Our hotel manager gets his friend to bring one over for us. A good rate, he wont make any money, we just want to help! Ha!

But it is a good rate and the car makes us feel immediately at home: it's an old Fiat, not large at all and it's nice and used. Mud splatters on the outside, a bag of chips and some old plastic bottles within, a tear here, a paint job there. I am quite sure the manager's friend is really not a car rental guy but has, instead brought over his own machine for us to use. Extra cash is hard to come by in the off off season in Datca. We're happy, he's happy.

So we set out. And I would tell you the names of villages and describe in minute detail how there is only one road along the peninsula and the further you go on it, the more potholes and twisty curves it has, but hey, that's a tedious amount of details. So let my photos speak for this day.

And it was a glorious day! A memorable one, with plenty of hiking, eating, smiling at the passage of people and animals through this mountainous and beautiful land of beehives and coastal coves.

Let's start with breakfast. Breakfast is basic here, at the Fora Apart-Hotel. Bread and cheese and a hard boiled egg. But the honey -- oh, the Datca honey! It makes a royal meal out of anything!



honey, thick and flavorful


Ed fills up, I hang back a little. It's often like that. We can coordinate in most any way when we travel together, but eating meals has been tricky. Especially in places that serve big breakfasts. Good, not good -- it hardly matters. He eats and then we struggle to come up with a common meal plan for the rest of the day.

Okay, forget about breakfast. We are off!

The road is quite empty here, toward the far end of the peninsula. And still, it's slow going. With many stops.












Many stops.



coming





going



The villages are few and far between. Hamlets really. A handful of houses, a mosque, a few tables calling themselves a "restoran" where locals sit and drink tea, maybe a "pansyion" (guest house) or two, closed for the season.





These hamlets are away from the coast. Pirates terrorized the villagers here well into the twentieth century. There are too many coves and places to hide along this coast. The people backed away from the shoreline to protect themselves as best they could.

We take a winding "road" down to the water's edge. The sun is absolutely brilliant! How could it be that there will be storms and downpours henceforth?! Never mind: the turquoise waters of many hues sparkle on this day. We walk the length of the beach, picking up bamboo reeds as hiking sticks...



camera on a timer













...and then turn inland, picking up the graveled road by the shore. Up the mountain it goes, then down again, winding, winding, offering magnificent views each step of  the way.






But after an hour of climbing, we turn back. There's so much more to do, to see, to explore!






(While the goats, oblivious to the passing of weather systems, simply graze and gaze and graze some more. By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea...)






We left the car right by a pansyion that appears to be undergoing winter renovations. But wait -- there are tables outside. With napkin holders. How could that be?!

I ask -- are you open?
To eat? Yes.

It's so evocative here! So perfectly casual and out of the way, too. We sit down, not out of hunger for food, but out of hunger for this perfect moment, out here on the terrace of this crumbling (for now) house by the sea.

For once, our server knows a bit of English and I ask -- can we have something small, something light?
We just have one thing: pita. With meat, or with vegetables, And cheese.
Wonderful. We'll split a portion. Without the meat. And some gas water. Perfect. 

Such great people watching here! No, not the patrons. A few come by, but they are outnumbered by the family that lives here. Four generations of family.






I ask our waiter -- do you expect tourists now? It's January!
No, not at all. We are not really open now. Just today. Because we bake pita once every two weeks and it happens to be today. So we serve it for lunch. 

Yes, I see that. Locals come to eat this fantastically fresh, warm, thin, crusty pita breads.





And the grandmother and great grandmother go to the truck that pulls up with fruits and vegetables, and they pick up foods for the family, and the grandkids do grandkid things, and it's just this perfect confluence of good things that land in your lap every once in a while and I am sure that this hour over warm pita bread is going to be one of the highlights of this trip.








honey and almonds in their kitchen window



We move on. (The goats are done with lunch as well.)


 



My goal is to get to Kniodos -- the tip of the peninsula. For the view, the lighthouse, yes, all that. But also for the archeological ruins. This is one of those tales that leaves you sad: there once was a world of great art, culture, commerce here. And it thrived. And then it died. What we see now are the remains: the amphitheaters, the temples -- stones, not nearly as well preserved as they are in Ephesus (see last year's Turkey posts) but nonetheless very real!



an overview (with the lighthouse at the tip of the peninsula)


We spend a while wandering up the paths of this great place of past gloriousness.






Along with a handful of cows.  


 


How inappropriate! I comment.  
No, how appropriate -- Ed says. The grass is so neatly trimmed. 





Among the ruins of the amphitheater, a woman stoops and picks handfuls of green plants. She explains -- we eat these. With olive oil, cooked. We like them very much.





A young boy and his father herd the cows toward the higher elevations, the woman shouts down to a friend who also carries a sack for the green plants... How can I explain the feeling of homeyness here? It's not a museum, it's a place where people still find a slice of life to be lived here, among the ruins.



We're not done yet. There is still the lighthouse. But it's a climb and a descent and then another climb away! Do we really want to do it? 

Yes. No. Yes. Yes!

(From the summit, looking back toward the archeological site, barely visible at this distance...)






It's empty now on the tip of the Datca Peninsula. Maybe it's always just that much emptier here than it is elsewhere along the coast. In the quiet of that emptiness, you can let yourself gaze forward, but always with a nod to what was once here.  The greatness that faded into rubble. So often it is just that.






I drive back, Ed dozes. 

I make many quick stops. For the goats, donkeys, cows. For the bees. For the sunset. For the forest.



(sharing the narrow road in the warmth of the near dusk)





(a man's best friend here)





(in an olive grove)





(among almond blossoms)





(last rays)





(painting the trees gold)





(looking toward the end of the Datca Peninsula, with a band of mountains from the Greek islands behind it)


Back in Datca (the town) now. We pick up oranges at the market and baklava at what is now our favorite bakery. And we stop at a coffee shop. I haven't had my daily cup of coffee, even though it is nearly 6 p.m.. We order additional cookies. A group of men (one who is the owner, or related to him) sit to the side. They take out a bamboo flute. A huge one. The guy plays it. It's a low, raspy sound. Full of melancholy and pathos. He says with a smile -- like this, pointing to our bamboo walking sticks.

You could infuse a lot of meaning into those two words.






In our room, Ed falls asleep again. He is always tired in the first days we are in Europe. And today, we surely had our fill of climbs and hikes. But he doesn't wake up for dinner and since he ate most of the oranges we purchased, I'm doubtful that he'll want to eat another meal.

So I go by myself. 

It's still warm outside -- maybe in the low fifties. I pass an older couple on a bench, looking out at the lights over the Datca bay. It's 9 in the evening. The little park where they sit is quiet.






But the handful of restaurants are not yet done for the day. I go to the fish place that we should have gone to yesterday.






And yes, it's delicious (red snapper) and I remember to ask for it to be grilled and I point to a few veggie plates as well -- all that with a glass of Turkish white wine -- it is the most wonderfully fresh and honest meal, even if I do eat it alone.

Tomorrow brings changes and adjustments as we ready ourselves for the onslaught of rain. But I hardly mind. We had our grand day. That was today.