19/07 Pamukkale to Çeşme, Turkey
Up and at ’em early we broke camp and got on the road well ahead of the heat of the day. After more than 3 weeks on the road, packing the kit and loading the bikes had become a well oiled routine, usually carried out in almost complete silent contemplation of the day ahead. Our destination today was the only one on the whole trip where we had to be where we’d planned to be – the ferry back to Italy only sailed once a week and on a Tuesday evening. Missing the proverbial boat would leave us either a week behind ourselves or with a huge unplanned ride back through Turkey and Greece to pick up a ferry back to Italy from elsewhere.
Our route was also unusual today in that it was to take us back slightly north and westwards to the Aegean port town of Çeşme. Until now, we’d almost exclusively headed south. We had a couple of routing options but, after the terrorist bombing in Kusadasi just 2 days earlier we chose to give that area a wider berth than originally intended.
Initially we were very much in the boonies, or whatever the Turkish equivalent is! At one point we came up behind and passed a small saloon car kicking up huge clouds of dust on the dirt road. Our passing was met with the usual shouts from the driver, which we were still unclear as to whether these were shouts of disdain or encouragement. The car sat behind us for a while then ever so slowly overtook us again while both driver and passenger gave us a good looking over. With raised tensions in the area as a whole perhaps 2 such obvious foreigners made them uneasy. However, as uneasy as we might have made them feel they made us feel even uneasier!
This dusty game of vehicular cat and mouse continued for a good few miles, us overtaking them, them overtaking us, us overtaking them again until thankfully they pulled sharply off the road and bounced down a dirt track behind us, leaving us confused and (more than likely completely unnecessarily) slightly rattled.
After a further half hour or so of this ‘off-road’ with traffic consisting solely of tractors and the odd bus we unexpectedly hit smooth, fresh black dual carriageway. So smooth, in fact, that it felt completely alien to us. Smooth roads and proper signage all the way – hard to believe after some of the roads we’d seen – we chewed up the miles in mere hours, not making a stop for 2 1/2 hours and then just for fuel and a drink opposed to the usual crippling arse pain.
As we closed in on Izmir and the coast once more we started to see the odd enduro bike; shiny and fresh off the boats, not displaying any of the scar tissue and signs of action our own battered steeds now sported. I smiled a wry grin to myself thinking about what adventures they had ahead of them compared to the lovely smooth tarmac they were enjoying right now; “I’ve seen the shit man, I’ve got my 1000 mile stare!”… I think I may have picked that up in Albania.
It was a strange comfort to see the sea once more, and it was for now at least the beautiful azure blue Aegean that greeted us. Weird, but being inland for even the few days it had been had felt daunting and disorientating. You’re never quite sure where you are (well I don’t at least!) whereas, on the coast you’re always blessed with a constant point of reference and you can picture it on the map in your head. Signs can be a rare commodity.
Çeşme was about 60 miles west of Izmir (which was a bit of a surprise to us – the map we’d planned the trip on made it look like they were practically the same place, the benefits of understanding scale!). Izmir was a huge, sprawling urban jungle and to be brutally honest I was glad to just skirt the edge of it on our perfectly smooth motorway. Ugly, prefab skyscrapers raped the skyline and jumbled the whole coastline. It really held no aesthetic appeal. Çeşme, quite conversely when we eventually rode in to town an hour or so later, was surprisingly nice. Primarily a working port, seemingly with a Navy presence too, it also boasted some qualities of a holiday resort. In typically Turkish entrepreneurial style the cafés are painfully aware of their clientele and English football flags adorned many of the patios.
The long straight road in to town with a moored up ferry visible in the distance was lined with “Travel Agencies”, every one of which sported a huge sign boasting theirs were the cheapest ferry tickets on offer. After a small amount of deliberation directly related to how hungry we found ourselves, we bought our ferry ticket (spending the extra €20 on a cabin with a shower – essential) and grabbed a bite to eat in a local café, not knowing what to expect in terms of sustenance on our budget ferry. With a full day and two nights at sea we also bought some supplies in the local supermarket… just in case.
We had a few hours to kill so sat in the shade of one or two bars before heading down to the jetty where a couple of large ferries were tied up. Pausing for a picture with the boats in the background, Rob dropped his bike! Tradition was now dictating that a photo must be taken before wrestling the bikes upright again! Eventually, we joined the steadily growing queue to board the vessel by about 1830 and had the bikes squared away, tied down and unloaded by 2030. Security, unsurprisingly, ‘stepped up’.
The cabin was small to say the least but we never expected the Ritz. Bunk beds in an oppressive coffin like 6×5’ room with a miniscule shower/wetroom attached… I say ‘wetroom’ because nothing drained properly so there was a constant 1/2” pool of water on the floor in there. Luxury compared to some nights however; no bugs and NO dogs! Rob even refrained from snoring on the first night!
The SS Sançek, our home for the next two nights, was a very Turkish vessel. The majority of the passengers were Turks, the TV in the café was obviously Turkish with Bollywood style music videos blaring out almost constantly interjected with the odd Turkish dubbed film (they seem to have a genuine penchant for slapstick and Nicholas Cage). There was absolutely no alcohol on board (the bar being the only thing dry it would seem). There was bad coffee available and gallons of strong black tea, poured theatrically from enormous shiny teapots carried on the back of the server. The red flag of Turkey flew proudly from the stern. The Sançek’s crew seemed a particularly unpleasant lot and decidedly unhelpful in many ways… however, it served a purpose, it got us and the bikes over the water and we did get a free meal… of sorts.
As Turkey slipped away behind us and the sky was ablaze with a fantastic sunset, it seemed that many of the places that we’d been and the people we’d met have had one thing in common that I think that England runs the risk of losing: A strong and proud sense of national identity. Back home we’ve been unlucky enough to have had our patriotism hijacked by yobs and fascists. A real shame and a great loss. Perhaps the solution is to be found in Morris Dancing after all? As I sat in what had previously been a quiet corner of that bar to write this, I’m somewhat invaded by Brits. Proud and typical Brits to an extent. Typical in the way that this party love to complain! About the boat, about the Muslims, about the costs and proud in the way that they can’t wait to get back home, “You have to come away to realise what chaos it is!” they moan, probably after trying to queue in a place where that concept is quite alien. For the most part I feel proud to be British. We’re a nation of gentlemen, organised and polite, yet possibly the worst linguists, arrogant and prejudiced against anything that doesn’t make sense.
‘Cola Turka’ posters dominate the walls of the bar where Coca-Cola would normally. I’d downed two or three thoroughly unsatisfactory Nescafés before I realised that I need to ask for a ‘Turkish’ coffee – a weird kind of burnt espresso, thick enough to stand a spoon up and strong enough to leave me blind in one eye! I sit on the starboard side of the café, looking out into the inky blackness and dwindling twinkly lights in our wake, feeling more in Turkey than I have over the last two days.
