Turkey

(This will bore the tits off most of you, but some of you seem to enjoy the self indulgent shit I wrote about my last trip, so for you sad wankers, here you go...)

After a fortnight of bickering, acute panic, and becoming familiar enough with the staff at the Syrian Embassy that first name terms are acceptable, the postman finally arrives with our Syrian visa and passports with but 3 hours to spare till our flight departs for Turkey...

We arrive in Antalya on the southern coast and stay with a wonderful lad called Alper, who takes us out on the piss. Apparently due to the incumbent religious government, booze is a fortune compared to what it was when I was last here 17 years ago. Not taking inflation ınto consideration, even with a 13 year old's paper round money, ıt was a lot cheaper to get pissed back then.

In the early hours of the morning, the call to prayer coming from the local mosque enters my dream and has me cowering under my sleeping bag, terrified. It sounds like the speakers have been moved from the minaret and placed a few inches from my sleepıng head. In between every couplet, I'm convinced it's over until it starts over again with added vehemence, every word personally admonishing me for my hung-over state.

From Antalya we head to Olympus, staying in the popular 'Tree-House' style accommodation . The path to the beach takes you past ruins from the 200 B.C. The beach however was packed, weekenders spitting unwanted chewing gum out and throwing cig ends all over the fucking place.

According to Homer, the God Poseidon looked out to sea at Olympus and saw the little gobshite Odysseus sailing away from Calypso's island, and called up a great storm that wrecked him on the shores of the island. All that Poseidon could muster the rage to destroy during our stay was a poor sea turtle who was wrecked upon the shores minus his head. All the young men in attendance gathered around with great interest, yanking bits of its shell off and posing for happy photos, holding the medal of shell aloft, whilst keeping the bobbing cadaver still with the other. After a while they all tired of the decapitated reptilian and kept attempting to push it out to sea, only for it to sail right back, perhaps wondering why it was suddenly so unpopular.

There was little to do of an evening save for drinking which İ was far too cheap to let us indulge in, or watching Manu Chao cover bands which I was too snobby to let Christina enjoy. I was much happier at the local Aussie-favoured haunt, watching young male antipodeans play surfing games on their iPhones whilst their girlfriends drank and spat variations on the word 'fuck' lots.

On a similar note, it shocked me just how many couples masked the moribundity of theır relationships with laptops. One lad looked up everything that entered his head on Wikipedia, whilst his sighing girlfriend resembled something from an early Morrissey Lyric, staring into the lens of an SLR, pouting and that. Couples without gadgets gawped at everything but each other before resuming the small talk. Christina and I papered over the cracks ın our own union by judging the rest of them and becoming closer again in the process.

From Olympus we headed 150 km west to Kas. The Turkish are the kindest people I have ever met and want to help with such benevolent gusto that it can set you back at first. As we staggered around in the bewildering heat, a young lad pulled up and offered to help us find the campsite. Once there, we set up the minuscule tent we had recently purchased for the first time. That night, was utter Hell. Waking up after a few hours, all my senses told me I'd pissed the bed - The sleeping bag was drenched, I was miserable, Christina was unhappy and uncomfortable and everything felt wrong. However, the wet was sweat, the misery was due to ıt being about 37c inside, and Christina was pissed off for the above reasons and we didn't have an inch of spare room. For the next few nights I slept under the stars, on big cushions from the local bar. The boat cruise around loads of islands was fun.

One day we watch in flabbergasted horror and awe as two Hungarian teen twins of both sex sunbathed together and regularly started touching each other in ways that, regardless of nationality and custom, MUST be inappropriate. Their older brother looked on occasionally, appearing to feel left out. Even when they tired of it and/or their bad tempered mother came back from a dıp in the sea, the girl would occasionally remove one hand from the book she was reading and use it to twist her twin's nipple (and even her own on one prolonged occasion.)

At the coach station there's a gay French couple who we've watched necking pink champagne and posturing for the last few days. Christina chats to one ın French for a bit and when they leave, he brazenly winks at me which she catches and is finally convinced that, even though women find me repellent, gays always like me.

We head to a place called Kabak (courgette) Valley which enjoys the same whispered, enigmatic status as the Thai beach in the book and fılm, 'The Beach'. It's spoken off as a 'hippy paradise', which holds disconcerting connotations for myself, but Christina can't wait. My fears are heightened when a fellow bus passenger is carryıng a conga under her arm.

Getting a bus from Fethiye, a small bus drives us past the package holiday shite of Oludeniztreck down into a beautiful valley, stopping at a camp called, 'Reflectıons'. Permanent construction is forbidden in the valley so all accommodation is made from log cabıns or tents. The vıew from our cabin ıs astounding, with open sides looking into the surrounding mountains and the beach and ocean at the bottom. Most staff are volunteers who trade graft for free rent and food. Christina quickly decides she wants to do the same and she signs up to become the breakfast cook.

Our tıme in Kabak is wonderful. The congo player actually teems up with bongo players, as well as a tablaist and one fucker with a didgeridoo and as cynical as I wanted to remain, the sounds they concocted at night were quite agreeable.

The yoga sessions, ayurvedic milkshakes and dreadlocks actually mask a sizeable commercial operation in full swing, as evidenced by the angry reaction of one member of the 'Flintstone' camp manager when I canceled my room reservation, pausing from hammering into her laptop and shoutıng at people on the phone to give me a good bollocking.

It was possible (although with some coughing, spluttering and sea water swallowing) to swim from the beach to a cave about 15 minutes from the shore. Inside the cave, underwater, blue light shone through a hole and semi-courageous swimmers swam through to the ocean side of the huge rock. I watched as real men did this with the grace of jellyfish. When I attempted it (on my second visit to the cave) I did so with the adroitness of a fat Geordie pisshead, attempting ballet to Ravel. Not going deep enough under the ceiling of the rock, I scrabbled through awkwardly, scuffıng feet on the jagged coral and, losing oxygen, grabbing onto the sharp material to pull myself through the last bit. After watching Christina do her go with dejected envy, we swam back to the beach, me coloring it red with blood along the way.

Had a great Alan Partridge moment when a group of us were chatting about travel. An Italian girl told us about how she had gone to Iran when she was 13 years old,

I once went to Iran, but I didn't have to wear the head scarf as I wasn't yet a women...

She later said that she had also been to Zimbabwe, to which I replied,

And were you a woman by that point?

We stayed ın Kabak a week but it could have been longer. A safari style truck picked us up and drove us up dirt tracks, at break-neck speed to Faralya at the top of the mountains. The drive was not too dissimilar to the pace and movement at the start of a roller-coaster ride as it begıns its ascent to the first summit. The vıews of Kabak beach from the top of the valley were of the stuff tour companies concoct in Photoshop to send unwitting hard-workıng folk to some Canary Island hovel. The conductor on our second bus was the 10 year-old son of the driver and had the face, body and dejected, world-wearıed demeanor of a hard-worked curmudgeonly 60 year-old Brıtısh bus drıver, jumping off to back it into the bus stop, barking at passengers who attempted to board without his say so, ordering passengers about and tutting and shaking his napper indignantly when passengers attempted to pay with a large denomination.

Kabak Valley from above

George House is situated atop of one of the huge mountain ranges in the area with views down onto Butterfly Valley and with sheer drops off the side. The views remove the breath from your lungs wıth their mix of vertigo-inducing drops and sheer beauty. We met a great young French couple and dıd a walk into the the blazing sun with them and slept outsıde on the side of the mountain. The peace and solitude was destroyed however, when a loud-mouthed gaggle of French school kids showed up. They all raided the swimming pool and made absolute cunts of themselves. Just before their miserable arrival, the few people in attendance listened to the eerie cry from the mosque as ıt echoed through the valley. In the advent of French school kids, such endemic incantations were replaced by the French boys loudly announcing how they were struggling to rank their female compatriots in terms of facial features and body form, as the girls with not an ounce of self-respect, waited nervously for the result.

The pool at George House

French Mathieu and Christina

Walking above Butterfly Valley

From there we took an overnight bus to Çanakkle, where my aunt and uncle live, running a wonderful hotel wıth some of the most amazing food İ've ever tasted, food they would lovingly shovel into our faces every day. The kindness and hospitality they showed us cannot be put into words. On the last night a bus load of '2wenty' somethings turned up as part of a pan-Euro tour group. Christına and I had considered one of these tour groups to provide us with (semi) safe passage through parts of Northern Africa, though our misgivings were proved correct as we watched them sauntered around the restaurant in wet swimwear, swearing and one scantily-clad girl tried to perform a provocative dance for a ramadan-observing waiter as he trıed to serve other guests.

Perhaps the highlight of Çanakkale was the set of scrotum-clad bollocks I saw growing out of an old man's face at a cafe on the water front.

Next, onto Istanbul, were my cousins Yasemin and Çan live. On the way there, Christina's patience with the never ending bullshit I spill was nearing fever pitch. Take this conversation on the bus;

Ben: Did you see the name of that town we are passing soon?

Christina: No, what was it?

Ben: Wait, we'll see ıt again...

Christina: (sigh) Just tell me...

Ben: Hang on, I think there's another one coming up...

Christina: 'Kumburgas'...? Yeah, and?

Ben: Yeah Kumburgas... burgars but made out of cum...

Christina: (turns to window and presses forehead against it, until temples visibly pulse)

İstanbul is a fucking brilliant city. We saw main sights such as the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and took a cruise along the Bospherous River all in the first few days and then spent our time shopping, the opportunities for which are endless.

Christina needed a rabies booster shot and we just tried our luck at a public hospital in the Taksim area. Instead of being asked to fill in countless forms, held ın endless queues, being stared at like scum and eventually being charged a month's wages, we were instead led to a room were she was sat down, had her armed spiked and then smiled at by numerous people. When we asked how much was to be paid (£50 ın the U.K), the nurse just shrugged then shook her head and said we could come back again if we needed anything else. Although confusion and a lack of a common language may have accounted for such an episode, yet I wonder what would happen if a Turkish national attempted to see a doctor in the U.K or Canada.

Weird mannequins at Grand Bazaar

Christina fussing over 8 millionth cat in Turkey

Twat at Blue Mosque

Kids jumping off Bridge

The picture quality in which some T.V is broadcast in here means that it's hard to take anything seriously as everything looks like those pointless 'screen test' extras you get on DVD special feature menus. No Country for Old Men looks lıke a crappy student film, James Blunt's insipid sentimentality on VH1 is more laughable that you could imagine and Gossip Girl is even shitter than it was before...

Favourite sight in Istanbul: A Headscarved female market trader selling boxer shorts featuring an living condom chatting up a big-tıtted slag in a bar.

Finally we visited Cappadocia where we saw a sky full of hot air balloons, staggering scenery and a few hundred thousand Koreans melting in the heat. We stayed at a campsite and there were loads of Brits who were traveling overland from UK to India and then flying to Australia. There had all coughed up a small fortune to the company and then were all thrown together in a bus for 7 months. They were of all ages and all types and seemed to be enjoying themselves, however observing them was a bit like watching the first few weeks of Big Brother - Factions were forming and minor sniping was taking place. In other words it was my idea of Hell.

We pottered down to a 10th century church housed in one of the odd chimneys but walked off when the ticket bloke told us it was about 50 pence to enter. He gave us a two-fer-one and we went in.

Frescoes in said church

After he asked to to have a cup of tea with him in his little shed. He told us he had been sat in this shed selling tickets since 1997. He cut a very forlorn figure. Then he asked me if I liked massage. I said yes. He asked if I wanted one there and then. I said OK. He gave me a massage while Christina stared at me trying not to laugh. Then he gave Christina one and I stared at the wall. We then walked off quick and he looked broken.

Cappadocia

Rich bastards in balloons

Now, fuck off...