Istanbully, bully bully!

Ali’s Port or where the hell are we??

You know how sometimes we make fun of people that can’t navigate for toffee and use names on rubbish bags floating in the water to pin point where they are etc; well today we have had just such an experience. The wind was on the nose (what little there was) and as we cruised down the coast we spied two harbours split by a makeshift shipping slip in a gully. Now you would think these would be marked on our chart but alas no and we are none the wiser when checking in the pilot book; one place is possibly mentioned but doesn’t exactly match the description. We decided to head in anyway and check the first one out. It was an enormous fishing harbour. Massive stone walls, a rag tag bunch of vessels and heaps of room. On approaching the quay carefully (very shallow!) we are waved in by a group of locals. How many friendly Turks does it take to moor up a 34 ft yacht? In this case at least six and our presence is immediately requested in the cay house. With the depth sounder reading zero we feel secure enough to leave Mae and head off to meet the locals and two Germans that have also stopped for the night. Well, what an amazing place. It turns out to be one of the villages that forcibly changed hands between the Greeks and the Turks in the 50’s. I can beat the Greeks didn’t want to leave as it is a fertile valley with unlimited water and what would appear to be a great climate. The “new” locals are rapt to have visitors. One guy speaks German but they are all stumped when it comes to English. No matter; we drink tea and orange juice and discuss the jellyfish situation and other world matters before Ali 1 (the group leader, as opposed to “German Ali”) decides we should have cherries and takes us on a tour of the village to his farm where he proceeds to ply us with cherries, white mulberries and plums until we are completely stuffed and then insisted we take a bag home. During the orchard adventure it becomes apparent that Ali would really like to know more about us so we drag out all the words we know and learn a few we didn’t and resolve to do a NZ show and tell with the computer when we get back.

It is a rundown little village, full of empty Greek houses and broken down Turkish ones but it is colourful and vibrant and the people are incredibly open and friendly. I am accosted at every turn by cuddly, toothless old women in brightly coloured headscarfs determined to get a word with the out of towners. If only I was past the accommodation section in the phrasebook!

Back at the cay house Ali 1 is very excited to see the computer and proceeds to produce an external hard drive to copy the pictures on to. The wonders of modern technology!

It is a pleasant evening spent chatting to the Germans and the two Ali’s. Turkish to German, German to English, English to German and so on! The Ali’s head off for dinner but the lure of outside entertainment is too much and they come back as soon as possible, Ali 1 armed with a Turkish-English dictionary. Great fun, now Ali 1 and I are having a complete conversation including jokes. (Good one Ali, you had me going with the Greek Turkish one!) This is was what is missing in Greece now. Genuine interest and hospitality and we are loving it. We leave in the morning none the wiser as to the name of the place but with fond memories and a litre of milk straight from the inek.

p.s. Everywhere in Turkey you here the melodic wavering call to prayers at regular intervals from the minarets on the mosques. We discover at Ali’s Port that morning prayer call is 0430… and they phone in to get it relayed over the deafeningly loud speaker system. Who needs a watch here!?

Armutlu, again and again!

We are off to Armutlu today. On a volcanic peninsula it is supposed to have a bit of the Vathi/Methena feel about it.

First however we run into a spot of bother with the Coastguard when we inadvertently cut the corner on a military zone around a prison island. We are boarded with great ceremony and our papers checked while they “phone a friend” (the common answer to problems here!) to find out if we are here illegally or chartering without consent. I can only imagine what the passport guy at Cannakale told them but it was all smiles after they talked to him. (Maybe that discussion about the wonders of Islam in his office made us more memorable than most!) Lucky for us our Turkish chart finally comes into its own as the note on it says only that you can’t approach or anchor and says nothing about the three mile exclusion zone! We are escorted to the three mile limit and sent on our way.

Armutlu turns out to be rather larger than expected, stretching for miles along the coast, and the wind is quite strong but after the excitement of the day we are happy to anchor among the fishing dingies and relax.

In the morning we intend to head up the coast towards the Princes Islands but as we approach the point it becomes apparent that the wind and waves will be against us and we turn back, joking that the Armutlu tourist board will have to pay us money to sail up and down the coast making it look good. Unfortunately as the day progresses this turns out closer to the truth as we first sail up and the down the coast and then back up looking for a spot out of the increasing wind! We finally settle on a strange little fishing harbour that isn’t mentioned anywhere. Not as friendly a place as Ali’s Port (the local kids are keen to interact but one gets a little too cocky and ploughs into the back of Murray on his bike showing off!!) but interesting none the less. The harbour is full of large fishing boats. Ali told us that only small fishing boats are allowed to fish the Marmara Sea now so these must be all taking a holiday.

We settle down for a peaceful nights sleep tucked in the bay out of the way. Unfortunately we couldn’t have got it more wrong! At 3am all the small fishing boats that were hidden up the river come out to play and we are right in the middle of they’re favourite fishing haunt. The bay hums to the sound of “two-potter” diesel engines and spotlights chase every last spat from its hidey hole. It is a relief when the sun comes up and we can make a get away. Princes Islands and Istanbul here we come.

Hey there beliada…

Heybeliada is the second biggest of the Princes Islands; it had been a long night and an even longer day and we were looking forward to the quiet, well protected anchorage. It really shouldn’t come as such a shock anymore when things have changed but somehow it always does! It’s turned into all the best Greek style beach bar bays rolled into one. Its got everything; ram jam full of powerboats, an umbrella studded beach, acres of white loungers, a super trendy bar with the worlds greatest stereo system pounding out all the best hits from the “The Fat Slags of Ibiza” album. Many yachties are turned back by the sound wave and jostling bayliners but not us. We know about this sort of stuff; we thrive on it; so we thread the eye of the needle to the front, do a couple of practice runs to clear a space and park on top of a couple of swimmers. Awesome spot… and will be even better soon as we know it is Sunday night and most of the crowd will be buggering off shortly! Sure enough 6pm see the bay free of the worst of it and the bar calls it a day and a restful night’s sleep is had by all.

This is such a great place we decide to spend an extra day and take a stroll around the island. It is not as we imagined. The town is quaint and comprises of old brown wooden Levantine villas; some in great repair, some being restored and some aging disgracefully, descending slowly into the street in a puff of dry rot and wattle and daub. It is well treed and vehicles are prohibited meaning tourists and locals alike take to the horse and buggy. The cobbled streets ring to the sound of muffled hooves, warning bells and the creak of leather and well seasoned wood. I know I am being rather poetic but sorry to say you will have to just use your imaginations here folks or visit for yourselves as we forgot to take the camera (and as it is a military base just as well) so no photos. It’s a great day and after this wee gem we can’t wait to see what Istanbul has in store.

Bully for you Instanbul!

Catering for 20 million inhabitants, Istanbul from the sea stretches for about as far as the eye can see in all directions. It’s Athens on speed but without the pollution haze and is dotted with glistening mosque domes and unbelievably slender minarets spear the sky at all points.

We follow the shipping lane to the roundabout and weave our way through the ships anchorage to Atakoy Marina where we moor up for the princely sum of 60 euros per night. Cheaper than a hotel and way quieter, although it is a wee way to walk to the ensuite ammenties! We spend the rest of the day sorting out washing and other mundane tasks before venturing out. Murray goes to get supplies of beer and comes back with tales of supermarkets with skating rinks under them and vast amounts of cars and people… quite a shock to the system apparently, so after a few settling beers for dutch courage we head out for dinner. Sure enough it is a jungle out there. A six lane highway to negotiate and wall to wall people. We have a short wander, eat dinner and scuttle back to the boat. We are only on the outskirts of town; what will the centre be like!

Istanbul; what a place. I’m not a city person but I am in love at first sight and we can’t even get there! The bus system is incomprehensible and the traffic and price pretty much counts out wanting to take a taxi (don’t think the heart could take it!) so we take our chances on the first bus that looks like it might vaguely go in our direction. We end up walking a very long way to Sultanahmet (old town Istanbul).

The sprawling city is an eclectic mix of stark concrete apartments thrown up overnight; bristling with air conditioners and satellite dishes, old Byzantium ruins; sometimes hidden, sometimes restored proudly displaying their heritage and sometimes integrated with the new in a need to conserve space. Old run down wooden villas lean out over the streets till they nearly touch one another in attempt to make more room for their occupants, sometimes rubbing shoulders with the more well heeled swanky walled gardens and homes. Old cobbled streets rounded by centuries of foot traffic are lovingly repaired and new roads are a mosaic of paving stones blending seamlessly with Byzantium walls and electric trams lines alike. Seedy hammans beckon in passersby and boutique hotels and cafes jostle for position with carpet shops and a myriad of tat. Everywhere you look there are people hussling a living with smiles on their faces and spring in their step… and we still haven’t even made it to the centre of town!

Finally we step out, blinking, into an open space and suddenly it is quieter, calmer.

The hippodrome with its ancient obelisks and spiral column, flanked by the religious icons of the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque is a real eye opener. 1000’s of years worth of history waiting patiently amongst a throng of tourists. Sorry Murray, but it is going to be a long four days of ruins, history and walking!

And so the next four days are spent schlepping around the sights of Istanbul. We won’t bore you with all the details but let’s just say the whole place is awesome and we will bore you with the pictures later.

Highlights were the atmospheric and spooky Basilica Cistern, the Aya Sophia; a great example of how a mixture of faiths can benefit a building, a rough and windy ride up the Bosphoros and the still and quiet courtyards of the Topkapi Palace.

Other things worth a mention were the spice bazaar with all its hustle and bustle and a trip to an ancient hamman, as well as sipping efes under Galata Bridge as the sun goes down. Istanbul really rocks; I’m sure we will be back!

Helpless at the Hamman.

The hamman or Turkish bath is an old and tested tradition throughout Turkey. Murray and I choose the last day for our treat as we know most of our tan will be gone when we are finished.

Men and women bath separately in the more traditional baths so we opt for that. More scary that way!

The men’s is a salubrious affair with luxuriously lavish surroundings and well appointed lounging areas, the women’s in contrast is tucked away around the back with a graffitied sign and damp steep stairway. I have heard tales of these places being run by old portly women, half naked in black knickers, that pummel you senseless, large pendulous breasts swinging with the effort, rendering you unable to resist a good session with the wax and razor. I am pathetically pleased to be greeted by a slim young Turkish girl fully clothed.

I opt for the bath (a good steaming really), foaming bath and massage. No exfoliation, lose way too much skin that way!

I inform the girl that I have no idea what to expect or bath protocol. Not a problem she says and assigns an old portly woman to me… fully clothed, although by this time I am not! She politely but strictly pulls off the sarong they have given me and pushes me teetering on slick wooden clogs, buck naked into the domed bath house and firmly closes the door. I am alone… its hot and its sticky and I have no idea what I am supposed to do so I sit a bit, explore a bit, sit a bit, slosh off with water a bit and hope they haven’t forgotten me! The bath is circular with white washed walls slightly tinged with damp green, a pretty marble floor mirrors a domed roof pocked with holes filled with thick swirly coloured glass. Around the walls are little marble niches with tapped marble basins and copper bowls for pouring water over yourself (At least I think that is what they are for!) It’s all very peaceful, gentle music is playing and the sweat is pouring off my skin and I am not sure how much more I can take as I pour tepid water over my head to keep from passing out. Finally my old woman comes back and proceeds to get half naked in lacy black knickers. Her breasts are, however, not big enough to be pendulous and she is tough and wiry on top with a well wrinkled middle; I look no lower! She proceeds to foam bath and pommel me on the raised white marble platform in the centre of the room. There is mountain of bubbles and the muslin bag she is using gentle exfoliates my skin – what a blow to the tan! It’s great, the slab is warm, the foam light and airy and the olive soap is soft of your skin… although stingy in the eye… I finally get her attention through my tears and have a bowl full of water unceremoniously thrown in my face. “Super” she exclaims enthusiastically (the only English word she knows) as she really gets down to business and grinds me in to the stone. I am flipped over and thoroughly massaged with the expertise of a century of similar torturous events. Who knew breast and ovary exams could be so painful. Finally when it stops I feel great, relaxed and floppy. “Nana”, as I have decided to call her in lieu of a more appropriate option and as we are now so close, drags me clickerty clacking on my ridiculously large clogs over to a niche and washes my hair and rinses me off. It’s just like when your mum used to do it, complete with a scratchy towelling of the face. I am left alone once more to lie on the slab in the middle and relax.

At last three other lambs to the slaughter are lead in by their respective handlers and I am excused… As I leave six pairs of eyes are on me, pleading with me not to go, one girl clutching at her forbidden red knickers as her “Nana” calmly starts to remove them.