Turkish Delight: Chapter 1

Get Lost in Turkey

Taking the Turkey track

Almost as soon as the GPS told me to turn off the motorway I knew it was a mistake. The new road was narrow, hardly wide enough for two cars to pass, curving up, down, and around the slopes of the golden-brown hills, and it was nothing like the instructions I’d been sent. “Stay on the E84 past Kesan, and take the D550 to Gelibolu.”

But I was tired of motorways and autobahns and all those bloody tollbooths in France, it had been a long day already after rising before dawn for Heathrow, and if the GPS said I could cut off a corner and save a little time, I was all for it. Dinner was waiting for me at Kocadere and — I peered at the rented GPS — this way was thirty kilometres shorter.

What the hell. I’d see a bit of the real Turkey. So long as I didn’t lose track of which country I was in— always a worry in my line of work — and drift over to the usual left side of the road to be cannoned into by some mad Turk in a farm truck going the other way.

The truth was that I had been going to sleep on the motorway. Across the world they are all much the same: two lanes going one way, two lanes heading back, median strip in the middle, services every half hour or so, and almost completely divorced from the landscape around them. Boring, once I’d left the hurtling semitrailers on the Trans European Motorway behind.

Now I was in the real Turkey. No tourist facilities here. Just farmland, olive trees, sheep, rolling hills, and locals looking curiously at a lost tourist.

Look at that. A boy driving a truck. I could tell he was a boy, because all of his skinny frame was visible. Just an engine, a steering wheel, and a flat bed with some ricketty stakes holding in some bags of godknowswhat. No cabin, no seat, just a boy perched on a plastic crate chugging along a country road, waving at a blonde in a Nissan.

I waved back, and he laughed, white teeth in a sunbrowned face.

The real Turkey. Not the Turkey of the modern villas and hotels that lined the Marmara coast, an apparent neverending construction zone of concrete and ticky-tack competing for the sea views. I’d turned inland at Tekirdağ, one last brutalist hotel on a hillside before the motorway developed potholes and faded road signs.

Frankly, I was glad to leave that behind. There might be even more cracks and holes in this road — when it was paved at all — but here was genuine Turkey where people lived as they had for generations. In a way, it reminded me of rural Victoria, where the gum trees thin out and the sheep stations sprawl and the roads are packed dirt passing ancient wooden shearing sheds.

I slowed for a village. Cluster of weathered brick houses, red tiles on top, a village square with a fountain and a statue of Kemal Ataturk looking stern. A cafe with tables on the cobblestones, old men chatting over glasses of apple tea, none of them smiling at my cheery wave.

I eventually rejoined the highway, and together we rejoined the coastline at Gelibolu. Fewer buildings, longer sightlines, the Sea of Marmara narrowing into the Dardenelles with a stream of huge cargo ships making their way down to the Med.

I left the Dardenelles, really no more than a wide river at this point, as the promised signs to Kabatepe appeared and the time remaining dropped down to a few minutes. My tummy rumbled in anticipation. Lunch on the plane had been British Airways regional, and I hadn’t bothered to take a photo of the sad glop in a plastic tray. A quick coffee to go and a pastry at the airport Starbucks, and that had been it all the way from Istanbul.

Here was the Kocadere turnoff, a few farmhouses, a sign announcing a memorial museum, and then the village and my destination: Gallipoli House, a B&B that had jumped out at me when I looked for accommodation.

I pulled into the tiny carpark and stood for a moment. The sun was on the horizon, sinking into the unseen Aegean beyond a forested ridge.

Gun Ridge. That was what the Anzacs — the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps — had called it during their failed campaign here in 1915. The first ridge up from the beach had been a quick scramble, the second ridge was where both they and the Turkish defenders had dug in and pretty much remained for months, and the third ridge was where the Turkish guns had pounded the small and rugged beach-head until the invaders left in December as winter approached.

Every year since the Boeing 747 had made overseas travel cheap and easy, the Anzac battlefield had been a place of pilgrimage for young and not so young Australians. The last veteran of the campaign had died some years ago, but the grandchildren came back every April to stand in silence during the ceremony to mark the dawn landing and finish the day off, drunk and rowdy, in the nearby hostels or on the buses back to Istanbul.

A hundred years after the battle and there were thousands of visitors. Not to mention the British and French visiting the places where their ancestors had fought.

Definitely a place worth writing up and photographing.

The owner, Anton, greeted me at the tiny reception desk. “A pleasant trip, Miss Pepper?”

I told him about the GPS leading me astray and how I’d enjoyed the detour. “I’ll have to write some new directions,” he said. “Dinner’s in half an hour. My son here will show you your room, and there might be just enough time for a drink at the bar?”

He inclined his head to the next room, where half a dozen tourists were sitting before a fireplace, glasses of beer or wine in the hands, and a tray of snacks on a table. Looked good.

I smiled and said I’d hurry back.

Anton’s tall son — “Good evening, I’m Ferdi, let me take those.” — hefted my bags across his broad shoulders, through corridors and up stairs to a room with floor to ceiling windows opening onto a terrace. I looked at the king-size bed and the walk-in shower recess with interest. I could have used both before dinner after the day’s travel.

I fumbled with unfamiliar Turkish lira but Ferdi laughed it away. “Australians never tip. You can buy me a drink after dinner.”

Hmmm, definite possibilities there. I glanced at the bed.

He laughed again. “I have to get back, help my wife with the cooking.”

Oh well. I hoped he hadn’t read my thoughts. Lucky woman.

I carefully took my cameras from the carry-on bag and put them on a table. They had survived the trip in their padded nests and I lined them up, found an outlet for my Australian power board, plugged in the battery chargers in the same order, and set my camera batteries to top up. I had a long day of shooting planned for tomorrow, and if there’s anything more frustrating than running out of power miles from anywhere in a place that is difficult and expensive to get to, I’ve yet to find it in my professional career.

Ferdi appeared at the bar, wiping his hands on an apron and bringing in a fragrant waft of something spicey from the kitchen. The glass-fronted bar fridge had an array of beers — Efes, Heineken, Stella — and a selection of wines. A crisp white would go down well. “Could I see the wine list, please?”

No Chardonnay on the list, but there was a South American rosé that was ridiculously cheap. The same label I’d recently enjoyed in a little town on the edge of the Black Forest. I pointed to it, “A bottle of this one. Just a glass to start with and I’ll have the rest with dinner?”

He smiled. “It’s good. You’ll like it.”

Anton was playing host, standing beside the fireplace and telling some tall story about a shepherd and an unexploded grenade.

“And here it is,” he said, plucking a round object off the mantlepiece and tossing it to one of the guests, who yelped, caught it with both hands, and examined it warily.

“Relax. There’s no charge inside. Just sheep shit.”

Everyone laughed. They looked like they had had a few drinks already, and I took a long sip of my rosé. It was good.

Anton introduced me to the rest of the guests — and them to me, though the names zipped through my tired head without lingering — and I lifted my glass in salute. My, but that wine was yummy! Take it easy, Britni; another early start tomorrow.

The conversation passed around the room. An Australian couple, a British family with two teenagers looking uncomfortable as they nursed colas, and a tubby German in a shirt full of badges and patches. They had all spent their day exploring the battlefield and were as full of places and dates and tactics as any staff officer. One of the teenagers rolled her eyes at me and I grinned back.

I had finished my glass and was wondering how to top it up again when a middle-aged woman appeared at the door. “My wife, Kamile,” Anton said. “Perfect in every way.”

She smiled at his words and nodded to her husband. “Dinner is ready,” he said. “Barley soup to begin with, Kofte and vegetables to follow.”

He led the way to the dining room, where one long table was set for ten, and Ferdi was ladling soup from a tureen into generous bowls. A pretty young Turkish woman brought in a platter of bread and laid it down.

Ferdi looked at me and pointed to a chair, where my bottle of wine was already waiting. I sat down and he poured me a fresh glass. Anton sat at the head of the table, his wife at the other end, guests lined up along the sides, eager hands reaching for thick slices of bread.

I paused silently before eating, my head bowed for a moment as is the custom in my tradition, and then alternated bites of soft fresh bread with deep slurps of hearty soup. And sips of wine. So yummy. Eat your heart out, British Airways!

The Kofte —spicey lamb and beef meatballs in a rich sauce — were equally delicious and I washed them down with more rosé. Ferdi went to top up my glass, but I put my hand over the top. “I’ve had enough for now,” I said.

Dessert was a choice from a selection of sticky pastries. I took two squares and dolloped cream on top. Oh my, but this must be what they eat in heaven.

Coffee was offered, but the Australians and British made their goodnights and left. Anton beckoned the German man and me up to his end of the table. “Come, let us talk about your plans for tomorrow.”

Ferdi brought in the coffee and a glass of liqueur for his father, before seating himself beside me. I poured a measure of wine into the glass he held out, and we clinked a silent toast.

Anton sniffed the golden brown liquid in his glass appreciatively, took a lingering sip and sighed.

“To work.”

He reached behind to a shelf and took out a handful of laminated maps, passing them around the table.

“You may keep these while you are here, but be sure to put them back before you go. There are also guidebooks you are welcome to borrow, and if you need an actual guide, my son will be happy to offer his services for a small charge.”

I looked at the map. It was marked with roads and places and names in English and Turkish.

“I want to be here at dawn,” I said, pointing at “Anzac Cove/Anzak Koyu”. This was where the first landings had taken place and ever since, memorial services had been held around Australia and New Zealand at first light on the anniversary of the landing, now known as Anzac Day.

Anton traced out the road I needed to follow: back the way I had come, turn right at the main road, pass Kabatepe (“Gaba Tepe” to those long-ago soldiers, who had actually meant to land there where the ground was flat instead of the steep and scrubby ridges further north) on the left, and continue up the coastal road.

“It is easy to go past in the dark,” Anton said. “The way to tell is that there are three curves in the road, and when it straightens out again, you are there. Carparks here and here, and the best way down to the beach is from the cemetery here at the northern end.”

“How rough is the path?” I asked. It would be dark, I would have a bag full of cameras in my hand, and tripping over a rock or a tree root could end in disaster.

“There will be some moonlight,” Ferdi said. “There are wide paths to the cemetery, the grass there is short, and there are steps to the beach, which is round rocks, not sand like Bondi. Be careful of the headstones in the cemetery; they are only so high…” he held his hands twenty centimetres above the table “…but they are white marble and easy to see. I shall get you a flashlight if you want?”

I nodded, and he disappeared for a moment, returning with a chunky torch, marked “Gallipoli House” in bold lettering.

“It is a boomerang,” Anton said. “You know what that means?”

I nodded. “It returns back here.”

The German chuckled. “I had not heard that before.” He lifted his hand and made a throwing motion, his eyes following an imaginary torch whizzing around the room, ducking when it came back.

“And will you boomerang back for breakfast after?” asked Ferdi.

“Yes, I’ll be wanting some coffee. I want to take photos of the beach at dawn, at the first sunlight.” Every photographer loves ‘the golden hour’ when the sun lights the land with a level glow and the shadows are deep and long. In the middle of the day, photographs look flat and lifeless in comparison and the rugged terrain of the landing site was certainly something I wanted to capture with the shadows making the land look even more dramatic than it already was.

I outlined my plans for the rest of the day. Lone Pine, Quinn’s Post, The Nek, Chunuk Bair. All sites of fierce battle, and now marked by cemeteries and memorials.

“No Suvla, no Helles?”

“Just Anzac,” I said. Helles and Suvla had been British landings even more bloody and disastrous than the Anzac effort.

“Nobody ever goes to Suvla,” Ferdi said, smiling as he took another taste of wine. “Flat and boring. Will you be wanting a guide at all?”

“I should be right,” I said. “There are only a few roads, I won’t get lost, and I’ll take a guidebook.”

He smiled again. “A pity. Anton will be sending me to the market if I have nothing else to do.”

I shrugged. “I’ll play it by ear.” I was someone who could navigate the Tokyo subway system, after all. I wouldn’t get lost.

“You have a hat?” Anton asked. “It will be hot in the sun. Take plenty of water.”

“I have a hat.” And what an excellent hat. A battered old army hat with a wide brim, perfect for days in the field with a heavy load of camera gear. I’d found it in an opportunity shop, still wearing a brass “Rising Sun” badge on one side and snapped it up. It fitted perfectly over my ponytail and was almost as good as an umbrella to keep off rain and sun. I loved it.

We talked about places to see tomorrow until I began to yawn. I pushed the bottle toward Ferdi. “You finish it off. I’ve got to set my alarm.”

© 2021 Britni Pepper. All rights reserved.

Second Chapter: Get Naked in Turkey Third Chapter: Get High in Turkey Fourth Chapter: Get Saved in Turkey Fifth Chapter: Get Shot in Turkey Sixth Chapter: Get Down in Turkey Seventh Chapter: Get Lucky in Turkey

I love Turkey. Istanbul is a marvellous, bustling city, the only one on earth spanning two continents. Full of history, colour, excitement, it fills up every sense.

The Turks seem to enjoy life in generous servings. Maybe I’ve only looked into the touristy bits but everywhere I went, I saw friendly, cheerful people.

The Gallipoli Houses is a real place, and I heartily recommend it for anybody wanting to visit the old battlefields. It is unique in its location and it is super comfortable.

I have taken a few liberties in describing the host and his family. There is a certain narrative twist I wanted to insert and I couldn’t really assign that to real people.

The battlefield itself is popular with visitors, but the Turks themselves see it as a place of pilgrimage and national pride. Rightly so. They defended their homeland against an invasion by two of the world’s superpowers and inflicted a humiliating defeat.

At enormous cost in blood and treasure. While Australia tells the stories of heroes such as Simpson and his donkey, who risked life to bring wounded soldiers back from the front line, and the unbelievable courage and gallantry of those who attacked at Lone Pine and the Nek, Turkey has their own heroes and tales of valour.

Even more intriguing, the battlefield here was where Kemal Ataturk demonstrated leadership of the highest calibre, time and time again frustrating the best efforts of the British and French. His soldiers rightly revered him and had not the slightest hesitation in putting their own lives down to carry out his orders.

The trenches and fortifications are long eroded away, apart from a few modern recreations, and the battlefield is now a patchwork of cemeteries and monuments along the old front line. From the heights of the ridges it reveals itself as a place of drama and beauty, the Aegean stretching out to the west, and the precious strategic waterway of the Narrows visible to the east, the hills of Asia rising beyond.

Modern Turkey visits and remembers. Families, school groups, pensioners, they wander through the quiet and well-ordered graveyards and revisit the tales of heroes in the places where they happened.

Turks and Australians alike now regard each other as friends. Both nations see the battles here as playing a vital role in their lands taking a step into the modern age. For Turkey, it was the end of the Ottoman Empire; for Australians, a move away from the British Empire.

The words attributed to Kemal Ataturk say it better than I ever could:

Those heroes who 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 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 are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well. Atatürk, 1934

Britni