We Thrived in Ruins and Looked for Mermaids on the Aegean Sea, Part 1

A Turkish summer of fantastical exploits and healing camaraderie

When I was twenty-two, I spent two months traveling throughout Turkey. I was called Indiana Jones during a party of belly dancers on the Black Sea and nearly died of food poisoning on the Syrian border. I was shown secret underground caves in Cappadocia for a bottle of raki by a wise drunk and slept in the back of a chocolate truck hitchhiking back to Istanbul.

But of all my experiences, the time I spent living on the Aegean overlooking a small bay and a Mermaid’s sea cave outside of Fethiye, with no other human beings except for a brilliant Aussie traveler named Daniel, was the most beautiful part of my adventures.

It was 1995, I had been living in Prague for six months and I had just traveled to Amsterdam to promote Yazzyk magazine, the art and literature magazine I worked for. Explosively hungover from the magazine’s release party where I DJed the event with the Voodoo Mambo crew at the Roxy, I was excited to board a plane and get out of the pollution, humidity, and dirty heat of the Czech summer.

I had been in constant chronic pain in Prague, and I wanted a retreat. Somewhere I could heal, get away from the pressure I felt, and the beer, parties, pubs, clubs, and constant muscle pain. In my mind, Turkey was a mysterious bridge between West and East, and I wanted to learn about it.

Living off the meager wages from the magazine and being a DJ had only added up to a plane ticket and $800. Traveling cheap was my plan so I could stay as long as possible. After landing, I went to the Sultanahmet area and figured a bed was too expensive, so I slept the first night on the rooftop of a hostel staring out at the glowing lights of The Blue Mosque rising up over me.

Woke by the Islamic Call to Prayer at 5 a.m., I realized that a passenger’s olive oil had leaked all over my backpack on the plane, so I threw away half my belongings and began my first week in the country.

I slowly made my way down the Western coast in thick tobacco smoke-filled buses. Washing my hands in lemon water, drinking lots of apple tea, and smoking inexpensive Samsun cigarettes ironically seemed to keep me from getting sick from all the smoke.

As I went, I traveled for a day or two with the various Europeans, Canadians, and Aussies I met. I had a ridiculous 90s Caesar haircut, a bone-thin body, and wore steel-toed punk rock boots with shorts and ratty tee-shirts, which had caused one Turkish merchant to call me a farm boy at the Grand Bazaar.

By the time I got to Fethiye, I knew I needed to slow down, or I’d run out of money. I went to the waterfront, and I went up to a corn vendor who sold me an ear for 5,000 Turkish lira, which was about ten cents.

As I ate the butter-soaked corn, I heard a friendly voice behind me.

“American?”

I turned around and said, “Yeah, I am.”

In front of me, a similarly bone-thin, tan, young, and short-haired backpacker spoke, “Hey, mate. Daniel. I’m from Oz. Sydney.” His Australian accent was obvious but not thick as he stuck out his hand to shake mine.

“Gentry,” I said as I finished my corn, wiped my hand on the paper it was wrapped in and shook his hand.

“Gentry, eh? You don’t look like the landed,” he laughed. “You look like you need a good place to stay awhile for not much money. Today…I found it. I found a place.” He was filled with awe, eyes wide, and inviting.

“A place?” I replied.

“Yeah, mate. It’s the perfect place to just be. No one is there. No one. We take a bus to this little village and then hike over the mountains to it. You wanna see it?”

There are moments in life where trust, or even faith, does not describe your actions. It’s a knowing. Knowing that your decision is exactly the direction that your life was always headed. I knew that I needed to follow Daniel.

“I’m with you, man. Sounds fucking awesome.”

The next morning we met and took a minibus to a small Turkish village outside Fethiye. It was built at the bottom of a valley, a series of dirt roads running between small concrete homes with large gardens being tended by women in long dresses, their heads covered with scarves.

Rising up over the little town — and three times its size — were the ruins of an ancient village. A crumbling 2,000-year-old ghost town. To me, it felt like it once belonged to those who worshiped Poseidon. Building upon crumbled building lined the mountainside and up the middle were the ancient steps of a road that split the village in two then disappeared over the mountain’s crest.

It was still morning, but it was July. I knew the heat would rise to 100 Fahrenheit by noon. A dry, desert heat. We talked it over and decided we needed to get over the mountain soon to where Daniel said we’d find the sea.

There was one small shop and we stopped there for an apple tea and a smoke, befriending Ahmet the owner. We trusted him within just a few minutes. He was a generous man who let us keep our large packs in the back of his store.

We bought four large bottles of water, some cheese, bread, and two packs of cigarettes, filled up smaller daypacks with them, then headed toward the ancient steps of the ruined village. Each step was broad and broken but surprisingly sturdy. We walked then leaped up them, taking huge steps. Young men with energy and excitement. Anxiety and adventure burning within.

Click HERE to read Part 2 of this story.

Learn more about me on my website www.gentrybronson.com.