Leaving the green pastures to enter pine forests that run along the shoreline, the road is often graded with deep grooves that catch the front wheel and lock it into the direction it wants. This groove grading is usually timed when it’s a corner and I have a bus 2 metres from my butt - just to add a little bit of adrenalin to my system. The bike is heavy and I’m still not used to moving it around so I stand on the pegs trying to keep the weight down low and this must confuse the bus driver a little as they usual back off….or perhaps it’s just the sight of my butt…not sure. In a quite moment on the ferry from Thassos, I caught a glimpse of someone who is with me out of the corner of my eye. A strong silent serious male and I call him Betty as I thought about the Paul Simon song with the lines - “you can be my bodyguard and I can be your pal and I will call you Betty….” when I saw him. Not sure if he likes it but perhaps he has a sense of humour. Betty and Archangel Michael are whom I ask to be with me when I ride - they are my motorcycle wingmen and they help me through the grooves…or scare the buses along with my butt if required.
Gelibolu on that Saturday afternoon was alive with a harbour side party featuring kids dressed up in traditional costumes, food stalls and funky ethnic style hip hop music blaring from the home grown DJ. I sit down on a chair facing the bay to watch the proceedings and slowing the crowd of young teenagers come over to me. The fifty questions start but then music revs up and they ask me to dance. It’s an usual clicky fingers type of disco move and so I clump around in motocross boots trying to dance Turkey style and just end up looking like a turkey but have a ball.
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| Showing me how it's done |
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| They were a shy bunch |
I’m back on the bike and heading for the peninsular when I come across the ‘official’ information centre. It’s full of Turkish people on bus tours and the information section is small compared to the shopping area where most people are congregated. The car park should have been called the Bus park because that is all there is, except for my bike which the bus drivers are looking at. They are surprised to see I’m a woman and one man runs to his bus and returns with a handful of his tour branded single wet towels for your hands. This of course sets off a chain reactions and 3 other men up the anti with their bus hand wipes until I’m left with 50 odd packets - perhaps they were trying to tell me something about my personal hygiene…so I back away slowly…trying not to waft to much in their general direction…saying thank-you as I go.
Where the camping ground was supposed to be there is a closed dirty park, so I head off in the other direction stopping at the first memorial I came across which happens to be an Australian cemetery. The silence after being on the noisy bike is cutting. There is just the birds to add melodies to the soft beams of sun shining on the white headstone, flowers and green manicured lawn. I don’t know what I was expecting…noise, movement, dirt…anything than perfection in such a place. It’s jarring to me, knowing what it would have been like in the war and as I read the inscriptions, I get emotional (surprised????). The ages of most of the people buried are the ages of my children and this just saddens me more as the thought of losing them would be devastating. To break the silence a group comes into the area which just happens to be a some Aussie school kids who had won a competition to come to Turkey along with their parents. I try to get my tears under control my staring out into the forest area when I hear a tapping noise. The undergrowth is thick but winding through it is a narrow path that two turtles are following. The smaller one is trying to get the older larger one in front to move faster by butting it. I look at the younger kids in the tour group, moving quickly, almost dancing over the ground and seeing this place through different eyes. I feel like the older turtle…don’t move slow woman, don’t stay in the past, here’s the future to create anew. Gotta love turtle philosophy to dry tears.
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| Poppy growing from the ground on the way to the cemetry |
I speak with the group and it turns out they were staying at a hotel that had a camp ground so I set off (after being chatted up by a bored bus driver who reversed his bus 50 metres just to speak to me - “you travel by yourself?….I’m single, you come and stay at my place in Canakkale”….desperate times for Turkish men indeed!)
Tent set up I speak with a British couple in a campervan who have been on the road for nine years. I think I could learn some things from them so we share the red wine that had been packed that morning and find out it wasn’t too bad! They suggest the plan is to hit the road early to see the things I need to see before the buses descend. It’s a war on the lanes and biggest vehicle trumps everything else. I found this out the next day when I learn to approach any blind corner with two fingers on the break and clutch ready to take evasive action when my side is taken by a car overtaking or a bus just because there was a pothole on their side.
The next morning ANZAC cove offers a quite moment prior to the arrival of five bus loads of school kids Then came the men to finish packing down the equipment from ANZAC day ceremonies where there are still wilting wreaths lying on the podium. The small stretch of beach beckons me, lulling me into thinking this is a good place, but one look at the cliffs behind me and I know that this was suicide for anyone who landed here. The school kids skip rocks over the surface of the water and I start with uncontrollable tears…again hiding behind my sunglasses but failing to cover anything. I walk down the beach for some quite time and thank the people who must have felt so much fear landing here and but did it anyway.
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| Wreath from ANZAC day with the start of the school kid onslaught |
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| Anzac beach |
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| Where they had to go...the picture does not really show the difficulty of the task |
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| Sunglasses doing a bad job at ANZAC cove |
All the memorials I visited were swamped with Turkish visitors which surprised me until I realised that of course this place was even more special to them - it was the starting point for the metamorphous of their country. I felt a little uneasy - yes it was my ancestors who were trying to kill your ancestors and take your land. But the words of Attaturk and how he treated his enemies meant my fears were not warranted and mostly they were more interested in the many souvenir stalls that lined the route. The irony was not lost on me as I left Gallipoli for Canakkale on a ferry boat packed with Turkish soldiers.
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| Attaturk's famous words to Aussie's |
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| Huge portrait of Attaturk on the side of a building made up of smaller photos relevant to the war |
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| Detail in the image of Attaturk above - you can see Hitler in the middle |
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| Ginger first on the ferry before the Army lads board |
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| Trying to take photo of Army lads without starting an international dispute |
The beauty of questionable road rules means that I could go down narrow one way cobblestone streets the wrong way trying to find my hotel and not have anyone get angry! When I finally find it, I have a little panic attack in trying to put the bike in the otto park as it means going up a curb that seems like 50 foot - I’m sure I can see the remains of blood splatters from other unfortunate biker’s failed attempts, so the wonderful reception man comes over to help just in case but I make it easily. Probably because…err ..looking back it was only 15 cm high…and Paul (Henry’s friend) would have not even noticed it. Taking a stroll around the town during dusk shows how vibrant it is with people out enjoying the Spring evening everywhere. I pamper myself with little luxuries - washing my hair and hot shower, getting some clothes laundered, dinner and bed followed by pumping music in the morning to get my groove happening…I need to find the Honda dealer and get Ginger’s speedo checked out and of course it is a new day.
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| Canakkale at night |
Kilometres travelled: 414
Tissues used: 18
Funky dancing moves: 2 but people laughed - does that count??
Wingmen: 2 thank you very much guys
Clothes washed by a proper washing machine with real detergent so they actually smell nice to avoid random hand cleaning cloth giving: 13
Noah and the Whale version of Paul Simon's song....
I had never heard the verse from attaturk unti I went to the dawn service in my first year in Dubai. The Turkish ambassador came to the service and delivered the speech. I cried like an Oscar winner. It was something about realising how bloody lucky I was and how little real pain and heartache I had experienced. After I had commemorated the sacrifice made (with rum and milk at the gunfire breakfast) I went home, rang my dad and then my grandmother in nz who had served as an air traffic controller in the UK during through the second world war to thank them. And I swore that if I had anything to do with it, it wouldn't happen again.
ReplyDeleteYour posts make me feel like I am there, and I love reading them, and I am glad that you are enjoying it.