Little did I know that all the dire warnings about travel
in Turkey were to come true - well, sort of... Within a two week
time period I would encounter the Turkish boarder police, be detained
by the police, and have gun carrying soldiers question my presence
in a sensitive military zone.
I was aware of Turkey's bad reputation for throwing young
tourist into jail on any pretense, especially after the movie
"Midnight Express" which depicts the true story of an
American youth thrown into Turkey's hideous prison system. Nevertheless
my great desire to see Turkey's many historical sites overcame
my qualms. In fact, so subdued was my concern that I decided to
hitch-hike through Turkey with an Italian schoolmate.
Instead of taking the normal tourist route to Turkey, we decided
to take small boats from one Greek island to another, then to
the city of Kusadasi, on the south-west coast of Turkey. This
route was cheaper and there was a little Greek Orthodox monastery
on one of the islands which we wanted to visit. We had heard that
it was the home to the bones of a famous saint.
Upon arriving at the island we had no trouble finding the
monastery - the island was so small that any direction was the
right direction. Normally, one would not go out of one's way to
see scared bones, since almost every old church or monastery in
Greece has them. In fact, many cynical historians have pointed
out that John the Baptist must have had four heads and the donkey
upon which Christ rode into Jerusalem must have had five legs.
During the middle ages, when many of the oldest monasteries were
founded, there was an enormous trade in religious artifacts ranging
from pieces of the cross upon which Jesus died to drops of milk
from the virgin Mary. This monastery made no such amazing claims,
nonetheless, its saint was still considered extra important.
Our expectations for the monastery were fully met. The saint's
bones were displayed prominently inside a beautiful white chapel
surrounded by a garden and environed by high white walls and quarters
for the monks. Each bone was encased in finely engraved silver.
The center of attraction was the saint's skull. The lower part
of the skull was concealed due to being covered in silver - perhaps
it was in another church - but the top of the skull was conspicuous
in the absence of any embellishment. Looking closer, we saw that
the top of the skull was slightly worn away. After seeing some
Greeks enter the church, walk around kissing wall-hung icons and
then kissing the skull, we realized the shallow spot on the skull
was due to hundreds of years of people kissing it for good luck
and good health. Somehow it must work, for it is common to find
such shrines surrounded by a collection of medical equipment once
belonging to people cured by the power of the saint's bones.
Finding the monastery had been easy, but after returning to
town we could find no hotel. Since the first boat to Turkey was
the next morning we ended up eating late into the night at an
outdoor café and then sleeping on the concrete floor of
an unfinished building.
The boat trip to Turkey was unlike anything we had experienced
in our voyages across the Mediterranean. The boat was very small,
and made smaller by there being a car precariously lashed down
on the front half of the boat. Each time the boat plowed into
a wave the car would be drenched by salt water. We could not tell
if the owner's whiteness was due to sea sickness or to the ever
decreasing longevity of his car's body. Shaken, wet, unnaturally
white, we staggered onto the pier in Turkey.
The customs house's insignificant size did not surprise me
as much as the absence of heavily armed troops and spot-lights.
Leaving Greece it was easily to feel confident, but walking into
the customs house was another matter. Visions of strip searches,
demands for bribes, electric shock torture and never leaving Turkey
raced through my mind.
Passports stamped, we slung our backpacks over our shoulders
and headed over to the dreaded customs official. My friend, with
an Italian passport, was waved on by. I was sure that my American
passport would gain more attention. As feared, the customs official
gestured to put my backpack on the counter in front of him. I
couldn't help wonder if I was somehow suspicious looking. Strangely,
I felt guilty. Rather than open the bags the officer asked to
see my passport. So engrossed was I in staring at my passport,
now in his hands, that his words surprised me. He had to repeat
his question.
Slowly, as if my command of English was weak, he asked: "Do..you..have...any..listening
device?" After trying to decide whether listening devices
included radios and tape recorders, I remembered that I had nothing
mechanical other than a camera. "No," I hurriedly replied.
My delay made me feel even guiltier.
If the first question had discombobulated me, the second real
caught me off guard. In the same slow English he asked: "Do..you..have
atdum bom?" What in the world was an "atdum bom"?
Looking at the officer's face for the first time I saw that the
officer wore a big grin. Instantly I realized that he was making
a joke. "Atdum bom" was in fact atom bomb. Assuring
him that I had left my atom bomb "at home." He burst
out laughing and waved me through, bags unopened.
Soon I was further amazed. Just as I was telling my friend
that our worries were unfounded, the officer yelled over to me
that I had forgotten my camera on the inspection table. He could
have easily let me continue on my way and then claim ignorance
of the camera's whereabouts when I had returned. The camera was
certainly worth a month's wages to him.
We examined our tour book map and headed for the nearest camping
ground. Virtually everyone that we met along the waterfront wore
a pleasant smile; we saw no reason not to join them.
If we hadn't intended to hitch-hike in Turkey, a few rides
in the public buses would have changed our minds. The mini-buses,
which are a type of van often used in Asia as hearses, were crowed,
dirty, smoke-filled, and uncomfortable. The smell inside the van
was almost suffocating. We swore that no one in the van could
have had taken a bath within the last month. Even worse was the
powerful, acidic, Turkish-cigarette smoke.
It seemed to us that Turkish men can barely live a second
without a cigarette in their mouth. A small round hole in middle
of their front teeth facilitated their habit of chain smoking.
Since the size of the hole was perfect for holding the cigarette,
we first thought that the Turkish cigarettes must be extraordinarily
powerful. Later, after visiting road-side cafés, we discovered
that the holes were caused by the Turkish habit of holding a sugar
cube between the front teeth as they strained their sugar-saturated
tea through it.
By a combination of mini-bus and rides with passing motorist,
we reached the Roman ruins of Milteus. In Italy or Greece, ruins
are swamped with tourist; in Turkey, they were almost deserted.
This was due to Turkey's poor tourism organization and its bad
reputation.
The sun's descent warned us to return to our camping ground
in Kusadasi. Returning is always harder than leaving for hitch-hikers.
Hunger sets in after the excitement of sightseeing is over. There
is nothing to look forward to except taking a long - hopefully
hot - shower. The road which passed by Miletus was deserted and
barren of life.
When the road is empty of traffic, the next alternative is
to find people who are on their way to their car in parking lots
or gas stations. Our first effort at asking for a ride in this
fashion was also our last. To our great good fortune a German
family of four, allowed us to join them. After showing them to
our camping ground in Kusadasi they very kindly invited us to
join them for the remaining two weeks of their trip through Turkey
- and what a two weeks it was!
Disaster struck eight days into our very enjoyable trip along
the Turkish coast. Without warning, a young Turkish girl of four
darted out into the street from between two parked trucks. Though
the camper-van was going under the speed limit, the situation
was hopeless. The child flew through the air in a rag doll fashion.
The child was whisked away into a taxi hardly before the van had
come to a stop. The police arrived a few minutes later.
With the inescapable fact that the van had hit the little
Turkish girl, the question was now of ascribing guilt. With the
Turkish police responsible for gathering information on the accident
and a Turkish judge to weigh the information, we, as "rich"
tourists, were worried. Visions raced through our minds of payments
of large fees to dozens of government workers and policemen to
get a fair and speedy trial.
My Italian friend and I technically could have left because
we were only passengers. Only the passport of the driver was confiscated.
We stayed anyway; we felt it bad manners to leave friends when
they could use moral support. I was also hoping to get a chance
to see the inside of a Turkish jail, as a visitor.
I was to be frustrated in my efforts to explore the police
station. Since the Germans had a camper, the police were satisfied
if we stayed in the camper as long as it remained in the police
station parking lot. The officer denied my request to stay in
a prison cell.
The word "police" instantly calls forth the image
of the stereotypical policeman. A single image must be hard for
the Turkish to accomplish, for as we sat in the parking lot eating
our meal we counted at least three different types of police,
all with various uniforms and weapons. What their respective functions
were we could not guess.
To my relief, we did not hear screaming prisoners or see long
lines of suspects being marched into the station. In fact, nothing
extraordinary happened. The most exciting thing was the arrival
of a completely mutilated motorcycle, eventually heaped on to
the sidewalk next to the station's front door. We were not surprised
to hear that the rider had died the night before.
With nothing to see, and nowhere to go, we had to produce
our own amusement. Since the German family had some meat which
had gone a little bad, we decided it would be nice to feed some
of the local cats. To our surprise, the cats did not appreciate
our charity. Instead of rushing up for their free food, the German
girl, Britta, had to run after the cats to give them the meat.
The last unfed cat was so shy that it would not come out from
under one of the parked cars. Just as Britta was reaching under
the car to pull the cat out, a policemen with a big rifle walked
over to the car. To our amazement, instead of arresting her for
planting car bombs, he got on his knees and swept under the car
with his rifle to dislodge the cat. Unfortunately for the soldier,
Britta and the cat, another policeman, obviously not as amused
as us, gave him a look which quickly put an end to Britta's feline
"humanitarian" crusade. Straightening his collar, he
darted self-consciously into the police station.
The next morning, as usual, we ate breakfast and then my friend
and I cleaned the dishes. Since camping sites always have washing
facilities this chore was more tedious than difficult, but in
a police station parking lot in the center of a busy city did
present a new challenge. Fortunately for us, there was a little
sink outside of the police station for the policemen to wash their
hands. The police were obviously chagrined at losing their sink
to a couple of young "prisoners." The greatest amazement,
however, was on the part of the Turkish women who were passing
by the station. In Turkish society, were the women always do the
household duties, it was a revelation for them to see that men
were able to clean pots and pans.
If the police had been a little chagrined before, they were
astonishment a few minutes later. After washing the dishes, I
blandly decided that it would be a good idea to take a morning
shower. Perhaps unknown to the policeman, the toilet just inside
the front entrance had a shower. It is the custom in Turkey to
have a shower head coming down from the middle of the ceiling.
Water would also spray onto the sink and toilet, but the floor
was sloped in such a way that all the water would eventually reach
a drain at the base of the toilet. Beside the stark shower head
there was nothing else associated with a shower. By following
the path of the shower pipe it was easy to locate the knob which
turned on the water.
Being a hot Summer day, I found the gushing cold water refreshing.
Half an hour later, wearing only a towel, I exited the toilet.
Only then did I remember the poor policemen - whose toilet I had
taken over. Half of the faces I saw were baffled as to how a Western
boy could be appearing from their toilet wrapped in a towel; the
other half clearly did not appreciate having to walk into the
wet bathroom - not to mention the long wait. I didn't look, but
was told that the women, who were surprised by the dish washing,
were stunned by the appearance of a half dressed foreigner walking
out of the police station into the parking lot. The police must
surely have sighed a breath of relief when the judge found the
drive innocent. We joked that had we stayed longer the police
might have even paid us to leave.
We left the police station soon after the court decision.
We found out that the girl had miraculously survived with only
a few broken teeth. The Germans generously and freely donated
some money to the Turkish family for the hospital expense; all
ended well.
Inauspiciously, I was put back into the front passenger seat
as map reader and direction giver. Why I was the map reader was
a mystery to me since I got loss more than a couple of times.
I assumed that the job was due to my long legs requiring the extra
room of the front seat. As much as I tried to improve, history
repeated itself.
It wasn't my fault, it probably could have happen to anyone.
At least it's comforting to think so. Reading a map of Turkey
is no easy job, especially when the notation is in German. In
seeking a "camping ground" I discovered instead something
which looked like a camp. Looks were deceiving!
As we neared the barbed-wire fence we took to be the camping
ground entrance, two rifle toting soldiers ran to meet us. Our
camping ground was in fact a military post. From the location
of the post on the Aegean sea, facing Turkey's arch enemy, Greece,
it was most likely a post for observing the coastline.
Whatever it was, it was immediately clear that we were quite
unwanted. Out the windows of the van gushed in succession an assortment
of German, English, Italian, Spanish, French, and very basic Turkish.
The guards, perhaps as shaken as we by the encounter, obviously
understood nothing. We were quite frightened of the guards, not
so much because they were threatening, but because their old guns
looked liable to misfire or explode. Being killed by accident
is just as bad as being killed purposely. At least the result
is the same.
To everyone's infinite relief, the commander of the post came
out to speak with us. After explaining our mistake to him in English,
he surprised us by inviting us to stay the night at the post.
He humorously commented that we need not worry about removing
the keys from the van once inside the camp.
After moving the van into the post, we were treated to a small
feast by the commander. It was fascinating to observe how jovial
and relaxed our host was in comparison to the soldiers under him.
I noticed that a very simple request for more water frightened
the soldier who was waiting on the table. Obviously there was
more going on than met the eye.
We left the next morning after a nice Turkish meal of fetta
cheese, fresh bread, fruit and yogurt.
Four days later, my Italian friend and I, now on our own again, uneventfully crossed the border into Greece - thus ending a surprising trip. All the bad things which we had been warned about had actually happened, but with wonderful results.
The above was originally written for translation into Chinese for a Chinese newspaper in Macao.
© Thane B. Terrill 1996