Grief is a country

Grief is a country most of us have to visit some day. If you've already been there you know the landscape only too well. If you haven't there is no Trip Advisor for grief. You simply cannot imagine it. It's a country as big as the Universe, populated by millions, each with their own unique experience. As they travel through it in the isolation that comes from not being able to speak the language, not being able to put in words their experience, they constantly come across new vistas, new ways of being reminded of their loss. Eventually they know most of the map, but there are always new places that are painful reminders. They get used to the weight they carry around in their emotional backpack, but it always has to be carried, because putting it down risks inviting Guilt to be a travelling companion.
Grief is another thing that should tell us there is only one Race: the Human Race. And we have much more in common that should bind us, not set us against each other.

Talking Turkey Transport Part Too and a bit

About 30 minutes into the journey came my first wake up call.  Not that I was asleep. I was wide awake. Like a rabbit in the headlights.

I’d pretty much got used to the bus driver smoking and being on his mobile literally all the time, but I wasn’t prepared for bus driver #2, also smoking and on his phone, swapping place with driver #1 while we were doing about 60 mph along the motorway. None of the other passengers were phased, but I was well less than impressed….

But I soon was wishing driver #1 was back at the wheel (he had now gone to the bed area that the bus drivers refer to as “the coffin”) as driver #2 had a very interesting game to play.

The game involved the bus and a lorry. I can’t say if the lorry had to be a special size or colour or from a special country, but this one was a 40 foot container truck from Turkey.  The game was played like this; when we entered a “built-up” area with a speed limit, the bus would observe this rigidly (they never observed any other limits so I can only presume this was a “rule”).  The lorry would come screaming past (most roads in these built-up areas were dual carriageways. When we got out the limit, the bus would catch up to the lorry and greet it with much horn hooting and the bus would then overtake. It didn’t matter if it was on a blind summit, or corner, uphill, downhill, the bus would just go by. And I had a bird’s eye view of the many near misses on the video monitor… Sheer madness.

Just so I didn’t get bored with this, the locals provided more entertainment. I saw a tractor and trailer bimbling along the same road; the trailer had about 20 small children on it, and as we neared I saw an adult on the tractor.  But as we passed, it was revealed that the adult was sitting on the wheel arch, and a young lad of about 12 was actually doing the driving…

We swerved violently at one point as a quad bike shot out a side road into the path of the bus. As we passed I could discern that another boy was on it, and it had been pushed into the road by an adult (dad?) – the purpose being for the boy to bump start it…

I stopped looking soon after that and we started to climb up some serious mountains on single-track roads.  The switchback effect going up, relatively slowly, was bearable, but coming down the other side taking hairpin bends at breakneck speed whilst driver was smoking and talking on his mobile was not.

nearly four hours into the journey we arrived at Isparta, with me still no wiser as to how far the journey actually was to take, or indeed where I was (apart from I knew it was Isparta, a bustling, big modern town). We parked at the Otobus park, and I spent the time thinking (if only I knew how long we would be stopped for I would go and have the wee wee I was now getting desperate for. 20 minutes later we, without warning, set off.

There was a treat in store on the next leg.  During the journey the other passengers had been helping themselves to cold drinks – me not knowing how long the journey would be was more concerned about how full my bladder was than having a drink.  But I’d seen the sign for Egirdir and worked out the drivers would eat that distance up in about 40 minutes, especially as we were back on dual carriageway.

Blakey assembled a trolley, equipped it with hot water, coca cola, orange juice biscuits and nibbles, and starting at the front of the bus duly dispensed these free of charge as he progressed. I was looking forward to a drink and snack, but when he got to me he simply waved his finger to say “not you” and went by. Nothing for me. I don’t know if I’d bought the only ticket that didn’t include coffee and cakes, but I suspect it had more to do with my casual seat taking at the start of the journey.

Anyway, the road down in to Egirdir had it’s own ample supply of hairpins, but Blakey approached me to say “next stop you”. So I prepared to depart.

I was expecting to be at the Egirdir Otobus park, and so where the people waiting to meet me.  Instead I was ejected at the roadside.  Some locals were amused at the sight of me chasing the bus and shouting “my bags!!!!!!” at the top of my voice.  Fortunately the bus stopped and Blakey retrieved my bag.

So I was not where i was supposed to be.  It turned out that the bus I was on had another 20 hours journey to do, and I had come the scenic route. It dropped me at the side of the road because the bus park would have charged them to stop, and they had no passengers to pick up.

But I needn’t have worried.  I had only walked a few steps towards town when a young man on a moto stopped and said in perfect English “You are David?  I will take your bag” Never seen him before, but they had figured out why the bus wasn’t at the park, and Mohammed came literally to find the mountain. Me. He turned out to be about as helpful as you could want, but more of that later.

Right then, all I wanted was a cup of chai.

Talking Turkey Transport Part Too

On the bus.

I was ushered on the bus still proclaiming “I was told Peron 4!!!!” but that made no odds either to the disgruntled passengers (has anyone ever been gruntled? Sounds like a deviant practice to me….) or the 12 year old clippie (well he looked 12 year old) and the bus set off promptly 5 minutes late.

There were maybe 15 people on the 40 seater + 2 drivers and the clippie and I took a window seat towards the rear. Not being unsociable; I wanted a clear view of the scenery I planned to enjoy and I’d seen Turkish driving before and reckoned being over the rear wheels was safest.

This did not amuse the clippie. On spotting my casual seat-taking he availed himself of his computer print-out passenger list, puffed himself up to his full 4’ 11” and came at me like some demented Blakey (you might need to Google that). With no concession to nicety he let me know through very precise non-verbal communication that no casual seat taking would be acceptable on HIS bus. I was seated in my assigned seat next to the continental door. With a great view of the road ahead….

I was pleasantly surprised at the state of the Turkish main road system. Dual carriageways, good road surfaces, but with one prophetic and disturbing feature: on each side of the carriageway there was a hard shoulder (which came in useful for some of the delegates to cry on, but more of that later) or emergency lane, but next to that was a dirt track used by motorists to travel against the flow of traffic….. I have to admit I found this somewhat disturbing, being used to motorways fenced in by armco barriers, but I soon got used to the flow of tractors, donkeys, mopeds, cars, and people going by the wrong way.

I settled back and watched what was frankly a rugged landscape, punctuated by marble quarries every couple of kilometres. I of course had no idea how long this bus trip would take, and was thinking about getting the Sudoku out, but Blakey had different plans. He presented all the passengers with a pair of neatly rolled up headphones and indicated to the screen in the back of the next seat. Sadly I didn’t have any microbiological wipes (well you can’t pack everything) but I thought “what the hey” and got kitted up and plugged in.

The offered fare was live Turkish telly. If you’ve followed my assorted Internet ramblings over the years you may have seen my bulletin from Lagos, Nigeria when I described the lavish game shows with prizes of Penguin paperbacks, falling over scenery and regular adverts for Cock Soup. “Give your man Cock” blared out with an alarming regularity. Turkish telly was not a great advance on that. I lingered a while on News Programmes, Game Shows, Soaps and a heap of music channels all playing Shakira then eventually I settled on what looked like a Travelogue. Video of a motorway very similar to the one we were travelling.

Yes, I know I should have been more switched on. But to my shame it was several miles before I realised it was in fact a live feed from a camera in the front of the bus…. That was to be significant. I’ll let you know why next time…

Talking Turkey Transport Too

I have a bit of experience in driving abroad; lots of countries in Europe, several in Africa and North America.  Not to mention Scotland. Which I know have mentioned.

My first experience of Turkish Transportation was on a tour bus two years ago. On this trip I needed to go to Egirdir and I was told to “get a bus”. So I awoke looking forward to my days travel.  The fact I didn’t know where Egirdir was, where the bus station was or what the bus route was, in my mind this was a mere bagatelle. I had my smartphone GSM and a good civil tongue in my head so I felt very confident…

I asked the Pension manager for directions to the bus station and got told I could get the tram which went as far as it could and then get a bus to the  bus station. He took me to the hotel roof and showed me a minaret and said “Go there”. Which was fine.  On the roof. But Antalya Old Town is like all medieval  towns – a warren of little streets with limited views and of course so dense that my GSM didn’t work. Not that I would have known where to set it to look for.  “That minaret” being probably a tad imprecise.

So when I can across a “taksi” office I thought, that’ll do me. Very nice manager type asked where I was going. Bus station. No problem. “And where are you going to on the bus?” “Egirdir” (Now in fact it to about 5 minutes to establish whether the pronunciation of “Egirdir” I had been given was correct. Like St. Austell, or ‘Snozell’ as the local call it, it was a matter of preference.

“We take you to Egirdir – 200 Euros!” “Erm, no thanks, just the bus station” “ok” So bags are put in, and we set off. The Taksi driver didn’t have such a command of English. “I take you Egirdir” “Erm, no thanks, just the bus station” “I speak to boss, he do you best price” “Erm, no thank you, just the bus station” This goes on against a background of roads I never saw before, heading to a destination I have no idea where and in pidgin English. He gets on his mobile (in Turkey it must be part of the Highway Code to always be on the mobile while driving and if possible be smoking as well) long conversation after which he hands me the phone. The manager. “My driver take you to Egirdir, I make you god price, 200 Euros” “Erm no thanks. We started out at 200 Euros and I just want to go to the bus station” (Still driving along what looks like motorway, no signs of Otobus park, taksi filling with smoke and me getting a tad worried) “Then we take you for 190 Euros” “Erm, no thanks. Just the bus station”

At this stage I decided it would be best if the mobile signal dropped, and I gave the driver the phone. “We go to Egirdir?” “Erm no thanks, just the bus station……is it far????”

It turned out to be not that far (I have no idea if we went the direct or tourist route) and eventually I got out at the bus station.

If you’ve ever put a light outside on a dark summers night, that’s how I felt when I entered the Station. About 15 ticket agents descended on me extolling the virtues of their particular agency. I felt like a mas murderer entering the Old Bailey pursued by the Paparazzi. Either that or I felt like committing murder.  It was a close thing. I got selected by an agent, taken to buy my ticket, at 10:25. The ticket seller (who the agent had told me “he speak very good English” said “Bus leave 5 minutes. Go Peron 4” Which was great apart from I was desperate for a wee wee and what was a Peron?

I won’t take up your time with the complicated financial transaction that was initiated by the need for me to find 1 TRL for the toilet. I had no Euros (see previous post) and it was then that I found the nice man who met me at the airport had given my my change in bits of sterling, what I assumed where drachmas from years ago and a few other coins. Negotiating financial exchanges when desperate for a wee wee is most definitely not recommended. Suffice to say I think it was the most expensive penny I have ever spent but, much relieved, I found Peron 4.

Where I waited. No bus. Odd, I thought as it was now 10:30 dead, time for said bus to leave, not arrive. Fortunately the ticket agent who’d selected me passed by. “Why you at Peron 4??” “well because the ticket seller told me to…” Bus leaving now Peron 7!!!”

Big rush, much to amusement of locals and seasoned travellers, bus reached just in time and seat taken. Phew.

Well when I say seat taken, I have to say that Turkish bus conductors are very strict in the allocation of seats. There were about 15 people on the bus.  But I had sat in the wrong seat. So I was duly and with a look that said “stupid foreigner” moved to the correct seat.

Feeling quite relaxed, I sat back and thought I’d enjoy the scenery. Enjoy. That thought would come back to haunt me…

--Part Two next…..

Talking Turkey Day One

Two hours in a queue at Gatwick to check my bag passed slowly and tediously. Thanks Easy Jet. And your “system failure”.

The flight out was full, and I shall be eternally grateful to the higher power who seated me in front of mum and child; aforementioned child spent its four hours repeatedly (and surprisingly powerfully) kicking the back of my seat.

Well it saved me from passing the flight in the land of nod.

Arriving at Antalya I discovered my lovely telecoms provider (TalkTalk, of whom I have spoken much of in the past…) had barred roaming on my account so I was excommunicated. But I should have had more faith as the man I was told would meet me at the airport, take me to the hotel and would speak English did in fact meet me at the airport, take me to the hotel and spoke English.

That led to my first discovery of note.  You seasoned Turkeyphiles will know this already, but no-one told me Turkish Lira is about as popular as an Englishman needing a doctor in the local hospital (I promise that will make sense later) and pretty much everything has an unofficial exchange rate to Euros.

I, of course, had no Euros.So the man what met me reluctantly took his country’s official currency for the “Transfer” and Ozmen’s hotel chose Lira over a credit card payment of Euros, so make of that what you will. I made of it that the “grey tourism” sector of the Turkish economy is alive and well.

I emailed my lovely telecoms provider, spent a happy time figuring out how Turkish bedding works and drifted of into a fitful sleep dreaming of EasyJet offering me the chance to jump the baggage queue for 20 Euros whilst threatening to put a small child with big feet next to me in the queue if I didn’t accept their generous offer.

I might have been more apprehensive had I been thinking about the bus trip next day….