Hair cats for all.
That’s no typo, and it’s got to be better than a hair ball! Here’s the sign I saw yesterday outside a hairdresser’s in Göreme in Cappadocia, Turkey. It’s one of those wonderful examples of fractured English—we all know what it means, but we wonder how they got there!.
Women hair cat
Mustache
are eyebrows
For women is
fecial massage
And Man hair cat
Shave masage
Mask
P.S. The worst haircut I’ve ever had was in Livingstone Zambia. Picture her bunching my hair on top of my hair and whacking off the bunch, and that was just the beginning.
Glen wondering whether Keiran (yes, that's her name), his wife of four months, will make it down in her flip flops.
We haven’t had a lot of bush camps yet, which is not surprising because we have been travelling across a densely populated Europe. But Will, our driver, outdid himself the other day in Turkey. We were heading from Ephesus (near the Mediterranean Sea) to Göreme in the heart of Cappadocia in central Turkey. He made it a two-day drive so we could enjoy a couple of touristic stops on the way (more about them in other posts), and the bush camp along the way was amazing.
He spent more than an hour looking for a suitable spot, and was finally rewarded after 7pm with a perfect bush setting about 100 metres off the main road—rolling hills, baa-ing sheep, beautiful views, a stunning sunset and even an address. The hut nearby had a number 11 beside the door. How random!
Lots of people (even some who are afraid of heights) climbed the rocky outcrops to make the most of the view and take photos.
I love bush camps and Will assures us there will be plenty more as we go farther east.
Bush camp with a view.
Ticket to Derinkuyu Underground City.
I’ve been impressed by how well the Turkish museums and historical and archaeological sites are managed. For the most part, commentary is posted in Turkish and English, guides are registered, prices are reasonable (ranging from A$5 to A$15—although one was an exorbitant $35) and everything has been clean.
They also have a good idea for admission tickets. Each ticket is a different colour. They tell you where you are (in English and Turkish) and how much admission is for that site, which means you don’t have to wonder if you’re being ripped off. The tickets make nice little souvenirs for those who aren’t traveling light.
Turks get a great deal if they want to be tourists in their own country. I’d seen a few references to a Müzekart so checked out their website www.muze.gov.tr. For just 20 lira (about A$12), citizens can buy an admission card that covers all sites.
Boomerang Cafe/Bar in Eceabat near Gallipoli in Turkey.
I keep coming across quotes I like, so I thought I’d share them here from time to time. I’ll attribute them when I can.
‘A good holiday is one spent among people whose notions of time are vaguer than yours.’ J.B. Priestly, and posted on Facebook by my cousin Colleen Jury.
‘When my last bachelor uncle put his newspaper down long enough to get married, …’ Orhan Pamuk in Istanbul, memories of a city. If he’d said book, I’d have thought he was talking about Poor John.
‘We don’t sell beer. We rent it.’ In the women’s toilet at the Boomerang Cafe/Bar near Gallipoli.
‘Libby Bright and Peggy Bright, this is for you! I went to get a cup of ice from the freezer and I’d forgotten to fill the ice tray… and then I cursed my name as I have so often heard it cursed!’ Petra Bright on Facebook.
‘Didn’t need to get sick to detox! I was going to do it anyway.’ I know who said this, but she can remain anonymous.
I’m going to bed now—mostly because I can’t get a stable enough internet connection to post a new thread. Really hoping this is not a new trend. Back in the morning.
A platter of tapas.
I have a terrible time making up my mind in a restaurant. The menu items are always so tempting, and when you eat most everything, as I do, it’s pretty hard to narrow it down to just one dish.
Sometimes I persuade Poor John to go halves with me, so we order two dishes and share. Occasionally I ask the waiter/waitress to surprise me. Or ask them to let the chef choose. This annoys the heck out of Poor John and the girls, but I do it anyway.
But I had a real treat in Brussels a few weeks back. We were staying with Jean-Mi and Sali (11 years ago Jean-Mi was our very first exchange student). They had both worked all day, so we suggested going out rather than cooking. They recommended a nice little tapas bar called QuartierLibre. It only has a blackboard menu of 16 dishes and each person is obliged to order a set platter of four so—you guessed it—we ordered all four platters. We shared everything and all liked some dishes better than others, but everything was very good and it was the first time in my life I’ve had everything on a menu. Wish I could remember what I liked best—although something with couscous was superb as was the dish with broccoli.
The blackboard menu for one set of tapas.
If you get to Brussels, give them a try.
QuartierLibre
Place du Luxembourg
Rue de Treves 44
1050 Bruxelles
Tel: 02 230 4194
Open Monday to Friday
Having survived the hair-raising taxi ride last week, I was murdered today. It was unexpected, quick, painless and Toni did it. And now I have to buy him a drink.
Welcome to Truck Cluedo.
Toni—not even a little bit sorry that he bumped me off in Truck Cluedo.
Megan organised this game and announced it last night. We each drew three papers—one with a victim’s name, one with a location and the last with a murder weapon. We play until one person is left alive—and I was the first to be knocked off.
Toni shouldn’t be too cocky because his challenge couldn’t have been easier—Peggy, in the truck, with a water bottle.
Good grief, he often sits across the aisle from me. Our water bottles roll around on the floor. I forgot that I had wedged mine in, so I was doomed when he leaned forward, smiled and said, ‘Is this your water bottle?’ I nodded, took it and before I could say thanks, he gloated, ‘Ha, ha, you’re dead.’
Crap that’s annoying and as the first victim I owe him a beer.
My only satisfaction is that I was able to pass my three bits of paper on to him. They present an almost impossible challenge, so I reckon he’ll be dead before long.
I never in a million years thought a taxi would give me the scariest ride of my life.
• I thought the truck would tip over in Africa until Chris, our driver, said the truck weighed 17 tonnes and I was standing on 14 of those tonnes.
• I thought I’d fall off the camel in Timbuktu because my saddle was split in two.
• I thought the car might slide over a cliff in icy weather in the Rocky Mountains.
• My mother thought I was history if I rode on a motorcycle.
And then I got in a taxi at the Turkish border and I thought I’d die.
There were six of us—plus the driver—in a car built for five. If only we’d known. Blithely we said, ‘Vanessa, you’re small, so you can sit in front on Karl’s lap.’ The rest of us—being Lu, Gary, Poor John and me—piled in the back. ‘Is everyone comfy?’ ‘Yeah. yeah!’
Vanessa snaps a pic of Karl, who has survived to celebrate another birthday. He has forgiven us for buying him a pink belly dancing wrap to mark the occasion.
And then the taxi screamed out of the carpark. In no time he was travelling at 140kph, then 160 and finally 180 (he even edged to 185 a couple of times). The posted speed limit varied between 50 and 70 kph. He slowed down to 140 for curves. He zigzagged from lane to lane, passing everyone. Vanessa smiled weakly, clung to Karl and tried not to face forward. I’m sure her fingernails were digging into his back. Lu slumped to the floor, thinking the back of the driver’s seat might provide some cushion in an accident.
In fact, nothing would have saved us in an accident at 180kph. We laughed about the trip at the time, but that was only because we were too terrified to do anything else. It was a sort of gasping, choked and teeth-gritted laugh that is oh, so insincere.
We’re not sure about the distance we covered, but it was something like 16–20 kilometres in eight minutes. Two truck haulers passed us while we were still waiting at the border—at least 40 minutes before we got in the speeding taxi. Imagine how surprised we were to pass them while we were in the taxi on the way to the bus station.
The others had gone ahead in the three taxis available—and we last six had waited for a taxi to return. As we started to tell our fellow travellers of our harrowing taxi ride, it turned out that they had similar stories. It seems all three taxis raced to the bus station to see who could be first, so they could come back for the rest of us.
The aftermath: When we arrived, Lu poured herself out of the taxi and kissed the ground. I dyed my hair to cover all the new grey. Vanessa is thinking about putting on weight so she’s never again the small one stuck in the front seat.
Footnote: The bus to Istanbul was deluxe, comfy, air-conditioned and sedate. They even served coffee, juice and snacks.
I’ve already introduced the Monster, which is also sometimes known as The Big Orange Truck. But there’s the problem—is it a truck, or a bus or a different beast altogether? The Turkish border officials certainly couldn’t make up their minds. That’s why we spent seven long hours at the border before we abandoned the Monster and took ourselves to Istanbul. Will, our driver, foreshadowed a longish border crossing, but even he was stunned by how it all played out.
Lu directing the truck/bus out of the carpark at the campground in Romania. Have you ever seen a bus that had wood racks at the back?
Now I may be mis-telling this—heck I don’t speak Turkish and I wasn’t there—but this explanation is close enough to accurate. The Monster has a raft of paperwork—some call it a bus, some call it a truck and some call it a specialised safari vehicle. I look at it and it’s a truck, but that paperwork didn’t seem to do the trick.
It didn’t matter that three times in the past a similar vehicle with similar paperwork and from this company had been allowed in to Turkey. Oh no! This time the officials at border control couldn’t make their own decision. Instead they had to fax their ministry for guidance and then their ministry wanted guidance from the British Consul. All this ‘guiding’ took about 24 hours, and straddled two days.
In the end, Will and the Monster languished at the border overnight and we took a taxi, then a bus, then another taxi and finally walked to our hostel in Istanbul.
That first taxi—from the border to the main bus station in Edirne—delivered the most hair-raising ride of my life. It’s taken a week for me to regain my wits enough to be able to write about. See Stop this taxi we want to get off! in the Turkey category.
By the way, after all that guidance was flying around, for Turkish purposes, it was decided that the Monster is a bus. Now I’m confused?
Mushroom stew, zucchini fritters and a mixed salad.
We spent today exploring the ruins of Ephesus, near Selçuk in Turkey. I love this site and will be posting several entries about it, but in the meantime I want to mention the amazing lunch we had.
After leaving the ruins, the truck dropped us all in Selçuk for 90 minutes. If you weren’t back by noon, you needed to find your own way back to the campground. We decided on a longer visit and wandered the streets, inspecting shops and assessing restaurants. Poor John finally picked a likely one.
The owner ushered us inside to see the array of food on hand today. There was moussaka, bean stew, mushroom stew, zucchini fritters, soup, potatoes, a special goulash and various other choices. Poor John and I opted for the mushrooms and fritters, plus a mixed salad. I can’t tell you how delicious they were. Absolutely divine. I asked the owner if he was the cook. ‘No, no,’ he said, pointing to someone inside and saying, ‘It’s him, the guy who was in the crazy hospital for 12 years.’
All I can say is I’m glad he is out cooking because although the fare is simple, it is delicious. Who knew three such ‘routine’ dishes could be so good.
Today’s choices.
So if you are ever in Selçuk, drop into
Ephesus Restaurant (Efes Köftecisi)
Isabay Mah. N. Kemel Cad. No. 2
Tel: 0232 892 3267
I was delighted to be able to get pics of our meal (above), the array of dishes from today and one of the cook (on the left) and the owner.
The cook (left) and the owner at the Ephesus Restaurant.
Where to next? 