"Welcome" - often the first and last words I heard in exchanges with the Turks - and with many of the people I met travelling down the eastern Mediterranean coast. Indeed, it was a welcome change from the take it or leave it (or often just leave it) approach of many Greek tourist operators. The first night was spent in the beautifully located, though somewhat tacky, town of Marmaris - in a hostel where the generosity of the owner was shaded only by his cats substantial girth. The hospitality was similar in Fethiye, where a group of local heavyweights helped us celebrate the Birthday of a fellow traveler by plying him half glass "shots" of Raki (the Turkish equivalent to Ouzo). The first was a genuine gift, but it soon turned changed into something more for their amusement and it became apparent that the night would be spent nursing an embarrassingly drunk Aussie. The touts who had been persistently vying for our patronage only hours earlier avoided eye contact as we carried him back past. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before he was comatose so we could sit him in a chair, pretend he was an American and continue a less obtrusive celebration.
From the tourist boats with waterslides of Fethiye I followed the coast down to Olympos to spend a few nights among the laid back tree houses and on the quieter beach. Olympos is a long time hippie haunt where the laid back ethos is still alive but being eroded by the backpacker circuit and the increase in Turkish schoolie. It was a great place to relax for a casual swim between throwing frisbees, rocks and dubious dance floor moves. However, after being glued to the coast for a few weeks it was time to move inland through Pumukkale for a change of scenery.
The travestines at Pumukkale may have the appearance of a guano encrusted mountain from a distance, however, the white terrace of shallow natural infinity pools had captured my imagination ever since seeing them on Getaway as an adolescent. The undulations and curves weren’t quite as fleshy as the ones that had transfixed me when a bikini clad Catriona presented the place (I think she would have worn a bikini to the Vatican in those days) but despite efforts by the authorities to spoil the setting by manufacturing some fake pools and draining others for regeneration it presented a spectacular sunset vista. As an added bonus the ruins of Hierapolis sit atop the travertines allowing me to pretend I was there for culture. The theatre was particularly impressive claiming the best preserved scaena in Asia Minor - a fact that obviously didn’t escape me as I have travelled extensively though a minor part of Asia and am a massive fan of ancient theatre sceanas.
From Pumakkale it was on to Gallipoli, stopping via Ephesus to catch some more Roman ruins and check out the remains of the Temple of Amarais - a wonder of the ancient world and, fortunately, too large for the Brits to steal and shove in their museum (actually, perhaps unfortunately ... it turns out much of the stuff the Brits didn’t steal and stick in their museums has been stolen from the Turkish museums and stuffed in private collections!).
The history at Gallipoli was only slightly more tangible than that of the ancient Roman cities – and while it was certainly sobering to visit the scene that has become such a part of the Australian identity – I found myself unpatriotically more affected by the Turks story. Aside from the stories of bravery and commitment, it seems that victory for the Turks had far more impact than it may have for the allied forces. Ataturk, the leading Turkish commander in the battle, went on to resurrect Turkey from the remains of the Ottoman empire – it’s hard to imagine the English and French doing a better job especially considering their post war efforts with Lebanon, Syria, Israel and Jordan. It’s even harder to escape Ataturk’s shadows (or at least the shadows of his many monuments) in a country which he modernised, unified and brought sweeping reforms (including the introduction a new language!), a country that reveres him as a god, and although there are some less savory aspects of his leadership (the current ban on YouTube in Turkey is apparently to protect his name).
Istanbul was to provide some respite from touristing and after 2 overnight busses in a row I was tempted to rent a hotel for an hour to get some sleep (as Joel and I had after a similarly sleepless trip in China - much to the consternation of the reception). Instead I dropped my gear off at the hostel and slept through some lovely Istanbul parks. Istanbul is touted as the place where east meets west and where the cultures have integrated somewhat homogenously. Consequently the massive city is a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and opportunities. The massive city is also a magnet for tourists wishing to comfortably visit the east. The entry to the Grand Bazaar is choked by tourist busses and once inside the touts vie for attention by trying to guess country of origin – my Berlin T-Shirt was an effective red herring as was my t-shirt with Japanese text(!). To escape the throng I dropped in to a Turkish bath – my initial concerned about the latent sexuality in being bathed vaporized when and aging, overweight Turk stuffed his hairy gut into my face … it didn’t feel like I was being cleaned.
From Istanbul it was a long bus ride down to Cappadocia - the bus' are great in Turkey - punctual, regular and with a large network, probably due to a massive fuel tax - $3 a litre ... surely crippling in such a large country, no wonder BP got done for tax dodging at the Greek border! The best thing about Turkish bus', however, is the service trolley that rolls down the aisle providing free soft drinks and cakes ...the kind of service airlines used to provide.
Cappadocia is the kind of place that the WA pinnacles might be if we were the size of Barbie dolls, had carved monasteries and houses into them and dug underground cities under them to avoid genocide. The soft sandstone yielded to the whims of weather and inhabitants results in a perfect place to play laser tag, or failing that, to explore for a few days. I decided to forgo a scooter and grab a bike for a cardiovascular workout to counter the Turkish chain smoking habit which cultural sensitivities forced me to adopt (who smokes more than a Turk? ... 2 Turks). 
The workout turned out to be different than I had envisaged when a broken chain forced me to push the bike through what, moments before, was beautiful countryside. Swapping the bike for another I headed up the road to view the sunset. After watching the sun drop behind the horizon along with a few busloads of tourists (lazy bastards), I figured since all roads leave to Rome I’d ride home down the walking track running steeply into the valley. Dropping my seat I started skidding down the darkening and deceptively steep track like a pansy all the while wishing I hadn’t left the helmet in the shop at the last swap. It turns that while all roads may lead to Rome, tracks lead to impenetrable caves, dead ends and cliffside lookouts ... after taking, and retaking a few too many tracks it began to look like one of the caves would be my cold accommodation for the night. Fortunately one of the impenetrable caves was in fact penetrable, requiring carrying the bike through a 30meters with my camera LCD as a lighsource and then down a couple of ladders. After carrying / riding / pushing to within site of the town lights I realised I had a flat tyre – I pushed the bike along the same final 5 kms as I had a few hours earlier, past the same shopowner who made the same crack about my Ferrari running out of juice - this time I actually smiled. 
I swapped the bike for a scooter, which not so surprisingly broke down 20km out of town - the fourth time was lucky apart from the irregular, uncontrollable engagement of the horn - after 250km of scooting my hand was tired from waving at bemused locals. Cappadocia is beautiful; just don't rent transport from agent at the head of the canal.
From Cappadocia it was another long bus ride headed for Syria - unfortunately seated beneath the leaky air conditioner and between a group of Syrians guys who advised that they had been on a sex trip to Turkey ... cosy.
(my camera died again in Rhodes - it was either dodgy workmanship by the Indian who fixed it in Dehli or the fact that I left it in my sandy bag ... damn Indian. The above photos are stolen from others up until Istanbul where I had it fixed again. I bought myself a sweet Olympus E-P1 in France, the kind of product that makes a person cool by association, or so the salesman told me (or did I say that to the salesman???). It may be the only camera on the market not to include a built in flash, but a nice smile can right a thousand wrongs. So expect a whole lot of high res blurry art house photos that the uneducated will call shite, but those cultured enough to see the emperor’s new clothes will correctly identify as a visual representation of the struggle to define truth in a postmodern world)
