Also available as a podcast:
The coastline in the Bozburun peninsula in south west Turkey is spectacular. It’s only about 40 kms from the tourist resort of Marmaris but a high mountain pass and terrible roads keep out all but the determined. Besides, most of the few tourist who do make it arrive by sea, usually on beautiful traditional wooden sailing boats called Gulets.
It’s tough hiking country as the interior is covered by thick ‘maquis’ – dense scrub with long and razor-sharp barbs typical of the Mediterranean coast. Its virtually impenetrable and if you stray from the path you quickly end up torn and bloodied. Fitting qualities as 'maquis' was the name adopted by many French Resistance groups fighting Nazi occupation during the Second World War.
So, after a long and bloody day of hiking I found a great campsite in the ruins of a castle, high on a hillside, with wonderful views out to sea.
.... Today’s been hot and clear after several days of cloud and rain. The sun is just about to set, although it’s still very warm. The sky is pink around the rim of the mountains, and then becoming orange and yellow which will intensify as the sun sets. The moon is already up. There are a few whisps of cirrus clouds in the south sky and the stars are coming out. It's going to be a beautiful night.
Sitting on my mat, looking around and listening, the sounds surrounding the gentle pulsing of the cicadas, initially inaudible, slowly come into focus. Being high up and clear, there is sound everywhere. Music, voices and singing from a party on a distant boat. Soft jazz from a restaurant or bar in the nearby village. The distant thud of a ball being kicked and then the cheering of a small crowd. Dogs barking. Then, jarring the soundscape is a strange electronic squeaking noise, like a dialling code, which introduces each of the calls to prayer from the nearby mosques, before quickly reverting to the tuneful recording of the imam. As if, for a moment, the director lost concentration and the artificiality of the soundscape was revealed.
Only when I look up at the stars do I sense stillness and quiet. The moon is half, orange in the sunset like a tangerine segment. In the distant mountains wherever there's a little hamlet or a town, or even just a single house, a yellow light wobbles in the haze. Compared to the anxiety of recent nights it’s all very comforting – sounds reassuringly muffled by distance, the night sky unbroken by searchlights, and above me a gentle breeze strokes my face as I slip into sleep.
I wake to a slight tugging on the bottom of my blanket, like I’d snagged it on the maquis. I pull it and sit up. It’s dawn but still quite dark and I can’t see anything, so I lay back down. A few minutes later it happens again. This time I shine my torch at my feet and staring back at me with these enormous eyes, and these huge ears, and this long pointy snout, is some kind of fox. It freezes and then moves towards me. I throw a stone at it and it runs off only to re-appear moments later. This goes on a few times – it just won't go away. I don't know whether it smells food or, after several days of rough living, my feet are so cheesy it wants to have a nibble. Whatever it is, its insistence borders on harassment. So, with one eye on the fox and a stone in one hand, I quickly dress. It watches me as I make some tea, have some bread and halva and, after receiving what it considers to be its fair share, finally goes on its way.
Comments