Week Fifty-Six

We wake up, hours later, both refreshed but still not totally right: it's spitting outside, but clearing. We pay (despite Milla's reservations), dump our rucksacks by Reception and set out to explore Canakkale (ChanAHkally), large town, 75,000, with a small feel). We're in the Yellow Rose Pension, with an Australian flag on the sign (Aussies and Kiwis flock here for Gallipoli, just over the water), which is three blocks inland from the ferry terminal and de facto centre of town. There's not a lot there - a line of cafés along the shore; a clock tower; a little tourist information booth; local ferry and bus company offices and a cluster of carpet (this is Turkey), ceramic (this is Canakkale - my kitchen tiles came from here) and other souvenir stalls.

After a coffee we wander south along the shore past a few small restaurants to the Ottoman fortress - Monday is the "closed" day for sites and museums, so it's shut: it's still quite impressive from the outside, as is its twin on the opposite shore (Europe). The adjacent Military and Naval Museums, although guarded, are also closed and we assume that the same is true of the Archaeology Museum even further south. We look across the stretch of water that Leander supposedly swam across to Hero, and which Byron definitely repeated in 18-something (not bad for a guy with a game leg), and muse that it's not actually that far. We skim stones instead. Next we follow the main street in from the pier, doing a little window-shopping (though Milla comes close to buying a Guevara pendant - don't know how well that would go down in some of the countries on our list), until we come to the bus station, where we check times further suth. Our next destination will be Assos, which we can apparently reach from a place called Ayvacik, which (in turn) we seem to be able to reach from Canakkale.

Its midday by now and, frankly, we've seen everything in Canakkale (2/10 - pleasant little town, especially since the rain stopped), so we decided to head for Troy (our main reason for being in this corner of Turkey), or "Truva". There's no regular bus from the bus station, but there is a dolmus from the dolmus stop 400 metres south, under the bridge. Dolmus (dolmuses?) are normally little minibuses which only leave for their destinations when half-full or more (depends on how busy the route is): this one, however, seems to run to a timetable, and we've got quite a wait (about 45 minutes): enough time for a couple of cigarettes. The little minibus, when it starts, stops again pretty frequently to let people on/off (no-one pays unti lthey're getting off, as there's no conductor/little boy as with the Dobrugea minibuses). The main road south is pretty good, though we struggle on the uphill sections, and then we turn off across little rolling hills and through picturesque villages.

Troy visitors (us and a Turkish girl studying in Germany) nip out at the ticket office to get their tickets (4 million saving) before we continue down the approach road and get dropped in the car park. That this is Troy is immediately obvious from the fact there's a little wooden horse overlooking us and the site: it has windows and a little room on top, which presumably the original didn't, and of course we climb inside. The horse worryingly appears in more tourist brochures and postcards than any of the ruins, and so I suppose it can be counted as a tourist attraction in its own right. From the top you can see the outskirts of the pile of masonry that is the Troy archaeological site - first up, though, we buy an explanatory map and explore the site museum, which has excellent information.

Troy comprises nine (yes, 9) distinct cities, and each of these layers can be broken up into various levels of settlement. The ancient site was presumably chosen because it looks over the Dardanelles - every passing boat between the Mediterranean and the Black Sea goes right past - nice place to put a taxation point. The mouth of the Skamandros river, Troy's port, has since silted up, with the result that the ruins are now some distance from the current shore. Even by Constantine's time, this area was too marshy for his shiny new capital, and he had to choose Byzantium instead (much less historically resonant). The most impressive layers are Troy II (which Schliemann thought was the Homeric layer) from 2500-2200BC, and Troy VI (which most people now think is the Homeric layer) from 1800-1275BC. Both of these layers are staggeringly impressive for their respective eras, and must have been regional superpowers: Troy II at the same time as the great Mesopotamian cultures and Eary Pharoanic Egypt; Troy VI at the same time as Middle Egypt, Mycenae and the Hittites. The arguments against Troy VI being Homeric is that it was laid waste by an earthquake whereas the two layers of Troy VII were destroyed by fire (Troy VII-b by war and fire), but the buildings of Troy VII were much smaller and less wealthy.

Troy isn't an open site (there's a lot of archaeological work still going on) - instead you (and all the tour groups) follow a marked/fenced path. You start off along the well-preserved walls of Troy VI (9 or 10 metres high in places!), and enter Troy VI/VII through the narrow, easily-defensible eastern gate - that's where the jumble of masonry really starts. There's some Troy VI stuff, some Troy VII foundations and some Greek stuff (Troy VIII) on top. Just up the hill, overlooking the plain (once the water), is the Athena Temple - or at least where it used to be, dating from Roman Troy (Troy IX). Pushing on we reach the centre of older Troy (I-V), a much smaller city than the later ones - much smaller than Hellenistic/Roman Troy, which spread out across the land below the hill.

Frankly, it's a bit of a mess: it's quite easy to pick out the Troy II south-east gate - if only because it's a noticeable gap in the early Bronze Age walls. Next up is the much-more-impressive Schliemann Trench - a gash cut straight through the middle of Bronze/Iron/Greco-Roman Troy in an attempt to get to Homeric Troy (and treasure) as quickly as possible. We exit Bronze Age Troy just to the east of the impressive southwest ramp and gate: there's been a little restoration work at some of the edges, but basically it's an almost perfectly preserved 4,500 year old triumphal entrance. Here, incidentally, was where Schliemann found his treasure (it found its way to Moscow after WWII and the Turks and Germans are both still trying to get it back).

The path takes us over the massive Troy VI walls again (they're at least 20 metres below current ground level - a ground level which is gradually falling, thanks ot the ongoing excavations), passing the bases of a couple of massive Troy VI buildings, and out into more Hellenistic/Roman ruins. We admire the "sacred place", with marble and altars, and then detour out to a spring possibly connected with the original city god, which the Greeks also treated as sacred, which the Romans converted into a Bath complex, and which I used as a urinal (if gods actually exist, they're gonna do me in some day). We exit the site via the Roman Odean and a large pile of excavated marble, with ten minutes to spare before the dolmus scheduled pick-up time. The man at the PTT (Turkish Post Office) kiosk tells us that the dolmus leaves from the site gate, so we rush up there and thankfully wave it down as it leaves. Naturaly, it turns out to do a loop through the site car-park again before leaving (ah well).

We get back to Canakkale with half an hour to spare, rush to the pension, collect our bags and get to the bus station (I detour for cash) with only three minutes to spare. Almost exactly three minutes later, with almost Germanic punctuality, the bus pulls away and we'e off to Ayvacik. As we head south, the landscape becomes more and more . . . well, Greek to be honest. The same sandstone/limestone semi-srub; the same citrus and olive groves; identical houses and little villages; identical low but steep hills; and a similar quality of road network. Night falls as we travel, and at almost 19.00 we get into Ayvacik (population 6,500) - it looks like a fairly shitty little place, and the bus crew don't let us off before the bus station: the guy in Canakkale assured us that we could catch a dolmus from there, and it would only take 20 minutes to get to Assos. Unfortunately, the bus station is almost deserted, especially after our bus leaves - the few people there tell us that the dolmus service has stopped. A taxi offers to take us to Assos (Behramkale today) for 15 million - no thanks.

We head up the hill (the bus station is actually at the bottom of a hill), hoping to find somewhere from which to flag down a passing dolmus, either from the bus station (otogar) or just passing through. There's a little minimarket just past the turn-off to Behramkale and the man there tells us that a bus/dolmus will be along in just under an hour: he pulls out a ocuple of chairs, or rather a chair and an upturned plastic crate. He seems harmless, so I leave Milla and the rucksacks with him and go to try to find something to eat. Ayvacik (population 6,500 - still) turns out to be just as grim as it looked from the bus - perhaps more so. The only things open are a couple of minimarkets and half a dozen of the all-male coffee shops where most Turkish men seem to spend their entire lives. One of the minimarkets has a little burger stall/hotplate outside - when I express an interest, the owner switches it back on and runs around his mates' shops getting rolls and stuff. After almost 20 minutes, I get two interesting hamburgers and return to Milla.
We force ourselves to eat the hamburgers (they were justifiably cheap), and make idle conversation: 20.30 passes, and then at 20.45 we've pretty much given up hope. It seems that our Turkish friend is doing that Arabic thing where he doesn't want to disappoint anyone: we assume the dolmus to Behramkale was just wishful thinking on his part. There's been hardly any traffic along the road (and no sign of accommodation options is Ayvacik) but we decide we're better setting off and trying to hitch than sitting aimlessly by the road all night. As soon as we stand and put our rucksacks on, our mad friends agrees with our choice - "yes, yes, you walk," he encourages us. Great.

We set off, and only a couple of hundred metres down the road come to a small hotel - the "Hotel B": possibly they could only afford one letter on the sign, or possibly there's a "Hotel A" hidden somewhere else in Ayvacik. Enquiries reveal an apparently non-negotiable 15 million a night for a fairly barren twin room. Hey-ho, we decide - it's cheaper than any of our previous accommodation choices. And it's a lot better than walking the 18km to Behramkale/Assos at this time of night: tomorrow we can hopefully leave our rucksacks here and try to get a dolmus. As we drift off to sleep, I reflect that Ayvacik is worryingly like Kalamata - the houses, the landscape, and the fact that we appear to have got stuck here.

I also reflect that, in our first week on the road again (yippee!) we've somehow spent a staggering £235/$360 for two people, or over $50 a day. Ouch. £100/$152 was my visa and other entry fees; £54/$82 was our accommodation; £25/$39 our transport costs; and the last £56/$85 was food/cigarettes/developing films/postage/etc. We have to dramatically cut these costs if we're going to get any distance at all . . .

We wake up and there's a heavy rainstorm ging on outside - oh my God, I think, it's Kalamata. The day goes from bad to worse when we argue (Milla mutilates my Lonely Planet book), ut hey - at least the little hotel lets us leave our bags at their Receptin. We hit the bus station first, check times to Bergama (no problem - there's plenty of buses, though most of them will drop us on the highway outside town), and find a guy with a dolmus to Behramkale. He's waiting until he has enough passengers to make the journey worthwhie - there are some other people who might show up later, and a couple waiting already. Perhaps at 11.00, he suggests. Bugger that, we think, and decide to start walking - even if no other bus/hitching options pass, we can always catch his little bus when it passes. We pass two guys a little way along the road, waiting: they're optimistic that a bus of some sort will be along in five or ten minutes - we assume that this is Turkish optimism again, and leave them to it.

There's a 1km walk before we leave town - a couple of vehicles pass, but they're not going further than the outskirts (we pass them later) - and then we're out in the open country: the heavy rain's long since stopped, but there's still the occasional shower and the ground is wet. Around us are the sound of chirruping insects, and fields of olive trees, and little farms, and tiny streams and so on: it's all very idyllic, but Milla's not at all happy after a short time - mainly because of the total lack of passing traffic. Just as she's about to launch into a major tirade, I'm saved when a car approaches and I manage to flag it down: he's not going all the way, but can take us a few kilometres up the road. Excellent. There are a couple of major climbs/drops en route, so it's a really good thing we didn't walk all the way: he slows at one summit and shows us the view of Assos, magnificently on a little hill directly above the Aegean. He drops us at the village before Behramkale, leaving us only 4km to go: we meander down the hill and then manage a second hitch for the last 2-3km right into the village. And neither of the drivers would accept a penny (lira) - better and better, and still no sign of the dolmus.

Behramkale is a curious village: narrow, cobbled streets twist steeply up the northern (inland) side of the hill - ancient Assos (Paul met up with Luke here, after walking south around the coast, presumably with a rucksack and Lonely Planet's Secret Church Communities of Asia Minor) is on the top of the hill and the eastern and northern slopes. The place is full of little pensions, souvenir shops and eateries - this is where we should have spent last night, rather than desolate Ayvacik. We exchange greetings with Americans on a coach trip, reach a little flat square (there's an equally empty dolmus sitting here, waiting for enough people to do the trip to Ayvacik) and have a pretty bad Turkish coffee on a terrace with magnificent views over the hills to the north. Then it's up the hill behind us to a little ticket hut where we get a student discount, and then onto the acropolis.

The acropolis is ringed with Byzantine walls they had a tough time here, with Barbarians, then Arabs, then Latin Crusaders), some of which are quite impressive. Pride of place, though, goes to the Temple of Athena, wiht great views across to Lesbos and all up and down the coast. There are some columns standing, and lots of marble chunks littering the area, and we clamber around for a bit: there are foundations and remains of other buildings as well. Down the hill to the south we can see lots of other ruins, and spend some time looking for a way down - it all seems to be near-vertical drops, though. A couple of airforce jets buzz us (Turkish or Greek, presumably, since Lesbos is still Greece), and we also spot in impressive Hellenistic/Roman wall and gates running in a straight line away from the hill.

Eventually we abandon our attempt, collect a friendly but limping dog which follows us around, and return almost to the ticket hut for help. And there, of course, through the remains of a huge gate is the way down - the dog follows our easy descent in the blazing sun (no sign of rain now, and the temperature's up into the low 30s at a guess). There was only one person as well as us up on the acropolis (though others came later) - down here in the majority of the city, there's no-one. It feels almost untouched: there are almost no paths or trails, hardly any signs or posts, and most of the stuff is severly overgrown - this is a place where the ruins are still fighting with the vegetation, without much help. We pass the agora, and the school where Aristotle taught for three years (he married a local girl - in later centuries they built a medieval church on top of his school), and other significant buildings. From down here we can see why we had probems finding a route - the entire acropolis above us is ringed wih vertical limestone (?) clifflets - just as well we didn't try.

We reach the long, straight walls eventually (still with the pathetically limping dog) and admire them, and climb on them, and then leave the ancient city by the old gate. We can even follow the old road for a hundred metres or so: there's a necropolis on our right (which predates the walls, interestingly) where people are still excavating (very slowly in this heat, and aso with the very persistent local insects). We let ourselves out onto the modern road and walk back up the hill to Behramkale (we have to get the dog back close to where we found it), and stop for liquid and food (we try manti - sort of Turkish ravioli in yoghurt - not so good) before going to check on a dolms. There isn't one waiting so, despite the protestations of a local that one will be along in five or ten minutes, we set off on foot again.

On the road out of Behramkale, we're actually passed by two or three minibuses, but all going in the opposite direction and all crammed full of schoolkids - I guess school's just finished for the day. It's a pleasant downhill stroll, past donkeys and sheep (all the sheep have little bells round their necks - we've been hearing flocks of them all day, like some cacophonous modern experimental composition) and chickens and even occasional people. A little out of town we pass an old Ottoman bridge (more pyramid-backed than hump-backed) and then the road begins to slowly climb. As if on cue, we flag down a little white minibus (so far hitching in Turkey has been really easy, possibly because I'm with Milla, possibly because the Turks are really friendly): it's not actually a bus service, but a guy with a hotel in Behramkale going home to Canakkale. His little white van/bus struggles with the uphill parts of the road, so he hurls it down the preceding twisting slopes to get up momentum, cutting the corners and swerving wildly to avoid any oncoming traffic - and these are mostly roads with sharp drops at the side. We survive our ride-of-death (the guy doesn't want any money - I don't know what the going rate for a rollercoaster ride is in Turkey), and we reach Ayvacik again at 15.45. After collecting our bags we hit the bus station - there's a bus at 17.00, which leaves us enough time for Milla to eat some "real food" (she wasn't impressed with our manti).
Behramkale gets 2/10 - it's a nice little place (famous for its beautiful site in antiquity) with good ruins (but not much to do once we've seen them). Ayvacik gets 0/10 - it's a dump: worse, a small dump. Sort of like Menstrie.

The road winds around the coast, through a few larger towns and a number of tourist towns (blocks and blocks of little coloured appartment buildings) - at least, we assume they're tourist towns since there doesn't seem to be any commerce or industry: that'll confuse archaeologists in coming millenia. They'll probably conclude that they were prisons, which I suppose they are really.
We get in at 20.30, except we don't: we're ushered off the bus, tgether with one local, at the side of the main North-South coastal dual carriageway. Milla doesn't spot this at first and potters about with her rucksack in the middle of the pitch-back highway. The Bergama access road is just across from where we stopped, so we head down it. Our local gets a lift quickly, but it's not going as far as Bergama (5km), so is no use to us. We walk down the road and, without even flagging it down, a truck stops and we cram into the cab. The driver drops us right in the middle of Bergama, and we don't shut his passenger door properly - ah well, that'll teach him not to pick up people with rucksacks.
Bergama turns out to be a one-street town, from the highway to the acropolis: we check out our primary accommodation option, on this one street, but they seem to be full (though I suppose "no beds" could mean they've closed). We wander back along the main street, since we saw plenty of places on the way in, and end up in the Berlin Pension (the owners worked in Berlin for a while and speak German) for 14 million ($8.50) for a double with shower. We've got a nice little terrace outside the door, have a free glass of tea there, and then go out looking for an internet place (unsuccessfully) and something to eat (we end up with a good pide), and then to bed.

I'm up late (08.30), Milla's up later (I write while she sleeps), so we don't get out until 11.30 (so we've pretty much waster the morning - we'd decided to stay another day last night anyway, and that seems to have caused our deceleration).

The first stop is Tourist Information (just along the road: the Archaeological Museum is even better - it's almost opposite the pension): there's no laundry in town, they tell us, but we get a free Bergama brochure and directins to the local district of internet cafés. Excellent. And then it's off to Pergamon Acropolis. Depending whether the source is Lonely Planet, the barely comprehensible English of the Tourist Information handout, or the street signs, the Acropolis is anywhere between 6 and 10km from the centre of modern Bergama - Lonely Planet, Tourist Information and a guy at the pension all agree that there's a short-cut up through the ruins for those going by foot. We set off, following the brown signs (tourist sites have brown signposts in Turkey) and quickly come to the Red basilica, a huge temple (to the fashionable Egyptian gods of the 2nd century, mainly Serapis or Osiris) which later became a church and then a mosque. It's a huge red brick basilica with a little tower (the only still-roofed segment) to one side, and turns out to be one of the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse - apparently they're all in modern Turkey.
We pass the temple and cut uphill, lopping at least a kilometre off the road: we rejoin the acropolis road, which winds slowly up to just below the summit. There are a number of goat and cattle trails which seem to lead upwards from the road, but none of them appears to go very far - certainly not as far as the ruins high above. So we stick to the road, winding around the far side of the hill, with views of a Roman aqueduct and later of a large, modern reservoir. And then, finally, after an hour's climb (which seemed longer) we reach the car and coach parks - a guy approaches us to give us a car-park ticket and is casually astounded when we tell him no thanks - we walked. After our exercise we stop for a coffee (and pomegranate juice) and chat with the guy at the stall - Osman: presumably not the same as the one who founded the Ottoman Empire. He explains that most of the visitrs here are German or Japanese - we haven't seen that many Japanese so far, but there are Germans everywhere - in Troy we were overtaken by at least three or four all-German groups.

And so, finally, we enter the Acropois of Pergamon (for free, thanks to our cards): famous, of course, for the invention of parchment (rather than papyrus) and subsequent large library (which Marc Anthony nicked as a present for Cleopatra), Pergamon was also where Galen started off and naturaly was the centre of the Kingdom of Pergamon (funded with Lysimachos' campaign treasure). Other astounding facts which I learned only today: a.) Pergamon reached about 200,000 inhabitants under Roman control; b.) it was Lydian for a while, and then Persian before Alexander and the subsequent Kingdom; c.) its Acropolis is on a fucking steep hill.

We enter the site straight into the Upper City, first reaching a line of palaces on our right: they fill that side of the Acropolis, looking north and away from the city. The south-facing side was (and is) dominated by the imposing Temple of Trajan - it's been nicely restored, using a material similar in colour but clearly distinguishable to replace missing bits, and they've reconstructed just enough to be representative. It's an impressive building wiht impressive views, but more impressive are the foundations. The Romans wanted to build their magnificent temple on flat ground (fair enough) so, being Romans, they filled in the hill with massive arched vaults which are a.) larger and b.) stronger than if they'd used the old Grek method of simply building a retaining wall and filling in the space behind it. After checking the western tip of the hill (only the city's arsenal here - they found a horde of catapult balls - it was later the terminus of the Roman fresh water supply, piped from an astounding 45km away), we go down thrugh the Roman foundations - the Byzantines built a passage - and emerge slightly lower down.

Here was where the Temple of Athena stood, again looking over the city on the plains. It was flanked on two sides by the colonnaded library: now there's a bunch of column bases in lines, and a Byzantine watchtower where the Temple stood. Winding down the hill still further we come to the Altar fo Zeus on a rocky platform overlooking the agora below - or rather, we come to its steps. A famous and magnificent frieze survived for centuries here (showing Gods beating Giants, representing the Greeks' victory over the local Celts), which is now in a museum in Berlin: dunno why all the Germans bothered coming . . .

Next we go for a long wander down the hill, and pass a recently-excavated section, and large hut where people are working on restoration (there were aso some up the top), and lok down on the temple complex of Demeter - her only worshippers today seem to be a handful of cows. Despite all the tour groups on the Acropolis, we have the "Middle City" pretty much to ourselves and a dog. Eventually climbing back up, we emerge at the bottom (stage end) of the threatre - one of the steepest ever built, and it looks it. There's a temple to Dionysus at one side, and a small exit upwards leading to the site of hte Temple of Athena (I almost knock myself out in the narrow, low stone passage). Knowing that there's a quick way down from roughly here, we set off down the sharp, almost sheer slope at a likely-looking point. After ten or fifteen minutes of zig-zag scrambling (and heading for the cows - we trust them not to be suicidal, and to have used a manageable path) we emerge n the approach road, unsure if we've found the short-cut, but pretty confident that we found a short-cut.

The walk back is punctuated partly by local kids - "hello, chk-chk, money": they apparently want us to take photos of them and pay them. Obviously somene does that, since all the kids in that neighbourhood seem to have cottoned onto the same idea. They just seem like normal kids to us, so we pass up on the opportunity. Our tranquility is als interrupted by a major argument which appears from nowhere - I just walk off in the middle of it and find an internet place instead (I'm not interested in having an argument). Milla joins me after a couple of hours, and we return to the pension via a couple of local supermarkets (which don't sell film or instant noodles in this country). There's a new guy checking in when we get back - Steven, from England, who's also heading for Syria but en route to Iran and ultimately Kathmandu. We go out for a beer until midnight or so, and then return to sleep.

Other thoughts for today? Thought One - ironically the best Greek ruins seem to be in Turkey. Thought two - there's a close relationship between Germany and Turkey: not onlt the number of tourists, but also a lot of the archaeological work is funded by German companies; and a lot of Turks seem to study or work in Germany. Thought Three - all Turkish buses seem to be No Smoking, doubtless thanks to interfering Westerners disrupting the local cultures. Thought Four - the signs at toilets are "Bay" and "Bayan": it initially struck me as odd that the feminine was just the same as the masculine but with two extra letters, until I recalled that we do the same with men/women and male/female. Thought Five - we have a pattern so far of beautifully cut Hellenistic walls, impressive Roman engineering, and haphazard Byzantine reworking. Thought Six - there's a similar triple split in city layout: imposing Hellenistic acropoli with buildings on the upper slopes, sprawling and confident Roman urban centres on the plains and then squalid Byzantine buildings behind massive walls in a tiny corner of previous settlements. Thought Seven - the Turks don't like the Byzantines either: they keep talking about the "Roman Period" followed by the "Byzantine Occupation" in the tourist literature, despite the fact that these were continuous phases. Thought Eight - with cities like Constantinople, Alexandria, Pergamon, Antioch and Ephesus all along the coast here, the Eastern Mediterranean/Aegean must have been like northwest Europe is today - the pivotal centre of population, industry and wealth: no wonder the Romans moved the capital to this area, and eventually became a Greek-speaking Hellenistic society.

Bergama is a damp place, especially overnight: Milla discovered this while trying to dry her jeans outside. Not to worry - we're leaving later today, but first we have to see Bergama's other tourist attractions. We pack and stow our rucksacks, check the times and prices of buses to Izmir (lots), and head for the Asklepion (ancient health centre, dedicated to the god Asklepios). It's closer to modern (ie. flat) Bergama, but still a little way outside town, in the opposite direction from the Acropolis.

With temperatures climbing in the morning again, we do another long walk along a minor road where the only traffic seems to be tour buses. The walk is more interesting than yesterday, at least, if only because it runs alongside a military firing range - there are soldiers out today with mortars, and a couple of tanks. The walk and our visit consequently have the surreal background soundtrack of modern armaments intermittently thumping away. When we reach the enrance it's ringed with the usual souvenir shops, coffee shops and overpriced toilets - as with the Acropolis yesterday our UNESCO ISIC cards (they have a little UNESCO symbol in the middle) get us in for free - so we don't overly mind forking out for an okay coffee.
The approach to the centre is/was along a paved and colonnaded street, which once ran all the way from the Roman town centre: it occurs to me that only fit and healthy people could ever have got out this far, so their recovery rate (and hence reputation) were almost bound to be good. The complex itself is rectangular, around an open flat area, and the major buildings are along the east side. There's also a little theatre/odeon at the northwest corner (where patients could sit and swap notes, or presumably attend the occasional uplifting talk).

They've rebuilt a couple of stretches of wall, and popped a few of the columns back in place to give an impression of what it looked like, but frankly there's not a lot here - it is very peaceful, but I don't know if that would have made it worthwhile for the various tour groups going round while we were there. We leave after an hour or so (our shortest site visit yet - well, it's only really one building) and meander back into town (it's slightly downhill) to visit the apparently excellent Bergama Archaeology Museum. Actually it does turn out to be pretty good (and free - that's three out of three in Bergama). It's in the form of a square courtyard with extra wings to the north and west, and mostly contains sculptures and pieces of sculpture recovered during local excavations.
There are a number of nice pieces (and some interesting stuff in the grounds), the best of which are in the little west wing. They also ahve a section/displayu, and a little model, of the Pergamon frieze in Berlin, which they're presumably hoping to get back some time. The north wing, on the other wand, is a waste of time - ethnographic stuff (clothes, jewellery, etc.) from the recent (last 500 years) past of Bergama and surrounds: it includes a section on carpets, of course.

The cheapo district in Izmir is around Basmane Station, and helpful locals and bus drivers get us onto the right local bus (a 54): it drops us late, ie. a long walk past the station, which was unhelpful considering our rucksacks. We backtrack, wander a bit, and find a group of streets full of cheap, grubby hotels - oh, it's like Tangiers all over again. Observation - everywhere we've seen in Turkey the streets have no signs (as in the U2 song): here it's worse - they have signs, but no names: they have numbers instead, and not in any immediately obvious pattern. Apart from being intrinsically confusing (did we just pass 1243 or 1245?), it's makes asking for directions much more difficult, because you can't just read the names and ask (mispronouncing, no doubt), since there's no phonetic link between numerals and sounds. Milla is severely unimpressed with both Izmir and the accommodation options we're looking at - I think she'd imagined our entire trip would be in these little hotels and pensions which actually only exist for the backpacker and motoring tourists, ie. the ones with cosy terraces, English-speaking staff and fellow residents from Australia. The place we finally choose costs us 6 million, which is £2.40/$3.65 for a twin room.
Unlike the other guests, who are gathered in the lobby all watching the fuzzy TV (watching TV's big here - this scene is the same in all the pensions/hotels we saw, and the coffee shops), we set out for the evening. First off, we explore the immediate area, which is packed with eateries, barbers, food stalls, hat shops (?), and all manner of places to buy stuff (my favourite is a biscuit-and-sellotape stall). We emerge at the more fashionable end of town - people are wearing normal south European styles (there's hardly a headscarf to be seen), there's wide boulevards, McDonalds, garden cafés and a Hilton. The closer to the shore we get, the more chic it becomes, and we stop for western-style pizza and chicken-wings and chips (our treat - it's virtually our 5-month anniversary) before the prices get too high.
We walk along the shore (there's a little park where the couples are hanging out under the moonlight - yes, couples: almost unseen so far in this muslim country), past expensive sea-front nightclubs and cafés and bars, and then along a street of designer shops (Yves Rocher, Benetton, etc.) which gradually deteriorates into the chaotic squalor of our neighbourhood.

Despite Milla's reservations, we had a chat last night and will spend a day doing nothing (actually administrative stuff) today. We rise late, watch some TV (our window overlooks the terrace of a house, where the family have put a television - it's on almost as much as the one the lobby), feel ill (that's Milla, mostly) and inspect our footwear. The repaired strap on Milla's sandals is doing well, but her walking shoes are beginning to collapse in the heel - there's meanwhile dramatic wear on my trainer-boots, and the sole is separating a little from the fabric, but they'll last a while yet. We set out at about 11.00, retracing our route of last night through our new neighbourhood, and pause for a dirt-cheap but excellent kebab at a little stall opposite the local baths. We wind a little route for a couple of blocks and emerge at Izmir/Smyrna's pretty-much-sole-remaining Roman site - the agora (I know agoras are Greek and fora are Roman, but out here the Romans had agoras - trust me).

The site actually dates back to Alexander, who rebuilt Smyrna when he passed through, but the original area was flattened by a large earthquake and rebuilt in Roman (Aurelian) times: needless to say, the Roman civil engineering has lasted since then. Even though the site was later built upon, and then became an Islamic cemetary, when the excavated they found the whole area (including modern houses) rests on intact Roman foundations. Passages of arches were used to level the site, and to provide a lower-ground floor for buildings on at least two of the four sides: you can still walk in, and through, the passages today, which is pretty impressive. Even the pipes that the Romans put in to channel the water flow of a local spring are still . . . well, channelling the water flow of the local spring. We have the site pretty much to ourselves, except for a small group of young Turkish men looking through pornographic magazines in one remote corner, and a large number of people actively excavating. They've uncovered a lot of very well-preserved (and some quite unusual) pieces of marble (columns, bits of frieze, etc.) which are mostly just piled up around the site - and they've re-erected a few columns. Possibly they're waiting for someone to come along and show them how to put the hundreds of bits together.

After that we wander through the Bazaar (quite good) and then check Tourist Information for details of a local laundry and internet place. Both seem to exist, though the laundry is some distance away. We return to the hotel, gradually, checking photo-shops as we go (we want to find a one-hour place that does index prints - no lunch: our one real option upped his price dramatically when we went back) and nipping into little side-street laundries. Unfortunately most of these are dry cleaners only, and those which aren't price by the individual items (so much for a shirt, so much for a pair of trousers, etc.) which quickly becomes more expensive than I'm willing to pay. Enquiries at reception in the hotel reveal that they have a little woman who seems to live on the roof and wash clothes. I have reservations, considering that she probably "washed" the sheets, but despite the total language barrier we agree a price of 4 million for a bag-full, and that convinces me.

We spend the evening, ie. from 16.30 to 21.30 either writing (me) or sleeping (Milla): I'm behind not only with the web-site but also with the journal (the handwritten original), and Milla's tired and still not feeling 100%. The hotel, which was mostly empty when we got back, has a flurry of noise and activity from 17.45 to 18.30 (which pretty much confirms it's used by workers in from outlying areas) and then becomes quiet again (presumably once they've all either migrated to the lobby to watch TV, or gone out to one of the innumerable men-only coffee shops). We got out ourselves at 21.30 for a local bite to eat (something with meatballs - "kofte" - and potatoes), return to do more writing/sleeping, and eventually crash out (I write until about 01.00).
Realistically we've seen most of what Izmir has to offer (there's a statue of Ataturk at the shore, which we saw; and a clock tower somewhere, which we didn't), ie. a bit of westernised and non-westernised urban life and a disappointingly grey Aegean in the day. There may be ruins of ancient (Greek) Smyrna further north, but lacking any concrete information we don't fancy just tramping about in case. So tomorrow, after 11.00 (when my clothes should be ready) we'll strike inland and visit ancient Sardis, ex-capital of Lydia.

In common with our other Aegean overnight stops, Izmir turns out to be damp at night - the sheets and our clothes are a little clammy when we rise. Also, it takes Milla an age to repack her rucksack (I think she just unpacks more than me, though it may just be a question of practice) and at 10.30 we nip out for an hour, or so we tell the guy. We get another couple of kebabs on the strength of yesterday's, but today's are too dry and peppery. Then, acting on information from the Information Centre's free leaflet, we head to a Milla destination - the Church of St. Polycarp (of whom I've never heard, but who sounds like a marine sort of a saint). It's one of the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse, apparently, though neither of us can remember what's supposed to happen to them: the Red Basilica in Bergama is apparently another.
We find it right opposite where we had a coffee yesterday, though it's surrounded by a fence and locked gate and seems to be part of some Christian charity/educational organisation now. Buzzing at one of the gates produces a large and unsmiling woman, and monosyllabic conversation with her gets us entrance. Peculiarly you get into the church along a white-washed corridor and down a flight of stairs. Inside turns out to be a surprising Central European amrble baroque thing, with very Orthodox-style paintings of Catholic saints: quite surreal. Even more surreal is the group of happy-clappy Japanese Christians occupying the front few pews: they pray aloud, sing happy-clappy songs, recite the Lord's Prayer in Japanese (we presume) and then take a whole load of photographs of the church and of each other. We hang around after they've left (it's a very atmospheric church), but the distinctly non-happy and non-clappy solid woman comes and escorts us off the premises again.

There are ruins clearly visible, so we head towards them: actually, that gives a false impression. There are ruins all over the place - chunks of ancient walls in the middle of fields, beside the road, sprinkled up the hills: what we head for is a fenced-off complex with a ticket booth. Naturally we get student discounts. The site here has been heavily excavated and, in places, heavily restored - it was a little sprawl of buildings next to the main east-west road comprising a bath/gymnasium complex and the buildings surrounding it. The old road follows pretty much the same course as the modern(-ish) road we walked along, but was wider and (being in the city) lined with shops and restaurants. The main entrance to the baths has been rebuilt around the remaining parts, and columns have been re-erected around the palaestra (sports ground) in front. Apart from the swimming pool and frigidarium, the rest of the bath complex is still underground. Sadly the entrance, impressive though it is, looks entirely out of place and modern, despite much of the facade being original.

We have the site pretty much to ourselves, a few butterflies, a tortoise and some very large ants of the type we've seen in other sites, so we get to have a good clamber. Most of what we can see is patently Roman, though Sardis rose to fame as the capital of the Lydian Empire and was largely funded by rich local gold deposits - it was here that modern denominational coinage was supposedly invented. In common with the rest of this area it fell to the Persians and then the Greeks under Alexander, and was Hellenistic under the Romans arrived in Asia Minor.

The most interesting building here is the very early synagogue, which has been a little restored (thanks to donations from various very Jewish-sounding individuals and groups): it's interesting in the extent of how Roman it is. There's a colonnade courtyard at the front; mosaics covering the floor (20% remaining); the main building is a long hall with a semi-circular back end composed of built-in seats; and there's an altar towards the back (marble, with carved eagles on the side). This is pretty much identical to early Roman churches as well, though I have no idea if that's because they were Roman (where temples to Mithras the same?) or because Christianity derives from Judaism (ie. early churches were modelled on synagogues). It's still the same basic model as most Orthodox churches, though Milla tells me that the seats for elders round the back have transmuted into much shallower shelves and are used for icons, etc.

We head out after inspecting the site map, which shows other significant remains in the immediate area. Just east of this complex is a standing section of Lydian fortifications, which we look round: they have later (Byzantine, by the look of them) houses built in. Next, further east, are the remains of the theatre and circus. We walk quite far in the afternoon heat and are disappointed by the long stretch of wall and bulging hill that we come to: walking back past the main site again, of course, we discover that this was actually some random Roman building - the theatre and circus were even further, so we elect not to bother with them.

Instead we head south into the hills and walk what seems like several kilometres uphill in the blazing heat to the Temple of Artemis, which has its own ticket office and charge. There's a bus of Japanese leaving as we arrive, and I have a feeling it's close to closing time: the guys let us in anyway. The temple, of which only the foundations, some sections of the floor, and a few columns survive is huge and hugely impressive. There are two complete columns (apparently the top of one was all that was visible when they started excavating), which are enormous and will need a photo to do them justice: the compelte structure was unlucky not to be listed as a Wonder of the World. We have the place to ourselves (except for an impressively athletic, lizard-killing cat) so we almost desecrate Artemis' altar, but are interrupted by a boy with a herd of goats going through the ruins and hastily pull our clothes back on. The only other item of note was a little Orthodox church built into the back of the temple: now, of course, the remnant of Sart is too small and too far away to sustain a congregation here, but it presumably wasn't then.

We trek all the way back downhill (much easier) to the crossroads, greeting old women in doorways and avoiding football-playing kids as we pass, and then on to the main road (no helpful passing minibus this time). Locals direct us to where we can flag down a passing bus and, after a quick couple of beers, that's exactly what we do. It takes an hour and a half back to Izmir (at 20.00), where we find all the buses to Selcuk are full until 21.30 so we kill time in the bus station (my favourite part of travelling). Milla buys over-priced Turkish Delight (I still don't care much for it); we catch a bit of Turkey vs. Macedonia on a big screen (Macedonia stole a surprising opening goal); have a coffee (after pricing lots of too expensive places); and collect our rucksacks. Then it's onto a short bus journey to Selcuk. Metropolitan Izmir gets 3/10 mainly ebcause of the good shopping (unless you want to develop a film), and little Sart gets 2/10 (would have been 1/10 except for the Temple of Artemis).

We get off the bus with another guy, who turns out to be David from Fort William en route for Kathmandu: together in the rain, we discover that (like Izmir) Selcuk has a lot of streets with no names - only number, and check out Lonely Planet's recommended Homeros Pension. The guy there leads us up three flights of stairs (with rucksacks - ouch), offers us a drink and then reveals he has no free rooms (bastard): he offers us a drink again - all their guests get a free drink. I point out that we're not their "guests" (since they have no rooms), and he explains that all their visitors are considered guests sent by Allah. I refrain from pointing out that Allah clearly sent us to the wrong door, and we leave. Just down the hill we find another little pension with a chained white dog and with en-suite shower/toilet rooms for 12 million (less than £5): David takes a couch on their (covered) terrace, since all the single beds are taken.

We wake in Selcuk, ancient Ephesus, even though the Ephesus ruins are a couple of kilometres outside the modern town. Today is our day for finding a photo place, and checking bus times and prices to various places (there's a lot within a 150km radius of Selcuk) and seeing the town itself. First up, though, is a coffee and we find a place with 1 million (40p) without difficulty: the small town centre is partly pedestrianised and good for a little wander. Even though half the shops seem geared entirely to the tourist trade, only about half the people we see and hear are tourists (usually English here, with some Germans). The Pensions are split three ways: those with Turkish names, those with classical names (Artemis, Paris, Diana, Homeros), and those with Antipodean names (All Black, Downunder, and so on).

Generally it seems okay, except for the incessant chatter of carpet sales people which gets a bit wearing. After wandering the centre for a bit, we head up the hill to the St. John Basilica: St. John, noted Gospel and Revelation writer, apparently wrote his gospel and is buried here, even though that seems to contradict recieved wisdom that he wrote and died on Patmos. The Byzantine/late Romans certainly seem to have believed it was here since they (Justinian) built a massive church on the site (on top of older churches). A presumably deliberate (like the Blue Mosque to Hagia Sophia) counterweight to the nearby Temple of Artemis just down the hill (one of the Seven Wonders), it's built on a high vantage point facing the sea. If fully restored, it would be the seventh largest church in the world (presumably eighth if they finish Barcelona Cathedral), and was a big 6-domed affair. Actually, it's a curious mix - Roman columns with semi-circle arches above: colonnaded marble centre with stepped seating behind; narthex with open courtyard beyond - it's half Roman temple and half Orthodox church.

Milla's efforts to get us in free come to nothing, but we do get a student discount and spend over an hour and a half wandering and clambering. It's mostly in ruins, but there's enough here to give an impression of what it looked like: a boy approaches us in the ruins, spins us a yarn, and offers to sell us ancient coins (he has half a dozen). This later turns out to be a regular feature of Selcuk: presumably there are either hundreds of coins just lying around, or they have some local industry which produces them.

There's a "citadel" (just a ring wall, as far as we can see) at the very top of the hill, just above the church, but it seems to be closed. We go back down to Tourist Information instead, where a friendly man tells us it's technically possible to see Priene, Miletus and Didyma independently (tour operators have been quoting us horrible prices), and gives us advice on getting to Aphrodisias and Pamukkale. We hit the bus station and the bus company offices there pretty much confirm what he said: tomorrow, we decide, we'll try Priene, Miletus and Didyma (three sites in one day) - the biggest challenge, since it'll involve multiple buses and dolmus and possibly hitching.

It's beginning to get late in the afternoon now (we started late) so we decide to hit the Temple of Artemis - it lies just out of town, on the road to the Ephesus site. It turns out to be free which, once we've seen what's left of this ex-Wonder, makes perfect sense. The site (you can see some of the foundations, that's all) is pretty massive - about the same size as the temple in Sardis - but is little more than a field of rubble. They've restored just enough of the Church of St. John that you can imagine what it used to look like: here, they've erected one fairly unconvincing column. Needless to say, it's the French (rather than German and Austrian we've seen so far) who did most of the archaeoligical work here.

We potter about, check out some of the pieces of marble on the ground, look at the geese which seem to live here, and then leave the Artemision (with its Japanese tour group and small collection of stalls at the entrance), pass a curious little Byzantine building (ancient ticket office?) and go round the corner to the Ephesus Museum. Thankfully the museum is open quite late (18.30), so we have time for a good wander - unthankfully, there isn't that much to see. There are half a dozen rooms of Classical and Antique sculptures from in and around Ephesus, a themed display on Eros, and a themed display on the lives (and deaths) of Roman gladiators. Significant pieces include a superb 2nd century AD bronze of Eros riding a dolphin, a couple of monumental statues of Artemis as many-breasted Kybele (closer to the Ishtar form brought to this area from Mesopotamia), and the famous little Bes/Priapus statuette (the one with the massive penis). We spend over an hour there, but it was seriously small fry compared with Istanbul: more in the same league as the museum in Bergama.

We wander around the rest of Selcuk in the evening, put in some quite internet time (it's $2 an hour here - three times Istanbul), and eventually retire.