Turkey -- Day Eleven -- Cirali

Oct 18, Thursday

Waking up on the bus was... not the most pleasant experience. We knew by the time we got to Cirali at mid-morning, we'd be very pleased we didn't waste a day on that long stretch of bus travel, but waking up stiff and, in Steve's case, bitten, was a tiny bit sucky. Getting off the bus to be greeted by a guy yelling 'Olympos Cirali Dolmus' was actually pretty great, since it meant we didn't have to wander around looking for the right bus.

The first thing we noticed was that the air was blissfully, balmily WARM. Probably 20 celcius, even at eight in the morning, and it smelled like honey and deisel.

We paid our -- what, six lira each? -- and walked to the other side of the terminal where we sat in an empty dolmus. It didn't stay empty for long, and when it was truly dolmushed, we left at about 9 am. It tootled along a four-lane highway towards the ocean, when, unexplicably, it turned off onto the dirt on the side of the road and stopped with a bunch of other dolmi (?) where everyone got out to buy simit at a little simit cart parked on the side of the highway. It was quite startling to see cars just... stopping on the side of the freeway to buy simit. Ah, I love Turkey!

After a brief stop, we went back on the highway heading to Cirali. The road was wind after wind, and after about an hour, I was ready to haul out the Gravol but lo! with a two minute stop on the side of the road, we were punted out and left in the now-hot sun at the top of a road that seemed quite a bit more than seven kilometres from the sea.

There were two vehicles parked at a little lookout at the top of the road, and we thought they might be dolmusler (my understanding of Turkish plurals is limited) and they even had little 'Cirali' signs. However, we had previous warning from a different travelogue that there was a proper, cheap dolmus and a more expensive quasi-dolmus, and we were determined not to be taken in.

When pressed, the dolmus driver admitted it was 20L to take us to the village of Cirali but we were welcome to wait until a few more people to show up. Maybe we were overtired and grumpy, but that seemed a little ridiculous -- we only paid 12 to come from Antalya!

We decided to walk. Yes, walk. Seven kilometres to Cirali.

It wasn't as ridiculous as it sounds, now: it was only mid-morning, our packs were still light, we had comfy sandals to put on, and heck -- it was only seven klicks, downhill.

We set off and were amazed all over again at the scent of the air. The pine forest combined with fruit trees, the heat on the road, passing orchards of oranges and red pomegranates, barking dogs, crowing chickens: it seemed like paradise, and it smelled of milk and honey.

After a few kilometres, we came to a small cafe on the side of the road. Since our simit breakfast seemed a long time ago, we decided to stop for 'gozleme', a kind of stuffed crepe we had heard was good.

The proprieters were a little surprised to see people coming by, on foot, at eleven am, but set to with a will. They had a cunning little samovar with a fire underneath to heat the hot water, with the teapot on top, kept from overbrewing by distance from the heat. We drank tea, and much to our surprise, were brought a huge fresh tomato, sliced on a plate. We were told it was a tomato from the wife's mother in Nevsehir and we were told it was the best tomato we'd ever have, and they were right. It was the penultimate tomato, and we ate it sliced with a dusting of cilantro under a grape arbour in a land where the very dirt smelled of spice. The gozleme were good too, but the tomato... ah, the tomato!

The entertainment for the meal consisted of a darling little girl, maybe four years old, who kept appearing at my elbow, staring up with long-lashed eyes and sniffling gently from a cold. Her parents eventually plunked her down on a chair a few feet away where she could look to her heart's content without actually being attached to me, but it didn't stick. It got to the point where she was clutching at my arm with her head leaning against my shoulder, spreading adorable little germs all over my sleeve... she was too cute to push away, so I wiped her nose as best I could and drank my tea.

Best of all, Murat, our host, who was driving his little girl down to town to attend mother-school, offered to pile us into his minivan and take us down to Cirali. Good things happen to those who stop and eat domates. On the way down, Murat talked to us about Mevlana and the holy nature of Sufis in his very limited English. Much to my annoyance, my Rough Guide Phrasebook didn't have ANY words to describe religious feelings like sacred or holy -- not that we're terribly religious ourselves, but we wanted to describe to Murat the amazing things we had seen. Stupid phrasebook!

Did I mention the tomato?

We were dropped right at the door to the Canada Hotel, which seemed a heck of a lot farther than seven kilometres from the road. We were greeted by Saban who, with his Canadian-born wife, Carrie, owns the Canada Hotel. The hotel appeared, at first glance, to be a little slice of paradise itself. The bluest pool, backdrop by the nearby mountainside, alongside a covered cabana, which was next to a lovely green space separated from the road by the pink hotel itself. There were chickens and bunnies, and trees growing oranges and bananas, and hammocks dotted in the shade. Hamukkale! we cheered when we saw the hammocks.

We were shown to our room, which was cool and peaceful, with a little balcony looking over the green garden and a spotless bathroom with a nice shower stall. We appeared to be the only guests. After a little nap, we changed into swimming clothes and set out to find the Mediterranean.

The Canada Hotel is a short walk from the village proper, and it took us just a few minutes to reach the bridge, while dogs and cats came out to greet us, and chickens crossed the road over and over again. At the bridge was a sign advertising a massage place and I resolved to avail myself of those services while in Cirali.

After the bridge began the main village, which comprised a little grocery store, a glass-blowing place, a few car-rental places (including one renting a white Suzuki Samurai), and about a million little restaurants and cafes. We walked down a little road and then cut down another road to the right, towards the beach, which was everything you can imagine in a beach: long, long expanse of white sand, actual turquoise waters (Turkey = turquoise), beautiful wooden gullet yachts moored offshore, and a whole bank of white beach loungers.

We set ourselves up on a lounger and eventually abandoned our beach towels (handily provided by the Canada Hotel) and headed for the water. The beach was a little pebbly, and I minced across the stones towards the water, where Steve had already thrown himself in. I took a little longer, though the water was very warm. Once I was in, it was glorious. The water was clear, clear, clear and the sky was blue, blue, blue, and the salt was heavy on our lips. We splashed around and goofed around and had a wonderfully honeymoon sappy time, floating together in the bouyant sea.

The sea seemed endless and the sun sparkled on the water. We eventually tore ourselves out of the surf and staggered back up to the lounger, where we baked in the sun for a little while. It was very comfy, though we kept wondering when the boy asking for money for the privilege of lounging was going to come along. He never did, and we decided to head back to the main part of town and look for icecream! Yay, dondurma!

After looking in too many empty coolers (I guess only crazy tourists get icecream in October), we finally found Magnums, which are kind of like a Sensation bar, but better. Mmmm... icecream on a stick! We wandered slowly back to the hotel, eating icecream and dodging chickens, looking forward to many more dips in the deep blue Med.

We asked the Samarai-renter how much for a day, and he said 70L, which was cheaper than we expected. When he asked where we were staying, and we told him, he told us Saban was his cousin. Now, we'd been in Turkey long enough to know that everyone has a brother/uncle/cousin, and all those relatives want to sell you something, so we took that with a grain of salt. When we talked to Saban, though, it turns out to be true! Saban had grown up in the tiny town of Cirali, so, when he met Carrie (originally from Calgary), it made sense for them to come back and have a hotel in his hometown. Carrie was staying in Antalya with the kids, who go to school there.

After discussion, we decided to rent the little Samurai. No credit card, no deposit... the guy just came to the hotel with the jeep and the keys, I turned it on to make sure it went, and we did an entirely irrelevent walk around it (in the dark) to see about damage. None that we could see! It was a 1992, and white, and had a working top, but other than that it was pretty much identical to our little jeep at home. This was going to be fun!

Having jeep-acquired, we sat down for our first dinner. We were first brought steaming bowls of homemade cream of tomato soup, which was divine. Then no less then five mezes were brought out, each more delicious than the last, in addition to fresh salad and exquisite bread. We stuffed ourselves stupid. The main course was a blur of tastyness, and then dessert! Craziness!

We rolled ourselves up to our room and collapsed in a pair of overstuffed lumps, where we slept soundly on comfy beds. The only thing that disturbed us was my occasional cough...