Why I love Turkey

Oh my god, I love Turkey! Not the gobble gobble kind either but the amazing shopping and rugs Turkey.
Today was another super early start for our excursion. We were going to visit the ancient city of Ephesus, a short bus ride from the port, uncovered during excavations 140 years ago and still being excavated today.
It was a Roman and Greek city built by a general of Alexander the Great’s for the Ephesian people. Apparently, Alexander had promised it to them during his travels through the region but died before he could make good on this oath. So his mate, a general under him, came back and built the city. But then, the people didn’t want to move to it, already living comfortably elsewhere. So the general stopped up all the drainage in their town and it flooded, forcing the inhabitants to move to his new city of Ephesus.
It is one of the archaeological wonders of the world and some of it is very well preserved. It is similar to Pompeii and the forum in Rome, given it was Roman architecture but the most amazing thing about Ephesus is its size. Only 13 per cent of the city has been uncovered in 140 years of excavations. The rest of it still lays buried beneath tonnes of earth and who knows what treasures they will find if they ever excavate the lot.
The site includes some Roman baths, toilets, a library, a theatre (that could seat 24,000 spectators) and many more temples as well as residential houses. Ephesus is where Antony and Cleopatra honeymooned: the boulevard they walked on is still preserved today.
And it’s accessible. Almost the entire site of Ephesus can be touched, walked on, climbed over and sat on, making it much more engaging than Pompeii and the forum.
Our guide, Emre, was very knowledgeable and a hoot to boot. We wandered the site for about an hour, taking in only about one kilometre of the vast city.
It was only 9am but it was getting hot. The heat we have experienced since being in Italy and Greece has been stifling at times.
Bypassing the guy selling photos on his camel for one euro, we boarded the bus to head back towards the port (it had been about a half hour drive) to visit the Ottoman Rug Gallery. This could have been one of those cheesy things the tour guides are known for, where they take you to certain stores in the hope of getting kickbacks from sales. And it was, but it was also very interesting.
Turkey is renowned for its rugs. For centuries, Turkish women have traditionally handmade the most elaborate, intricate and spectacular rugs. The difference between Turkish rugs and other rugs from around the world is that Turkish rugs are always double knotted, making them more long lasting and resilient to traffic.
As this was all being explained to us by the store manager, his minions unrolled dozens and dozens of rugs in various sizes, colours and patterns and some of them were very beautiful. There were rugs as small as a placemat while others would fill a large lounge room. There were “magic carpets” that changed colour as you spun them around as the lay of the weave hit the light (if you said the magic words abracadabra). He explained that while the smallest rugs could be created in as few as three weeks, some of the larger ones could take up to several years to complete and would be worked on by several women. On the other hand, a very intricate and rare rug he showed us, about the size of a pillow case took four years by one woman who worked on it for just two hours a day. But her work was much sought after and it was in silk.
They had rugs made of cotton on cotton, wool on cotton, silk on cotton and silk on silk, with the latter obviously fetching a higher price. These were Turkey’s answer to the Renaissance arts.
The tradition of rug making was slowly disappearing in Turkey and this store was part of a co-operative working with local villages to on-sell the rugs produced by the women on a world market.
And as Kylie said I would, I bought one.
After drinking our apple tea and examining all the rugs before us, almost everyone in our group left the moment the time came for the minions to start the hard sell. Sam and I left our move a fraction late and got spotted eyeing one rug too closely.
“You like?” one of the minions asked.
“Yes, they are all beautiful,” I said.
“I get you a price.”
Curious more than anything to know how much these artworks went for, we waited to find out.
The larger rug I had my eye on was about 500 euro. It was about a fifth larger than a doormat.
No way. But there was another and much smaller rug I had liked from the moment it was rolled out. It was tiny in comparison to what we had seen, about the size of placemat but a big longer. It was mostly red in colour that kind of took on a pinky hue in a certain light.
“How much for this one?” I asked.
A few calculations and our “special Contiki discount” because “you are young and not rich”.
“120 euro.”
Sam and I visibly gulped and made to walk away. Apparently it was usually 300 euro but for us it was a very special price.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t afford that. I am a poor student.” Hehe.
“You like it, yes?”
“Yes, I like it but I can’t pay that much.”
“How much you pay then?”
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“How about, just for you then, let’s say 100 euro we have a deal?”
“I’m sorry, no that’s too much money. I love it but I can’t pay that much.”
“You tell me then how much you pay?”
At this point Sam chipped in with “60 euro”.
Now it was the salesman’s turn to be shocked and to tell the truth so was I. I probably would never have gone that low. The salesman swallowed, looked a tad cranky.
“Let me ask the boss, I can’t decide on such a low price.”
He turned to the owner and spluttered something in Turkish with much hand gesturing. I’m sure we were being called all sorts of horrid names.
“70, I can do it for 70.”
Done.
So we bought a rug and it was promptly rolled up, wrapped up and with its care instructions tucked into the bag we were out of there before we bought anything else. I thought we got a good deal.
Our rug took four weeks to make, is handmade and will outlast us. “Turkish rugs will last 3, 4, 500 years even in high traffic areas,” they tell us. We will use it as a wall hanging because it’s so small.
Leaving the rug store, we found the rest of the group ready to hit the Turkish baths. Having declined the offer of being pummelled by a hairy Turkish man, Sam and I decided to continue shopping in the bazaar instead.
Did I mention I love Turkey?
I loved every shop, every little thing they sold there - except Turkish delight which you could get five boxes of for 10 euro.
The hukas I really liked the look of. They are the big water pipes that people smoke flavoured tobacco out of. Now Sam and I had no interest in using them to smoke but they were beautifully crafted and very Turkish.
We particularly liked the look of the copper ones, engraved and hand painted with intricate patterns around the base. They came in all sizes but the one we liked was about 60cm tall and weighed much less than what we thought to look at, coming in at just under 900 grams.
I know this, because we bought one and posted it home.
But before I get to that, we shopped around for the huka. The first shop we tried the guy offered it to us for 60 euro and it was nice but instinct told us we might get a better price.
So we wandered in and out of a dozen shops selling the same things. The delicate tea sets were so beautiful and I desperately wanted one but had no idea how I would get it home.
Finally, in a shop that looked like all the others, selling the same things, we found a huka that seemed, actually exactly the same but the guy had cornered us this time.
“How much?”
“120 euro,” he said.
“Seriously? What’s your best price?”
“100 euro.”
Well, we can get the same one around the corner for 50 euro,” we said.
“50 euro?”
“Yep, 50. If we can pay that, we will got back to the other guy.”
“You are honest, so I respect that. I will sell it to you for 50 euro.”
Another deal done.
God I love Turkey.
Now we had this whopping huka and a Turkish rug. This was going to make my pack a lot heavier.
As we left the store, I saw a sign for the post office and we decided that if it was reasonable we would post back the huka, as the guy had put it in a box for us.
When the guy at the post office deigned to notice us, he was actually quite helpful. Like I said, the huka weighed about 900 grams, which with the box and newspaper he stuffed into it took it up to about a kilo. To send it back to Australia would cost us 20 euro, but to not have to carry it around for the next five weeks, there was no questioning the value.
While stuffing our box, the post office guy asked how much we had paid for it. When we told him 50, he seemed quite impressed. I asked him if we had got a good price or been ripped off and he said, “no that good.”
Hopefully, it gets there. Kate I sent it to you by the way.
The job done, we power walked back to the ship, having left ourselves about five minutes to get back on board.
We made it with plenty of time, as many others were late, but it was close.
Stowing our bags away in our cabin, it was time for lunch on board. Pretty much more of the same as the day before.
Today, however, after lunch I had booked in for some desperately needed attention at the beauty salon.
My hair had become unmanageable and dry and my feet … oh yeah they were bad. Weeks of walking around for between four and nine hours a day had left the heels hard and cracked, the soles dry and my nails were, well, a Greek tragedy.
I had only booked in for a shampoo and cut, along with the pedicure but as the woman put my feet into the spa bath to soak, she talked me into a manicure as well while we were waiting.
Loving the attention after weeks on the go, in and out of hotels, train stations, bus stations and airports, it was so nice to actually relax for a few hours of luxury.
My finger nails weren’t nearly as tragic as my toe nails and this was a pretty no fuss affair though the hand and arm massage were lovely.
Then we got to the feet.
With the pumice stone she set to work and the expression on her face said it all.
“I know, I’m sorry. They are awful,” I said.
She smiled wryly and said “yes, but I have seen worse … not much worse.”
Fantastic, I had hobbit feet.
I’m sure this pedicure took much longer than the woman had anticipated but she won in the end. Humiliated as I was it wasn’t difficult to talk me into buying some pedi scrub and foot lotion.
After she was done with my feet and I resembled something human again, she moved onto my hair.
It needed a good trim and I wanted a fringe again.
She took to me with scissors and the result … probably not what I would have done but it’s grown on me. I don’t think I have had a fringe this short since primary school.
She also managed to talk me into buying some conditioner, which since I actually needed some I was happy to do.
Pretty and pampered, by the time we were finished it was ready to disembark at Patmos, the third stop on our island hopping cruise.
Patmos was a disappointment. We had opted to go on the scenic island tour excursion which included a stop at St John’s grotto, the place where John had apparently written the Book of Revelations.
Not being religious I was still interested to see this holy site, which is said to be second only to Jeruselum. It attracts thousands and thousands of pilgrims every year.
The scenic island tour was a bus trip. It was very hot and the tour guide had a very monotonous voice that encouraged one to sleep rather than ask questions.
Patmos is a small island that has a huge water shortage. They ship in water from Crete and the island has no hospital. Pregnant women due to give birth have to leave for the mainland or Crete at least a month before.
Compared to Mykonos, it had little charm and compared to some of the other places we had seen like Cyprus, it had little beauty. It was quite a barren place that people apparently spent millions of euros on to live and vacation to during summer.
Personally I didn’t see it.
Then came St John’s grotto. So this was a cave basically that John was exiled to from Turkey. He was very old at the time and it was here he allegedly heard God speak to him and he wrote the Book of Revelations.
Now it has been proven that a dude by the name of John did live here for some time and did write the book.
But, you go in this cave and there are some niches in the wall that have been gilded in gold. This one was where he “used to put his hand to help him stand” up and this one “he used to rest his head and sleep ”. And people are worshipping these holes in the walls. It was bizarre. There is also no proof this is what they were used for at all. There is also a section in the rock ceiling where three lines meet in the overhang. This is apparently where John heard the voice of the Lord and so powerful it was that it cracked the rock into three - the Holy Trinity.
Now, that to me is downright bogus and I hate when the church profit off bogus. It’s not free to visit the cave and monastery constructed above it in the 15th century. Thousands of people from around the world travel here to pray and honour their beliefs at this site and there isn’t a skeric of evidence to support it. Grrr.
So anyway, it was a tiny cave that you walked around in a anti-clockwise direction to look at some gold gilded holes in the wall.
It was very underwhelming.
All up, this island excursion had cost us 54 euro each and it was the least value for money of all the Contiki optionals so far.
On the way back to the port, the tour guide spent 10 minutes selling us on why we should visit a little café situated on the water and what it sold and where we could sit there. It was blatant sales and was not well received.
So Patmos disappointed me. The only good thing about it was we found an internet café there and were able to print out our tickets for our flights to Venice from Athens and we booked our accommodation in Venice.
Back on the ship, it was time for dinner, our first on board. Eight of us went to the restaurant where we had a selection of about four different entrees, soups and salads, mains, side dishes and desserts.
The food was filling and tasty and before long it was time to get ready for our Contiki cocktail party.
This, for those avid followers of ours, was where we thought Sam would need a suit for but it seems some things changed since Contiki last updated its itineraries.
The ship used to host a Captain’s cocktail party which required a jacket and tie for men and cocktail dresses for women. This had since stopped so now Contiki held its own cocktail party for half an hour in one of the lounges on board. All drinks and cocktails during this whole half hour were “free” - meaning we had paid for it in the cost of our tour.
But anyway, Sam decided to pull out the suit because it would probably be his only chance to wear it and we had been telling everyone about his brown linen suit. I had also still never seen it on him.
I don’t know if dashing would be the right word to describe it but certainly conspicuous.
We indulged in our free drinks and stuck around for happy hour in the lounge when all drinks were half price.
We ended up buying so many in that hour we couldn’t finish them and it was about midnight that I was ready for bed.
Alysia (August 28)

Cruising the Greek islands - Mykonos

After celebrating our final night with the entire Contiki group in Athens, it was another early start for our departure for our three-day Greek Island cruise. About half our original tour group was going on the tour extension. Others were embarking on the seven-day cruise and a handful were going home. Our half was to be merged with another Contiki group, the Concept crew, that had finished the previous day in Athens too.
After being picked up from the hotel about 8am it was a half hour bus ride to the port. Our new Contiki tour manager, Dom, filled us in on how the embarkation process would work, including the fact we would have to hand in our passports (eek). The cruise company collects all the passports for the purposes of obtaining visas as we visited the different islands and left and re-entered the European Union from Turkey. For many, the idea of handing over our passports was a bit scary, being that for those travelling for many weeks and months, it was our sole form of identity.
But, as promised by Dom, when we arrived at the port, the handing over of our lifelines went off without a hitch. We also had to sign health declarations introduced apparently since the swine flu epidemic.
Our ship was to be the Aquamarine, operated by Louis Hellenic Cruise Lines. It wasn’t a big ship, taking only 1200-odd passengers and 300 crew.
Once inside, this being our first time on a cruise, we didn’t really have any sort of expectations except perhaps what we had seen on the cover of P&O brochures.
Well, this was not like what we had seen. It was an older ship, built in Finland in 1971 our Cruise News informed us and the décor had obviously not been changed since.
Sam and I had opted for the “balcony” upgrade which turned out to be a window. This was only a slight disappointment and didn’t bother us beyond the initial “oh OK, no worries”. There were no balconies at all on this ship so it wasn’t like we had missed out but to hear some of our tour mates carry on you would have thought it was the biggest let down since the Sex And The City sequel.
It was simply furnished, with twin beds, the window between and a small bathroom with a tiny shower. But it was clean and private and we did at least have some sort of view that others within the ship did not.
So after checking out our digs we almost immediately had a meeting with our tour manager in one of the lounges, up one floor.
Here she explained how the disembarking procedures worked when we would leave the ship on excursions and also explained what those excursions were. There were several more than what had been outlined in the Contiki itinerary and Dom had highlighted those she recommended. The excursions were open to everyone on the ship so if you didn’t do what the majority of what the Contiki group wanted to do, you would end up in a group of old people.
We were by far the youngest group on the ship by at least 20 years and easily the loudest.
Each port had two excursion options, the first stop being Mykonos later that afternoon.
By this time it was about 11am and we were to set sail shortly. We would arrive in Mykonos about 6pm that night and only have about four hours on shore to explore the town.
However, before we could kick back and find the pool and the bar, we had an emergency drill. This involved getting our life jackets out from under our beds and heading up on deck to stand with the rest of the people that in the event of the ship going down we would be sharing a boat with.
And I’lI tell you what, had there been an actual emergency, we would all be at the bottom of the Aegean Sea right now because it took forever. It wouldn’t have been half so bad if they hadn’t insisted we all stand so close together, with the men at the back and oldies and women in front. It was stifling hot and some had no concept of personal space.
So finally, after our cabin numbers had been checked off and we had waited for all the stupid people (there were so many on this trip) to get up on deck, we were released for a few hours of leisure before docking in Mykonos.
It didn’t take me long to find the pool, which for the record looked nothing like an inviting crystal blue oasis but more a green, kinda dirty looking backyard swimming pool.
Sam bailed, slinking back to the cabin for a sleep. I opted to lay in the sun. And it was soooo windy. Up on the sun deck, it was blowing a gale you didn’t notice just a few steps below where the pool was, protected as it was by glass walls.
It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the cruise ship lost at least 50 pool towels each cruise from unwary passengers who didn’t hold on to them tightly enough while on deck. Even sitting upright on the sun lounge was a struggle. But it did make it much cooler that what it would otherwise have been. It was also one of those rare occasion where we had free time and weren’t stuck on a bus or ferry or in a room.
The hours whiled away and soon it was time to head back down to the lounge to meet with Dom to disembark for Mykonos.
The wind was so strong that where the ship normally docked was impossible which actually worked in our favour. Had we docked we would have had to catch a shuttle bus at a cost of eight euro to the town centre. As it was, the ship dropped anchor just outside the town port and tender boats pulled up alongside the ship picking up about 40-60 passengers at a time to drop them into the town. It was free and much more convenient.
And it was just as windy. Mykonos is apparently the most windy of all the Greek Islands and today it was proving that.
Unfortunately many of the girls in our group, including myself had been getting around in short dresses for days because it was so hot and today was no different. I’m sure plenty of tourists on the island that day have plenty of shots with my bum flashed for all to see.
But apart from the wind, which disappeared once you escaped into the maze of streets and whitewashed buildings, it was beautiful. It’s a town just like a postcard; all the buildings are white washed twice a year and the windows and doors all painted blue only the shade varying. The narrow streets made of stone were clean and all around were shops selling beautiful jewellery, restaurants with the freshest seafood and bars everywhere. Mykonos is renowned as a party island. Unfortunately our ship was leaving at 10.30 so there was no time to check out the nightlife.
We wandered the maze of streets with a few of our tour mates we had become good friends with and found the old windmills that were used to grind grain back in the day. We walked through what’s called Little Venice because of the buildings built right onto the sea walls. Then the hunt for fried calamari began.
All our meals throughout the three-day cruise are included in our package, if you eat on board. Mykonos would be our only port where our time spent on shore would coincide with the dinner hour on the ship. We could return if we wanted to but the lure and smell of fresh seafood was strong.
After comparing the prices at a dozen restaurants we ended up at the one our tour manager had recommended. It was reasonably priced, out of the wind and the food was good.
Everyone got their fried calamari, seafood risotto, grilled octopus or whatever else took their fancy. There was a slight incident when a gypsy girl (they are everywhere) tried to insist we buy her flowers. We have seen gypsies begging everywhere we have been, particularly in Florence, but also people selling flowers, usually at night in restaurants. They are however, usually men. But last night in Athens in the bar we were having our farewell drinks in, a girl who couldn’t have been more than five years old was walking around a dark bar trying to selling roses. It was probably well after midnight and no parents seemingly in sight.
It was the first time I had seen them use the children in this way and then it happened again as I said, in Mykonos at this restaurant.
She put the flowers on the table in front of Sam and we said no, as we always did. The little viper said “yes”. “No” we repeated. “Yes” she said, this time more aggressively. Each time I said no, the little brat yelled yes until what had been a cute little face was twisted into an ugly expression that certainly wasn’t going to win her any sales.
I ended up having to pick the flowers up off the table and throwing them down behind me, where no one was sitting.
And just like that, she picked them up and moved on to the next person at our table. However, she seemed to get the message more quickly this time and moved on to another group.
After dinner, Dom was meeting the group to take us to a bar she had persuaded to open early so we could experience something of Mykonos night life.
But I was buggered, and so was everyone else we had eaten with and we opted to return to the ship.
We had an early start in the morning as we would wake up in Turkey at the port of Kudasai. We were going to explore the ancient city of Ephesus that many have claimed is even better than Pompeii. We would see.
Alysia (August 27)

The Acropolis

The Acropolis, all lit up the night before, called to us just as strong in the morning. And after breakfast we were out the doors of our fancy looking hotel to the bus. Getting there would be somewhat of a history lesson in itself. Our tour guide pointed out the architecture contingent with the Hungarian (?) duke who led the city in the 19th (?) century. What surprised me was how much the city didn’t look like a capital. This despite the fact it was an important piece in the Roman-Greek empire. Evidentaly when the barbarians stormed the city much of it was destroyed and it remained little more than a town of only a few thousand people until Greece won its independence a few short years ago.
At the drop point for our tour of the Accropolis our intructions were clear; be back at this point by 10.20 or be left behind. So many people come to the sight on buses, off cruises indeed, that its movements are more frequent than Athens international. If there was a flight controller overseeing this mess I would not be surprised. Our guide led the way up the hill over marble steps polished by millions of feet. Yes they were slippery. Through the turnstiles, not unlike those at a sports stadium, we looked up and there was the Acropolis still standing strong. We had roughly an hour. Our guide powered through stopping frequently to talk with us. The capacity of the arhitects of this era continued to amaze me. Their belief was the structure should work with nature. Therefore, rather than levelling a pad for the Acropolis, they curved the marble floor over the crest of the hill. And, like the Pantheon in Rome, they curved the floor to aid with drainage. Now for most people this would cause a big problem. The columns would be at all angles. But with hammer and chisel they shaped the columns to keep them all precisely in alignment. This was no mean feat considering the columns themselves are tapered as well. Their genius didn’t stop there either. They Greeks and Romans were well aware of what the area’s seismic activity would do to this structure. Linking these giant slabs are iron pegs coated in lead. Without that coating the iron would have corroded and weakened the stone to the point of collapse. Alas, after 2000 years, one could only expect some wear and tear. The stone in places is crumbling. So engineers inject it with a saline solution to slow if not stop the process. Where damage has already occurred some marble sections are being replaced to maintain the structural integrity as a whole. The pegs used today are titanium.
The only thing more astounding than all of this was the number of people up on that hill. Still so early in the day and in 30 degree-plus heat. Being all stone the heat is intense. I could not imagine what it would be like in peak-summer after midday. We grabbed a few photos with what little time we had and started our descent. It was at this point, with people running past us, we realised it was a quarter past. We had five minutes to get back down all the slippery stairs through the hordes of people. Members of our group were running and Alysia even left me behind for a bit. Damned thongs. It’s like the British say: If tying shoelaces requires an IQ of 60 then why do so many Aussies wear thongs? Luckily I proved to myself at least I had the dexterity to achieve the task and not get left behind. But could a soap dodging Pom do the same? I ask you.
On the way back to the hotel, with everyone on board, we stopped to look at the reconstuction of the world’s first Olympic stadium. All stone, the original must have looked amazing, considering how good the reconstruction looked. It did host a few events when Athens hosted the first modern world Olympics. From my perspective though it was a photographic nightmare being too big to squeeze into frame with zero time to compose something a little bit fun.
Around the corner from our hotel we sat down to eat some more souvlaki in pita. All up it was less than 10 euro and so good. Time was soon up though and we had to meet our new tour manager for the cruise which started the next day. Seated among some now familiar faces Dominique - Dom she insisted - filled us in how it would work in a very straight forward way. This South African was one straight shooter: “You will hand over your passports to the cruise company because that is the way it works.” Gulp.
The afternoon was ours to do as we wished. For me, that was kick back in our room, with the energy-sapping beginnings of a cold. While Alysia slept I started investigating alternative transport to Venice. The ferry ride from Bari to Corfu, seeing how we would travel to Venice for 30 hours, turned us off. Quite simply it would not be a comfortable trip - 30 hours - without a bed or cabin. How would we watch our belongings in our sleep. Researching flights and different destinations took all afternoon and still we weren’t sure which way to leap.
With the sun getting low in the sky we made for our farewell dinner. This optional extra didn’t leave us hungry either with there being no shortage of food. I just wished I could enjoy it and some wine without the sore throat. In between mouthfuls traditional Greek dances would entertain us and “accidentally” fall into the laps of some onlookers. One girl was even distracted and quickly hoisted onto the shoulders of the stocky Greek man and spun around above our heads. It was good value. Just outside the restaurant we posed for an impromptu group photo on some stairs. Then we head to the bar near our hotel for drinks. Alysia embraced the old friend that is SoCo while I sought out something to anaesthetise my throat a little. Jack straight up did the trick. Over the next few hours I sipped on a few of these and talked with a small, revolving group of people, off the dance floor. It was only now over these drinks, virtually at the end of our time, that everyone started to gel. It was good to see but I for one was disappointed this hadn’t happened the frst night. Faring well those with whom we parted with the next day, we called it a night about 1am.
Sam

A long travel day from Corfu to Athens

Corfu had been just what we needed. It was a break from all the history we’d immersed ourselves. And it was a chance to unwind, by the pool and on the boat. So we were a little sad when boarding the ferry to mainland Greece. The boat itself was a little classier than the job we’d caught from Bari to Corfu. At first we sat on deck but then chanced our hand at finding a seat in the lounge leaving behind some of our Contiki group. We managed to find some comfy seats even if we couldn’t lay down. The award for most random event went to this Greek guy who, for seemingly no reason, just collapsed. Maybe he’d drunk more than some of us the previous night. For us it was an uneventful trip. We drew nearer to port without drama. But when it came to jumping off we would do it ourselves. Katia, our Contiki Mamma, was somewhere else on the ship sorting out “a fight”. We didn’t see her for some time, even after loading the bags onto the coach, we were left wondering. Kimberly, from British Columbia, explained what had happened: the Contiki group on deck were trying to sleep and took objection to a Greek family playing some loud music. When they refused to turn it down Amy disappeared only to return with the captain in tow. His instructions; turn it down. And so they did apparently. For a little while at least. So when the music came back up you can only guess the trouble began. Hand gestures flew until Amy got a firm shove for her trouble. Ah the Greeks. They’re passionate if nothing else and they weren’t going to back down. By the time we docked, the captain had contacted the police and wanted Amy to file a report. Katia had to sort it out and .thankfully the matter was dropped and we could resume our trip.
The coach took us through some hilly, spectacular countryside, winding our way to the first stop. Katia had arranged for us to dine on some gyros, souvlaki in pita bred, for little more than a couple of euros plus drinks. Among the last off the bus we were even lucky enough to finish eating in time to get back on the coach with perhaps a minute to spare.
The next few hours were spent dozing as the countryside opened up. We followed the ocean at a distance. Between us and it fields, then houses. Before Athens we stopped to admire a feat in engineering which had only been a dream in Roman times. It was a canal, only 25 metres wide, and 6km long. Standing on a traffic bridge over it, we could see both ends. And the boats beneath us passing through. Big deal? You might write it off quickly. But before this ships had to travel hundreds of kilometres around.
Athens was a welcome sight to the group after a full day of travelling. Checking into our modern, clean hotel only built on the sense of relief. We even had time to clean up before heading to a nearby restaurant for one of our included dinners. It wasn’t a big walk either through the tourist markets to find it nestled among other restaurants. The food wasn’t remarkable but it did the trick and we certainly weren’t complaining. In fact we were just as keen to get back to the hotel and checkout the roof top terrace with the “amazing view”. All we needed was a bottle of wine to make it an event so we found a local drop and made our way back. Between about six of us we managed to stay on the right track, too.
On the top floor of our hotel, we walked out of the lift and onto the terrace. What a view. All lit up to the north was the Acropolis, standing strong on a rocky outcrop as its designers intended some 2000 years ago.
In vain we snapped away but even with our SLRs couldn’t get the best pictures - perhaps with a tripod and a few thousand dollars worth of lens - really we were just playing around. Wisely, we decided to sit back, sip the wine and enjoy the company.
We listened in shock and delight. Paul told us how he was robbed in his sleep on a train in Italy 10 years back. And Clinton let it slip he would propose to Mai in Venice. But quickly added we should still meet up seeing as we’d be there at the same time, though he couldn‘t share a gondola ride as Alysia had suggested. I kinda guessed he had something planned. We were content knowing we could celebrate with them. But now it was time for bed. We had to be sure to keep mum.
Sam (August 25)

George's Boat

“I’m on a boat, I’m on a boat!” It wasn’t the type of boat our US gangster-singer was spruiking about, wearing his “flippy floppies”. It was infinitely cooler than some million dollar yacht. This was George’s Boat, maybe a once upon a time fishing trawler but now a party boat catering to the young and young at heart. George the Greek is something of a Contiki legend. He may be as round as he is short but somehow his sewer mouth makes it hard not to like him. The singlet tops he sold were equally hilarious, all of which told us to “Come afloat! on Georges Boat.” Fitting given the scene depicted on the back of it was a Greek orgy and quite explicit. So, of course, we bought one. On the front of mine is a simple skull and crossbones design, like the pirate flag flying from the boat’s mast. I may as well have got the “Eat Pussy” or the “Fork Off” because there’s no way I could get around in public wearing it even as is.
First up on the menu was some water sports with the strict instruction not to starting pissing it up until after. Many leapt into activities of which the most popular was parasailing. And having watched a few people do it I was keen to refresh some skydiving memories. Alysia, who done nothing of the sort before, was keen to.
There were only a few nerves in the seconds before we ran off the edge of the platform and were lifted high up behind the back of a boat. The first few seconds were pure adrenaline and the lift into the air was an amazing feeling.
Back on the platform, our Contiki friend Jen was capturing every moment on our camera.
We sailed high above the sea, about a kilometre past where our boat was docked at the beach before our boat driver gave us a good dunking in the water before hitting the throttle and lifting us back up.
When the time came to be dropped in the water for real, there was a short moment of panic where you think the weight of parachute behind you would pull you under the water but the life vests kept us well; afloat.
The boat driver swung around and picked us back up and ran us back into the platform, where the others were waiting to have their turn.
Alysia headed back to the beach but the adrenaline junkie in me was alive and kicking. Before long I had eight people keen to ride the banana behind the ski boat. Life jackets on and we were out on the water. It was all very tame for at least a couple of minutes until the turns got tighter and tighter. The spray was flying higher and higher too. Then like dominos we fell. Tangles of legs and arms amid torsos shattering the smooth water. At least one person copped it in the head unsurprisingly. Climbing back on the thing was equally as amusing. And as is the way the first crash is the catalyst for more. Boys being boys, the banana was soon sabotaged by rogue passengers, leaning the wrong way. Bam - another head full of salt water. Inflatable toys behind boats are the most bizarre form of torture in that no matter how uncomfortable it is you can’t stop smiling.
Food! No sooner were we out of the water were we back on George’s boat eating his home grown salad. “Cheeky, cheeky, all fresh, all good for the sex life, eat up.” Along with the cold cuts, salad and thick-cut fresh bred were the chips. As promised they were a highlight in themselves. If people hadn’t started drinking all ready they soon did. George had a well-stocked ice chest with cheap beer and girly-drinks. This fueled some bravery at our first off-the-side swimming spot in crystal azure waters. At least a couple of dives and flips went awry. This was merely an entrée to the main though where at our next stop, Skinny Dippy Island, our Contiki reps lost their gear and went overboard, followed by almost everyone else on the boat. We were competing for pride of course against the Concept Contiki group with the prize to be presented that evening. In the water the girls stayed close while the guys kept a safe distance. Getting the togs back on in the water was a challenge too. I thought I had it easily whipped until back on the boat Alysia pointed out they were inside out. Damn! Back in the water for another try.
Further on we motored with DJ George spinning discs. He decided it was time for us Australians to sing the national anthem. We were way-out numbered by the Canadians on Contiki but we made sure we set the bar high belting out Advance Australia Fair, followed of course by a rousing round of Aussie-Aussie-Aussie-Oi-oi-oi! But George being well versed in Australians behaving badly abroad roused us into singing I Come From a Land Down Under.
The Canadians responded strongly in the vocal olympics with their anthem before we all sang along to Bryan Adam’s Summer of 69 - Bryan being Canadian of course. The handful of people from the US sang their anthem loudly too - even if they were confused by George’s “American” song, a number by the Beach Boys. The Kiwis, all three of them, probably outdid us Aussies though with A Slice of Heaven followed by the Hakka on our insistence. CJ, Cute Japanese-girl, as she had been dubbed, was singing her anthem all alone until Clinton, Mai, Kim and Kevin lended some moral support. Sohaib was virtually on his own though through the Pakistani anthem.
Time for another swim yet this did little to sober me up. Nor did the second lunch back on board. I casually thought one more swim couldn’t hurt but no sooner had I hit the water than George decided it was time to go. If I hadn’t drank so much I would have been embarrassed. The only thing that nearly killed me was the swim to catch up to the boat.
Despite my best efforts with the sunscreen my shoulders were screaming by this point. But before long we were docked. While I was sad the trip was over my skin could surely take no more. Besides the drinking would continue tonight at the toga party. And I desperately needed after sun to extinguish the blaze.
By the time we had dinner at the hotel
By the time and arrived at Contiki’s Corfu base it was 10 and closer to 10.30 by the time we were “dressed” in our togas and at the bar. I opted for the Julius Caesar look while Alysia fashioned an Aphrodite toga that continued to fall down most of the night. We had two hours to make the most of these cheap, strong drinks. The Greek headresses we’d fashioned from foliage stripped from the garden wouldn’t last long either being prickly around the ears. But somehow it lasted longer than my drinking. Did I pass out? No. Did I just throw up? Again, no. I was just over drinking by this stage. Content to watch others get plastered. And we quickly learned being of the fairer sex was rewarded by stronger drinks which helped considerably.
Soon we were singing our “Day Song” in a bid to outdo our opponents, the Contiki Concept group. Despite the protests of game fixing we won and Mamma Contiki received the spoils. She quickly downed the firey concoction defending our honour vehemently. By this stage our Canadian friend Peter, whom Alysia had been procuring drinks, was rolling drunk thanks to G and Ts, with only a splash of tonic, and the effects of sea sickness. After a long time we coaxed him out of the men’s and toward the bus, propped up by yours truly and Clinton. A power spew over the balcony out front helped a little and he managed somehow to get out of the toga and dressed. There were no explosive repeats on the bus back to the hotel either. I’d like to think it came down to some encouraging words from us but perhaps not. The poor guy was whiter than white and couldn’t apologise enough between bouts of wanting to throw up and flaking out.
Sam (August 24)

A much-needed break in Corfu

BANG- BANG-BANG! We weren’t taking fire but the knocking on our door was just as furious. It was our wake up call. In the truckers lounge for breakfast we discovered we were lucky; this messenger had entered at least one room in his fervent conduct of this duty. More likely he was hoping to get a sneaky peak at some of the girls. But any stories were a welcome distraction to what was our worst breakfast yet. It consisted of little more than boiled egg and maybe a coffee but the full truth has been lost in the drunken haze. Or maybe it was the fumes we were all choofing on in the cargo hold waiting to jump off at the port that makes it hard to recall.
Either way it was a short bus ride to our hotel overlooking the Corfu airport. We only had to make it through a briefing from the Corfu Contiki rep before the day was ours to do as we wished. Within a few minutes we were dozing by the pool, at all of 9am, stirring briefly as the group noisely made for the bus on an excursion to Corfu town. We took the chance to shift into the sun and get chatting with London-based Aussie, Brittney, and Claire, from Scotland. Between lunching by the pool and rehydrating the afternoon passed quickly with several dips in the cool, relaxing pool. Not even the return of the group at about 2 could spoil the day. Only some rowdy interlopers brought our stint by the pool to an end. These local teens were out to impress all the sunbaking women with their diving and bombing “skills” but only succeeded in flooding several backpacks and handbags. And pissing off the hotel manager. Thankfully our room was ready for check in by that point. And we had to get ready for our traditional Greek dinner.
It was a shortish bus ride to the Greek dining hall yet we managed to scoff at some road rage and get a laugh from some of the Greek signs. We could only speculate as to what we might buy at China World. The food landed on our tables with impressive speed. Flaky-skinned baked potatoes, salad and tzatsiki (cucumber yogurt) were all well received followed by generous servings of well-seasoned lamb. The only distraction was the traditional Greek dancing. To borrow an often used phrase from Lonely Planet, the evening reached its “zenith” with the fire dance. Around the rim of the dance floor staff squirted some sort of incendiary setting it on fire. The men would then take turns doing their best to impress the ladies with their dancing skills. One of them spun around with a table between his teeth. To cap off the evening everyone joined in the traditional dancing.
Sam (August 23)

The lost civilisation of Pompeii

Through the haze in the distance Mt Vesuvius rises peacefully belying its angry past. While it sleeps we get off the bus - this being our final stop in Naples - to explore the victim that is Pompeii. If we needed a reminder of its fury, we need only look at the geography. This was once a seaside city. The ocean is now off in the distance. Along the tourist boulevard we walked, through the turnstiles, up the hill. Slowly the city revealed itself. Walls jutted out of the ground, shadows of once was, not a roof to be seen anywhere. A theatre of distinctly Roman design hinted at the city’s former vibrant past. “Where are the victims?” This was the chilling highlight of Pompeii we were all here to see. Our tour guide marches on through the sprawling city remains and we wade through his thick Italian accent trying to grasp the depth of just what the city once was. He takes us into one of the city’s many houses to explain how water was captured through an opening in the roof. It’s a little lost on us and we’re just confused how the marble plinth fails to rate a mention. The painted frescos, mere shadows of what once was, prove of more interest. On we walk along the “curb and gutter” streets, made entirely out of stone, existing much as they did prior to the 79 AD eruption.
The streets are littered with dogs, longing around, it is apparently their city - the dog is its patron saint. Tourists are encouraged to sponsor one. Provide funds for its food and rent perhaps. If dogs are the best people then we were soon feeling a little snappy too: we found more people jumping queues while we waited to inspect one of Pompeii’s former whore houses. Inside we surveyed the stone beds and pillows. On the walls were painted scenes of fornication. “It only cost a couple of glasses of wine,” we’re told. Nice to know. “Grr bar bar bar bar…grrr AAAHHHHHHH,” breaks muted conversation. Past me girls run. In the corner one of the dogs asserts its authority over another. Outside a handful of these girls recount their terror. The aggressor stands in the doorway while the invader sulks off. “Oh look, he’s bleeding, poor thing,” one remarks. When chitchat turns back to the brothel the hypotheses grow wilder without basis: one girl has to be corrected by the guide for telling others the beds on the upper floors were more comfortable and the tarrif more expensive. What can you do but laugh.
Finding the brothel wasn’t too hard either, back in the day, apparently. To prove the point Mr Guide points out a penis carved into the footpath. Seemingly one could take his chariot there drunk, too, though this might be a stretch akin to the comfy beds. In the gutters the guide points out grooves, 50mm wide and just as deep, where chariot wheels would tram line along the streets. The afternoon sun would reflect off the white stone pieces laid into the road, too, we’re told. The only quirk in the way of these people, by modern standards, might be the god they worshipped and his extra large wedding tackle. The city is strewn with such images and phallic objects designed to bring virility and good luck.
With our tour group tiring we bear down on the victims themselves of the ash and poisonous gas while Mt Vesuvius seemingly winks from high in the sky. Protected in Perspex boxes are plaster moulds of the bodies archaeologists found. Lying on their backs contorted in pain or on their bellies shielding their mouths in vain. It’s a little chilling. There is even a dog frozen in pain against the sky. On the other hand it’s a joke. The experience feels a little cheap: we’re herded through the city in mobs that behave so poorly. And if you look to your right there are shelves of old pottery - we could almost be in the landscaping section of the local hardware supplier, jostling for the specials. Maybe in the near future people will be able to buy concrete casts of the Pompeii victims. It’s our right after all?
The hours pass quickly back on the coach as more of the tilled clay Italian countryside passes by, reminding me of work, interspersed by olive trees and swathes of wheat stubble. Eventually we reach Bari late in the afternoon. All that stands between us, some sun and water, is security and an overnight ferry. I was so eager I forgot to unclip the bag from my chest - the security guys almost put me through the xray machine on the conveyor belt as one item (with a nudge and a wink).
Into the bowels of the boat we marched and to check-in. Five minutes later we had deposited our night bags in the not unpleasant sleeping quarters and worked our way to the “truckers lounge” for dinner. Mamma Contiki had ensured her flock had first pick at the cafeteria. The serving staff were generous too. “Want some spaghetti?” Well here’s a heaped plate full. There was no use asking for small servings because they all came in trucker size. The beer was pretty cheap too, even if the 20 euro note almost created a riot with the cashier, yet it failed to spoil the dining experience.
The reasonably priced beers were welcomed by some of the other Contiki guys so as soon as dinner was dispensed with, it was time to knock a few back. What else was there to do? We found some plastic dining settings on the back of the boat and started drinking. Ryan, from Kansas City, bought the first round. The group was a little timid at first but the 15 beers certainly didn’t sit around long enough to get warm. Noting a few half empty bottles sitting around I bought a round of 10, thinking they’d take a while to sink, yet they went quickly. Meanwhile a deck of playing cards we bought at Pompeii, depicting ancient Greek-era sex, did the rounds. There were quite a few laughs and perhaps more raised eyebrows. Former frat-boy Clinton, from California, bought the next round with London-based Paki Sohaib, followed quickly by another round from Aussie Alwyn. The latter probably welcomed the trip to the bar given the love triangle forming around him. The conversation flowed, along with the beer, long after the iPod died. The soundtrack through midnight was instead our laughter and shouting. The video clip was the near-full moon reflecting off the ship’s wake. Rather drunk we stumbled into bed - breakfast was in three hours. There would be no hangovers because we’d all still be drunk.
Sam (August 22)