Ich komme aus Kanada

"Möchten sie eine Postkarte" (would you like a postcard [or some other little item])

Calcium falls

I shake my head.

"Where are you from?"

I respond by saying Canada.

"Aha. Bitte, kuk mal." (oh. Please take a look [at my items])

Okay, the German spoken by the local hawkers who infest historic sites is not always this good, but the conversation which I've related above has occured with some variation perhaps close to thirty times now. For some reason, many Turks get the idea that I am a German. Some of the most bizarre converstations are those in which I say I am from Canada and I say that I prefer to converse in English (many Turks are decently proficient at this tongue) and yet these folks still speak to me in German. It's not just because I've been caught up in German tour groups a few times. This conversation is reincarnated even when I am the only tourist at a site.* Perhaps it is because when they speak German and I respond in English I obviously understand what the said. Perhaps it is because they can't imagine that a Canadian can speak German. Or perhaps because I look like a German. More than once I've simply given up and held the entire conversation in German.

Theatre of Hierapolis

One of the reasons I mention this is that blending in with a little German tour got me into a Kirse (church) turned mosque in Sirinçe on Wednesday; fabulous little place that requires advanced booking to open up. I rented a moped on the advice of a couple whom I met in my hotel lobby. I had completely forgotten that mopeds scare the heck out of me but I sure remembered as soon as I stalled the device at a highway intersection. Unfortunately it was a kick start type of vehicle, which meant getting off and turning the crank at the front and then running around and getting back on : ) In any case I avoided the Highway as much as possible because on such routes one is compelled to move speedily. The draft caused by such speed is a tribulation, although those of my readers who ride combustion powered bikes may smirk at my wussiness (guys, I had no leather on).

I did get the hang of it eventually and it was worth while, considering that I enjoyed a very scenic ride to Sirniçe through a little valley and then up the crest of a mountain hill, and considering that the alternatives are offered only sporadically. It took a long time for the dolumush to Sirinçe to fill up (which I noticed while having a early afternoon cup of tea). Sirinçe, in any case, was one of those towns that doesn't give you much to do but it's quaint and scenic and a relic of a few hundred years ago in terms of its (low) level of urbanity.

That evening I had a fine chat with Paula out of South Africa. She's travelling about by herself and I mention this chat because as a female traveller her perspective made me aware of certain aspects of this fine nation which I had not noticed. For example, at most establishments (either bar or restaurant), there are only men, that is to say there are no women. Apparently they are not admitted in some places. In fact looking retrospectively, in virtually any town during the daytime one sees relatively few women in business areas, and relatively few men in residental ones. I did notice by chance an occasion of this segregation at the resturant where I was sipping tea in Sirinçe: a group of high schoolers came to eat, and everything they did seemed completely normal (oh: look at my North American ignorance in thinking that everthing done as North Americans or Europeans do is normal!), except that the guys sat at one table and the girls at another.

* * * * *

There is this picture that has made the rounds in travel literature and such over the past few dozen years of blue water in little terraced white ponds. I will try to post a picture of what I mean (I am having trouble getting shots online though) but when you see this picture, even without knowing where or what it is you will probably recognize it from somewhere. The scene comes from an unique place in Turkey called Pamukkale.

The calcium hardness in the water is naturally an astounding 494 parts per million. Over thousands of years this water, geothermally warmed to about 38ºC, has trickled down the side of a mountain and evaporated drop by drop leaving a mountain-side which appears to be covered in snow (so always keep the calcium hardness in your hot tub under control). In some places I imagine that the deposits are a few meters thick. Some rock formations jutting out strive to remain uncovered, but the formation of stalagtites has nearly covered every spot that rocks overhang. The calcium deposition has formed terraces in places creating these famous blue pools. They're quite fragile and one mustn't walk upon the calcium deposits with shoes. Once again I found out after the fact when quite a number of German tourists frowned at me as I approached. Then I saw the sign they did. The explorer in me seems to intuitively but not deliberately find the only path lacking instructive signage...

Pamukkale also boasts extensive Roman ruins. Unlike some other sites (ie Bergama's Pergamon) which have been pillaged for building supplies, Hierapolis is only few kilometers away from Pamukkale but far enough that it wasn't so completely disassembled to make castles or houses or walls or lime. Its theatre is one of a very few which still has the marble slabs that were the original seats. It also has the lower level of the back wall behind the stage as well. This last part is particularly interesting because they are so often ruined. It was pillared and ornately carved and adorned with statues. Some of this art remains and it helps one picture the distractions available to the Roman spectator. Maybe some of those ancient greek and roman plays by Eurupedies or Theo or Sapphus (I forget their actual names) that have been lost to history really sucked, and that's why the architects made such nice backdrops, because the spectator had to go to support the actor in the family who insisted... Or else the patrons who built this theatre were just gaudy. Either way I can't imagine a director covering this sort of background with a curtain.

The last objects of note at the ruins of Hierapolis are the sarcophogai of the necropolis (in English: the rock coffins of the graveyard). In Roman times all graveyards (necropoli) had to be outside the city walls, and instead of inhumation, sometimes VIDFs (very imporant dead folks) were put in huge stone coffins and left above ground. At Hierapolis this occurred really often and there are hundreds and hundreds of these things. Unfortunately, the forces of Pillage have damaged every single one of these rock coffins because VIDFs were often wearing expensive jewelry when they were boxed up. The Lara Crofts (tomb raiders) of history have taken their share. Many of these sarcophagai are still visually stunning and all were clearly quite expensive to have made. Some have elaborate carvings and essays (long text) chisseled in their sides. They make our own (North American) funerary customs and memorials look decidedly petty. But what's the point of making they any nicer anyway when eventually these monuments end up being eye candy for loutish tourists like myself!