We will remember them

Last May, on a holiday to Turkey, I visited the legendary Gallipoli: a peninsula in the North West of the country.

Perfect, clear skies framed our view. The area was calm, peaceful and spectacularly picturesque - glistening blue sea out to the front of us, dramatic cliffs and bushland to the rear.

However, this idyllic setting belied the hell that it bore witness to some 94 years earlier.

Our coach pulled over to the side of the road nearest the water. There it was: one word in bold, simple letters: A N Z A C.
















Profound emotion took over me - I felt overwhelming sadness and began to sob. I had lost no relatives in the battle that began there at 4.28am on April 25, 1915 - indeed my grandfathers and forebears had not even fought in Turkey nor had they died in any war.

But I cried for the ANZACS - the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps who landed on that small beach in the first joint military operation between the two countries. Theirs was part of a broader campaign mounted by the British and French to capture the Ottoman capital of Istanbul and secure a sea route to Russia.

I cried at the futility of the situation the ANZACs faced, many gunned down as they emerged from boats that had taken them to shore, thousands more killed in a bloody battle up and down those towering cliffs.

It is said that this battle forced the birth of consciousness of Australia and New Zealand. It was a place where our young men died; and a place where the ANZAC legend was born.

We departed Anzac Cove and wound our way up the hill to Lone Pine, the Australian memorial and cemetary at the top of the peninsula. The poignant melody of the Last Post started to replay itself in my mind. I tried to imagine what those young soldiers must have seen - or what some of them almost saw. The gravestone of one R.H Stevens said he was killed the very day he arrived on Turkish soil.

















Chanuk Bair, New Zealand's ANZAC memorial and cemetary at Gallipoli, and the Turkish cemetary were equally moving. Those headstones represented way too many lives cut short, wherever they had come from.

Our young Turkish guide and coach driver showed so much compassion and respect for the few Australians and New Zealanders on the tour that day; indeed Ceylan and Burhan, both beautiful, warm souls, had hosted us in their beautiful country for the previous two weeks. It made me cry all the more to think that our countries had once been at war.

The battle to retain control of the Gelibolu peninsula and the Straits of the Dardanelles was also one of the defining moments in Turkish history. I believe that because Turkey, Australia and New Zealand share such a history; we also share a future in always remembering what that history means.

The bond between the ordinary soldiers and sailors who fought at Gallipoli was expressed this way by the President of Turkey, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk in 1934, on a large stone monument at Anzac Cove:

"Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives...

You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.

Therefore, rest in peace.

There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours...

You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears,

Your sons are now lying in our bosom, and are in peace,

After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well"

My visit to Gallipoli had a profound impact on me. I had heard much about the ANZAC spirit and the legendary Gallipoli from my early childhood, but had never really personally connected with it. On that day, I felt as intensely proud to be Australian as I felt homesick, sad, humble and grateful. I longed to be back home with my family under blue skies and amongst the gum trees - but I now knew deeply why I would personally never forget those who fought for my country's freedom.

I went to my first Anzac Day Dawn Service last Saturday and was inspired by how many people of all ages packed into Brisbane's Anzac Square at such an early hour.

As the old diggers marched solemnly up to the Shrine of Rembrance to the drumbeat of the military band, I thought very fondly of my time in Turkey. Tears unashamedly rolled down my face as a buggler sounded the Last Post, before the two-minute silence. The mood was solemn, reflective. The silence was palpable.

I feel some regret that it took it nearly 37 years for me to really "get" Anzac Day and all that it represents; but, better late than never I suppose.

I will certainly watch future Anzac Day services with a different perspective, just as I will feel a bit more appreciation each time I walk past Anzac Square or see an Australian soldier. But I think it's the deeply ingrained Gallipoli experience - memories of my day there and of the even more extraordinary events that took place in 1915, that will remind me why we must always remember them.

The Great Soapy Turkish Hamam Adventure

I have a confession to make: I was a Turkish hamam virgin until last week.

Yes, I had heard about Turkish steam baths and how the tradition had passed through the Romans to the Byzantines, and then onto the Turks. The Moroccans have a similar system, although for some reason unbeknownst to me, I declined to have one when I was there over Christmas.

Anyway, three weeks in Turkey gave me absolutely no excuse not to try a legendary hamam, and it was really just a matter of finding time in the busy tour to schedule one.

A free afternoon in the small town of Selcuk presented the perfect opportunity.

We had been roaming all morning around the ruins of Ephesus – the mother of all archaeological sites in Turkey. It was an extremely hot day, and we’d been clambering down ancient cobbled streets amid hordes of tourists. One nearby cruise ship alone had offloaded 51 busloads of passengers into the site, and we then had to battle our way through the throng of eager vendors on the way out of the site. It was nothing short of hot, sweaty chaos.

Little did I know that the theme of hot, sweaty chaos would continue...

Linda and Bill, a lovely Canadian couple from my tour group, decided they were up for trying the hamam. We agreed to set off into the town’s centre later that afternoon.

I had read and heard various things about the protocol for bath houses. There were typically separate bathing rooms for men and women, and men attendants massaged men and women attendants massaged women. Sometimes there were even specific days and times for men or women to use the hamam. Also, it seemed that in some bath houses you stripped of completely, while others gave you towels or sarong-like gizmos to wrap up in, while others recommended you wore underwear or a swimming costume throughout the whole process. I erred on the side of caution and wore my swimmers.

The bath house was near the police station, and we greeted a man who was sitting outside smoking.

Inside, the lobby was dimly light and there seemed to be few people. We explained what we wanted – the sauna/steam bath, loofah wash down and oil massage. It all seemed to be quite straightforward.

We were issued with a tartan-like sarong and ushered into a small change room, where we could leave our clothes. They placed our valuables in a rickety old safe.

The man then nodded in the direction of the steam room. At this point, I thought Linda and I would move into a separate area from Bill, and that women attendants would appear...

There was in fact one large steam room, with two men already in there. Linda and I were making rapid eye movements to each other and Bill, as the logistics of the situation started whirling, dervish like, round our minds. At that point I was saying a million silent thank you’s for my swimming costume, and also that I’d not come alone.


















A large octagonal marble platform, about knee height, sat in the centre of the room. Smaller cubicles with showers and curtains lined one wall, and there were two higher marble slabs at the back of the room.

The high domed ceiling had small light holes that cut through the steamy haze. I don’t know what the temperature was in that room, but it seemed hotter than it had been at Ephesus...

A third man – a huge Turk wearing only the same sort of sarong we were wearing, entered the room and motioned for Bill to sit on the slab at the back. Linda and I watched on. The Turk filled up a bucket of water and, without warning, unceremoniously dumped it over Bill’s head. He motioned for Bill to move over to the central slab and lie face down with his head in the centre of the octagon. Bill apparently wasn’t in the right position, so the Turk shunted Bill’s feet with his huge hands, sliding Bill into the right position. I was desperately trying to hold back nervous giggles.

Linda and I got the same treatment, and then the water man tipped water over his own head and joined us on the slab.

At this point, four of us – two men, and two women were lying on a hot marble slab in a wet sarong. We visitors were not quite sure how long we were to stay there, or what would happen next.

The Turk broke the silence and uttered the words “makes good photo. Photo?”

Linda and I stared at each other at about the time our jaws hit the marble...In hindsight, that would have been the perfect photo.

“NO. No – no thank you. NO PHOTO,” we both sputtered. It was hard to relax after that. I was checking out the steam room for hidden cameras.

We lay face down on the marble until the Turk rolled over onto his back. That seemed to be a natural cue for us all to do the same –when in doubt, copy the locals! It was then completely silent except for four people’s breathing and the dripping of water, and my sarong decided to make fart-like noises. Under the circumstances, I felt the need to explain that it was the sarong. Oh god...was I ever going to relax?

As I wondering how much longer I could restrain myself from (1) laughing hysterically; and (2) suffocating on hot steamy air, another sarong-wielding Turkish man came into the room, patted the slab at the back and motioned for Bill to lie face down on it.

SPLASH went another bucket of water over my Canadian friend, and then the Turk began to use a hand loofah to start sloughing apparent grime off him. I’d heard that this part of the process was particularly rough and that people came out feeling raw but very clean. Linda and I were attempting to keep flat on the central slab, but ended up cocking our heads and straining our necks to observe what was going on. She asked if I would like to be temporarily adopted as their daughter, and I very quickly agreed.

We each followed suit with the loofah-ing. It was the ultimate exfoliation! My skin tingled – probably due to my newly-acquired Ephesus sun burn, as much as the fact that the top three layers of my epidermis were being scrubbed away. Actually, it wasn’t painful or remotely uncomfortable.

After more time back on the central slab, our attendant motioned for Bill to head back to the “work bench”.

This time, he had what looked like a huge net bag full of suds, and dumped it all over Bill. Very quickly, Bill was hidden in soap. This went on for some minutes, and once again, Linda and I followed suit.

I shall point out the obvious – marble, water and three tonnes of soap suds make for extremely slippery conditions – especially when two very large hands are loofah-ing you within in an inch of your life. The attendant asked me to turn over, and I swear it was nothing short of a miracle that I actually made it onto my back. Think of a beached whale laughing hysterically, incapable of rolling itself over, and you should get an image that just about mirrors my experience.

We were then told to shower off and head out to the lobby. Once in the lobby, a dry sarong was wrapped round our middle, a different coloured towel draped around our shoulders, and yet another towel twisted around our heads, turban style. We were then offered hot tea.

And that’s when it dawned on us that we were missing the perfect Kodak moment. There was not a camera amongst us, so we simply chuckled at the memory that we will collectively file away into amusing travel moments folder.

The tea was surprisingly refreshing and no sooner had we drunk it, we were being ushered upstairs for the oil massage. I’d almost forgotten that part of the order.

Once again, it was male masseurs – two of the guys who had been in the steam room. The Turkish style of massage was far more brisk than what I learned in Swedish massage. It was certainly firm, although my masseur went fairly gently. Not so for Bill, who was apparently pounded.

After the steam, wash and scrub, the massage was heavenly. Perfect conditions for the oil to work into the skin and ease my sun burn. I came away feeling like a newborn!

I couldn’t help myself, and had a quick chat with the masseur about various massage techniques – his style of percussion, and the one I’d learned etc. I always find it fascinating to compare different styles of massage.

The whole process lasted about an hour and cost us 35 Turkish Lira each, or about £12-14. Ironically, I read my Lonely Planet Guide Book when I got back to the hotel, and its report on Selcuk Haman was very good - "Everything is thoroughly clean and respectable". Indeed it was.

The Great Soapy Turkish Hamam Adventure was one of the most nerve-wracking, memorable and (eventually) relaxing experiences I’ve had while travelling.

Thanks to Bill and Linda for sharing the memory, though I’m kinda glad there’s no photographic evidence. :-)

The Dervishes whirled...

We sat in circular bays in a large, cool underground cavern. In the centre of the room, a knee-high fence created a circular stage. In one quadrant, there was a long white sheep-skin rug, and in another quadrant, a smaller red rug. Once the lights dimmed, chatter and flash photography were forbidden, and we were simply asked to observe.

Four men in long dark cloaks and tall, cone-shaped felt hats entered from a side door and took their positions in front of various instruments on a long bench.

A drum sounded.

Another man in similar attire entered the stage area, followed by five more men. The mood was sombre and slightly eerie. We had read about this ceremony, and had been told about it on the brief drive out through the bizarre lunar landscape to Avanos, home to the cave in which we were now sitting. But nothing could quite prepare us for the actual ritual that was the Sema.

Sema is the inspiration of Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi, and is an important part of Turkish custom, history, beliefs and culture. It symbolises in seven parts, the different meanings of a mystic cycle to perfection. The ceremony is performed by the Whirling Dervishes – the five men who entered the room last.

It began with a eulogy to the Prophet, and was then followed by another sounding of the drum. The Whirling Dervishes were all kneeling in prayer position on the long white rug.

The musicians then began an instrumental, with the focus on a “ney” – a simple string guitar like instrument which apparently takes a lifetime to master. According to the brochure, this phase represents the Diving Breath – the first breath which gives life to everything.

Next, the Dervishes gave silent greetings to each other, in a circular walk round the stage area, called the Devri Veledi, accompanied by music called “peshrev”. This symbolised the salutation of soul to soul concealed by shapes and bodies.

And then the Dervishes began to twirl – or whirl on their own axis to the beat of the ney. This is the actual Sema, and consists of four salutes or “Selam’s”.

The five men had removed their black cloaks to reveal long white gowns underneath, which flared when they whirled. It was hypnotic except for the constant and strong “whoosh” as their gowns whizzed by us.

How they didn’t get dizzy or lose balance was amazing. They were in an intense meditative state, as they silently communed with their God.























According to the brochure, “the Sema ceremony represents the mystical journey of a man’s spiritual ascent through mind and love to the Perfect (Kemel). Turning towards the truth, he grows through love, deserts his ego, finds the truth, and arrives to the “Perfect”. Then he returns from the spiritual journey as a man who reached maturity and a greater perfection, so as to love and to be of service to the whole creation, to all creatures without discrimination.”

As they whirled, the Dervishes’ arms were open, their right hands directed to the sky, ready to apparently receive God’s gifts; and their lefts hands were turned toward the earth. It is said that the revolution from right to left, around the heart, allows the Dervishes to embrace all humankind with affection and love.

















The whirling went on for about half an hour, and was followed by a reading from the Quran. The ceremony concluded with a prayer for the peace of the souls of all Prophets and all believers. After the completion of the ceremony, the Dervishes returned to silently to their rooms for meditation.

A sole Dervish then came out and whirled for our cameras.

The Sema was an incredibly moving experience. It didn’t matter that it was not spoken in English – little was said anyway. It was like watching meditation in motion – which is curious, because meditation is usually associated with stillness.

If you ever get the chance to see some Whirling Dervishes, it’s really worth a look – particularly in the atmospheric cavern out in Avanos, in the middle of Turkey’s Cappadocia region.

See http://www.avanosevi.com/en/sema.html for more information.