It was early in the morning at that time following dawn when the sun begins to blanket the sea with bleary rays of light. The water shimmered in silver with patches of turquoise and blue awaiting the full rise of day. The water at that time is a flat sheet and the sounds of lapping waves the only music in the still and silent morning.
My uncle drove over to pick me up in the car that would carry us many miles in the next two days. Our starting point was a stretch of sea a couple coves down from Akyarlar on the southwestern coast of the Bodrum peninsula. On any given day the white houses of the Greek isle of Kos are visible; and on especially clear days a hazy silhouette resolves to a view of our destination: the Datca peninsula.
In recent times Bodrum has been civilized in the most modern sense with shopping malls and megamarts forming an integral part of the landscape. Still, a nostalgic, old-fashioned aura persists in many places, especially in villages like Guvercinlik, where we went for breakfast. It was still early enough in the day that even the breakfast proprietors were only just beginning services as they drowsily watched us approach. Here, we fortified ourselves with a simple but extensive meal with cheeses and olives and jams and bread, and washed down with a standard helping of tea.
After breakfast, our journey truly began. Guvercinlik is on the northern end of Bodrum. Our journey continued due south and so we intersected the peninsula, passing through Mumcular, where many of the modern proclivities of Bodrum remain yet at bay, and met the sea at Cokertme. The view took me by surprise as I had been lulled by the pastoral greens and browns of the countryside. Here now was the sea again in its boundless glory and from that point on would be our constant companion on our journey, offering an endless variety of beauty and natural wonder.
As we traveled east along the winding roads that traced the northern coast of the Gulf of Gokova, we entered a village called Oren. It was market day, and the controlled frenzy of cars and people slowed our progress, and we soon found that in any case the roads to the seaside were barred. As we drove through the streets of Oren, I was struck by the differences between my life and the lives of the villagers here. How our fates and our destinies diverged so wildly, how differently we approached and lived our lives. It is an obvious and unoriginal thought, perhaps, but a fascinating one that I return to often.
Our first stop then was in a town called Akyaka. Here, instead of heading to the sea, we rested at a cool, shaded café that sat along a small, burbling brook. I had a coffee and absorbed the restful peace of the place. After our short break, our exit from the village took us past old ruins left by the Seljuk Turks, reminding us of the many generations and many civilizations who have been fortunate enough to have lived and experienced the Aegean coast.
Soon after rounding the end of the Gokova gulf, we encountered a stretch of modern banality in the form of a highway that took us smoothly down to Marmaris. It is easy to be cynical of these developments but there is some comfort in them and their reliability. But even these mundane highways must end somewhere and where this one ended a view of the Mediterranean Sea began. Here lay Marmaris, a popular, bustling tourist town. The view is a fascinating one, as the sea is magnificent but straddled by a sprawl that evokes the endless roofs of Istanbul.
As we wandered through Marmaris and passed the swankier hotels of Icmeler, we soon realized we had lost our way. An eager townsperson, knocking at our window to volunteer directions and missing his bus for his efforts, and the attendants at the gas station provided us with instructions that hardly helped. We found ourselves on overgrown, winding roads with steep drops into green forests. My uncle took it in stride, navigating the turns with aplomb while asking villagers for further directions along the way. Finally, with the help of those directions and hand-made signs at the most unexpected road crossings, we found the road to Bozburun.
Before Bozburun, Selimiye beckoned for a lunchtime break. The cove here was a small treasure with an adjoining village that had only a few hostels and restaurants. At one of them, we ate fresh squid, shrimp, and octopus, served with simple bread and washed down with a beer. After leaving the village, a hilltop afforded a panoramic view of the cove. At its base was a small isle, with ramparts remaining from the days when Ottoman soldiers stood sentry there.
We drove from Selimiye on to Bozburun, a sleepy place with sleek yachts dotting its shores. It was a quaint place that pulsed with tranquility. Even now, thinking back on Bozburun, I feel a breezy, peaceful comfort on my mind. We took a short break for coffee before turning back north.
At the base of the Datca peninsula we turned on to a modern highway, a comfortable and beautiful road that affords views of the sea on either side. When we had only just entered the highway, my uncle stopped suddenly and eyed a side road, and suddenly we were exploring a divergent path. Once past the trees, a special view revealed itself. Here were the severe and rocky cliffs of Bordubet plunging into wild blue waters. On this side of Datca, blustering winds make settlements rare and carve stunning sceneries into the landscape. One day I will return there but by sea instead of land.
The highway continued until just past Datca village after which it became rougher and the land remained unconquered by asphalt. Here is where the sense of adventure quickens. From a high vantage point, we saw green valleys fading into stunning coastlines while the faintest silhouette of Rhodes shimmered on the horizon. As we moved closer to the sea, we traveled on winding roads with hairpin turns and steep drops. The landscape was phenomenal.
After briefly losing our way in Hayitbuku, we reached our destination: Palamutbuku. Here, my uncle remade his acquaintance with the hostel proprietor, and his mother, whom he had met when he had stayed at the same location several months prior. Our suite had its entrance right on the main street of the village, which followed the coastline from one end of town to the other. Sitting outside, we were less than a stone’s throw from the beach.
The beach here is not sandy but full of pebbles and smooth stones. This composition continues under water for a few meters, making entering and exiting the water awkwardly entertaining. The stones of the beach then give way to a pool of water with utterly transparent water and a refreshing chill. The area was lively with families, tourists, and children filling the beach-side restaurants and walking along the town’s street. Our meal followed the course of a typical meal at a fish restaurant with a convoy of mezze preceding the fish all accompanied by raki. Fully covered by a blanket to ward off mosquitos, I slept restfully and peacefully that night.
In the morning, we made a critical and inspired decision to breakfast not in Palamutbuku but instead at Knidos. We bid farewell to the proprietor in the morning and drove along increasingly remote roads with hand-painted signs pointing us toward Knidos. We passed through a movie-scene village, where a woman gossiping with her neighbor stood in the middle of the road and disdainfully refused to recognize our existence and forced us to drive around her instead.
Knidos is at the end of the Datca peninsula. It has two harbors as the ancient Greeks filled in a channel between the edge of the peninsula and a large island nearby. At the top of hill, a ticketing agent (touring the ruins costs a few dollars) lazily beckoned us in, and at the bottom of the hill, a single café served breakfast for travelers by land and by sea. Here we had menemen (eggs with peppers and tomatoes) and superb olives.
During our breakfast, a man arrived by motorboat from his megayacht moored some distance away in a neighboring cove. Flanked by two bodyguards, and accompanied by his son, he projected a tropical authority of wealth and made preparations for a later lunch meal with the café owner. After the man left, the owner dug up a namesake pennant from the yacht, which the rich man had given him on a visit the prior year. He posted it on the wall next to a poster which gave the Turkish and English names of fish and other sea creatures. The ship’s name was the Pharaon, and through later research I discovered that the man was Ghaith Pharaon, a financial fugitive of the FBI for many years.
My tour of the ruins of Knidos was my favorite part of the trip. Here, ancient history nestled among the green mountainside and laid claim to spectacular views of the sea. A well-preserved amphitheatre evoked day-dreams of ancient, merry Greeks attending an evening’s entertainment with a beautiful view as the backdrop. It is not hard to imagine the Greeks having a hard and arduous life but there is a blessing in passing in such a simple and a pure place.
The ruins of the town were scattered on the side of a small mountain, with its paths leading from the coast and its bright heat to grassy, breezy chill as you hiked farther up the mountains. Goats ran rampant, blazing trails while scattering their droppings to fertilize the wild grasses and flowers. It isan open-air museum, with occasional signs and placards, but one that also provided admission to a wild and natural wonderland. Following one of the goats trails, I happened upon stunning beaches accessible only by sea or the most daring of climbers.
The road to and from Knidos is a winding cliff road that barely allows two cars to pass each other by. However there are treasures to behold for those intrepid travelers who make their way to Knidos. We returned to Datca through the interior of the peninsula, passing through majestic valleys and below soaring mountains. The many blues of the sea had given way to the freshness and vitality of the greens and browns of the forest and villagers hawking homemade honey on precarious outcrops.
Before making our way to Datca proper, we visited the old town, a small block of stone homes served by narrow, winding lanes. It was certainly picturesque and the wild flowers framed the peacefulness of the place with endless variety and hues. It was a quaint place where the cafes by the bus stop provided tribute to the famous local poet, Can Yucel. His likeness and his words decorated many walls in the town.
The town of Datca was disappointing after the wonders of our previous visits. The sun seemed paler and the blue of the sea more limpid and the scattering of tourists more languid. After a quick shopping tour to get some local honey and soaps, I joined my uncle in a café overlooking the marina. It was a nice place though the café’s speakers were shot, leading to an unpleasant and dissonant experience listening to a blues soundtrack alternating between barely heard and officiously loud. After the café, we searched for a bank and a place to eat but were stymied by long lines and a lack of and a lack of options.
We made our way to the opposite end of the peninsula to scout the ferry. At the time of my uncle’s last visit there was a restaurant by the pier but now it was all different and a marina was under construction. Thankfully, we had spied a local restaurant on the way over so we backtracked for a late lunch at Carmen’s. What fortune that we would stumble on that place for the meal was unforgettable. It was simple fare, with Mugla kofte (no bread or egg in the mix, apparently) accompanied by tomatoes, potatoes, and onions straight from the garden. All were delicious beyond belief with the onions in particular surprising in their sweetness. The meal was preceded by plump, sweet figs – again straight from the garden. The proprietor was a former newspaperwoman in Istanbul now running the place on her father’s land with her children’s help.
As we ate, I observed the village and the small activities that broke the stillness of the place. The proprietor admonished young men picking up fruit from the next-door farm for their truck pushing against her restaurant’s sign-pole. But she also later rewarded their efforts in the heat with on-the-house sodas. Two village men shared a cigarettes and tea for a break from whatever they do during the day. One was dour and uninterested, and the other fat and nervous. A rich young woman in her father’s convertible recognized the appeal of the place and stopped for a beer. The proprietor’s children and their friends idly gossiped between bringing out drinks and dishes.
We departed for the ferry, where the car was taken into the hold and we made our way to the deck. My uncle chose the correct side and we avoided a glaring sun on our voyage across the gulf. Datca’s wild mountains bade us farewell as we fought against winds that sometimes lead to cancelled crossings. The sea was daunting, its rolling waves and its deep, dark blues covering deep depths. The route took two hours and we met the Bodrum peninsula well to the east of Bodrum. Here there are fewer coves and fewer settlements. We approached the harbor with Karaada on our port. I climbed to the top level of the boat and enjoyed the salty wind whipping through my hair.
The entrance to Bodrum was disappointing. It seemed like traversing a parking lot but in the sea. Yachts and other boats stood shoulder to shoulder to cover the entire harbor. Bodrum castle seemed small where before I had always remembered it as a formidable presence. We retrieved our car, almost the last to come out, and began our way home. We winded through roads of Bodrum I had never seen before. Everywhere there was an excited vitality in the people walking alongside the road. Little of natural wonder remains in the city of Bodrum but it is always entertaining.
Around this time, the CD my uncle had put on at Guvercinlik came to its end. It was a compilation made by my cousin and spanned all genres of music. It was our soundtrack for the entire trip. With the music winding down, we drove Into the fresh breezes of the dusk, breathing in the sweet, salty air. At the end of our journey, arriving at my uncle’s home, a feast of food and family beckoned and it was the ideal way to finish the trip.