Blog 2 - Goreme, Erzican and Dogabayzit

Blog 2 – Goreme, Erzican, Dogabayzit (Turkey)

Now this isn’t bad, first blog took two weeks, second blog took only four or five days to post. I am on a roll. The secret to my success is that I have discovered a way to type on the bus that doesn’t make me want to stop the bus to get sick. If I maneuver myself into a sideways position and drape the legs over the end of my seat and onto the opposite seat, thus blocking the walkway and the route to the toilet for everyone on the bus, I find that I can type for at least a couple of hours until my body circulation stops and I feel myself falling into a coma. Meanwhile, its probably worth noting that the poor eejit who’s sitting opposite me has to pin him / herself to the window, remove all their bits and bobs from the seat and remain in ‘Alcatraz’ until I choose to remove my ten tarsals and metatarsals from their laps. But isn’t it great that I can use bus time productively – and who is to gain? My blog Followers are to gain of course.

We have traveled LOTS and LOTS and LOTS of kilometers since I last updated my blog. Goreme, the city after Istanbul was absolutely amazing. I mentioned it in my weekly radio interview last night with Connemara Community Radio (for those interested, its possible to listen live to the Station by clicking on their website link). That is a plug if ever there was one. But back to Goreme, I have truly never seen a landscape like it before and it was my idea of what landing on the moon might be like. We all slept in a cave for two nights in a place called The Flintstone Cave hotel. But believe me, as caves go, I’d imagine it was a fairly fancy cave. I say that because it had a bar, swimming pool and sun-loungers outside the cave door – that’s fancy in my book. I’m finding it so amazing how the little luxuries like a shelf in the room, or a mirror, or a plug socket or a wifi connection can result in delirious excitement amongst us all. I nearly lost my life when I walked into my cave bedroom with my three other roommates, and I had a bit of a shelf carved into the cave wall directly over my bed. I took out my ipod, phone, lenses case, camera and lip balm and left it up on the shelf. Ten minutes later I took them all down and replaced them with my laptop, worldwide adaptor, mosquito spray and malaria tablets. Half an hour later, they too came down and up went my passport, pajamas, eye mask and ear plugs ….. I just couldn’t decide what important things belonging to me warranted a place on the shelf, not just any old shelf … it was the shelf that I didn’t have to share with anyone else …. it was MY shelf …. Debbie’s very own shelf.

On the first morning in Goreme, we got up at 5.00 a.m. to be taken by bus to the hot air balloon ride office. What an amazing experience i.e. the balloon ride as opposed to the balloon ride office. After climbing into the Mercedes Benz labelled balloon and spending several minutes diligently practicing our emergency landing position (though conscious that it didn’t do Steve Fossett much good), we made our gentle ascent and over the course of 45 minutes, savoured the splendid aerial views of the lunar-like Turkish landscape. Each balloon contained 25 people and with up to 55 hot air balloons in the sky at the same time, I was acutely aware that I was privileged to be where I was and was experiencing something very special. When we descended in the middle of a sparse desert like area, we were greeted by an employee of balloon company who produced a table and linen table cloth, a vase of flowers and she cracked open several bottles of champagne and handed around lots of Turkish cakes. As I stood there with my fifteen or sixteen Oz bus compatriots, the thought went through my head that it was 7.30 a.m. on a Monday morning, it was 23 degrees in morning sunshine, I had a flute of champagne in hand and the rest of the day to lounge by the swimming pool, and wasn’t life very good after all.

However all good things come to an end and in the small hours of the next morning, I was awoken by Becky, one of the girls who I was sharing the room with. She was stricken with stomach pains, was vomiting and had obviously succumbed to some type of virus or food poisoning. I leaped out of bed (in typical ER medic style), donned the equivalent of my stethoscope i.e. my contact lenses, and approached the ailing patient. All that was going through my mind was ‘Thank God its not me’. (that I’d imagine was ‘non-typical’ ER medic style). Being too ill to retrieve her own medical supplies from the base of her rucksack, I eagerly emptied my HUGE and EXTENSIVE first aid kit onto the bed. Thousands of pills of all different colours, shapes and sizes spilled onto the sheets and all of a sudden I realized that my earlier decision to remove the pills from their boxes to minimize packaging wasn’t such a good idea after all. I gazed down at what seemed like thousands of pills (all sans instructions!) and the fleeting thought went through my mind that despite my best intentions in administering the correct medication, working without instructions, I could quite easily kill the patient. Whilst Becky’s imploring eyes were fixed on me, willing me to make her better, (when she wasn’t heaving uncontrollably into a wastepaper bin), I was trying to fight off the visions of being ‘Banged Up Abroad’. I could see myself in a Turkish prison, sharing the 6 x 4 foot cell with twenty seven life-long criminals and poor Mom and Dad saving their old age pensions to make their bi-annual trip to Goreme to come and visit me. I immediately envisaged all in Renvyle wearing their ‘Justice for Debbie’ rosettes and I figured I would be a regular fixture in Father Gerry’s ‘Special Intentions’ section of the prayers every Sunday morning …. every Sunday morning for fourteen years. The headlines in the papers flashed in front of my eyes, ‘Irish girl receives unfair trial …. unjustly represented, tortured into a confession, gross miscarriage of justice’.

Observing my glazed eyes and my ‘rabbit in the headlights’ appearance, and realising that she was going to die alone in the waste paper bin (at least if Dr. Debbie was anything to do with it), Becky plucked up the energy to whisper to Beverley in the next bed and asked if could she borrow her first aid kit. Within seconds, Beverly was up, scrubbed in, had Googled the exact dosage, distributed ‘instant’ melt on your tongue Imodium, advised the patient of the likely side effects, prescribed the follow-up treatment and had her on the road to recovery. Ten minutes later, I found myself still sitting on the bed, surrounded by my useful but useless pills and preparing my ‘Just released from prison speech’. I could visualize myself on an elevated podium before I boarded the plane in Istanbul to return to Irish soil, still proclaiming my innocence and thanking all involved in the ‘Justice for Debbie’ campaign. RTE would have Charlie Bird flown over to interview me as I made my ascent up the steps of the plane (that’s if he didn’t think he’d be too depressed being away from home!) and Miriam O’Callaghan and Ryan Tubridy would be fighting over who’d get the scoop of the first interview with me. By the time all those thoughts had gone through my head, Becky had managed to eat some breakfast and was half way through her lunch and had three excursions planned. I eventually came out of my trance, gathered up all my coloured pills and shamefacedly made my way to the bus. So the only positive outcome of the incident was that I know that my free time in Iran (and there’ll be LOTS of it), has to be spent on the Irish Medicine Board website and researching what pill goes with what ailment.

Speaking of Iran, we cross over into that country tomorrow morning. For many on the bus, it’s the most country that they are looking forward to getting to see. My own biggest concern is not that we’ll be without alcohol for a week, not that internet and phones won’t work, not that we have to keep ourselves covered up …… but rather that the scarf that Mom made me take will stifle people with the smell of mould. It’s purple and black and looks okay, but has been stored in some old suitcase up under the bed for about twenty years. I’ve tried giving it a spray of Sure Deodrant and even give it a daily spray of my good Elizabeth Arden perfume, but …. it still smells of mould. I have visions of me and my scarf entering mosques and clearing them, me and my scarf entering the bazaars and clearing them and me and my scarf entering religious sites and clearing them. I also have a vision of thousands of Mustafas and Mohammads and Hosseins approaching me and saying ‘Please, please please take off ‘that garment’ around your head …. we’ll put up with the sight of your chestnut coloured tresses but we can’t put up with the smell of the scarf!”.

I shouldn’t joke really because I genuinely have one concern which I will now share with you. We all had been instructed to buy a tunic type of thing that covers your chest and shoulders and arms. Myself and the other seventeen women on the bus were frog-marched down to the bizarre in Istanbul to make the purchase. The only instruction was that it had to be a dark colour and couldn’t be tight and show ones curves. No, this garment had to be dark and baggy and shapeless. In truth, it was no different to any other shopping excursion that I’ve ever been on. Anyway, we all made our purchases and left the bazaar with a small brown bag each, the contents of which will prevent us from getting stoned in Iran (and I mean literally). However, I have a concern that I haven’t divulged to anyone and it is this. I think I am an orangutan! Although everyone’s sleeves are down to their wrist, and many to their knuckles, mine only comes half way down between the elbow and the wrist. I have tried to stretch the fabric but its not stretchable and despite my best efforts of drooping my shoulders and walking like something out of Planet of the Apes, the bottom of my arms are still VERY visible to the Iranian males eyes. I never realised that I had such an obvious physical impediment and that my arms were freakishly long – why didn’t ye tell me??? I have decided that I have a few options:-

1) I can paint black shoe polish onto the skin that is on show (this might have the added advantage of the polish masking the smell of the scarf).

2) I can cut up my black t-shirt and sew two arm-shaped pieces of material which I can drag over my bare arms and I could pretend that I’m a recovering burns victim.

3) Throughout my time in Iran, I can wear a helmet to deflect the stones away from my temples.

That last option is simply a risk minimization strategy as it is possible that the stone-throwers may not be blessed with accuracy and may not always aim for the head in any case. I could be a broken woman (literally) by the time I exit Iran and enter India.

So I’ll finish up here – again I apologize for not telling you about the flora and fauna and the rugged landscapes and the picturesque villages and the meandering lakes and hills (do both meander?). It may be after the week in Iran before I get to post the next update as we’re told there may be very little if any means of communication. Therefore, until we talk again, I promise to use the time productively and I’ll try get some tuition classes on ‘details and descriptions proper blogs should contain’. Love to you all. xxx

The Oz Bus - two weeks into the journey ....

Blog 1:

London / Bruges / Heidelberg / Prague / Vienna / Budapest /Sofia / Plovdiv/Istanbul

I am now sitting in a roof-top café in The Orient hostel in Istanbul. There are several tables of Oz-Bus people around me, all chatting and eating breakfast. It is mid morning and it is at least 26 or 27 degrees. Although it is two weeks since we boarded the Oz Bus in London, it is truthfully the first time that I feel in any way inclined to write. If I’m being totally honest, for the first week, I found myself to be almost ‘shell-shocked’ and at times over-whelmed by the experience. It has been a whirlwind of a journey so far for me – one which I have found to be both challenging and simultaneously stimulating.

My fellow passengers are from England, Scotland, Wales, Italy, America, Germany, and Australia and there is one other Irish girl from Roscommon. The gender breakdown is about 10 men and 18 women. It has been such a strange few days and at times I have felt that I’m in the middle of the twilight zone. When I had booked my hotel in London for the Saturday night prior to the early Sunday morning departure, I anticipated being lonely and emotional and to compensate, I booked a hotel with far more stars than it should have …. in fact, I booked the equivalent of a galaxy.
Arriving at Cleopatra’s Needle at the Embankment at 6.15 a.m. on the 5th of September was such a strange experience. I stood against the wall and scanned all the faces of the 28 strangers with rucksacks, knowing that in three months time, I would know each of those faces and people very well. I found myself trying to guess which ones I’d become closest to, which of the passengers might drive me demented and which ones I’d drive demented! The bus journey to Dover and the ferry across to Calais was spent talking to whoever was nearest to me – trying to make friends, finding out what circumstances brought the various passengers to undertake the journey …. making extremely polite and civilised conversation. Conversation with no wit, no sarcasm, no humour …. there would be time for all that later.

Arriving in Bruges that evening, I hit my first low. (it didn’t take me long, did it?). We were escorted up three flights of winding stairs and shown into the tiniest little 8 bed dorm – grubby, old fashioned and so so cramped. I sat on the bunk bed, my new rucksack on the bed with me, seven strangers all trying to find space for themselves and their bags and all I could think of was ‘December can’t come quick enough’. Although wanting to call my folks and to say ‘I’ve arrived and everything is fantastic’, I felt I’d be found out by my very intuitive mother! I opted to text instead – far easier to pretend. Half of the group had opted to take up the option of a cycle ride around Bruges – I couldn’t, I needed the time to sort out my head. Instead I found myself taking a boat ride through the city and sitting in the middle of a beautiful Bruges square by myself for a couple of hours. In hindsight, I think it was exactly what I needed, though I concede, although entirely my own decision, I felt like the ‘Minnie No Mates’ of the Oz Bus.

As I type, I’m now realizing that I shouldn’t have left it so long to write my first blog entry as in truth all the cities are starting to blend into one. However, my primary thoughts on each of them are this –
Bruge is so picturesque and filled with romantic couples who hold hands and rub their hands through each others hair. Heidelberg is also very pretty and lots of el fresco dining on cobblestone streets. Despite visiting Prague almost 18 years ago, I remembered practically nothing from that visit. It is now very tourist orientated and it has a distinct Eastern European feel to it (although I’m not quite sure what that is as I’ve practically no experience of Eastern Europe until now.).
Whilst in Prague, I suffered my first injury. I was leaving the hostel to walk across to the canteen in an adjoining building and had my laptop nestled securely under my auxter. I stepped down of a small step and not anticipating the uneven surface, my gammy left ankle gave way. Did I flutter gracefully to the ground? Not a chance. I fell like a tonne of bricks and despite my outstretched arms, the laptop fell like a tonne of bricks. Unfortunately the two American lads (also from the bus) were walking a few paces in front of me and despite my desperate outstretched arms, the laptop hit into the back of their knees and took the legs clean out from under them. One small miscalculation and I nearly brought the numbers on the bus from 28 to 25. My right knee was cut, my right wrist was cut and my right finger was cut. But warrior that I am, I hopped up (literally), declaring that ‘I was so unaffected that I could possibly run a marathon’ and marched on into the pub. Poor Alan and Matt meanwhile spent the night on Google trying to find out how to re-attach their severed cruciate ligaments. Whenever they’re walking in front of me now, I’m told that they walk with a look of genuine fear in their eyes.

Vienna was larger and more populated than I had anticipated. I’m not convinced that it lived up to my expectations – whatever they were. The two nights in Budapest were most enjoyable. On the second day, Vicky, Amanda (two fellow passengers of similar ages to myself ….. well I’m really YEARS younger … shhhh!) and myself spent hours walking around the city. The city was hosting the World Championship Triathlon that weekend and in the course of our meandering, I came across a family from Dublin who were leaning over the hoardings, draped in tri-colours and were eagerly awaiting to see the first sight of their husband and father … John … who was participating in the race. The mother and three children screamed in excitement when John eventually rounded the corner. I must admit, I did a bit of screaming and cheering myself when I saw him …… especially when he squirted his water bottle at us! For half an hour or so, whenever one of the fifteen Irish competitors passed, I clapped them on as if they were a close blood relation. I felt extremely proud to be Irish.

The hostels have been, without doubt, the most difficult thing of the two weeks so far. Some nights there are 8 in the room, 6 in the room or if we’re fortunate, 4 sharing a bunk bedded dorm. I would be lying if I were to say that I don’t find the limited space a problem, but interestingly, I’m sleeping exceptionally well. I insert my ear plugs each night, put on my eye mask and tend to sleep better than I do at home in the comforts of my own bed. However, I’m losing an average of one ear plug a night – where they go, I haven’t quite figured out.

Looking back at my thoughts and concerns prior to commencing this trip, I would have thought that the long bus journeys would be something that I would struggle with. Each journey takes from eight hours to twelve hours – I never tend to know until we arrive in the destination. I’m not sure if it’s better to know such details in advance of the journey or is it better to just accept the duration, however long or short that may be. Generally I decide on the latter strategy. But strangely enough, I have found the bus to be so comfortable and enjoyable and it feels ‘like home’. Although the average day on the bus is in excess of eight or nine hours, I have never found the journeys to be excessively long or boring and I am sincere when I say that I feel more at home in the bus than I do in the hostels. From talking to my fellow passengers, I know I’m not alone in thinking this. My fondness for the bus, in a perverse sort of way, reminds me of Stockholm Syndrome – when one falls in love with their captor. The Oz bus is my captor …. and I have fallen in love with it! Now in case I’m scaring any of you and you’re contemplating calling in the men with the white coats, there really is no need to. I promise that I’ll refrain from sidling up to the bus, eyeing it flirtatiously, pouting my lips at it and suggestively caressing its …. sump ….! However, I hope that my loving relationship with it continues and it doesn’t turn bitter and resentful. (on re-reading this, maybe I am losing it after all … keep the telephone number of the men with the coats close to hand).

So that’s it for this blog entry. Maybe now that the back is broken on it, it’ll be easier for me to write and update it. I know that I’m not specific on things and places I’ve seen but I’m no good at that. One museum is the same as the next, one palace is the same as the next and one church is the same as the next and my descriptions wouldn’t do it justice. However some of my fellow bloggers are wonderful at doing such locations and places justice so I think I’ll leave it up to them. (I will forward you their blog links if you really would like to be educated). To-morrow we head to Goreme for a couple of nights and then onto Erzincan and then to Dogubayazit where we cross over into Iran. I’m spouting of those names as if I even know what they are or where they are and to be honest, I haven’t a clue. I think I’m the most gormless of travelers.

But for this moment in time, I’m sitting here on the balcony, overlooking an aqua blue sea, the Turkish chanting / prayers has just started bellowing out in the background on the city tannoy …. and you know what, I feel like the luckiest gormless traveler in the world.