The Shepherdess of Dreams

Linda

The talented Linda A Janssens at Adventures in Expatland asked me to participate in a virtual blog tour. I jumped at the chance. I love this new-fangled virtual excursion lark. You can promote a masterwork without changing out of your jimjams. The book is an anthology called Turning Points: 25 Inspiring Stories from Women Entrepreneurs Who Have Turned Their Lives Around. It does exactly what it says on the tin. It’s inspirational.

I’d like to start by thanking Jack for welcoming me back to Perking the Pansies as part of my ‘virtual book tour’ for Turning Points. It’s a collection of stories from women from all over the world, all working in various jobs and professions and living very different lives. Yet each experiences a pivotal moment or series of events that drives home the need to make significant changes in her life.

The book is edited by Kate Cobb, a women’s business and executive coach (www.movingforwardyourway.com). As with Jack and I, Kate is an expatriate making her home in a country other than where she was born and grew up. In Kate’s case she’s a Brit now residing in France; I’m an American living in The Netherlands.

When Kate asked me to contribute my story to the Turning Points project, I will admit that I was thrilled, flattered and absolutely terrified. I had only an inkling of what it took to publish a book, and I worried and fretted about what lay in store. The entire process is a long one, and has taken the better part of a year. In many ways it has seemed surreal, as if it’s happening to someone else.

That is, until yesterday.

Launch Day.

I have to say the response has been both overwhelming and humbling. I am not exaggerating when I say that it is a dream come true.

When I first started putting together my blog tour, the first person I thought of was Jack. Not merely because he has been such a great supporter (although he has) or because Perking the Pansies is such a great site (which it certainly is).

Jack was my first thought because we share an editor in the savvy and experienced Jo Parfitt.

Jo (www.joparfitt.com) is an accomplished author of 28 books; she is also a journalist, speaker, writing instructor and long-time publisher. She runs Summertime Publishing, a niche publishing company that focuses on bringing to print fiction and non-fiction books written by expats, internationals, serial travelers and global wanderers such as ourselves.

When a writer opens up and shares their innermost thoughts and feelings, it is an intimidating thing. Jo has calmly and gently shepherded Kate and the rest of us along the editing and publishing path, explaining myriad steps and key details, and helping to demystify the process. Along the way, we’ve gained confidence in ourselves and our book.

Jack’s many followers know that he has finished his manuscript of his own book, Perking the Pansies, and sent it off to Jo’s capable hands. In just a few weeks, he will be preparing for his own launch day.

Before he knows it, he will be holding a copy of his book in his hands, stroking its cover and marveling that his dream has come to pass.

I came here today to tell Jack to enjoy the ride. He needn’t worry. He is in excellent hands with Jo, the Shepherdess of Dreams.

If you’re interested in learning more about our book, please take a look at the website   www.theturningpointsbook.com, or follow along on Facebook’s The Turning Points Book page or on Twitter @Turning_Points. A portion of all sales will benefit www.seedsfordevelopment.org.

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Flying Low

I received an email from a friend waiting at Bodrum Airport for a flight back to Blighty. It made me smile so I thought I’d post it.

‘We’re now at the VIP lounge at Bodrum Airport wondering which cocktail to order from the menu and browsing the various free food bars to decide between Italian and Thai. Then we woke up. OMG it’s worse than usual here. Puts me in mind of childhood trips to the local cattle market, except the sheep and cows were docile and cute. There are more shell suits on show than in the early episodes of Eldorado and the Turkish staff have all been trained by Eva Braun. Still, we’ll soon be shown to our flat beds to sip chilled champagne and choose our film. Yer, right. It’ll be four hours of bending over our own crushed internal organs only to be disgorged at the other end like boat people from the South China Sea. This will be followed by a three mile trek to the arrivals hall and glares from bored customs officials like we’re serial criminals. Only then does the next great adventure begin – find the bloody car.’

Thank you Liz.

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A Tight Wide-open Space

Once in a while a chance encounter with a stranger can change things forever. My happy happenstance was crashing into Liam one wintry afternoon after work in a pub called ‘Half Way to Heaven’.

Matt Krause, a mighty Yankee vetpat from California has recently released a book. A Tight Wide-open Space tells the touching tale of his own chance meeting that led to love and a journey across an ocean to follow his heart. The story is much more than a boy-meets-girl penny romance, as sweet as that is. It’s also about his struggle to adapt to the strange ways of a strange faraway land. We can all identify with that one.

If you’d like to know more, take a look at Matt’s website. The book is available in paperback or kindle at Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk

To celebrate the release of the book, I asked Matt to write a guest post about his love, hate, love relationship with that great and ancient metropolis that straddles two continents.

I am not a city boy.  In my more militant moments I will rail against urban life, calling cities “cesspools of human filth” and swearing up and down the truest beauty in all the world can only be found when no man is present.  In fact, put a glass of scotch in me (I am a lightweight, it only takes one), and I am likely to say things that make the Unabomber look like a humanity-loving urban hipster.

So why did I write a book that starts out as “boy meets girl,” but ends up being “boy loves city”?

Believe me, it wasn’t easy (learning to love a city I mean, although writing a book is no cake walk either).

There are people who go to Istanbul and fall in love with it in 20 seconds.  They barely even pull away from the airport before they start raving about how amazing the place is.  Immediately they begin posting photos to Facebook and drooling all over everything and generally acting like giddy teenagers who just found the most perfect guy or girl in like, EVER!

I am not one of those people. When I first got to Istanbul I saw little but smog and chaos and stress.  Even six years after I arrived I was comparing living there to living like a lab rat in a cage stuffed with so many other lab rats they go insane from the overcrowding, and end up attacking each other and gnawing off their own feet.

But Istanbul has a way of getting under one’s skin, even mine.  Few things bring me peace like strolling through the square just north of the Ortakoy mosque on a cool summer night, where young lovers cuddle on the benches and little kids laugh as they chase each other around the plaza.  Few things strike me with awe like standing atop the stone walls of the Rumeli Hisari while watching a massive Ukrainian tanker sail south down the Bosphorus on its way to the Mediterranean.

Don’t let my mixed feelings about Istanbul scare you away from it. For every person like me who doesn’t know whether to call that place a shining city on the bay or a shameful scar on the face of the earth, there are ten who say without reservation that it is the greatest city they’ve ever seen in their entire lives.  Istanbul is the kind of place that every person, country boy or city slicker, should see at least once before they die.

And certainly don’t let my mixed feelings about Istanbul scare you away from Turkey in general.  If I were to list the five most beautiful places in the world, three of them would be in Turkey.  The first would be a particular balcony in Gumusluk, a small town on the Bodrum peninsula Jack mentions occasionally on this blog, from which all you can see is sea and all you can hear is wind and waves.  The second would be the side of a hill in Kapadokya, 600 kilometers inland, where in the mornings you can step out your front door and marvel at a sky so big and so blue it reminds you it is the sky that brings life to this earth, not the ground you are standing on.  And the third, well, that third image is just for me.

Maybe I wrote a book about adjusting to life in Istanbul because I was trying to sort through contradictory feelings that will never reconcile.  Maybe I did it because after the thousandth person asked me what it was like in Turkey, and for the thousandth time I didn’t know where to start, I thought maybe writing it down would help me clear my head and move on.

A fat lot of good that seems to have done me though.  I miss Istanbul and will be moving back in a few months.

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Swearing in Turkish

When I was on holiday and soliciting for guest posts, Dina, a Bodrum Belle of class and distinction, sent me two articles. The first, Siren Inflation was published last month, but I received her second piece too late in the day to include among the  holiday crop. I’m unsurprised it was a little delayed as Dina and her partner Dave run a successful gulet charter business here in old Bodrum Town called South Cross Blue Cruising. It’s been a busy season.

Here is Dina’s second guest post.

Swearing in Turkish is an acquired art.  The wrong word at a dinner party will guarantee a permanent ban, whereas a well-timed curse can open doors, and little is as satisfying as swearing profusely while driving in Turkey.

I once lived 20 meters up on a one way street from the main road in downtown Bodrum. This meant either driving up the one way street the wrong way in order to get into my private parking space, or circumventing the entire perimeter of Bodrum in order to arrive at the house 15 minutes and 2 liters of petrol later on the correct, one way route.

Fast forward to the bustle of August with Istanbul ’34’ number plates dominating all of the one way highways and tight Bodrum alleys. I was trying to get home and did a quick glance up my one way street which appeared completely clear. I gassed the little Fiat Uno up the alley the wrong way to duck into my parking space.  From a parked position, a tired, late 70s model, avocado green, 34 plated Mercedes sedan crept out and met me at the entrance to my parking space, with just enough room to not let me into my garage.  I signalled right – he shook his head.  I signalled right again, as all he had to do is reverse one meter to allow me access. I made a face and pointed towards my alley.  His brassy haired, bouffanted wife gave me the Turkish equivalent of the finger above her gold bangles.A combination of strong hormones and heat rash thus persuaded me to intentionally stall my Uno.  Alas, two more 34 plates appeared behind the Benz, as did a neighbor’s 48 licensed Bodrum car behind me, with shortcut intentions similar to mine.

Salak kari! bellowed the fat, sweaty Benz driver through all three of his chins. (Stupid broad)

Lavuk!  I tossed back. (Imbecile)

Oruspu!  yelled the aging Istanbulite’s missus at me above her gyrating fist. (Prostitute)

Whore! I yelled back, trying to intimidate in English.

Manyak! screeched the red faced man, blowing on his horn at me. (Maniac)

Hiyar! I retorted out of my open window. (Cucumber)

The local market boys ran out to participate in the entertaining engagement. They first attempted to assuage the Mercedes, which, in the Turkish pecking order and its big city license plate, had potential clout which almost rivalled that of mine as a trusted and known neighbor.  Realizing the aggressiveness and possible languid VIP factor within the aging Benz, as well as not wanting me to switch mini market loyalties, the market boys rearranged cement flower pots for me to pull onto the curb and allow the MB to pass.  The Honda behind me continued the argument until the Honda became an ayi (bear) and the Benz became the son of a pimp of sodomy.  Having delivered the purported greater insult, the 48 licensed Bodrum Honda backed up to let the frustrated 34 Benz pass.

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Give Them a Hand

Take a Bow

I’d like to extend a warm hand to my guest bloggers whose sterling work kept Perking the Pansies afloat while Liam and I were gadding about in Blighty and La Belle France. It was a harvest festival of wit and wisdom, revelation and revelry rudely interrupted by substandard despatches of my own from old London Town.

So, ladies and gentlemen please give it up for:

Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.

The Nibbler Becomes the Fisherman

My final guest post is from  Roving Jay at the Bodrum Peninsula Travel Guide, your one-stop shop for what’s hot and what’s not. Jay has been a loyal pansy fan virtually from day one so I think it’s right and proper that she completes the series with a flourish.

Roving Jay

I frequently swim around the Blog-o-Sphere, following bait from pool to pool.  I like to observe the fisherman from a distance, and watch them cast their lines in an attempt to lure me in.  If the bait doesn’t interest me, I’ll swim out of one pool and lurk in another. But if the lines thrown in my direction are suitably weighted and  baited, I’m enticed in for a nibble, and can become hooked on the content! Jack used his worm to lure me in, and I’ve been nibbling in his Pansy Pool ever since. Even though we live in a society where Facebook and Twitter are household names, the dynamics of collaboration still have a 90/9/1 split:

  • 90% of collaborators are Lurkers, watching but not contributing
  • 9% are Nibblers, who contribute occasionally, and
  • 1% are the Fisherman. Fancy a nibble?
Fancy a nibble?

So!  Are you usually a Lurker, a Nibbler or a Fisherman?  It’s not a simple question – because is really depends on which pool you’re in. In my own pool I’m a Fisherman, but in the Pansy Pool I’m usually a Nibbler.  I leave the occasional comment.  I like a post on Facebook.  Or I share a post on Twitter. But look at me today.  Fisherman Jack has left the bank unattended and there’s a huddle of pseudo Jack’s at the water’s edge casting lines of their own.  And if the words we’re casting are suitably weighted and baited, you’ll continue swimming in the Pansy Pool until Fisherman Jack returns with fresh bait of his own. In the meantime, if you fancy a nibble – there’s a comment box below.

Siren Inflation

Today’s guest post is from Dina, a Bodrum Belle of class and distinction. Delicious Dina and her partner, Aussie Dave, run a successful gulet charter business here in old Bodrum Town called South Cross Blue Cruising. Dina is civilised and erudite and Dave is, well, Australian, though he does expose his more artistic side in oils. They’re rather good. I know what you’re thinking. An artistic Aussie? An oxymoron, a paradox, a contradiction in terms, it can’t be true. But it is.

Dina

The summer of 2011 in Bodrum will be remembered as the summer of excessive ambulance sirens.  Almost hourly and sometimes in simultaneous, harmonic dischord, ambulance and fire truck sirens have dominated the normal Bodrum hum of cicadas*, clinking of tea glasses, scooters and verbose neighbors discussing the latest diet fads.

Enough, already

In addition to the government operated national hospital’s ambulances, there are a plethora of private hospitals and clinics which have purchased a cargo minivan, painted the sides with red lettered AMBULANS and attached flashing blue lights with a very loud siren. The gleam in the drivers’ eyes of these newly sprouted emergency vehicles is one of sheer thrill as they weave in and out of the congested Konacik highway traffic, delivering patients with symptoms ranging from heat stroke to broken digits as quickly as possible.  However, as a citizen and as a driver, I find it weary and upsetting to hear the sirens continually, as would anyone who has either had to be in one as a patient or follow a loved one in such a vehicle. A quick check on Dr. Google reveals that there are specific rules in many countries as to when lights, sirens, or both together may be legally used. When I’ve got a hangover isn’t one of them.

*A note from Jack.

I didn’t know cicadas existed here in Turkey. These fascinating insects live underground for 17 years before emerging en-masse to breed. I found this You Tube Clip from the BBC’s Life in the Undergrowth series with the incomparable David Attenborough. It’s about Yankee cicadas but you’ll get the drift.

An Anatolian Adventure

Today’s guest is gorgeous Kym who is the author of Turkeywithstuffin’s Blog and the pretty brain behind On the Ege, the monthly online magazine about Turkey’s Aegean coast.  Kym is married to dusky Murat, her hunky Turk. When veteran expat Kym wears a headscarf, she wants to look like Sophia Loren but thinks she looks more like Hilda Ogden. Personally, I think she resembles a darker version of Gynneth Paltrow in the Talented Mr Ripley.

Kym

It’s a Thursday in November 2008 and I am on my first road trip to Sanliurfa, my husband’s birth town. When we first arrived in Urfa late at night, the electricity was off and the city was in darkness.  Perhaps because I was tired from the long journey, I felt uneasy and had commented more than once that I’d been kidnapped and taken to Beirut. I did for a moment consider taken a plane home the following day. As we stood in the dark alley I was moaning, but once the large iron gate opened things could not have looked more different. We walked into a beautiful stone courtyard with mosaic tiles, Ottoman seating, potted plants and a small fountain.

The Manager at the Beyzade Konak Hotel is Murat’s cousin’s husband, Omer. He shows us to our room and once I have the internet and some coffee (they have a generator), I’m quite happy to chuck Murat out for an hour or so to allow him to play with his cousin Mehmet. I have a boiling hot shower, get my pajamas on and send a few quick “I’ve landed” emails. Then it’s lights out and a sleep so deep I could be in the cemetery.

Urfa

Day breaks and I realise the hotel is between two mosques. I open my eyes to the dual call to prayer, one a heartbeat behind the other. I doze for a bit then remember I’m actually on holiday and there are shops out there.

After breakfast, I nip back to our room and cover my locks with a headscarf. It’s a simple gesture of respect while I’m here and among the more traditional rellies. Well, that and I don’t really want to get stoned in the street! Mu of course thinks this is great and off we trot, out through the iron gate and onto the streets of Sanliurfa.

Once we leave the cobbled alley and get onto the main drag, its bustling; busses hog the road, cars fight for space beside them, scooters weave in and out of the traffic and pedestrians narrowly avoid being run over.  The air is filled with BBQ spices, pungent & smoky and the smell is everywhere. Small eateries and kebab houses jostle for space alongside clothes shops and jewelers who have 24 karat rays shining from their windows.

Stunning

There are a few glances my way naturally. It could be the pale skin and the green eyes, or it could be the flip flops and bright red toenails that don’t quite go with the rest of my ensemble. Still, that’s a great excuse to buy shoes isn’t it?

First things first, I need a new camera. We wander across to the maze of connecting alleyways that make up one of the eight covered bazars, to the collection of electronic shops. The salesman shows us his wares and converses with Murat: “Senin Esin mı?”(your wife),  “Yabanci” (a foreigner), “Alman?” (German).  Mu confirms the first two and I answer the last. “English” I say, not realising at the time that we will have this conversation many times during our stay. I guess it’s due to my height and build and of course, my great Grandparents, Mr & Mrs Shram!

I end up with an Olympus, a compact professional the man says. We will see.

Leaving the shop we are met by Cousin Mehmet and Hassan Amca. Their first words to me are “Kym, Beirut Nasil?” Very funny!  The four of us then continue around the bazaar which contains a veritable Aladdin’s Cave full of treasure. There is even a street full of workshops where workmen batter copper and solder iron.

Heading into the Balikigol area toward the cay bache, we pass through the ‘Sipahi Bazar’ and the ‘Kazzaz Bazaar’, the oldest covered Bazaars of Urfa. These were built by the Ottoman Emperor, Suleiman the Magnificent in 1562.  It really is like stepping back in time and I watch ancient shalvar wearing salesmen sitting cross legged in their little tented alcoves, bathed in rich colour and drinking tea while customers peruse their antique carpets, kilims and hand woven head dresses.

Feed Me!

During our small shopping excursion, I’d picked up some elastic hair bands that I needed and watched as three pairs of hands reach into theirpockets to pay for them. Oooooo I like shopping here. I wonder if it works in shoe shops? A few minutes’ walk and we reach the cave of Abraham. Legend has it that the Babylonian King, Nemrud, had Abraham captured and thrown into fire. His crime?  Calling upon the people to worship the real god and not the icons of celestial objects, as was the religion of the time.  Of course, God was watching and on seeing this, he turned the fire into water, saving Abraham from certain death. Not content with that, he then turned the surrounding woods into the sacred fish, the ancestors of which we see today at the site of the “Halil ur Rahmen” Mosque in the centre of Urfa.

I buy a dish of fish pellets and watch the fat feisty fish fight each other for each tiny morsel, after which we take a rest in the cay bachesi. I sit sipping hot sweet tea and take a look at my photos so far. The photos are amazing; sneaky zoom shots of men at prayer and performing the abtest, plus the usual tourist shots of minarets and domes. It’s getting late now and as dusk settles over the city, we head back to the hotel.

Nemrud

So far so good, my first day in Urfa was wonderful and I am hungry for more. We have decided to use Urfa as a base for a few road trips. On my list are: Harran, Nemrut, and Hasenkeyf, then, a stop at Cappadocia on the way home.  I had no idea at the time but this journey would also encompass, Mardin, Midyat, Batman & Siirt. My Anatolian adventure continues.

Welcome to Turkey

Today’s guest post is from Yankee Erin who lives the Bohemian dream (she would say hand to mouth) existence in Berlin with teacher hubby, Ian. Very Cabaret. I first ‘met’ Erin when she interviewed me for Blogexpat. Erin writes her own blog about their Teutonic expat adventures in Back to Berlin…And Beyond, a wonderfully intimate glimpse into their lives. Today, Erin gives us a delicious titbit of their grand train journey to Istanbul and their first experience of the city that crosses two continents. Not quite Murder on the Orient Express but…

Erin

We had done it! We had lived in Europe for one whole year, just as we said we were going to. Going vegetarian for days at a time (even in cheap Berlin) to make ends meet on a teacher and sometimes writer budget, we had done it. And now it was time…time for The Trip. We were doing the collegiate run-around-europe-with-backpacks-half-the-size-of-our-body for over a month. In that time, we planned to visit 10 countries. We were crazy.

A week in (having just visited Austria, Hungary, & Romania), we boarded the train for Istanbul. Scheduled to be 18 hours, we knew it was going to be a long haul. A Kiwi couple paired with us in a sleeper and we spent long hours talking about our adventures and watching fields of crispy sunflowers roll by. Along with us on the train were some hippies from Germany (there is no escaping the Germans, I swear they seek us out wherever we travel), and a woman from Cyprus with 3 passports. One of hers literally had handwritten documentation. I was fascinated.

Night met the train in Bulgaria where we were told we would wait ‘a little while’ for a train from Serbia to meet-up. Making conversation with some of our fellow train riders, a Turkish man and his wife told us ‘Istanbul, big danger!’ They then charaded out the gestures of drugs and pick- pocketing. Oh, thank you for the advice.

The train

The hours ticked by and we realized our long train ride just got a lot longer. Finally, the two trains re-united and we were off again, struggling to sleep on the top bunks in the sweltering August heat. Screeech! Stopped again at around 4:30am, men with bug guns boarded the train, shouting at us in Turkish. The woman from Cyprus turned out to be a big aid as she spoke with the guards, and translated for us in German. ‘Kontrolle. Your passes…’ Oh- Passport Control. What a lovely welcome.

They took our passports and left the train. Don’t all the guidebooks tell you to never let that happen? We blearily followed, and forked over the money required for the visa. The Kiwi’s – those lucky bastards- got off without a fee. I see. As Americans, your country starts a bunch of wars- or wait excuse me – ‘conflicts’ and you don’t get very easy access to places.

The Blue Mosque

A whole day had passed since we boarded the train. We eagerly disembarked, ready to see a new continent, the place once called Constantinople – Istanbul!  Immediately, we fell in love with the smells & sights of the city. Aggressive salesmen chanted at us ‘Spend money here, please?’ and we just smiled, happy to be swept away in the ocean of color. We found our way to our hostel in Sultanahmet and happily gazed out into the water. A little of this happiness dampened as a sour couple also on the roof top told us

‘There’s no water, you know?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The whole city. No water’

She seemed to take pleasure at the looks of panic on our face. We had just spent a full day on a train in August. We weren’t exactly feeling so fresh or so clean. Running to the lobby we asked at the desk and the clerk apologetically told us it was true. They were running on their water tanks, but expected them to run out soon as the water had already been off for several days. He smiled sadly, ‘Welcome to Istanbul.’

Pigeon Lady

Whatever. We smelled. But we were in Istanbul! Pretzel vendors calling beneath our window, thousands of wild cats, a whole world of spices to discover…nothing mattered except that we were here for 3 magical days.

On the third day, we got sick. Call it Ataturk’s revenge (or possibly Vlad’s revenge as we had suspicion it might have come from Romania), but boy did we use those bathrooms. Struggling to maintain any ounce of dignity, we sweatily hung on as we continued to tour. It accompanied us to Kusadasi, Greek islands, all the way up Italy and through Southern France. By the time we got to Bruges we were almost recovered. A thoroughly effective weight loss program.

Time for Tea

Maybe it’s us. Or maybe it was some tough love from Istanbul. Maybe it’s best we didn’t have an easy time in Istanbul, because we really loved it, all of it. We survived the trip, celebrated our second Oktoberfest, said good-byes to all of our friends in Berlin, and flew home to Seattle. We even got married and have since returned to Berlin (I said it already – we’re crazy). But the trip to Istanbul stands out in my mind. I hate to pick favorites, but I wonder how much tickets are to Istanbul. Or maybe we should take the train.

Strictly by the [Guide] Book

Today’s post is hot off the press from Kirazli Karyn at Being Koy, veteran jobbing blogger and top drawer freelance writer. When I say veteran I mean prolific not aged. Karyn is a mere slip of a girl. She normally writes passionately and evocatively about her Turkish village idyll. It’s all true. We’ve seen it with our own eyes. Today she vents her spleen at the travel guide industry.

Karyn

One of my friends visited Cirali recently, I suggested it, I thought he would find the ruins slowly collapsing into the forest beautiful, the tree houses were his sort of thing and as far as I was concerned seeing the flames of the Cimera on Mount Olympos was one of those big “things to see in Turkey”.  Turns out I was right, he loved it; he loved the whole hippy vibe, sitting around a campfire jamming on a battered guitar, swimming in the dramatic coves and camping in the trees by the side of a dirt road to the beach.  It was indeed, just his thing, but he got a bit nervous on the way there.

Cirali

On the bus from Konya to Goreme to explore Cappadocia before heading down to the coast he hooked up with some Japanese travellers, none of whom were going on to Cirali, in fact they’d never heard of it.  It turns out this is because it wasn’t in their guide books and if it isn’t in the guide book, specifically in your demographically tailored, distinctively marketed guidebook, it doesn’t exist.

Some locations that used to be popular have disappeared from the guidebooks altogether despite the fact that they are beautiful and interesting and unique and others have appeared for no better reason than they are considered “off the beaten track” by some gung ho backpacking writer who has cottoned on to the fact that being a reviewer for some obscure guidebook is a glamorous sounding job and gets you laid more often than pretending to be a BA pilot and part time dolphin trainer.  This makes up for being paid a pittance to go to shit places and eat rubbish food and pretend they’re great.

Where am I?

These days there are guidebooks for everywhere and every type of travel and traveller and if these were not enough now the guidebooks are supplemented by websites and forums and even apps for your phone, so the brave voyager need never again make an uninformed decision during the whole of their adventurous trek – that’s really character building.  Places once considered off the beaten track are now, as a result, definitely middle of the well trodden road.  If Leonardo de Caprio now jumped off that waterfall to find The Beach he’d have to push aside 200 tourists tweeting about their experience on their iPhones before he could surge into the water in a sexy and manly way.

This year my little village Kirazli made it into Lonely Planet, it gets mentioned as worth a visit, and the little paragraph about it bigs up a restaurant that is at best, mediocre.  It used to be good, five years ago, it is now ok.  I can think of three other restaurants in the village that are better and cheaper and have nicer staff.  So basically this village gets mentioned for something it isn’t very good at and all the things it is really good at don’t get mentioned at all.  This is typical of guide books really and is why they should be treated as a jumping off point for your journey, not a step by step instruction manual. Sometimes they’re wrong and sometimes you just need to turn off your iPhone, talk to a real person on the same road as you or take an unplanned turning, because getting off the beaten track is actually a state of mind not a place you struggle to and you can do it with a single step or a single conversation, you can’t do it with a multi million selling guidebook, that’s a contradiction in terms.


This is Karyn’s second guest post. Her first was Shaken, Not Stirred.