Faces of Fez

Running Amok

deli — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 02:03:00 GMT

......in phnom penh...one of our fave dishes here in this unexpectedly glorious city is 'chicken amok' - a khmer curry that has so many layers of flavour - garlic and chilis and cumin and coriander and kaffir lime leaves and did i mention chilis? the only cure is any icy swig of very good Cambodian beer...

our evening meal is the perfect foil for a sober day of reflection at the infamous 'killing fields' of Cambodia where we have spent the day. the Khmer Rouge under Pol Pot were brutally precise in photographing the thousands upon thousands of victims of their madness and as i pass the wall upon wall of their photographs, i make a point of trying to look into each of the faces gazing mutely back and try to imagine what they were feeling at that moment. i cannot of course. nothing in my rare priviledged life provides the context for that - i can only strive to understand. i am abit taken aback at how stoically calm most look and wonder if it is because they have no idea of the fate that awaits them...or perhaps it is the opposite and they know only too well what awaits...that if strong and healthy they will die a slow death of forced labour and starvation, and that if otherwise they die a quicker yet no kinder death at the edge of a mass grave in what is now an idyllic setting of butterfly strewn gardens and greenery. its been dry and hot hot hot now for weeks but after every wet season a new crop of bone and clothing comes to the surface and i am alarmed to find myself stepping around rags and bone protruding from the earth...bins and benches around the site have small piles of bones or clothing, freshly emerged too from the earth, stacked on them, waiting for collection and addition to the stupa that encloses what must be a 12 or so story glass enclosure of thousands of skulls unearthed here.

the entire day has been a somber and surreal day...before reaching the killing fields, our tuk tuk driver takes us to a shooting range, attached oddly or not so oddly to any army barrack...where upon we are shown to a table and handed menus. hilariously, Ian and i both say 'oh no thanks -nothing to eat'...and the fatigue clothed 'waiter' rolls his eyes and points to the menu items -
for $80 US we can shoot a handgun...for $120 US we can shoot an AK47 machine gun...and so it goes...the menu reaches a dubious crescendo at $350 to fire a rocket launcher.....hahahahaha.....we buy a bottle of water each and exit as gracefully and as quickly as we are able and run laughing back to our tuk tuk....the remenants of cambodian army see no profit from us today.

and so my point in relaying to you the profoundly sad or the merely bizarre details of life here in Cambodia is to simply hone a finer point on what we really will take away from our time in Cambodia - we have never ever in any of our travels met with kinder, gentler, more fun loving and generous people than here. among the worlds poorest they have endured war, both civil and that spilling over from Vietnam and the insanity of brutal Khmer Rouge regime (at a time when i was bopping around in my own self centred party girl mode I am embarrassed to admit)...and yet each day the Cambodian people we have had the privilege of meeting, greet life with a rare grace and humor. this country has been a joy from the moment we landed (me smelling less than wonderful after a rollicking rollercoaster ferry ride - but that is a whole different story...). thank you yet again for joining Ian and I on this ride - some pure hedonistic bliss, some horrific examination of what humankind really are capable of inflicting on each other - all of it life affirming...
with love and our best wishes to you for good health and happiness - and yes world peace too!
deli and Ian

My Scholarship entry - Seeing the world through other eyes

deli — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 05:47:00 GMT

It’s their hands I notice first. Clasped side by side, one lined pair is deep chocolate while the other pair is milk chocolate and as smooth as the baby’s bum he sits on. As I approach, their faces press into the sunlight. They are profoundly lovely together – the beautiful old man holds what I learn is his grandson. The child’s new-to-this-world eyes brim with wonder and more than a bit of confusion. I think I know how he feels as I turn to see what he sees...

The souk is the epitome of hectic contradiction. A woman in chador, her face covered entirely, demurely tiptoes through the muck in a pair of the sexiest of stilettos. Two dowagers sit like tired dogs at the side of the road, squinting through the smoke of the pipe they share. An immaculate and impatient businessman pushes through the same crowd that cheeky street urchins beg coins from. The riotous cacophony of it all is overlaid with the whine of a call to prayer.

Hunger nudges me along the line of street food stalls. The only sullenness I meet is from the hawker of butchered sheep heads. Their tongues still loll in final defiance so he is easily forgiven.
At the next stall, a magical paste of chopped herbs and fiery chillies is slathered on to my chosen meal. Flavour builds on flavour and the heat starts low and sweet then rises until my nose runs. I sit on the pavement to eat and marvel at the colour that surrounds me. The unabashed lime of fresh mint. Vamp red chillies. Inky olives are the sober backdrop to saffron. I capture the miraculous play of colour and light with my beloved camera before turning again to the pair whose hands first drew my attention.
I gesture with camera and the old man nods. It is a rare privilege. I look up to smile my thanks but the old man is already retreating. His grandson’s wondrous eyes are dropping in prelude to sleep. I heft my pack and wonder if he dreams of the joyous life swirling outside of his window and whether he smiles in his sleep as a result.

Moody Blues

deli — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 02:11:00 GMT

The Mediterranean is moody today. Dark and heaving about more than any bosom found on the cover of a trashy romance novel...for reasons I won't go into right now, my own mood is equally blue. So I cast back over the past few weeks to conjure up some of the magic I have felt...

Its funny how evocative music is...hearing a certain song can bring on a flood of emotion long buried or forgotten...joyfully hurtling by train through the countryside in Spain or lightly touching down after helicopter flight over grand canyon - both those moments were somewhat surreally accompanied with Louis Armstrong crooning "what a wonderful world" through sound system or flight headset at the time...and so I can't help but laugh/weep when as we climb a hill on the island of Gozo, i pick up the strains of that same song! Unlike the past two times, though, it's not the singular voice of Louis delivering the tune. Rather it is a sizeable sounding, heavy-to-the-brass band. Ian and I stop in our tracks and look at each other with consternation and amazement. The band is playing with considerably more enthusiasm than skill, but the tune is unmistakable - and so are the feelings that accompany it - a deep contentment and pure happiness at being out in the world. I love those moments - when everything stops and you are just so suddenly aware of the delight found in simply breathing...

We are drawn to the home that the music comes from. I desperately want to see inside and picture a crowd of older Maltese men, red faced and earnestly pounding out the tunes with dirge-like tempo and intensity. I think about the possible photos and yearn to capture them...but the windows are all opaque and we are forced to flee - literally - when the next tune - is it ABBA??!! begins and we can suppress our laughter no longer...

Gozo is only a 20 minute ferry ride from Malta but it has entirely different ambience...slower and even friendlier...it even smells different. Farming is the big 'industry' here and the island is justifiably famous for it's yummy honey (some drips from my toast on to my jammies every morn and I don't hesitate for even a second to lick it off - stop wincing Mom...) and peppered cheese. But really....where are all the cows?? For a place famous for cheese you don't see any cows in fields. Aside from the rare lamb, you don't see ANY animals grazing...but being ever resourceful, Ian helps himself to a Gozo guide from our lovely quaint guesthouse there and shares the secret - in the past, farmer's daughters (they exist!!) were highly valued and were resolutely kept under lock and key inside the family home until such time as they were deemed marriageable...At that point, the family would place pots of flowers in the window to signify that some lovely lass was inside and ready to be claimed for hopefully a good price...since then though, cows have become more valuable than young women and so the farmer's daughters are free to wander the streets and the cows are kept inside under lock and key! hahahaha. There is abit of truth to this story...arable land is too rare/valuable to graze livestock so the cows are raised in what they refer to as 'farms' here - really just enormous wall-less sheds...I subsequently see/smell a few on a hike - they are miserable affairs - the cows are crowded into pens where they are unable to escape their own dung and urine. ugh - some are compulsively biting the bars that contain them. Much as I love it, I think I have to abandon eating the Gozo cheese...I sure as heck hope the honey is produced by happy bees...

one of our missions in Gozo is to find what archaeologists surmise are cart tracks, deeply cut into the soft limestone in ancient times...so we set out after an enormous breakfast on first morn to find them...I say silent prayer of thanks for the weight of the eggs, sausage, croissants, java, - you get the picture - in my belly as we lean hard into the hurricane force winds buffeting the cliffs we traipse over...the wind really has pushed me off the top of one of the ubiquitous stone walls so I'm understandably abit reluctant to approach too closely the cliff edge. We range back and forth over the rocky landscape...it is holds an understated beauty - the wildflowers are just emerging and I marvel at their tenacity to exist where little to no soil does. Suddenly a shout from Ian. Cart tracks! we jump around like kids for a moment. Who were these people? What were they transporting that was heavy enough to carve tracks into the rock? Why do the tracks head - gulp - straight for cliff edge?? Some kind of early 'Thelma and Louis' scenario?? we delight in finding what we christen the 'first traffic circle' - an area criss crossed by many tracks...and take many photos...in effort to give some scale to what we are looking at, I stick my foot in one particularly well worn rut and get stuck...

we have one more mission on Gozo - to find propane for our tiny bbq tank...really - how hard can it be?? unlike home, gas stations dont sell propane we are told and we are directed to a hardware store...they are the only ones to sell propane we're told...(Maltese looooove giving directions - it's an entirely social occasion it seems. ask one person and soon a crowd gathers, cell phones emerge and everyone is shouting and pointing - in different directions. People even appear on their balconies to add to the good natured cacophony). we eventually find the hardware store....no no no - you can get gas from the local marine shop we are told there....at the marine shop??? we are told you can only get propane from the gas station!! hahahahaha.

turns out to be a language problem of sorts...gas stations are called petrol stations here and gas stations are not gas stations but bulk depots where you can get propane tanks refilled. There is one on Malta. One on Gozo. The one on Gozo where we now stand is closed but the owner will be back soon a neighbour assures us...so we settle in to wait. Soon a lineup forms around us. Are they waiting for propane man too?? nope they are lined up at the bakery across the street - a wonderful old wood fired place where a man and his son labour...the lineup continues to grow and we are the subject of scrutiny and frowns because we are parked in prime spot right outside bakery door and cars are beginning to clog street around us. and then it happens - a rush for the door and people begin to emerge with the spoils - "what we wait here for!" one woman happily assures me...so after an hour waiting we end up with the much sought after product - straight from the oven, chewy pretzel type creations, fragrant with aniseed...pure nirvana. and the propane? we never did get any...

but did emerge with some memories to dig out and smile over when things look abit black like they do today. I hope this day brings you something to smile over and that you are well and happy...

with much love,

deli

Maltese Crossed

deli — Tue, 2 Feb 2010 02:54:00 GMT

Hmmmm. one of the last times I consulted a guide book for somewhere to stay or eat, I clearly recall deciding that the only thing that the book was ultimately good for was to keep the bathroom door in my sketchy hostel closed...I even remember wondering if the guide book author had actually visited the place in question...that was a couple of years ago in Turkey.

apparently I am a painfully slow learner...and that's why I was so thrilled to find myself in a teeeeeeny-tiiiiiiny converted 'garage' (it had to be a single car garage) restaurant in the otherwise lovely ancient town of Rabat...the infamous lonely planet promised fabulous local fare but warned that the place fills fast with locals - no surprise given that there were only two tables gracing the "Cuckoo's Nest". yup - maybe my first clue should have been that name...

It all started out so promising...the owner - he had to be 102 - met me at door and uttered one of my fave words - "wine??" (felt like wrapping the old dear in a hug at that point - but it would have been one of those awkward nose-to-chest kind of things -- his nose, my chest. I am soooo tall here - standing head and shoulders above most women and quite a few of the men, particularly the older ones...an indication of sparse times endured by tenacious Maltese in past...but back to lunch...) The wine arrived, poured with some panache out of an old Gordon's Gin bottle...no kidding...but I didn't question it - the glass was gratifyingly full to rim after all...

and so what to order? Turned out that the only 2 things that were on offer were the special of the day and the well known Maltese dish "timpana" - Dear god it's good thing that I didn't know what's supposed to be in timpana - brain and other organ bits wrapped in pasta and pastry - ugh. But I am a devout believer in eating local fare so I ordered it. Luckily (?) for me, the dish I was served did not resemble the traditional dish in least but was simply macaroni baked to crunchiness and slathered with some dubious brown gravy. hmmm. I wondered if my one fellow diner was faring better with his choice of special of day...a glance at his plate revealed revolting lumps of something also slathered in same brown gravy. Stifling laughter/tears, I ate a few bites resolutely chased down by wine and fled.

I did find an extraordinarily helpful use for this damn outdated or simply inaccurate guidebook though - it is lies dismembered - it's cover and first 20 or so pages are wedged into my bedroom window to keep it from shaking during the "big blows" currently rattling Malta...hahahaha

ah, yes...the kindly shop owner that first pointed me in direction of Cuckoo's nest when I asked him must have shaken his head as I walked away and thought "dopey tourist"..

but I felt decidedly like a local this afternoon when I ventured out after fierce rainstorm. Heading to market with my fisherman's net bag and my pocket full of euros...when a young man, in that universal gesture of glee, veered his car over to my side of road to splash me with puddle water. Without even a second thought I turned, gave him the rudest (also universal) arm gesture and yelled a robust, "BASTA"!! oh dear. where did that come from?? Channelling my inner Maltese perhaps...hah.

as always, I love that you are with me on this journey and hope your days are full and happy.

warm hugs,

deli

cafe negro por favor

deli — Sat, 3 Oct 2009 02:33:00 GMT

yup -- the words in the subject line have become my phrase of choice over the last few mornings. Buenos Aires becomes to rattle and hum about the time that the first few birds begin to sing - literally...I found myself on a sidewalk still vibrating with life at almost 4 in the morn...I was headed to bed - my fellow strollers were just heading out for ¨the night¨ This city more than lives up to its reputation of ´¨Paris of S. America¨´...incredibly glam, it is a delightful cross between the luxe of Paris and the rambunctiousness of Barcelona. The inhabitants are verrrrry friendly and outgoing - much smiling and windmilling of arms as I try to converse with any of them - my 12 or so words of Spanish are woefully inadequate and my sketchy-at-best comprehension skills are entirely lost in the machine gun pace at which everyone here seems to speak...and move....and drive...and smoke...and drink wine....

aaaaaah yes....the wine...delicious inky black chewy malbec...a very good bottle runs about 20 pesos - about 6 or 7 dollars give or take...at the end of this week I will likely be waddling thru the airport on my way to Capetown because the food is also yummy, cheap and er, plentiful...

this city is incredibly easy to navigate...but only on foot...the traffic is insane, despite the breadth of the GRANDE avenues transecting the city. I'm not exagerating when i describe them as grande....between 16 and 18 lanes of absolute chaos and calamity...sometimes the intersections simply fill up entirely - buses, scooters, and the gazillions of bug-like black and yellow cabs (there are 40,000 of them in this city) each vehicle pointed in a different direction - all just come to one tangled standstill. That´s when the fun really begins and I have come to believe that everyone secretly revels in leaning on their horns, gesturing and yelling goodnaturedly at the occupants of the other vehicles...

so it was that I set off on the best kind of day...on foot, with camera clutched to my chest. the cabbie smiles and shakes his head when I wave him off but he asks me in his impeccable english where I´m setting off today...his smile deepens when i mutely point to the barrio I´m headed for on the map...

The barrio is a riot of colour and sinuous cobblestone passageways...each otherwise shabby building flaunts a different vibrant colour. It is the pleasing result of the least affluent in this city using the scavenged remains of paint from other jobs...so lime jostles with fuschia...aqua jostles with tangerine...grafitti of a quality that I would love on my living room walls overlays all...and each miniscule courtyard within yields a tiny winebar or cafe or artist´s studio. The owners all smile and nod and murmur a polite and formal ´buenos dias´´ or a more casual ¨hola¨ but otherwise I am entirely unbothered despite my solo romp and obvious visitor status. When hunger finally drives me into one of the aformentioned cafes, I am met with warm smile and even warmer basket of rustic bread - fresh from the woodfire oven. 12 pesos (about $4) later, I stagger back out into watery sunshine...my belly full of olives and jambon and salamis and cheeses, the equivalent of my bodyweight (now doubled) of the heavenly bread, a glass of wine and a kickbutt espresso...aaaah bliss.

and the bliss continues as I survey the photos I capture there - a gaggle of slightly dishevelled uniformed schoolkids running to meet their mamas, a verrrrrry rotund older gent (he must have eaten at the same place I did) smoking and surveying the corner that his cafe occupies, a couple of young bearded and bespectacled serious young men playing violin and accordian against a ramshackle wall, the pattern of rainslicked cobblestones...and so on.

...and so on I go now...with a huge anticipatory smile and a recharged camera battery. Thanks for coming along with me again...until next time,
tons o´love,
Deli

Cat Man Do

deli — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 02:18:00 GMT

Hot tears sting my eyes as I make the 30 meter or so walk through "no man's land" on the border between India and Nepal. I am feeling my difference profoundly as I walk. The Nepalese army (?) police (?) guys are scrutinizing me - hard - so I bite my lip equally hard in effort to keep tears at bay. I have been more frightened in my life but have never felt so entirely alone....

When the bus driver dropped me at the border and helped me shoulder my pack, he told me to just keep walking - don't stop and don't take photos while walking into Nepal. So I turn away and try to ignore the worried look on his face. OhdeargoddessShiva I find myself praying that the Nepalese guide who is to meet me on the 'other side' is there. And then I'm there at the Nepal side, and no one waits for me. Stepping into the immigration shack, I begin to fill in the papers required for my Nepal visa, hand over the needed money and picture and submit to more scrutiny. my pack is opened, my stuff is rifled and my camera is extracted. on request I show the officer that I have no photos of the border, but he pops the memory card from my camera and tosses it into the garbage bin and now the tears do spill. Half of my treasured photographs from India are gone. Quietly palming the other memory card I get my passport and shiny new visa back and step back out and find "Jimmy" - my guide....his broad Tibet Sherpa looking face creased deeply into the leatheriest of smiles...and suddenly it's all up hill from here...

Literally....we hop into the group van and begin the long grind up into the "hills". For ease I have joined a trek group for the Nepal portion of my trip and there are nine of us collectively holding our breath as we navigate the crumbling narrow road...looking over the edge as our driver hurtles around blind corners I think that at least going over the edge would be done with some "Thelma and Louise" type panache. At the apex we stop for a meal of mo:mo's - water buffalo dumpling type things and plenty of welcome and icy beer. The villagers haven't seen a lot of travellers apparently so I spend a therapeutic half hour after lunch taking photographs of kids, and beautiful old folks and gaggles of giggling young women and dogs and....and....it is the perfect balm to my soul.

and hence begins my journey through Nepal. I came not knowing quite what to expect and have been entirely enchanted with this country every waking moment. Picture the scenery from "7 days in Tibet" overlaid with buddhist temples and shrines and villages straight out of the most surreal medieval movie set and then layer over all the friendliest most welcoming souls I have ever met. The Himalayas provide the visually stunning background to steeply terraced rice paddies and banana plantations, rambling wooden homes with metal pagoda roofs literally spill down cliff sides, spectacular glacier fed, aqua blue rivers slice through the gorges and everywhere children wave and run after us with broad smiles and calls of 'namaste' (hello in both Hindi and Nepalese). Their biggest joy is having their photo taken and then seeing it afterwards - usually followed with wild giggling and more 'posing'.

With ethnic backgrounds including Indian, Moghul, and Chinese the diversity of faces is amazing and the Nepalese, particularly the women are well, gorgeous and tiny and exquisite. Here in Kathmandu, they are also remarkably fashion forward and visible. This whole city vibrates with the energy and noise and calamitous joy of millions of souls...yet I feel entirely safe walking any of the streets alone, even after my self imposed curfew of being back in my room before dark (plug your ears, those of you that know my 'rules' while travelling....) For the streets come alive at night with families and singles and hawkers and shop keepers and those like me who simply stroll and marvel at the ancient temples and shrines nudging up against the vibrant nightlife.

Last night was the last spent with my group of hardy, jovial intrepid trekkers and we feted our success at the predawn hikes that Jimmy and Avi put us through with a visit to a place here frequented in the past by dear ol' Sir Edmund Hilary and his Everest team. Their doodles and signatures still grace an old paper tablecloth now protected by glass panel on the wall, along with other "Everest Summiteers"....The rest of the place is covered with cardboard "Yeti footprints" - all signed and doodled on by other trekking groups - some who've done the whole Everest basecamp thing - some like us who have simply conquered our own more modest hills. Our group gets it's own blank foot and spend a hilarious wine fuelled hour designing our own footprint to add to the others. As the smallest in our crew, I'm hauled up on the shoulders of the largest of our crew to nail our foot into the rafters. It's a ridiculously happy moment and I like to think that someone may read ours and laugh and what we've written and drawn on it, just as we have enjoyed the footprints of other trekking groups.

and now back out into the benign, glorious sunshine to enjoy my last afternoon in Nepal....tomorrow it's back to crazy-arse India, albeit with the goal of reaching the hippy-vibe paradise of Goa for a week of blissful bozo time on the beach. As always, thank you for walking along with me on the way. Even if I don't reply to your notes right away, I love getting them - they give me that delicious connection to home...Love and warm, thriving, happy hugs to you all, Deli.

Goa'ing Home Again

deli — Tue, 3 Mar 2009 02:47:00 GMT

I have christened her "Rosemary" and she is a beauty - about the same vintage as me, she wear a gently faded shade of pink and unabashedly sports a banner reading "Miss India"...she is my bike - a big tired, big saddled, basketted marvel of Indian simplicity - no gears and only the crankiest of handbrakes....Nevertheless, Rosie and sail along the beach daily - at the lowest of tides, the sand is concrete hard. I happily share the sandy superhighway with all manner of folks, hawking ice cream, icy beer, cigarettes, kleenex, sarongs and well everything and anything or as one woman put it - miffed because I refused to buy from her..."all manners of cheap rubbish". it is just part of the enderaring charm and aggravation that is India.

Goa is remarkably gentle and laid back - here on the spectacular beaches or taking the plunge at the foot of stunning waterfalls, I've had the time to reflect abit on what I've experienced in this rollicking ride of a country. More than any memory seared into me - (despite the devastating poverty - slums that snake like some surreal river throughout Mumbai - their corrugated iron roofs are so close together that you can't see the ground from above) - is the overwhelming kindness and humor of the people I've met along the way. Yup - i have been 'ripped off" in the grandest of ways - if you count a few rupees, less than price of coffee a grand ripoff. What I will remember is the many folks who enthusiastically and in great numbers came to my rescue any number of times, wanting nothing more than to exchange hi's and handshakes...and the beautiful beautiful children dancing along side me as I walked - practicing their hellos and begging for nothing more themselves than to see their enormous smiles captured on my camera screen. I'm overwhelmed, overjoyed and well, overweight at the time spent here and in Nepal. A certain niche of my heart has been firmly taken over by this glorious place.

and so here I find myself, perched again in the uber-cool of the Amsterdam airport...I've showered and had sushi (!! I almost couldn't remember how to use the chopsticks after a month of eating my "utensils" - the delicious, fragrant naan bread used to scoop up your food) and my flight home to Vancouver is almost ready to board...so I will end this with a thank you to those who chose to walk along with me along the way. It has been an extraordinary pleasure and comfort to know that you are with me. This is going to be abit of a tough journey to re-enter my 'real' world from so I look to you to share my experiences and photos with me if you will. With enormous, happy and at the same time, very sad hugs...Deli.
x0x0x0x
ps....Cambodia and Laos next year anyone?????

Turkish Delights (forgive me)

deli — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 04:24:00 GMT

His name is 'Endar' - the 'rare one' and I am in love. He comes at the bargain price of 2 turkish lire and not only guides me throughout the amazing rock cut tombs but also carries my bag, holds my hand up the steep, steep hlllside and carefully points out the rocks that I may stumble on. (Apparently he has a good grasp of my lack of grace...). He is 11 years old and speaks 3 languages fluently. His the very picture of emerging Turkey - one foot in the traditional past, one firmly planted in the future.

This is the most incredible country. if you haven't already been here, disregard the grave govt travel warnings and come. Turkey is a wildly diverse country - ranging from the impossibly edgy and sophisticated Istanbul (do you remember your early history lessons on Constantinople? This is the cradle of civilization and 17 million people call this gorgeous, rambunctious city home) to the south eastern villages bordering on Iran and Iraq where I wore headscarf and was instructed to keep my eyes demurely downcast at all times...
>
Turkey is not entirely what I expected. The infrastructure is well developed and in the western sections, bmws and audis rip down the superhighways...and in the east? those same highways are empty of cars...the odd dusty bus but more often the ubiquitous dusty donkey or tractor transport entire families, their livestock and swaying mountains of produce.

and on the mediterranean coast in the southwest? The ocean is an impossible peacock blue and bathwarm. A four day gulet (traditional wooden Turk sailing yacht) trip yieldes a magical kayak glide over the sunken city of Kevakos, sublime soakings off the island of St. Nicholas, raki fuelled belly dancing lessons in Kas and more stars than I have ever laid eyes on each night when we pulled mattresses on to the deck to sleep and escape the heat of cabin. I'm uncertain whether the sea is ultra salty here or whether I sport an alarming new layer of flab at the hands of Ahmed, the ships cook - but it feels easier to float here than at home. My toes had no problem poking well out of the water and I was able to rest both book and glass of yummy local wine on my upturned belly while bobbing about.
>
Turkey is a land of entirely mystical landscapes. I am entirely at a loss adequately describe the 'fairy chimmneys' of Goreme. Google Goreme or Cappadochia and let your jaw drop. These 'chimmneys' are the result of differential erosion of layers of volcanic material and over the years have formed into what polite folks may refer to as mushrooms. Really though, they are decidely more um, er, phallic in shape and really are magical. Early Hittites carved homes and stables and churches and wine cellars (gotta love those Hittites) into them and together they cover entire valley bottoms and depending on your tastes look either like an early starwars set or slightly eerie home to gnomes and the like. After exploring these by foot for days, a hotair balloon ride at sunrise lent a whole new exciting perspective - our pilot was brilliant - not simply allowing us to rise to great height above the valley, he wove us in and out of the chimmneys literally close enough to rub their roofs.
>
But I digress from my aforementioned newfound love. After we climb about thru the rock tombs and the ottoman castle that was alarmingly built right on top of them, Endar takes me back to his home for apple tea - along the way we share our
really worst jokes and pee our pants laughing and then he and his Gran take me out to their 'backyard' - a remarkably well preserved greco theatre hunkered down into the hillside. "its a good place for the goats" he mumbles - surprised at my surprise..such is Turkey...so many achingly beautiful, ancient remains that they become a good place for goats, or in the case of ancient sarchophogi (sp?) in Fethiye, somewhere to simply rest the paper towel dispenser and airhose at the local gas station.

After tea, we try to get Gran to take a picture of us....she has never seen a digital camera before and the first few shots are of the sky above our heads, the next few candidly capture our toes and then she nails it - Endar and I framed (abit crookedly) with our arms about each other, our fingers behind each other's heads raised in the traditional and highly regarded 'rabbit
ears'. of the probably 2000 photos I have taken, this is probably my alltime favourite and one that I will hang with pleasure and pride.

and then Im escorted back to the road to meet the dolmus - mini bus - back to town. I turn to wave but they have already disappeared into the whorl of dust - the epitome of conservative, headscarfed traditional Turkey and the multilingual, technically savvy new Turkey.
>
this spectacular and incongruous country has been a joy from the moment I landed. I hope you are keeping well and happy and finding much to smile about each day.
> With very much love,
> Deli