Hospitality, Hitchhiking and History in Northwest Anatolia

Bozcaada fortress at night

I thought about how I ought to blog about this trip: whether I ought to just recount the places I had been and things that I learned about Turkish history, culture, etc., or whether I should include what truly ended up making the trip special. I will choose the latter.

What ended up making the trip special was the wonderful hospitality I received. It would have been one thing if I had stayed with good friends I knew well in Bursa and Canakkale — cities in Northwest Anatolia — that would have been great. But the fact was, I was taken in by people I hardly knew – or didn’t know at all.

I originally planned on making this a two day trip. It actually ended up being a week. Being unemployed, I didn’t feel I had too much to go back to Istanbul. By original aim was to hitchhike to the town of Iznik. That would turn a short jaunt into something of an adventure, I thought. It did, in a way. After taking a ferry across the Sea of Marmara from the city, I hitchhiked with two separate truck drivers to Iznik, where I spent one night.  One of my ride givers was a curious and talkative man, the other was completely silent (which freaked me out a bit, I admit), rebuffing my attempts at small talk (I later learned that truck drivers are pretty much the safest people you can get rides from).

My hosts in Bursa

After Iznik, a pleasant, lake front town famous for its tile making, I tried hitchhiking on to the regional capital of Bursa, the 5^th largest city in Turkey at the foot of its most famous ski mountain. No takers. Alas, I took the bus.

En route and on a whim, I messaged a friend in Istanbul and asked her if she had the number of a friend I had me once in Istanbul who had later moved to Bursa to live with his girlfriend. I thought the chances were slim that he could let me crash at his place for a night. As it turned out, I ended up crashing there two nights. Olgun paid for dinner and drinks when we went out (Bursa is a pretty conservative city so there aren’t too many places to grab a beer), and cooked me the meanest Turkish breakfast I think I ever had: sucuk (spicy sausage, omelet, veggies, bread, jam, etc.).

A boy rides a horse through the streets of Cumalikizik

During my only full day in Bursa, I headed for the nearby village of Cumalikizik to get a taste of a pre-modern Ottoman-style village. Sadly, nearly all towns and villages in Turkey are filled with ugly modern, grey apartment blocks. Cumalikizik is nothing of the sort, and has thus been rewarded – or cursed – with the designation as the capital of Turkish soap opera settings, or at least of those set in villages. In fact, they were setting up for shoot during my visit. I circled the rough cobbled streets, walking past old ladies selling jam and peppers, and meandered up a country hill, all in the span of a relaxing two hours.

The next day it was on to Bursa. After riding with Olgun – he was going to an on-the-way beach with a friend – I was dropped off in the blah city of Bandirma. After waiting for nearly two hours, I went to the bathroom, and returned to the roadside to get a ride 5 minutes later. The young man was a physical therapist in Ankara. We discussed Ottoman history, the things the Turks added to civilization, and the increasing role of Turkey in global affairs: all challenging topics with my level of Turkish. He took me half way. The heck with it, I thought, after another half hour of waiting in the town of Biga, so I flagged down a passing minibus to Canakkale.

My hosts and I in their Canakkale cafe

Olgun’s girlfriend Zelish gave me the phone number of a friend in Canakkale. They had witnessed me struggling on couchsurfing.com, searching for possible hosts. The friend, Gurkan, owns a billiards café in downtown Canakkale. He has two kids. While there they showed me around the hopping waterfront area, and bought me beers and appetizers. The next day, Gurkan loaned me and his 16-year-old son, Dogukan, his motor scooter (I had never driven before!) I probably wouldn’t loan someone I had just me the day before my motor scooter if that person had never driven one before. I was honored by the nice gesture.

So we set off, boarding a ferry for the other side of the Straight of Dardanelle. There we puttered around the picturesque Gallipoli peninsula, visiting the World War I memorials that are a source of pride not only for the Turks, who won the battled of Gallipoli and scuttled Allied plans to take Istanbul, but for Australians and New Zealanders, whose combined fighting force (ANZAC) marked the symbolic beginning of Australian and New Zealand nationhood. The massive Canakkale Martyrs’ Memorial at the tip of the peninsula is something of a modernist Arc de Triumph, only a good 50 feet taller. We also visited ANZAC cove, the landing spot for Allied forces and a pilgrimage spot for Australians and New Zealanders (don’t come on ANZAC day – April 25). Dogukan tried dutifully to explain the history as much as he could, and I tried to understand as much as I could. Dad gave him lunch money for the two of us as well.

Under the Canakkale Martyrs' Memorial

After coming home that evening, Gurkan and some of his motley crew of friends hung out on a small fishing boat that night and drank wine and beer. The following painful morning, I awoke, packed, and went to check out, only to discover my hosts – who didn’t have room to host me in their flat – had paid for my two nights stay at the hotel!

After saying goodbye – my profuse thank yous still felt lacking – it was off to Bozcaada, two hours to the south. Bozcaada is one of two inhabited Aegean islands that belong to Turkey. I spent one night in a clean pension with beautiful views of the island’s fortress. Gurkan had offered to let me take his car down, but to this I had to refuse. Driving in Turkey is just a bit too stressful and expensive to make it part of a vacation here.

Sun sets on Canakkale harbor

Shockingly cold water, wine and grapes, fabulous sandy beaches, scrub-laden hills that drop precipitously to the sea, Bozcaada is the northern Turkish Riviera at its finest. The island is only about 5 km by 6 km, so it can be stayed at for a week, but if all one has is a day and a half – as I did – then it’s easy to experience the place enough to feel satiated.  I climbed a hill near the town, climbed amongst the crabs on the rocks below, and howled at the Aegean Sea as loud as I could.

One sunburn, 10 stuffed mussels, and a kilo of fresh local grapes later, I took the overnight bus back to Istanbul.

And to think, all it took was one text message to a friend in Istanbul to get the number of a guy I hardly knew in Bursa. That set off a chain reaction of exemplary Turkish hospitality, and sightseeing, that I will never forget.