I’ve got to admit – this blog took me a while to commence writing. I wanted to avoid cliché, and also avoiding writing crap. So here goes.
The train ride from Prague to Krakow via Katowice was pleasant enough. The train station in Prague is sufficiently modern, plus I’m pretty sure the roof doesn’t begin to collapse when they have a hail storm.
We had to change trains in Katowice. The quality of the train stations fell significantly once we entered Poland, and the one in Katowice made the old Spencer St Station appear like Buckingham Palace.
My initial feeling about Poland was it seemed colder and greyer. Our hotel was reasonably close to the train station, but our one bed had to single doonas on it. We stopped by an English themed pub for some dinner. Neither of us seemed game enough to try authentic Polish cuisine, and this continued on the second evening when we had pizza and gnocchi.
The next morning we had breakfast and went to the meeting point for our tour. The town of Oswiecim is about one hour away from Krakow, and the road is winding and only one lane each way.
It’s not surprising that the road is not a eight lane freeway, as the countryside is mainly dense forest, dotted with smaller towns.
Oswiecim arrives, and the trip was made shorter by a video being shown in the bus during the trip. The documentary was related to the liberation of the Auschwitz camps by the Soviets in January 1945.
Just on the other side of the town centre is the Auschwitz Museum, which was created in 1947 out of the ruins of the first Auschwitz camp. Photography is prohibited inside the buildings, and that is why we don’t have any photos of what was in them. An English speaking guide is provided to us, along with headsets so she doesn’t have to raise her voice speaking to 30 people at once.
On a side note, our group for the tour is mainly made up of middle aged or older English people. We have a World War II veteran on board with his son, and a young teenager with his parents.
The different buildings that made up the Auschwitz A Camp, and are still standing, make up the exhibitions, for want of a more meaningful term. Each of this buildings is devoted to one aspect, such as the deportations of the inhabitants of the camp, made up of Jews, Polish political prisoners, homosexuals, gypsys, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Monks, and Russians, or what happened when they arrived, and so on. Each group or nationality of inhabitants has a building of their own to tell their story.
The most striking room is the collected property of those who died at the camp. A wall of brushes, shaving brushes, combs, and so on. A wall of spectacles. A full room of suitcases, most with addresses written inside in case they were lost and needed to be returned to owners destined never to return. And most harrowing of all, a case, probably two metres deep, three metres high and ten metres long, containing almost two tonnes of human hair, shaved off the prisoners after they arrived, destined to be used in the war effort as socks or stockings. To call it macabre is a gargantuan understatement.
Between two of the buildings is the death wall, where prisoners were summarily executed. One of these buildings was a prison inside this prison, where cellmates were kept four to a room that was a square yard big, thus preventing any prisoner from rest. It also contains the cell where St Maximillian Kolbe gave his life up for one of his fellow inmates after he tried to offer him food. Kolbe was deliberately starved to death.
In another building are the photos of hundreds of dead Polish prisoners, taken early on in the camp’s use when the prisoners arrived. Most look incredibly forlorn, but some have the hint of wry smiles on their faces. The women seemed to last around two months, the men more like six. In most cases they were worked to death.
The last thing we are shown in Auschwitz A is the original gas chamber. Next to it is gallows, created after the war for the express purpose of one execution – Rudolph Herss, the first governor of the camp. A more appropriate setting for an execution of a particular individual one cannot think of.
We are taken inside the chamber. It is dark and cold, and is death made concrete.
How does one turn a place like Auschwitz into a place to visit? The place is teeming with people of all ages and all nationalities. There are no souvenirs, only books, and the cafeteria is modest. We sit around for a little while before our bus returns to take us to Auschwitz-Birkenau.
It is fitting that the Museum is at Auschwitz A. The very worst atrocities happened not here but at Birkenau. Most of the buildings at Auschwitz A were left standing by the Nazis, although some required reconstruction.
Birkenau is where many people met their end. The rail entrance is one of the most famous images of the war, and on the platforms inside, Nazi “doctors” selected those strong enough to work and therefore doomed probably to a long death of hard labour helping the German War effort against their will, or those not strong enough to work, who were all immediately sent to the larger, more efficient gas chambers located at Birkenau. It is said that those entering the chambers thought they were going to get a shower. After they were all dead, the bodies were removed, and things such as gold fillings were removed from the still warm bodies before being cremated. Gruesome stuff.
The living quarters at Birkenau, of which very few buildings remain, were cruel. Prisoners could only use the toilet twice a day, only for a few seconds. As sickness spread, this became more difficult, and sleeping quarters became latrines, only exacerbating the problem.
Finally, we went up to the tower on top of the rail entrance. Just before we enter, I see a young man, probably a teenager, wearing an Israeli flag in the same manner many Aussies wear our flag at the cricket or tennis. This sight picks up my spirits.
The most difficult thing about this place is ensuring an appropriate memorial. Should it be a tourist attraction? Almost certainly not. It wouldn’t surprise me if they bulldozed the place. The memories, for the most part, are too difficult. Another thing I discussed with Rose would be why anyone would want to live here. There are houses 50 metres away from Birkenau.
I know people who were a bit horrified when they found out we were going to Auschwitz, but ever meeting a survivor in Helen Shardey’s electorate office in 2003, along with going to the Holocaust Museum in Elsternwick, I’ve felt compelled to go. Having said that, I wouldn’t begrudge you from keeping your distance. Almost any opinion about this place except glorification is acceptable. Come, don’t come. Commemorate or raze to the ground.
I feel satisfied I went, but unlike Gallipoli, I have no desire to return. One visit is enough. We certainly could have used another day just in Krakow, but we came for one reason only. The next morning we were back at the train station, with another long train trip, this time to Berlin, awaiting us.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Day 6,7 & 8 - Prague
We arrive at Prague around lunchtime on March 19. It’s obviously snowed fairly recently around here, and I can honestly say I’ve seen snow, but it was old snow iced and congealed at the side of the road. My Winter Olympics career still goes wanting.
The drive into Prague was less terrifying than the drive into Istanbul, but drivers still turn around corners when they feel like it, and stopping at pedestrian crossings sometimes happens, and sometimes it doesn’t.
Our hotel, the 987 Prague Hotel, is just on the outskirts of the old town, in the new town. Of course, the new town is over 600 years old, for Australians here the irony is thick. It doesn’t end there.
• The town square isn’t square.
• The old Charles Bridge is being renewed, so the bridge will effectively be entirely new.
• One of the synagogues in the Jewish Quarter is the Old New Synagogue.
On our first afternoon in Prague I am majorly frustrated by the inability to get the internet on my computer. The wireless network provided (and promoted) by the hotel is unsecured, and Windows 7 doesn’t seem to like to connect to unsecured networks for obvious reasons. That is the main reason there has been no update on my blogs since our first few days in Turkey.
Eventually we walk towards the river and encounter a couple of beautiful white swans. In Melbourne one only encounters black swans on Albert Park Lake, and those encounters make me wary of the swans much talked about temper, but the wall of the river is too high for the swans to attack, although they eye me suspiciously.
Only a cursory walk through Prague reveals that they love Casinos, Pizza & Thai Massages. Places for getting these things abound like 7/11s abound in metropolitan Melbourne. Rose and I agree that Thai Massage may somewhat be code for something else. Either way, at first appearances Prague looks like a young single man’s paradise.
We visit the old town square for the first of many times, and marvel at the towers and decorations on the buildings. They love gold adornments on their buildings too, and glorious domes and spires on the top of the churches. One could go to Prague, look up the entire time, and never be disappointed. Sort of the opposite of the Gold Coast.
Night is falling and hunger is growing, so we begin to look for somewhere to eat.
Firstly, a bit of background. Rose is a notoriously fussy eater, caused by her fantastic ability in the kitchen, an incredibly keen sense for identifying ingredients in food she is eating, and an insistence that any food she eats be as good as the cuisine she would produce.
Couple that with my tendency to select places to eat where almost invariably something goes wrong: the food isn’t cooked, they bring Rose a different dish to the one she ordered, or something even more catastrophic. There has only been one real exception to this rule, when we found Bottega in Bourke St the night I proposed.
That has begun to change in the Northern Hemisphere, giving both of us a Bizarro Food World vibe. This continues on our first night in Prague when we go into a restaurant that serves the best Carbonara I’ve had, on a par with the Carbonara that I had when I was 16 in, of all places, Swan Hill.
The other thing to mention about our dinner is the quality of the beer. The Czech Republic is famous for its beer, and this is reflected in most of the souvenir t-shirts and pullovers you can buy here, which refer to the country as the “Beer Republic”. That would probably make Australia the Commonwealth of Beer.
Prague is a little cheaper than Melbourne, but probably even cheaper outside of the tourist area. Of course, the city is so touristy that it is almost impossible for someone to get outside of the tourist area to see for oneself.
Our visit to Prague coincided with a weekend, and we decided on an all-day tour for the Saturday. The meeting place is Wenceslas Square, which is in the new city. Think of it like the Bourke St Mall. It contains, predictably, a statue of St Wenceslas, whose Christmas Carol is known all over the world except in the Czech Republic, and a monument to the two students who immolated themselves after the Prague Spring in 1969. It also contains the balcony where the speeches were made during the Velvet Revolution in 1990, when Communism was finally defeated in what was then Czechoslovakia. The building now contains a Marks and Spencers which our guide assures us is more expensive than the Marks and Sparks one would find in the UK.
Our guide is a Czech lady who seems to revels in irony and bad jokes. Her English is very good, which it should be considering she also teaches it. It seems no one earns much money here, and she is grateful when a South African couple give her a very generous tip at the end of the day.
The other ancient hero here in Prague, other than Good King Wenceslas, is Charles IV, who built the bridge and the university. The bridge contains a statue of him that, if you approach the statue from a certain direction, looks like he has his willy in his hand. It is in fact a document, and the bridge is filled with food stalls and many, many artists offering to draw caricatures of the passing tourists.
We enjoy a cruise of the river between the two man-made waterfalls (they are only about a foot high each, but you wouldn’t go over them) along with some more fine Czech beer. During the cruise we chat with a young American couple. The man is stationed in Germany, hasn’t seen his wife for eleven months, and has never seen his little boy. They are originally from Dallas, and seem to be enjoying the city as best one can dragging a baby walker around over some many stairs and cobbled streets. After this, it is back into the old city for lunch.
This is when both of us decide to partake of the traditional Czech cuisine. We had avoided it the night before, but there was no more avoiding it. Most meals seem to be some part of a cow or a pig, cooked but not fried, along with some cabbage creation and/or bread dumplings which seem to be bread without the best part (the crust).
After some nice light soup, we both have some pork with sauerkraut and bread dumplings. Everything about the dish was underwhelming except for the chest pains that come with eating such food. One needs a good walk after such a meal, but it was nice to come all the way to Prague to sit next to a man from Adelaide. I also talk sport with a man from County Kildare.
The post-lunch portion of the tour involves crossing the river and going to the Castle, which looks quite new except for more phenomenal churches included in the complex. From here, you get the second best view of Prague. The best view comes from the massive radio signal-jamming tower built by the Soviets across the other side of the new city, but that view is the best only because from there, you cannot see the massive radio signal-jamming tower built by the Soviets.
Included in our price for our all-day tour is a “ghost tour” in the evening, but our budget for the day only allows us the most rudimentary of meals for dinner on this Saturday night. I can now testify that the Big Macs in Prague taste roughly the same as the ones in Melbourne.
The Ghost Tour is quite simply absurd. Our new guide, unlike our acerbic friend from earlier in the day, isn’t quite as good with the English, and her emphasis, designed to build the clearly non-existent suspense, only makes her sound more ridiculous. She has an offsider who runs between stopping places with a backpack, and changes into a ludicrous costume for each place. If he isn’t dressed in a sheet he is dressed in a Goonies mask or a skeleton costume. As it was included free with the all-day tour, we feel like we got our money’s worth.
Sunday morning comes and the excitement of being on our honeymoon is replaced with the need for clean clothes. Unfortunately, it seems the only coin laundromat in Prague is a thirty minute walk away, but we get there and clean some clothes.
For the afternoon, we visit what maybe the silliest museum in the history of museums – the Prague Sex Machines Museum. We simply couldn’t resist. There is a movie theatre in the back showing old porn from Spain in the 1920s, commissioned by the then King (who is current King Carlos’ grandfather). Needless to say the buxom ladies in this film wouldn’t get a job in today’s porn industry.
After a good giggle looking at all the various contraptions built to enhance sexual pleasure, we wander down to the old town square for a birds of prey exhibition. Owls of various sizes are paraded through the crowd, including one who quickly devours two small dead chicks. They don’t eat much, but they shift a lot. We also visit the coldest church ever built. The other thing to note about this church is that it would not be the place to ease into Christianity, which some of the imagery about the church being quite confronting.
At the risk of sounding unadventurous, we went back to the restaurant from Friday night for dinner on Sunday night, only this time we both had carbonaras and drank quite a bit more quality Czech beer. We were serenaded by the great four piece strings and guitar band playing at the venue that Rose wanted desperately to hear more of after Friday night, and sitting closer to the “stage”, we were bound to get some more attention. The leader first asks for a suggestion for a romantic song to play, and then asks our nationality to which we respond honestly. He announces they will play a “Australian Happy Song”, and you know what comes next.
After a rousing rendition of Waltzing Matilda, a Slyvester Stallone lookalike sells me some roses, and we sit and talk some more.
Rose’s verdict on Prague is that it is a little too touristy, but after living behind the Iron Curtain for 45 years, they are only making up for lost time. It’s a fine city, filled with beautiful churches and landmarks. But in case you are not that way inclined, feel free to come for the beer and Thai Massages. Prague has at least a little something for everyone. Now we are off to Poland, for what will undoubtedly be the least “enjoyable” part of the trip.
The drive into Prague was less terrifying than the drive into Istanbul, but drivers still turn around corners when they feel like it, and stopping at pedestrian crossings sometimes happens, and sometimes it doesn’t.
Our hotel, the 987 Prague Hotel, is just on the outskirts of the old town, in the new town. Of course, the new town is over 600 years old, for Australians here the irony is thick. It doesn’t end there.
• The town square isn’t square.
• The old Charles Bridge is being renewed, so the bridge will effectively be entirely new.
• One of the synagogues in the Jewish Quarter is the Old New Synagogue.
On our first afternoon in Prague I am majorly frustrated by the inability to get the internet on my computer. The wireless network provided (and promoted) by the hotel is unsecured, and Windows 7 doesn’t seem to like to connect to unsecured networks for obvious reasons. That is the main reason there has been no update on my blogs since our first few days in Turkey.
Eventually we walk towards the river and encounter a couple of beautiful white swans. In Melbourne one only encounters black swans on Albert Park Lake, and those encounters make me wary of the swans much talked about temper, but the wall of the river is too high for the swans to attack, although they eye me suspiciously.
Only a cursory walk through Prague reveals that they love Casinos, Pizza & Thai Massages. Places for getting these things abound like 7/11s abound in metropolitan Melbourne. Rose and I agree that Thai Massage may somewhat be code for something else. Either way, at first appearances Prague looks like a young single man’s paradise.
We visit the old town square for the first of many times, and marvel at the towers and decorations on the buildings. They love gold adornments on their buildings too, and glorious domes and spires on the top of the churches. One could go to Prague, look up the entire time, and never be disappointed. Sort of the opposite of the Gold Coast.
Night is falling and hunger is growing, so we begin to look for somewhere to eat.
Firstly, a bit of background. Rose is a notoriously fussy eater, caused by her fantastic ability in the kitchen, an incredibly keen sense for identifying ingredients in food she is eating, and an insistence that any food she eats be as good as the cuisine she would produce.
Couple that with my tendency to select places to eat where almost invariably something goes wrong: the food isn’t cooked, they bring Rose a different dish to the one she ordered, or something even more catastrophic. There has only been one real exception to this rule, when we found Bottega in Bourke St the night I proposed.
That has begun to change in the Northern Hemisphere, giving both of us a Bizarro Food World vibe. This continues on our first night in Prague when we go into a restaurant that serves the best Carbonara I’ve had, on a par with the Carbonara that I had when I was 16 in, of all places, Swan Hill.
The other thing to mention about our dinner is the quality of the beer. The Czech Republic is famous for its beer, and this is reflected in most of the souvenir t-shirts and pullovers you can buy here, which refer to the country as the “Beer Republic”. That would probably make Australia the Commonwealth of Beer.
Prague is a little cheaper than Melbourne, but probably even cheaper outside of the tourist area. Of course, the city is so touristy that it is almost impossible for someone to get outside of the tourist area to see for oneself.
Our visit to Prague coincided with a weekend, and we decided on an all-day tour for the Saturday. The meeting place is Wenceslas Square, which is in the new city. Think of it like the Bourke St Mall. It contains, predictably, a statue of St Wenceslas, whose Christmas Carol is known all over the world except in the Czech Republic, and a monument to the two students who immolated themselves after the Prague Spring in 1969. It also contains the balcony where the speeches were made during the Velvet Revolution in 1990, when Communism was finally defeated in what was then Czechoslovakia. The building now contains a Marks and Spencers which our guide assures us is more expensive than the Marks and Sparks one would find in the UK.
Our guide is a Czech lady who seems to revels in irony and bad jokes. Her English is very good, which it should be considering she also teaches it. It seems no one earns much money here, and she is grateful when a South African couple give her a very generous tip at the end of the day.
The other ancient hero here in Prague, other than Good King Wenceslas, is Charles IV, who built the bridge and the university. The bridge contains a statue of him that, if you approach the statue from a certain direction, looks like he has his willy in his hand. It is in fact a document, and the bridge is filled with food stalls and many, many artists offering to draw caricatures of the passing tourists.
We enjoy a cruise of the river between the two man-made waterfalls (they are only about a foot high each, but you wouldn’t go over them) along with some more fine Czech beer. During the cruise we chat with a young American couple. The man is stationed in Germany, hasn’t seen his wife for eleven months, and has never seen his little boy. They are originally from Dallas, and seem to be enjoying the city as best one can dragging a baby walker around over some many stairs and cobbled streets. After this, it is back into the old city for lunch.
This is when both of us decide to partake of the traditional Czech cuisine. We had avoided it the night before, but there was no more avoiding it. Most meals seem to be some part of a cow or a pig, cooked but not fried, along with some cabbage creation and/or bread dumplings which seem to be bread without the best part (the crust).
After some nice light soup, we both have some pork with sauerkraut and bread dumplings. Everything about the dish was underwhelming except for the chest pains that come with eating such food. One needs a good walk after such a meal, but it was nice to come all the way to Prague to sit next to a man from Adelaide. I also talk sport with a man from County Kildare.
The post-lunch portion of the tour involves crossing the river and going to the Castle, which looks quite new except for more phenomenal churches included in the complex. From here, you get the second best view of Prague. The best view comes from the massive radio signal-jamming tower built by the Soviets across the other side of the new city, but that view is the best only because from there, you cannot see the massive radio signal-jamming tower built by the Soviets.
Included in our price for our all-day tour is a “ghost tour” in the evening, but our budget for the day only allows us the most rudimentary of meals for dinner on this Saturday night. I can now testify that the Big Macs in Prague taste roughly the same as the ones in Melbourne.
The Ghost Tour is quite simply absurd. Our new guide, unlike our acerbic friend from earlier in the day, isn’t quite as good with the English, and her emphasis, designed to build the clearly non-existent suspense, only makes her sound more ridiculous. She has an offsider who runs between stopping places with a backpack, and changes into a ludicrous costume for each place. If he isn’t dressed in a sheet he is dressed in a Goonies mask or a skeleton costume. As it was included free with the all-day tour, we feel like we got our money’s worth.
Sunday morning comes and the excitement of being on our honeymoon is replaced with the need for clean clothes. Unfortunately, it seems the only coin laundromat in Prague is a thirty minute walk away, but we get there and clean some clothes.
For the afternoon, we visit what maybe the silliest museum in the history of museums – the Prague Sex Machines Museum. We simply couldn’t resist. There is a movie theatre in the back showing old porn from Spain in the 1920s, commissioned by the then King (who is current King Carlos’ grandfather). Needless to say the buxom ladies in this film wouldn’t get a job in today’s porn industry.
After a good giggle looking at all the various contraptions built to enhance sexual pleasure, we wander down to the old town square for a birds of prey exhibition. Owls of various sizes are paraded through the crowd, including one who quickly devours two small dead chicks. They don’t eat much, but they shift a lot. We also visit the coldest church ever built. The other thing to note about this church is that it would not be the place to ease into Christianity, which some of the imagery about the church being quite confronting.
At the risk of sounding unadventurous, we went back to the restaurant from Friday night for dinner on Sunday night, only this time we both had carbonaras and drank quite a bit more quality Czech beer. We were serenaded by the great four piece strings and guitar band playing at the venue that Rose wanted desperately to hear more of after Friday night, and sitting closer to the “stage”, we were bound to get some more attention. The leader first asks for a suggestion for a romantic song to play, and then asks our nationality to which we respond honestly. He announces they will play a “Australian Happy Song”, and you know what comes next.
After a rousing rendition of Waltzing Matilda, a Slyvester Stallone lookalike sells me some roses, and we sit and talk some more.
Rose’s verdict on Prague is that it is a little too touristy, but after living behind the Iron Curtain for 45 years, they are only making up for lost time. It’s a fine city, filled with beautiful churches and landmarks. But in case you are not that way inclined, feel free to come for the beer and Thai Massages. Prague has at least a little something for everyone. Now we are off to Poland, for what will undoubtedly be the least “enjoyable” part of the trip.
Day 4 & 5 - Gallipoli
Late on March 16, after we had both taken an early night, the phone rings. We were both asleep, safe in the knowledge that we had to be in the lobby of our hotel at 6:00am the next morning.
At first, I think it is my phone, the alarm set for 5:00am to wake us up, but it feels like we’ve only just fallen asleep, and we’re right. It’s the phone for the room.
At the other end of the line is a man from our travel agency, informing us to be in the lobby of the hotel at 10:30am. So the bread we had bought for an improvised breakfast on the bus would become our lunch on the bus.
Come next morning, and a man comes into the lobby to get us. After we are joined by three other people from Queensland, we drive around the main road on the shore in Istanbul, which is funnily enough named Kennedy. Rose would like to think it is named after her, but it’s probably named after JFK.
After about ten minutes, the man who came and got us announces he works in Istanbul, so he will leave us with our driver, who may know the least English in the entire country.
As we leave Istanbul, we are struck by the “suburban” landscape. No one in Turkey lives in a building of only one storey. Gated communities of numerous apartment towers, ten stories high, spring up out of the Earth, for miles and miles out of the city. These are replaced with “resort” towns on the Sea of Marmur, which might be delightful during the summer months, but look decidedly Eastern European at this moment, but I guess that is where we are.
Most of the cars on the road are later models, and the people are well dressed, but they don’t seem to care much how their homes look from the outside. Driving outside of Istanbul is less dangerous, although our minibus struggles with the hills.
Half way to our destination and we stop off at what seems to be the “Ataturk Roadstop”. Asking the driver where the toilets are doesn’t get us far, but we eventually find them. The roadstop looks more like a hospital cafeteria on the inside, and we decide against getting any food. There is another identical roadstop five kms up the road on the other side.
Eventually the terrain becomes a lot more rural, and the odd horse-drawn cart makes an appearance. Then we come across a town called Gelibilou – in the English Gallipoli.
The town is at the very entrance to the peninsula, and we have to cross the straits of the Dardenelles to get to our stopping place for the night – Cannakale.
In Cannakale, there is Anzac House, which runs our particular tour. We are invited back to the house for a film showing at 6:30pm. We check into our hotel, and struggle to find some food, eventually settling on some incredibly cheap yet filling pizza and chips.
Something is clearly happening in Cannakale, and we find that we have come into town for Naval Victory Day. On March 18, 1915, the Turks sent three Allied Battleships to the bottom of the Dardenelle Straits. Turkish flags and pictures of Ataturk hang out of almost every balcony, and small Turk warships sail up and down the straits.
The movie is an ABC documentary by Chris Masters of “The Midnight State” fame, produced in the mid 1980s and called “Gallipoli: The Fatal Shore”. While looking quite dated, it includes interviews with actual Gallipoli veterans from both sides. For this reason alone, it has great worth. After watching this documentary, along with my “bible” (Gallipoli by Les Carlyon, which along with the books comprising “The Lyndon Johnson Years” by Robert Caro, are the best non-fiction books I’ve read), I feel ready to visit the fatal shore.
In the morning we have breakfast watching the ceremony on the pier, Hundreds of Turkish sailors line the pier. The event even makes it onto CNN Turk, as we can see in the restaurant where we are having breakfast. God I miss English TV.
Our morning is a tour to Troy, and we are joined by our English speaking guide. He is a friendly faced fellow, and we make our way down to Troy after picking up the others from their much better hotel.
Troia is about half an hour from Canakkale. There is a big wooden horse, which we are told looked so old once that tourists were mistaken for thinking it was the real thing. I would have thought the metal Phillips-head screws would have given it away.
After that you enter a small museum, which informs you that there was not just one city at Troy, but nine, the new one built on top of the last one. Trojans, Greeks, Persians and Romans all fought here, and the mythology is powerful.
Unfortunately, a little like the Hagia Sophia, the place has an unfinished quality, and they are still endeavouring to find more stuff. Also, the lack of road signs and attention paid to Troy give the place a similar feel to Glenrowan: the place should be a bigger deal. Paris and Helen, Xerxes and the 300 Trojans, Achilles, Hadrian and many others all left their mark here.
On the way back we pass a small place and get some souvenirs. One of these is a book on the Gallipoli campaign, and the writer hangs around in front, willing to personally sign copies. The book contains some good colour photographs of the area, and I get a copy along with a little Trojan Horse for Deaglan. The author personally signs our copy, and soon we’re off.
Lunch is back on the other side, and we leave Canakkale for the last time. It’s a set menu at the restaurant, with the main dish fish. Rose’s vegetarian alternative is a plate of dips. As she says, it’s fine, but it is a plate of dips for lunch.
After lunch our guide gives us some preliminary information about the campaign, and then we’re off to the other side of the peninsula.
Only one problem – it is Naval Victory Day. Literally thousands of Turks have descended on the peninsula in coaches, and because the President of Turkey is here, along with many other dignitaries, the security is high. And there is only one road to the other side of the peninsula.
Us Aussies on the bus are getting restless. We have one afternoon here and we want to see all that we can. Our tour guide gets out, speaks to the troops manning what appears to be a makeshift checkpoint, and with the possible assistance of a few bank notes, we get through the checkpoint relatively quickly.
The road to the other side is a little like the rest of the Turkish roads we’ve been on: bumpy. We stop at the museum, which again is rather rudimentary. For the Turks, this campaign signifies a great victory, and the birth of a national hero, and the nation he created almost through sheer personal will. The hero is Gallipoli is the same man who is the overall father of the nation: Ataturk.
The closeness of what we are about to see makes me toey. From the car park of the museum, where local vendors sell whatever they can, one can see Chunuk Bair and the New Zealand Memorial, and also Lone Pine and the Australian Memorial.
The road ceases to be sealed as one nears Anzac Cove. The Turkish landmark nearby quotes Ataturk as reassuring the Allies that their fallen lie in friendly ground, Johhny or Mehmet is no distinction, and the fallen our Turkish sons now as well as British and Australian and New Zealand ones. Despite their victory, the Turks lost more like 2 soldiers for every dead Allied soldier.
To be honest, Anzac Cove ain’t much, but that was the problem. On a 100m stretch of beach, 15,000 Allied soliders landed. They got further the first day than they would for the rest of the campaign. They underestimated the enemy, so they landed, but once they landed, the overestimated the numbers of enemy soldiers, and therefore didn’t get far.
The 57th Regiment saw the Anzac’s off. But at the end of the day, every last man in the 57th Regiment was dead. To honour these Turkish heroes, there is still no 57th Regiment in the Turkish Army to this day.
After Anzac Cove we begin to visit the cemeteries. The first is on the beach, and they all have a consistency to them. In fact, it is the consistency of the monuments that affects you, as if someone thought that the sheer numbers, row upon row, would properly convey the gravity of what happened here. Whatever he thought, it works.
The cemeteries have three different categories, if you will. Firstly, some headstones are above the people whose names are engraved on them. Secondly, there are headstones that also have the inscription “Believed to be buried in this cemetery”. Thirdly, and for the Aussies this is at Lone Pine, there is the wall of names of those who were never found. For the British this is down at Cape Helles, and for the Kiwis is at Chunuk Bair, right at the highest point.
Chunuk Bair was the prize, and the Kiwis held it for two days. As a result, their memorial is there, along with an equally tall monument to Ataturk, who was hit by shrapnel above the heart at this point. His pocket watch saved him, and he presented it to his commander, Limon Von Sanders, as a gift. As a result, this relic of modern Turkish history, which gave a nation its leader, is in Germany.
We pass a stretch of road where the trenches were eight metres apart, and the Anzacs and Turks threw each other tins of Bully Beef and Cigarettes. We pass cemeteries with no more than five headstones in them.
The land is tortuous in places, and no grass grows on the ground except at the cemeteries. The trees have grown, but they were all blasted out in the first few weeks in 1915. Our guide mentions this as the last gentlemanly war, and the prevailing wind meant that the Allies did not use gas here.
The Nek and Walker’s Ridge Cemetery are too treacherous for us to get too close to. This motivates me to return, and make my own way. Up near Chunuk Bair is the Turkish Memorial and Cemetery. Hundreds of Turks are there to pay their respects on Naval Victory Day.
If there is anywhere where the Gallipoli Campaign makes sense, it is at Chunuk Bair. One can see the Aegean See on the landing side, and the Dardenelles on the other side.
Of course, it is silly to describe the Gallilpoli Campaign as foolish, as if to distinguish it from the rest of the First World War, well thought out and planned, and executed with exacting precision. The entire reason for the war, and everything that went with it, was folly, and almost everything bad that happened for the rest of the 20th Century was as a result of it.
After Chunuk Bair, we begin to make our way back. It is late, and getting cold. The ride back reunited us with our non- English speaking driver, who tries to make up with politeness what he lacks in communication.
The only interruption was our mid-way stop at the other Ataturk Roadstop, which unlike the other one, was teeming with people and roughly resembled the food court at Chadstone during the week before Christmas. The toilet was half a Turkish Lira to use, and apparently the Meatball Rolls were really good. I wasn’t game.
We got in about 10:30, and were asleep probably ten minutes later.
We’re on our way to Prague right now, as I pen this entry on the Turkish Airways flight. The big Hollywood name on the Turkish Airways promotions is Kevin Costner. It says quite a bit.
At first, I think it is my phone, the alarm set for 5:00am to wake us up, but it feels like we’ve only just fallen asleep, and we’re right. It’s the phone for the room.
At the other end of the line is a man from our travel agency, informing us to be in the lobby of the hotel at 10:30am. So the bread we had bought for an improvised breakfast on the bus would become our lunch on the bus.
Come next morning, and a man comes into the lobby to get us. After we are joined by three other people from Queensland, we drive around the main road on the shore in Istanbul, which is funnily enough named Kennedy. Rose would like to think it is named after her, but it’s probably named after JFK.
After about ten minutes, the man who came and got us announces he works in Istanbul, so he will leave us with our driver, who may know the least English in the entire country.
As we leave Istanbul, we are struck by the “suburban” landscape. No one in Turkey lives in a building of only one storey. Gated communities of numerous apartment towers, ten stories high, spring up out of the Earth, for miles and miles out of the city. These are replaced with “resort” towns on the Sea of Marmur, which might be delightful during the summer months, but look decidedly Eastern European at this moment, but I guess that is where we are.
Most of the cars on the road are later models, and the people are well dressed, but they don’t seem to care much how their homes look from the outside. Driving outside of Istanbul is less dangerous, although our minibus struggles with the hills.
Half way to our destination and we stop off at what seems to be the “Ataturk Roadstop”. Asking the driver where the toilets are doesn’t get us far, but we eventually find them. The roadstop looks more like a hospital cafeteria on the inside, and we decide against getting any food. There is another identical roadstop five kms up the road on the other side.
Eventually the terrain becomes a lot more rural, and the odd horse-drawn cart makes an appearance. Then we come across a town called Gelibilou – in the English Gallipoli.
The town is at the very entrance to the peninsula, and we have to cross the straits of the Dardenelles to get to our stopping place for the night – Cannakale.
In Cannakale, there is Anzac House, which runs our particular tour. We are invited back to the house for a film showing at 6:30pm. We check into our hotel, and struggle to find some food, eventually settling on some incredibly cheap yet filling pizza and chips.
Something is clearly happening in Cannakale, and we find that we have come into town for Naval Victory Day. On March 18, 1915, the Turks sent three Allied Battleships to the bottom of the Dardenelle Straits. Turkish flags and pictures of Ataturk hang out of almost every balcony, and small Turk warships sail up and down the straits.
The movie is an ABC documentary by Chris Masters of “The Midnight State” fame, produced in the mid 1980s and called “Gallipoli: The Fatal Shore”. While looking quite dated, it includes interviews with actual Gallipoli veterans from both sides. For this reason alone, it has great worth. After watching this documentary, along with my “bible” (Gallipoli by Les Carlyon, which along with the books comprising “The Lyndon Johnson Years” by Robert Caro, are the best non-fiction books I’ve read), I feel ready to visit the fatal shore.
In the morning we have breakfast watching the ceremony on the pier, Hundreds of Turkish sailors line the pier. The event even makes it onto CNN Turk, as we can see in the restaurant where we are having breakfast. God I miss English TV.
Our morning is a tour to Troy, and we are joined by our English speaking guide. He is a friendly faced fellow, and we make our way down to Troy after picking up the others from their much better hotel.
Troia is about half an hour from Canakkale. There is a big wooden horse, which we are told looked so old once that tourists were mistaken for thinking it was the real thing. I would have thought the metal Phillips-head screws would have given it away.
After that you enter a small museum, which informs you that there was not just one city at Troy, but nine, the new one built on top of the last one. Trojans, Greeks, Persians and Romans all fought here, and the mythology is powerful.
Unfortunately, a little like the Hagia Sophia, the place has an unfinished quality, and they are still endeavouring to find more stuff. Also, the lack of road signs and attention paid to Troy give the place a similar feel to Glenrowan: the place should be a bigger deal. Paris and Helen, Xerxes and the 300 Trojans, Achilles, Hadrian and many others all left their mark here.
On the way back we pass a small place and get some souvenirs. One of these is a book on the Gallipoli campaign, and the writer hangs around in front, willing to personally sign copies. The book contains some good colour photographs of the area, and I get a copy along with a little Trojan Horse for Deaglan. The author personally signs our copy, and soon we’re off.
Lunch is back on the other side, and we leave Canakkale for the last time. It’s a set menu at the restaurant, with the main dish fish. Rose’s vegetarian alternative is a plate of dips. As she says, it’s fine, but it is a plate of dips for lunch.
After lunch our guide gives us some preliminary information about the campaign, and then we’re off to the other side of the peninsula.
Only one problem – it is Naval Victory Day. Literally thousands of Turks have descended on the peninsula in coaches, and because the President of Turkey is here, along with many other dignitaries, the security is high. And there is only one road to the other side of the peninsula.
Us Aussies on the bus are getting restless. We have one afternoon here and we want to see all that we can. Our tour guide gets out, speaks to the troops manning what appears to be a makeshift checkpoint, and with the possible assistance of a few bank notes, we get through the checkpoint relatively quickly.
The road to the other side is a little like the rest of the Turkish roads we’ve been on: bumpy. We stop at the museum, which again is rather rudimentary. For the Turks, this campaign signifies a great victory, and the birth of a national hero, and the nation he created almost through sheer personal will. The hero is Gallipoli is the same man who is the overall father of the nation: Ataturk.
The closeness of what we are about to see makes me toey. From the car park of the museum, where local vendors sell whatever they can, one can see Chunuk Bair and the New Zealand Memorial, and also Lone Pine and the Australian Memorial.
The road ceases to be sealed as one nears Anzac Cove. The Turkish landmark nearby quotes Ataturk as reassuring the Allies that their fallen lie in friendly ground, Johhny or Mehmet is no distinction, and the fallen our Turkish sons now as well as British and Australian and New Zealand ones. Despite their victory, the Turks lost more like 2 soldiers for every dead Allied soldier.
To be honest, Anzac Cove ain’t much, but that was the problem. On a 100m stretch of beach, 15,000 Allied soliders landed. They got further the first day than they would for the rest of the campaign. They underestimated the enemy, so they landed, but once they landed, the overestimated the numbers of enemy soldiers, and therefore didn’t get far.
The 57th Regiment saw the Anzac’s off. But at the end of the day, every last man in the 57th Regiment was dead. To honour these Turkish heroes, there is still no 57th Regiment in the Turkish Army to this day.
After Anzac Cove we begin to visit the cemeteries. The first is on the beach, and they all have a consistency to them. In fact, it is the consistency of the monuments that affects you, as if someone thought that the sheer numbers, row upon row, would properly convey the gravity of what happened here. Whatever he thought, it works.
Chunuk Bair was the prize, and the Kiwis held it for two days. As a result, their memorial is there, along with an equally tall monument to Ataturk, who was hit by shrapnel above the heart at this point. His pocket watch saved him, and he presented it to his commander, Limon Von Sanders, as a gift. As a result, this relic of modern Turkish history, which gave a nation its leader, is in Germany.
We pass a stretch of road where the trenches were eight metres apart, and the Anzacs and Turks threw each other tins of Bully Beef and Cigarettes. We pass cemeteries with no more than five headstones in them.
The land is tortuous in places, and no grass grows on the ground except at the cemeteries. The trees have grown, but they were all blasted out in the first few weeks in 1915. Our guide mentions this as the last gentlemanly war, and the prevailing wind meant that the Allies did not use gas here.
The Nek and Walker’s Ridge Cemetery are too treacherous for us to get too close to. This motivates me to return, and make my own way. Up near Chunuk Bair is the Turkish Memorial and Cemetery. Hundreds of Turks are there to pay their respects on Naval Victory Day.
If there is anywhere where the Gallipoli Campaign makes sense, it is at Chunuk Bair. One can see the Aegean See on the landing side, and the Dardenelles on the other side.
Of course, it is silly to describe the Gallilpoli Campaign as foolish, as if to distinguish it from the rest of the First World War, well thought out and planned, and executed with exacting precision. The entire reason for the war, and everything that went with it, was folly, and almost everything bad that happened for the rest of the 20th Century was as a result of it.
After Chunuk Bair, we begin to make our way back. It is late, and getting cold. The ride back reunited us with our non- English speaking driver, who tries to make up with politeness what he lacks in communication.
The only interruption was our mid-way stop at the other Ataturk Roadstop, which unlike the other one, was teeming with people and roughly resembled the food court at Chadstone during the week before Christmas. The toilet was half a Turkish Lira to use, and apparently the Meatball Rolls were really good. I wasn’t game.
We got in about 10:30, and were asleep probably ten minutes later.
We’re on our way to Prague right now, as I pen this entry on the Turkish Airways flight. The big Hollywood name on the Turkish Airways promotions is Kevin Costner. It says quite a bit.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Day 2-3
The rest of our first day in Istanbul was eventful. After gingerly walking around the Blue Mosque for a little while, a man started talking to us. He convinced us to go into the Mosque, for which Rose had to put her scarf over her head. I think she believes it was worth it - the detail on the walls inside made it worthwhile for her.
Our new friend was waiting at the exit for us. He walked us through the bazaar to his carpet shop, promising to show us his "magic flying carpet". He had a nice store, and took us upstairs to demostrate his wares, and offer us some hospitality.
Rose and I instantly fell in love with a silk carpet which would have been the same size as a large teatowel. No matter what Mustafa showed us, we always came back to that carpet. He told intricate stories of questionable accuracy, but this carpet, which changed complexion when viewed from different angles, had our complete devotion.
Eventually, after some Apple Tea and forty-five minutes of swirling carpets, we got down to cost. He gladly gave us the price in Australian Dollars for the one we had our eye on: $3280.
If it had been $500, we would have it right now. Unfortunately we had to leave Mustafa (after he showed us some cheaper stuff which we could not abide) and his shop empty handed. We were pretty tired anyway from the long flight, so the rest of the day (or what was left of it) was spent relaxing and eating dinner, which was pretty average.
Next morning started at 5:15am when morning prayers were announced all over town. The alarm was set for 7:00am, but that was folly. Breakfast in Turkey consists of some more Western European things like Corn Flakes and Toast (but it was Vienna Style loaf sliced rather than larger bread), but the local variant also included pastrys with fetta cheese, some cured meats, some greens, raw tomato, cucumber, and French Toast. Our intention is to eat as much for breakfast as we can each day as it is included in our package. We didn't disappoint.
Tea is interesting in Turkey, especially for someone who likes their tea as weak as Rose does. Breakfast's offering had been brewing in an urn for what seemed like hours, so Rose could only manage one sip. Same for morning tea later in the day, when the tea was too strong and bitter. Coffee isn't too my liking too much either, but I've had the local variety, and some of their attempts at Western Style Coffee.
Also, Coca-Cola is a lot less fizzy here, so goes flat quicker. By Day 3 I was onto bottled water, which is incredibly cheap (1.5 litres costing 1 Turkish Lira, or about 70 cents).
Our post-breakfast stroll took us into the main park, which includes a massive statue of Ataturk.
I tried to imitate his incredible stare in one of the photos, but to no avail. Mustafa Kemal, better known as Ataturk, was a fearsome battle commander who fought the Australians at Gallipoli and Palestine.
He became the father of the modern Turkey, creating it as the secular Islamic democracy. His image is on every note of currency here, and also around in many buildings.
Turks are very nationalistic, and the flag flies on many buildings here in Istanbul. And for many Turks, Ataturk is their hero. It's difficult to think of any other nation which holds such intense devotion to one founding father.
After the park, we went to the Hagia Sophia, the world famous building which was the World's Largest Cathedral for 1000 years, then a Mosque for 500 after the conquering of Constantinople, and finally, at the insistence of Ataturk himself, now a Museum.
While not as pretty as the Blue Mosque, the structure is huge, and some excavations just outside date 1600 years. The remaining Mosaics inside are devoted to the Virgin Mary and the Child Jesus on the most part, except for the most famous Mosaic of Judgement Day, of which roughly half remains. The burial places of many Sultans and their relatives live next door.
The afternoon was spent cruising the strait which separates Europe and Asia, and also leads into the Black Sea. Tankers and other large ships wait hours to get through these narrow straits. Temples, which all seemed to be built in the 19th Century, line the shores.
I must confess my first voyage on the high seas (the Murray River or the Swan River don't really count) took a bit of getting used to, but the trip was the favourite part of the two days in Istanbul for both of us. We disembarked on the other side (Asia), and got to see a bit of the real Turkey, rather than the touristy stuff in the Old City. We also managed to do a bit of shopping.
When we returned we walked from the wharf through the Grand Bazaar, which vaguely resembles Queen Victoria Market at Christmas on crack. An amazing experience. After exiting the Bazaar, the famed Lewis sense of direction failed me, and we walked around in circles for a little while. A familiar Dominos Pizza jogged the memory, and we managed to find our hotel.
The fact that the long walk tired us out was serendipidous, as we decided on dinner just across the road (more like a laneway) from our hotel. While on our first night, Rose's kebabs were too spicey for her liking and my lamb was pedestrian, on this occasion I had some great Calamari with yoghurt, then we both partaked some of the best chicken wings anyone could possible have.
Anyway, we're ready for Gallipoli and Troy tomorrow, and we leave the hotel at 6:00am. Time for sleep.
Our new friend was waiting at the exit for us. He walked us through the bazaar to his carpet shop, promising to show us his "magic flying carpet". He had a nice store, and took us upstairs to demostrate his wares, and offer us some hospitality.
Rose and I instantly fell in love with a silk carpet which would have been the same size as a large teatowel. No matter what Mustafa showed us, we always came back to that carpet. He told intricate stories of questionable accuracy, but this carpet, which changed complexion when viewed from different angles, had our complete devotion.
Eventually, after some Apple Tea and forty-five minutes of swirling carpets, we got down to cost. He gladly gave us the price in Australian Dollars for the one we had our eye on: $3280.
If it had been $500, we would have it right now. Unfortunately we had to leave Mustafa (after he showed us some cheaper stuff which we could not abide) and his shop empty handed. We were pretty tired anyway from the long flight, so the rest of the day (or what was left of it) was spent relaxing and eating dinner, which was pretty average.
Next morning started at 5:15am when morning prayers were announced all over town. The alarm was set for 7:00am, but that was folly. Breakfast in Turkey consists of some more Western European things like Corn Flakes and Toast (but it was Vienna Style loaf sliced rather than larger bread), but the local variant also included pastrys with fetta cheese, some cured meats, some greens, raw tomato, cucumber, and French Toast. Our intention is to eat as much for breakfast as we can each day as it is included in our package. We didn't disappoint.
Tea is interesting in Turkey, especially for someone who likes their tea as weak as Rose does. Breakfast's offering had been brewing in an urn for what seemed like hours, so Rose could only manage one sip. Same for morning tea later in the day, when the tea was too strong and bitter. Coffee isn't too my liking too much either, but I've had the local variety, and some of their attempts at Western Style Coffee.
Also, Coca-Cola is a lot less fizzy here, so goes flat quicker. By Day 3 I was onto bottled water, which is incredibly cheap (1.5 litres costing 1 Turkish Lira, or about 70 cents).
Our post-breakfast stroll took us into the main park, which includes a massive statue of Ataturk.
He became the father of the modern Turkey, creating it as the secular Islamic democracy. His image is on every note of currency here, and also around in many buildings.
Turks are very nationalistic, and the flag flies on many buildings here in Istanbul. And for many Turks, Ataturk is their hero. It's difficult to think of any other nation which holds such intense devotion to one founding father.
After the park, we went to the Hagia Sophia, the world famous building which was the World's Largest Cathedral for 1000 years, then a Mosque for 500 after the conquering of Constantinople, and finally, at the insistence of Ataturk himself, now a Museum.
While not as pretty as the Blue Mosque, the structure is huge, and some excavations just outside date 1600 years. The remaining Mosaics inside are devoted to the Virgin Mary and the Child Jesus on the most part, except for the most famous Mosaic of Judgement Day, of which roughly half remains. The burial places of many Sultans and their relatives live next door.
The afternoon was spent cruising the strait which separates Europe and Asia, and also leads into the Black Sea. Tankers and other large ships wait hours to get through these narrow straits. Temples, which all seemed to be built in the 19th Century, line the shores.
I must confess my first voyage on the high seas (the Murray River or the Swan River don't really count) took a bit of getting used to, but the trip was the favourite part of the two days in Istanbul for both of us. We disembarked on the other side (Asia), and got to see a bit of the real Turkey, rather than the touristy stuff in the Old City. We also managed to do a bit of shopping.
When we returned we walked from the wharf through the Grand Bazaar, which vaguely resembles Queen Victoria Market at Christmas on crack. An amazing experience. After exiting the Bazaar, the famed Lewis sense of direction failed me, and we walked around in circles for a little while. A familiar Dominos Pizza jogged the memory, and we managed to find our hotel.
The fact that the long walk tired us out was serendipidous, as we decided on dinner just across the road (more like a laneway) from our hotel. While on our first night, Rose's kebabs were too spicey for her liking and my lamb was pedestrian, on this occasion I had some great Calamari with yoghurt, then we both partaked some of the best chicken wings anyone could possible have.
Anyway, we're ready for Gallipoli and Troy tomorrow, and we leave the hotel at 6:00am. Time for sleep.
Monday, March 15, 2010
March 15 - Days 1 & 2
Greetings from Istanbul!
Highlights so far:
- We weren't told we needed a visa to enter Turkey, and we didn't have enough local currency to pay for them. Fortunately I was able to go to the ATM, where I took out the sufficent funds, and left my NAB Visa Debit card in the ATM. That's right, folks, it took me about 15 minutes on Turkish Soil to lose my ATM card. Rose insisted on getting a card of her own only two weeks ago. Bless her soul.
- A special mention to Sass, whose wedding present of 20 Euros (among other things) was invaluable as we tried to get through the airport.
- The first smile I got was when I introduced myself at the customs as Australian. "ANZAC", came the reply, followed by a big grin. Most people here seem to like meeting Aussies.
- We had a private transfer to our hotel in the old city of Istanbul. The driver was a pleasant enough chap, but he left his seatbelt off, and drove 120kmh through 80kmh zones. Apparently speed limits are optional in Turkey. The side of me convinced that he knew what he was doing managed to override the side of me that was sure I was going to die.
- Later in the morning, we walked around the local area and went to a new hotel for morning tea and Turkish sweets. The view was spectacular, as we were able to see around 250 degrees around the Old and New Cities. Sweets and refreshments very nice, and hospitality first class. Even got told we were a "very nice couple".
- First impressions of Turkey are as a male dominated society, where most smoke to keep warm, and the place is still under construction. Massive, beautiful houses of God adorn the skyline, and the walls of the ancient city, thought to be some 2500 years old, double as walls for some four story weatherboard apartments.
- Next post tomorrow night, with cruise today and museum vist tomorrow, and hopefully some more good eating in between. I leave you with the prayer announcements reverberating in the background.
Highlights so far:
- We weren't told we needed a visa to enter Turkey, and we didn't have enough local currency to pay for them. Fortunately I was able to go to the ATM, where I took out the sufficent funds, and left my NAB Visa Debit card in the ATM. That's right, folks, it took me about 15 minutes on Turkish Soil to lose my ATM card. Rose insisted on getting a card of her own only two weeks ago. Bless her soul.
- A special mention to Sass, whose wedding present of 20 Euros (among other things) was invaluable as we tried to get through the airport.
- The first smile I got was when I introduced myself at the customs as Australian. "ANZAC", came the reply, followed by a big grin. Most people here seem to like meeting Aussies.
- We had a private transfer to our hotel in the old city of Istanbul. The driver was a pleasant enough chap, but he left his seatbelt off, and drove 120kmh through 80kmh zones. Apparently speed limits are optional in Turkey. The side of me convinced that he knew what he was doing managed to override the side of me that was sure I was going to die.
- Later in the morning, we walked around the local area and went to a new hotel for morning tea and Turkish sweets. The view was spectacular, as we were able to see around 250 degrees around the Old and New Cities. Sweets and refreshments very nice, and hospitality first class. Even got told we were a "very nice couple".
- First impressions of Turkey are as a male dominated society, where most smoke to keep warm, and the place is still under construction. Massive, beautiful houses of God adorn the skyline, and the walls of the ancient city, thought to be some 2500 years old, double as walls for some four story weatherboard apartments.
- Next post tomorrow night, with cruise today and museum vist tomorrow, and hopefully some more good eating in between. I leave you with the prayer announcements reverberating in the background.
Friday, March 12, 2010
And now, a Special Presentation...
Well, I am interrupting your normal transmission for the next nine weeks.
No politics.
No footy (I hope).
No cricket.
From March 14 until May 16, this will be the place where you can get my daily thoughts about travelling through Europe with my darling wife, Rose.
Our itinerary can be found here.
This will hopefully include photos, and something different every day.
Very exciting!
And to my (three) usual readers, we'll return to the normal pontifications when we get back.
No politics.
No footy (I hope).
No cricket.
From March 14 until May 16, this will be the place where you can get my daily thoughts about travelling through Europe with my darling wife, Rose.
Our itinerary can be found here.
This will hopefully include photos, and something different every day.
Very exciting!
And to my (three) usual readers, we'll return to the normal pontifications when we get back.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Bring back the AK
Does anyone know who the most decorated Australians are?
The highest award an Australian can currently receive is to be made a Companion of the Order of Australia. Twice a year (Australia Day and the Queens' Birthday holiday), a handful of worthy Australians are bestowed this honour, and they receive a medal, and the ability to put "AC" after their name. You can find the list of ACs here.
But do we know who they are? More importantly, is the simple addition of two letters after a name sufficient reward for a life's work making a real and lasting difference to the quality of life of fellow Australians?
That is why I suggest the Australian Government re-establish the Knight (AK) and Dame (AD) of the Order of Australia.
I'm sure many of you would be surprised, but such a honour did in fact exist, from the creation of the Order of Australia on 14 February 1975 under then Prime Minister Gough Whitlam, until being abolished by new Labor Prime Minister Bob Hawke.
During that time, twelve Knights and two Dames were created. This included three Governors-General, a state Governor, a Prime Minister, a state Premier, two Industrialists, the first woman elected to the Federal Parliament, a historian, a physiologist, and the Prince of Wales.
The Australian Labor Party's policy is anti-titles, but this smacks of good old-fashioned class warfare and Britain-bashing. So I don't expect Kevin Rudd to re-establish the AK and AD, even if tempted by eventually being known as Sir Kevin.
However, we live in one of the greatest meritocracies in the world, where great achievement is accessible to any person talented and motivated enough to try. Anyone who understands Australia knows that such an honour would be available to people of all racial and socio-economic backgrounds, as long as they had had achieved the highest level of public service.
And do we have a better idea for a before-name title than "Sir" or "Dame"? They are titles of utmost respect, and despite some republican dislike for the titles, they are entirely appropriate.
So who should currently be an AK or AD, who isn't? Professor Marie Bashir, long-time Governor of New South Wales, Professor Graeme Clark, developer of the Cochlear Ear Implant, General Peter Cosgrove, former Chief of the Australian Defence Force, Tony Fitzgerald, head of the Fitzgerald Inquiry, Murray Gleeson, Chief Justice of the High Court and former Chief Justice of the New South Wales Supreme Court, Marjorie Jackson-Nelson, Olympic Gold Medallist and former Governor of South Australia, Major General Michael Jeffrey, former Governor-General and Governor of Western Australia, Ian McFarlane, former Governor of the Reserve Bank, Reverend Dr Gordon Moyes, founder of the Wesley Mission, Professor Fiona Stanley, leading maternal and child health specialist and Nancy Wake, WWII hero, would all be uncontentious receipients of either an AK or an AD, who currently have an AC.
I wouldn't have any problem with calling any of these people Sir or Dame. It would be an honour, and a richly deserved recognition of a life full of achievement. It's about time we started making these recognitions once more.
The highest award an Australian can currently receive is to be made a Companion of the Order of Australia. Twice a year (Australia Day and the Queens' Birthday holiday), a handful of worthy Australians are bestowed this honour, and they receive a medal, and the ability to put "AC" after their name. You can find the list of ACs here.
But do we know who they are? More importantly, is the simple addition of two letters after a name sufficient reward for a life's work making a real and lasting difference to the quality of life of fellow Australians?
That is why I suggest the Australian Government re-establish the Knight (AK) and Dame (AD) of the Order of Australia.
I'm sure many of you would be surprised, but such a honour did in fact exist, from the creation of the Order of Australia on 14 February 1975 under then Prime Minister Gough Whitlam, until being abolished by new Labor Prime Minister Bob Hawke.
During that time, twelve Knights and two Dames were created. This included three Governors-General, a state Governor, a Prime Minister, a state Premier, two Industrialists, the first woman elected to the Federal Parliament, a historian, a physiologist, and the Prince of Wales.
The Australian Labor Party's policy is anti-titles, but this smacks of good old-fashioned class warfare and Britain-bashing. So I don't expect Kevin Rudd to re-establish the AK and AD, even if tempted by eventually being known as Sir Kevin.
However, we live in one of the greatest meritocracies in the world, where great achievement is accessible to any person talented and motivated enough to try. Anyone who understands Australia knows that such an honour would be available to people of all racial and socio-economic backgrounds, as long as they had had achieved the highest level of public service.
And do we have a better idea for a before-name title than "Sir" or "Dame"? They are titles of utmost respect, and despite some republican dislike for the titles, they are entirely appropriate.
So who should currently be an AK or AD, who isn't? Professor Marie Bashir, long-time Governor of New South Wales, Professor Graeme Clark, developer of the Cochlear Ear Implant, General Peter Cosgrove, former Chief of the Australian Defence Force, Tony Fitzgerald, head of the Fitzgerald Inquiry, Murray Gleeson, Chief Justice of the High Court and former Chief Justice of the New South Wales Supreme Court, Marjorie Jackson-Nelson, Olympic Gold Medallist and former Governor of South Australia, Major General Michael Jeffrey, former Governor-General and Governor of Western Australia, Ian McFarlane, former Governor of the Reserve Bank, Reverend Dr Gordon Moyes, founder of the Wesley Mission, Professor Fiona Stanley, leading maternal and child health specialist and Nancy Wake, WWII hero, would all be uncontentious receipients of either an AK or an AD, who currently have an AC.
I wouldn't have any problem with calling any of these people Sir or Dame. It would be an honour, and a richly deserved recognition of a life full of achievement. It's about time we started making these recognitions once more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
