THE CHANGING FACE OF TURKEY Jo Wallace (Jo last wrote for Flying Fish in 2007/1, when she told the story of her and Dennis’s passage north through the Red Sea aboard their Moody 425, Aurora of Polruan, for which she was awarded the David Wallis Trophy for 2007 – see page 11.) We had been round the world; we had struggled with adverse weather, hostile and venal officialdom, and mechanical breakdown; we had sailed many miles of unfamiliar, badly charted and often reef-strewn waters – but we had made it in one piece, both us and the boat. We arrived in Finike early on a still, calm morning (no wind all the way from Cyprus), and when we called the marina they instantly sent out their boat to guide us into a berth, even though it was only 0700. ‘Hoº gedilniz – welcome, what can we do for you?’ And so our love affair with Turkey began all over again. When I first came to Turkey in 1967, on an old 110ft ex-RAF Fairmile, the authorities had hardly seen a yacht. Turkey then was indeed very much part of the mysterious East – so foreign as to be slightly frightening despite the hospitable nature of the people, with strange and ramshackle towns and very poor and run down harbours. The mooring choice was not great – rough-faced quays or fragile wooden pontoons – while ashore the streets were full of ancient American cars, the decrepit remnants of American and NATO aid. The scenery, by contrast, was to die for – impossibly picturesque, with totally deserted anchorages wherever we went. On that occasion we arrived in Istanbul just before sunset, a magical sight with the minarets of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque rising out of the murk generated by the hundreds of coal-fired craft criss-crossing the entrance to the Bosphorus. Magical yet daunting, the channel was full of boats: ferries large and small, fishing boats, big cargo ships coming down from the Black Sea, small overloaded local cargo boats, rowing boats even, all jostling for a passage through the narrow gap. We threaded our way through the mob, with 2 knots of current against us to complicate things further, and anchored off the Dolmabahçe Palace to clear in. We had, we thought, done our stuff at Çanakkale in the Dardanelles, where a friendly and jovial (and largely monoglot) set of officials had come on board. After most of a bottle of pastis and a lot of official forms they had waved us on our way. When we presented these forms to the harbour authorities in Istanbul, however, they threw up their hands in horror and we spent most of a day traipsing around from one government office to another in an effort to track down the elusive official who could authorise a correct inward and outward clearance. At last we were permitted to proceed upstream. It was forbidden to anchor in the fairway – not that we wanted to anyway in view of all the traffic – and we ended up anchoring off in Tarabya, a shallow bay way up the Bosphorus but out of the main current. Tarabya is a fishing village, but though there were a few very tiny private 1

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yachts dotted around it was a far cry from the smart Istanbul suburb it is now, with its elegant promenade and restaurants. There were no facilities of any kind, needless to say, and we were running desperately short of water. We were redirected to the other side of the Bosphorus, to a coaling quay in ܺküdar, where we filled up from a massive cargo ship-sized hose which nearly blew the bottom out of our elderly water tanks and certainly pressure-washed the coal dust off our decks. We paid two packets of Marlborough for something like 500 gallons of water and managed to negotiate a slightly more user-friendly mooring, tied up to a rickety wooden quay in Bebek, a protected bay much closer to town. Getting hold of fresh provisions for eight guests and five hungry crew was a major challenge too, so we all ate out a lot – in some strange looking places frequented entirely by men who goggled at the girls in our party. Nothing wrong with the restaurants, apart from a decided lack of alcohol other than the ubiquitous raki, the local aniseed tipple. Nothing wrong with the shopping either. After five exhausting days of sightseeing and carpet inspection in the bazaar we reluctantly left for Greece, laden down with rugs and leather jackets, the product of some really heavy-duty bargaining in the covered bazaar. The next time I visited Turkey was in 1983, with my new husband, to see if we could stand each other at close quarters on a small sailing boat – a successful trip, since we are still sailing together and have decided to base ourselves in southern Turkey. Did I say small? We chartered a 28ft Dufour for a month. Our three teens and 20s children joined us for the last ten days – we picked them up in Marmaris and pottered along the coast to Fethiye, anchoring first in deserted Ekinçik, devoid of both gulets and charter boats in those days. We were cajoled into visiting Dalyan, leaving our Dufour to its own devices at anchor (with some misgivings on the part of the skipper), the first of many times we did the river trip, chugging up the winding channel through the reed beds in a little local boat, past the rock tombs and the crab traps to the ruins at Kaunos. We were much younger and fitter in those days, so we climbed right up to the top of the fortress, so high we could see all the way to Marmaris, or at least so we fondly believed. On the way back we bought some crabs – iridescent blue freshwater monsters, very much alive too. It was afternoon before we got back to the boat but we decided, somewhat foolhardily, that we could make it round to Kapi Creek, the nearest anchorage in Skopea Bay. It would mean arriving in the dark, but we thought we could handle that – my husband had crossed the Atlantic the year before and I had many sea miles under my belt too, albeit on power boats. Moreover, it was nearly full moon. We set off in a brisk westerly breeze which naturally faded out after the first few miles, so we motored on through the gathering gloom – my husband and son in charge of helming and navigation, and his two daughters on watch. I was down below cooking the crabs, one at a time in a not very large saucepan. The cooking process became more and more hazardous as night fell, and by the time the water had boiled for the 3

CLOCKWISE FROM ABOVE: Alive, alive-o A gulet (or three) in every garden Kapi Creek, still peaceful today

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last one it was completely dark. I begged to be able to turn on the light in the galley but was met with growls about night vision from the cockpit – we were not far from the gap leading into the bay and the moon had not yet come up. I had an oven glove on one hand and the saucepan lid in the other, but I simply could not get the last beast out of the sink. At last my cries for help were heard and I was grudgingly allowed to turn the light on for a few seconds. I found out what was wrong – the crab had its pincers clamped firmly around the sink plug and had no intention of going anywhere. I whacked it mercilessly with the pan lid and at last it let go. Into the pan with you, lid on, no qualms about that I’m afraid. The moon came up as we crept through the narrow gap and anchored safely in the tiny bay. And ate the crabs. The next morning we awoke to the most beautiful scene imaginable. We were surrounded by pines, oleanders and olives, the water was clear and mirror calm, and the sun was just coming up over the hill. A group of curious children had gathered on the shore, attended by goats, dogs, cats and innumerable chickens, and father was rowing out to show us his catch of fish. Did we want to have lunch ashore? Of course we did and, after a morning spent snorkelling and windsurfing, we ate fresh fish and homemade bread at a rough wooden table on the beach, observed closely by the aforementioned spectators plus a large swarm of wasps who arrived with the fish. It took some dexterity to negotiate both wasps and fish bones. By that time there was a small marina in Bodrum and another in Kusadasi, though the only mooring possibilities elsewhere were still in fishing ports or on gulet jetties, making fast to rusty rings or running lines to widely spaced bollards. It was possible to haul out and winter at Yatlift in Bodrum, where most facilities were available, though Turkish paint and antifouling tended to be of fishing boat quality, as was the workmanship. However, every enterprising Turk was building a gulet in his back garden and the bareboat charter business was taking off. The Greek government had shot itself in the foot by instituting draconian laws about chartering in Greek waters, and the Turks were about to profit largely from this. They tidied up their entrance formalities too – everything became cut and dried, though doing it yourself could be hard on the feet, particularly in Kusadasi where the police were, and still are, a long way from the marina. Much as Turkey went from being a backward, Ottoman-ruled, disintegrating empire to a rapidly modernising 20th century power in a few years, thanks to Kemal Atatürk, it is now busily reinventing itself as a thriving marine business-orientated country. Marinas are everywhere and more are being built, huge yacht construction facilities are based in Tuzla, just south of Istanbul, up in the Sea of Marmara, and now in Antalya as well – the yachting industry has really blossomed. The country itself has changed too, changed so much that anyone who has not been here for some time, even ten years, will be astonished and, perhaps, appalled at the difference. You will probably still get a glass of tea to go with the official stamp, though. Turkish hospitality has not disappeared and one must look at the situation realistically – the Turks cannot be 5

expected to remain a romantically picturesque nation just for our convenience. The marine scene is changing worldwide, and if you really want to go and find completely unspoilt and virgin seas and anchorages you must venture much further afield, to the Patagonian channels or the Kerguelen Islands perhaps, or to Kiribati in the middle of nowhere in the Pacific. Accessible cruising grounds have been accessed. Anyway, back to Turkey. Those who have never been there often have preconceived, and quite mistaken, ideas of what to expect. Yes it is a Moslem country, but there are more head scarves to be seen in Bradford than there are in the tourist areas and Turkish hospitality is legendary. The scenery is second to none with a ruin in virtually every bay, the water is clear and clean, thanks to the strict laws about holding tanks, and wonderful fresh produce markets and good restaurants abound ashore. The seasons in Turkey are long, with sunny days and water warm enough to swim until the end of October. Though the winds can be fickle they are not lacking – a good, stiff afternoon breeze will frequently blow you all the way from Rhodes to Marmaris and up Fethiye Bay. You will have a good beat from Knidos too, past Kos into Bodrum, sometimes too good – when the meltemi has got under way, going to windward can be enough to make veteran ocean sailors wonder why they left port. The good beat can turn into a nasty bash, so it is best to wait until things have subsided a bit and get the windsurfer out instead. Or go and buy a carpet. It is not impossible to find a deserted anchorage in Turkey if you go early or late in the season – which is the best time to go in any case, avoiding the blistering heat of July and August. The number of bareboat charter yachts seems to increase by the minute, but they do a recognised circuit and on Fridays, changeover day, they are all in port. As far as the gulets are concerned they are (mostly) well disciplined. They always go to the same places and do the same thing – drop a massive fisherman anchor miles out and go stern to the rocks – so with a bit of observation and careful planning, you can avoid their favourite haunts as well. Going north from Bodrum up the Gulf of Güllük, or round from Finike to Çavus Limani or Çineviz Limani, will avoid the crowds. In popular anchorages like Kekova Roads there is so much room that it is easy to drop your hook far from the madding crowd, then dinghy over to snorkel the sunken city or climb the castle. There is much to see ashore in Turkey and it is possible, with the aid of a handheld GPS, to hike to some of the ancient sites which feature on the old engraved Admiralty charts and have not been visited for many years – except by goats. This year we are wintering in Marmaris Yacht Marina – capacity 650 boats afloat, 1000 on the hard, with two travel lifts, one of 300 tons ... and the hardstanding is full. The marina is quite organised about hauling and launching, and changing your launch date incurs a financial penalty – understandably, since moving a dozen or so yachts out of the way is no easy undertaking. You must give a date and stick to it, and those who want to leave their boats for an extended period are put right at the back of the hardstanding. You can check on your friends’ plans by noting the date chalked on the rudder. Several smug and well-fed cats will be checking up on you, meanwhile – the Turks have always had a soft spot for animals. 6

Still warm enough to swim in October One of the locals Istanbul Boat Show

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A large number of cruising yachts have based themselves in Marmaris more or less permanently, returning year after year from cruising other parts of the Med, and the social life is seriously bad for the liver. The three day visit to Istanbul, paid for by the marina, to visit the city itself and the annual Boat Show, is one of the highlights of the yearly calendar. The Istanbul Boat show used to be quite a small affair but it is expanding rapidly – not to the size of London or Southampton of course, but Turkish boat-building has progressed way beyond the gulet stage with a nice line in classic construction. More and more exhibitors like Jeanneau and Yamaha have begun exhibiting, and an impressive display of Turkish equipment, particularly stainless steel deck and rigging fittings, is on show. You can even, if you so wish, choose the teak for your new deck from a large stand stacked with planking. Fierce competition for yachting services in the Marmaris area is resulting in good workmanship and value for money. Sailmakers, riggers, engineers, electronic experts, upholsterers, and service agents from Autohelm to Z-Spars – they are all there, no job seems to be too large or too small. No sharp intake of breath either – ‘let’s see how we can get round that one’ is more likely to be the attitude. We have occasionally been brought up short by some excessive charge, but we have not had any really nasty shocks to date. Language is not normally a barrier. Turks are good linguists, and the firms who deal with foreigners have taken pains to learn at least the basics in English. The cost of berthing is a major factor of course – in Marmaris Yacht Marina six months is costing us what we have paid for one month in the Western Med, but this happy state of affairs cannot continue much longer, I fear, particularly if Turkey eventually joins the European Union. So far so good, and we shall continue to winter here for the foreseeable future. We will go cruising this summer, visiting the many regions of Turkey we have not yet seen – Northern Cyprus, Kuºadasi, Ayvalik, Eskifoça – then go all the way north next year before the meltemi sets in, up to the Sea of Marmara and Istanbul. Who knows, we may even venture into the Black Sea. There is just one cloud on the horizon – the Russians are coming. It has recently been reported that Kemer Marina has been bought by a Turkish company with Russian backing, who immediately proceeded to up the price of repairs to an unacceptable level. Whether things there will settle down again only time will tell. Watch this space. And come and buy a carpet anyway.

Any boat that can outsail your own boat is (a) crewed by professionals, (b) dangerously light and underbuilt, or (c) a hot high-tech expensive racing boat. Chuck Gustafson 8