Sea kayaking today to offshore islands with Greek, Roman, and early Byzantine ruins scattered amongst ruins of Lycian village and burial sites, some of the latter sitting just under the sea as a result of earthquakes. I hadn’t imagined kayaking over marble streets, sitting rooms, sarcophogai.
The mainland here is at least as rocky as the western highlands of Scotland, and that’s saying something. As in the highlands, the ruins are often hardly distinguishable from the outcroppings. A few goat herds search for grass between the sharp edged crags. In the lower valleys, the stones seem to have been cleared or leveled, and acres upon acres of plastic-covered greenhouses erected, each filled with tomatoes, cucumbers and flowers to be shipped north and exported into Europe. We have been told (we can’t say for certain yet but it sounds likely) that the crop s are heavily supplemented with various chemicals to increase production.
Kaş was a fishing town not long ago, nestled in a deep natural harbor. Today, especially this time of year, it remains small and relaxed but is mostly given over to pensions, tour outfits offering ‘outdoor’ adventure options, and a handful of ‘property manager’ dealing in the sprawl of new apartments rising up the hills from the village. The breezes here are warm, the sea is turquoise and clear, the food is tasty at Mama’s and the beer is cold.
Dreams: - The night of our kayak trip, and the night following, I have a dream set in craggy ruins like those we have paddled amongst. Arcades, staircases into the sky and sea, arches. We are rehearsing, then performing, a play in which I seem to have a very brief but critical speaking role. Perhaps I’m a servant or doorman or porter or messenger of some kind. One scene repeats itself in a loop: I’m to wake and say something ever so brief and urgent to “Desdemona” but cannot remember what I am to say, or say the wrong thing or have myself fallen into a deep sleep from I simply can’t awake … finally, I seem to recollect, panicking and yelling the necessary message, but perhaps too late.
The mainland here is at least as rocky as the western highlands of Scotland, and that’s saying something. As in the highlands, the ruins are often hardly distinguishable from the outcroppings. A few goat herds search for grass between the sharp edged crags. In the lower valleys, the stones seem to have been cleared or leveled, and acres upon acres of plastic-covered greenhouses erected, each filled with tomatoes, cucumbers and flowers to be shipped north and exported into Europe. We have been told (we can’t say for certain yet but it sounds likely) that the crop s are heavily supplemented with various chemicals to increase production.
Kaş was a fishing town not long ago, nestled in a deep natural harbor. Today, especially this time of year, it remains small and relaxed but is mostly given over to pensions, tour outfits offering ‘outdoor’ adventure options, and a handful of ‘property manager’ dealing in the sprawl of new apartments rising up the hills from the village. The breezes here are warm, the sea is turquoise and clear, the food is tasty at Mama’s and the beer is cold.
Dreams: - The night of our kayak trip, and the night following, I have a dream set in craggy ruins like those we have paddled amongst. Arcades, staircases into the sky and sea, arches. We are rehearsing, then performing, a play in which I seem to have a very brief but critical speaking role. Perhaps I’m a servant or doorman or porter or messenger of some kind. One scene repeats itself in a loop: I’m to wake and say something ever so brief and urgent to “Desdemona” but cannot remember what I am to say, or say the wrong thing or have myself fallen into a deep sleep from I simply can’t awake … finally, I seem to recollect, panicking and yelling the necessary message, but perhaps too late.
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