Where's the Path What's the Plan - The Lycian Way

Spoken of with great enthusiasm is a trail in the south; The trekking path, stunned into place by the vision it over looks, was used to link the ancient Lycian civilization. Where the Aegean meets the Mediterranean, the seas turn turquoise and I am here.                                                                                       With me is a tent, a tourist map, three liters of water, a head of broccoli,  a loaf of bread, a friend, and no plan.  An old man of the road once said "The departure is everything," so now we depart purposefully off the paved road and up the cobbled steps of a ghosted village; it feels light to walk the first steps of the trail.
  

Over the hill-crest into the descending sun, my shoes are tied tighter and a scarf is knotted to my head for shade. Some others catch up to us; where has the isolated wilderness gone? They tell us we are not on the path; my confidence is sucked away by theirs.The others declare, with the tone of someone seeking to gain something,  "the path you follow leads to nothing."  I walk with a grin in the direction they discouraged, to find the nothing.    
                                                                                                                                                                                           A perfectly lonely cove of sea crushing over rock, carved by life and the tide, is what we see from the paradise camping place under the lone tree.  The innocent water is white with the sunshine reflecting off the sea-floors silent bottom. The sight so clear the water could be one meter or one mile deep.  I leap into the purity, the purity, the purity.


  

There is a new phase of the moon and a new search to find the path we seek; back through the ruined village, the ghosts yield to lizards. We see a sprayed arrow, a written sign, and a red strip above a white; you symbols, must be the guide. We stride with near certainty through the painted pine path. Half a days walk empties out into a place with delicious-thick milkshakes and advertisement  beach-umbrellas; we swim and rest for a while in this place where nature has been tamed by the comfort-holiday goers. But blessed is the nature which is never lost to those who are looking.

Where's the path; what's the plan; why is this gap in the trail so wide. We hitch a ride, it's not cheating, a golden archway (with no fries) gives me the Lycian sign. We are back with the red and white trail marks, we walk the evening path; it soon leads to a couple of brothers making a coffee of the Turkish kind. We share an orange and then some more, with them we share the place we sleep.  A pair of Germans share it too, but their plan is to fast for ours, our none.

  
Now, with the Brothers Turkish, we walk, we walk, we walk; However, the trek is in solitude, silencing and isolating is the incline.  Our energy grows low, our food is low, we enter into a village; the perfect place it is.  
                                                          
First the figs the figs the figs purple and pink and delicious and the green marbles, yes the grapes, dangling from their twigs. Then the goats horn, the Turks call this pod from the tree, tasting of chocolate and bark; I am ripe from fruit but the Turkish meal is not complete without bread.  We find some bread with hospitality, so we eat again, a villagers lunch. Tomatoes, potatoes, cucumber, black olives, green olives, cheese, cay (is tea), cay, cay, and bread. Then it ends in green walnuts creamy with the trees oil that also is giving us shade.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        


In the place we stop for the entrance of this night, a tortoise is moving to find its resting place too; perhaps my large pack makes it think we are alike?  The load on my back I carry all day is now supporting me as I lean my-self against it; me and the tortoise are alike. 

Early rising is the rhythm of these days; the cliffs to the east hide us only until the dial shows ten. These towering cliffs provide perspective all day that thankfully shrinks the self. The sun shine retreats to shadow as we sink into a valley. There is little development and many others to meet.                                                                                                                                                                                                   

The morning light does take longer to reach this protected spot, just as the tourism and cement has taken longer, but in mid day the sun does shine, and in mid day the concrete will pour. Though, with pleasure, night will fall again because all is subject to the cycle of the stars.
               

Here the way is lost again for days, this time on purpose; We walk around the circles of peace-minded-people. They make music, share, and pass around the tools to forget. We wait for the right moment to find a sea-cave; the west facing opening loves most the days last light, in vain for how it makes her water glow. And another adventure leads up a path where trickling water grows, we climb up to where it swells and falls, we swim and rise above its pools to where it falls again. We go up the strengthening stream with the moss getting life from its bottom and jewelry with the beads of water on its top. The butterflies capture all noise to be just silence floating through the air.

We sleep not far from the red and white strips and again follow their way, to soon perhaps, but of course not. The steep climb is exaggerated by the rust of the valley's rest. The steps require great care for I am not the goats; this path is theirs and I spill my steps and wish I had their milk.                                                                                                                                                           

                 

Step, step, step, I can feel each step in my knees, shoulders  hips, and back. Each movement makes me find worthlessness in the valuable supplies and gadgets I carry. Summer is ending, leaving with the long days, and leaving with our time on the Lycian Way. We and the trekking path agree, in a different direction we will soon stray.

It is the final day of walking and our feet need a wash. A mirage of a ruined city appears spilling into the sea. I insist we leave the path and go directly to the sea; naive enough of me, I lead us to the only piece of land blocked off from the sea. I have no choice but to heave my pack over my head to cross the surging river emptying into our bath. We pass this obstacle and at last find the oasis of undisturbed beach for miles and miles and miles.    

Turkçe

We all know when you reach a fork in the road it is wisest to travel down the road less taken. However, at times the road you trek down splits off into, not two, but bundles of possibilities. There are occasions that the path is frayed like the shoe-lase that lost its solid tip and has accumulated endless numbers of steps. In situations like theses Mr. Frost has no advise to give.  Now as I walk the long walk I have come to this junction. It is here at Dedetepe, the olive farm, that the whole Eastern world lays in front of me. At first I was undecided where to go so I took a seat to ponder. Then I started toying with fantastic ideas, so I squatted to fantasize about my next move. In this position I stayed resting and dreaming, until all around me the grasses and flowers grew lush. 

Sometimes no path should be taken because it is your resting place where you belong. I am nowhere that is not the perfect place for me to be. What a feeling it is to take my worn soles off and to let my feet breathe. Only in periods of true rest, deep to the soul, is where I find fruit blossoming all around. (It is not unheard of to experience this deep calm even in moments of chaos.)  The sweet juices of my place in the olives are not all I receive. It turns out the pit I have stopped in is furnished with Turkish language lessons too. 


For some time the inspiration to write has overlooked me, but now I am feeling a Turkish creativity. Can you discover the meaning of my poem; how many ways can you understand my Turkish pros?

Nehir kenarinda olturuyorum

Guzel suyu goruyorum

Kucuk balik oluyorum

Kucuk balik oluyorum

Gunes te isinuyorum

Reborn Greek

The rolling curls of the Aegean Sea rocked Jebadiah out of an unrestfull sleep. He opened his eyes to the harsh florescent lights of the ferryboat’s lounge to find an ache crawling within his stomach. He stared out the window searching for some distraction from the discomfort, but the horizon swaying up and down through the narrow portal made vomiting sound appealing. It was cold and windy out on the deck of the vessel but Jebadiah knew a good upward release over the rail into the sea was the best thing for his bowels.  From stern to the bow, port to starboard, and head to crow's nest he passed waiting for the perfect moment to heave off the side. The moment never came. He thought back to childhood summers pleasantly riding the rough seas, just to find the ache bringing him out of his memory. He looked off the back of the boat to Turkey with the comforting idea of the cozy wood cabin that had cuddled him the night before. Then he gazed forward to the coastline ahead with hopes that the Greek island Lesvos would provide some relief to his squall. 


The boat reached port and as Jeb's feet hit land his stomach was soothed. In customs he handed over his, United States of America, navy blue passport. A moment later the boarder control fired a question at Jeb, "Where are you from?" (They were holding the document which proved his identity.) A bit caught off guard Jebadiah answered, "The United States." They followed this up by asking him if he was living in Turkey, he told them he was not. “ I’m a traveler,” he said with confidence, for his identity as a nomad is at times the only thing Jeb is sure of on his journey.  He met Ashlei where a man in street clothes was searching bags and told her about the funny question at passport control.  She knew he was pleased by their confusion, because Jeb likes to think that his dark features allow him to pass as a local where ever he goes. Together they walked out of the port customs building into the streets of Greece and the pain crept back into Jebadiah’s belly. It was clear that land’s sturdy plain only tricked his mind into temporarily relieving the problem. 


The travel duo now moved along the seafront passing the luxurious sea hotels to meet a student of the city Mytilini who would provide them a couch to rest on. Jeb looked longingly at the hotels with the thought of an elegant room to help curve his pain, but a bug is not enough to cramp his travel style. He would stick with the free-of-charge accommodation.  They found the cafe where they would meet their host. Jeb had previously agreed to share a conversation and a beer upon meeting, Lisa, the generous student, but he could barely put down a club soda. When Lisa arrived she brought along a posse, all beaming with smiles and warmth. Jeb was desperate to let their friendly vibes reach his gut so he could return the high spirits. He decided that if he went about as if he was feeling healthy his mind might again be fooled into making the body feel good. He ordered a beer. He took a few unwelcomed gulps and passed it along to Ash. It was clear at this point that he was not suffering from the rough seas and that he was going to be ill. He regretfully told Lisa that he could not be strong and they returned to her hillside home. 


Jebadiah could do nothing more than get into bed. Shivering, he could not even take off his clothes. Moments later his stomach began to rumble and he cautiously got up and went to the bathroom. He stuck his face in the toilet waiting, then nothing. He got up and sat on the toilet waiting, again nothing. He waddled back to the bed and decided to make a cocoon of his sleeping-bag and blankets and hibernate until he felt well. He was thoroughly enclosed and warm and sleep took over, but not for long.

Jeb woke up feeling as if he was again on the stormy water, but this time there were no waves rocking him. He was spinning and a familiar liquid taste began to fill his mouth. He had little time, however he was locked into his sleeping spot trapped by his covering. Struggling, he peeled himself free and ran towards the bathroom. Unfortunately the contents of his stomach were not considerate and they erupted towards his mouth in the middle of the living-room. Desperately Jeb threw his hands over his chops and contained the vomit. Seconds later another explosion rocketed from his pit just as he crossed the threshold of the bathroom. Like popping open a champagne bottle Jebadiah released the cork and the bile spewed into the bowl. After four of fiver powerful surges it was over. He turned around to find himself looking into his own eyes in the mirror. Orange foam coated his beard and mustache. He looked miserable, but felt a peace he hadn't felt since before getting on the boat. He slept soundly the rest of the night.  


The next day was full of Greek opportunities: a tour around the island, hot baths, feta cheese, wine, and a party of young people exchanging ideas. Jeb did none of it. He knew it was best to stay horizontal and regain health. He wanted to be alone. While he lay doing nothing he realized that his isolation was not only for rejuvenation after his stomach’s storm. He was resisting being social and blocking himself off from having experiences with new interesting people. He saw himself having critical views and felt some negativity that was out of character for him.  Jeb took the time to do some introspection, some internal searching. He found some taxing moments of his travels that he had not yet released. It was clear he needed a fresh start.

When he felt well he started to explore the city and port. An almost familiar college town holding cafes with dim light, playing chilled-out music. What was dissimilar to other tranquil cafes he had been to was that a short distance away was another cafe filled with weathered Greek men hollering to each other and ordering the waitress to go out to buy them cigarettes. The duality of this place gave Jeb the joyful feeling that he was in a foreign land. It was the bipolar characteristics of the city that made it like no other place Jeb had been. 


Jeb stayed aware of the realization he had while ill. He walked about focused on a positive energy. He stalked his thoughts and feelings when a negative vibration stirred or a critical thought shook he disrupted it with a breath of life. 


In this style Jebadiah walked again the traveler's path. He met a group of guys who were going for a mid-Januray swim. With the wind at his back Jeb joined them down towards the sea, seeking a cleansing bath. Although he had second, third and fourth thoughts the water was pulling him towards it. The clear teal Aegean Sea was appealing even on a day with snow flurries. To hesitate would have been the end of this spontaneous swim, so Jeb did not. Clothes off, courage on he stepped into the icy water. With each moment the water reached higher on his legs. The slow crawl was discouraging, he needed to be fully submerged or not at all. In the shallow water he sprawled his body forward torpedoing under the sea. After a smooth glide back to the surface Jeb instinctively let out a yelp, but no noise followed. The cold water stole his breath and voice. He gasped for air but nothing but the cold was entering his body. A moment of suffocation gave way to a full-hearted swim. Stroking strongly, the cold water seemed to turn into insulation for the bodies heat. He was not warm but there was a clear difference between the temperature of the water and his body. He was filled with vigor and dove down five meters to the rocky sea floor. Jebadiah pushed himself to a limit underwater where he no longer needed a breath of air. The joy of being one with the sea relaxed his desperate lungs and he soared back to the shore as would a sea turtle. He left in the water some pieces of darkness that had been lingering in his baggage.  Now shivering out in the open air a  breeze filled his open pours replenishing his spirit and re-birthing his adventure.