As retired hedonistas my partner and I fancied a bit of wanton decadence and set our sights on Izmir. After all, it is Turkey’s third largest metropolis with a laid back, laissez faire reputation.
Driving is not for the faint hearted, best only tried by the foolish or the suicidal. Though much improved in recent years, roads can still be perilous with lunar potholes, boulder-sized loose chippings and chassis-shattering unmarked concrete speed bumps. All these hazards, however, pale into insignificance when compared to the insane driving of the locals. The basic rules of the unofficial Turkish Highway Code are straightforward enough – drive fast, jump lights, never indicate, overtake on blind bends, tailgate dangerously and sound the car horn loudly and often. It is also the ‘law’ to ignore pedestrian crossings (purely for street decoration and EU compliance inspectors), bounce a new born baby on your lap when weaving in and out of the traffic and yell down the mobile phone that has been surgically grafted to your ear. The rules are observed religiously. Obligingly, local municipalities even provide traffic lights that count down to green to encourage boy racers to champ at the bit to be first out of the traps. We quickly learned that unsuspecting foreigners must keep their wits about them to preserve life and limb.
Despite our genuine fear of death or permanent disability, we left for Izmir at first light, driving due east to Milas, the next sizeable town from Bodrum. From the outskirts, Milas has little to commend it; a nondescript minor provincial town of concrete awfulness. We swung north inland. Ascending into the hills (well, mountains by British standards) we swept past Lake Bafa, a stunning expanse of calm, mirrored water that reflects the cradling highlands. It reminded me of the Italian lakes. The winter rains have had a remarkable effect on the landscape, transforming the tinderbox hue of pale green and ochre to a lush iridescence.
We descended to the bountiful basin made fertile by the rich silt deposited by the snaking Meander River over innumerable centuries. We hurried through shabby jobbing agro-villages, slowly swerving around family laden tractors and head-scarfed grannies on dawdling donkeys. Onwards towards Izmir, we left the Third World behind and hit the 21st century toll motorway near Aydin which came as something of an unforeseen relief. Neat, newly constructed and four lanes wide, it wouldn’t look out of place in Germany. Descending towards the coast, Izmir’s urban sprawl stretched out impressively before us.
Driving through Izmir was the most traumatic driving experience of our lives. The city is dissected by crumbling dual carriageways and getting off the bloody things is nigh on impossible. We spent hours driving from one side of the city to the other, then back again, trying to find the right exit, any exit. Eventually, after an unscheduled two hour excursion we found the seafront boulevard where our hotel was located.
We tried to park outside a café in the only available space as far as the eye could see. The owner was having none of it and began gesticulating aggressively to move us on. We’ve heard that it is not unusual for business owners to trash any unsolicited car parked outside their premises, so we thought we best not risk it. Off we drove on yet another distressing circuit of the city centre. Then, miracle upon miracles, we were delivered a space right outside the hotel entrance. The moral of this story? Get the bus.
Driving is not for the faint hearted, best only tried by the foolish or the suicidal. Though much improved in recent years, roads can still be perilous with lunar potholes, boulder-sized loose chippings and chassis-shattering unmarked concrete speed bumps. All these hazards, however, pale into insignificance when compared to the insane driving of the locals. The basic rules of the unofficial Turkish Highway Code are straightforward enough – drive fast, jump lights, never indicate, overtake on blind bends, tailgate dangerously and sound the car horn loudly and often. It is also the ‘law’ to ignore pedestrian crossings (purely for street decoration and EU compliance inspectors), bounce a new born baby on your lap when weaving in and out of the traffic and yell down the mobile phone that has been surgically grafted to your ear. The rules are observed religiously. Obligingly, local municipalities even provide traffic lights that count down to green to encourage boy racers to champ at the bit to be first out of the traps. We quickly learned that unsuspecting foreigners must keep their wits about them to preserve life and limb.
Despite our genuine fear of death or permanent disability, we left for Izmir at first light, driving due east to Milas, the next sizeable town from Bodrum. From the outskirts, Milas has little to commend it; a nondescript minor provincial town of concrete awfulness. We swung north inland. Ascending into the hills (well, mountains by British standards) we swept past Lake Bafa, a stunning expanse of calm, mirrored water that reflects the cradling highlands. It reminded me of the Italian lakes. The winter rains have had a remarkable effect on the landscape, transforming the tinderbox hue of pale green and ochre to a lush iridescence.
We descended to the bountiful basin made fertile by the rich silt deposited by the snaking Meander River over innumerable centuries. We hurried through shabby jobbing agro-villages, slowly swerving around family laden tractors and head-scarfed grannies on dawdling donkeys. Onwards towards Izmir, we left the Third World behind and hit the 21st century toll motorway near Aydin which came as something of an unforeseen relief. Neat, newly constructed and four lanes wide, it wouldn’t look out of place in Germany. Descending towards the coast, Izmir’s urban sprawl stretched out impressively before us.
Driving through Izmir was the most traumatic driving experience of our lives. The city is dissected by crumbling dual carriageways and getting off the bloody things is nigh on impossible. We spent hours driving from one side of the city to the other, then back again, trying to find the right exit, any exit. Eventually, after an unscheduled two hour excursion we found the seafront boulevard where our hotel was located.
We tried to park outside a café in the only available space as far as the eye could see. The owner was having none of it and began gesticulating aggressively to move us on. We’ve heard that it is not unusual for business owners to trash any unsolicited car parked outside their premises, so we thought we best not risk it. Off we drove on yet another distressing circuit of the city centre. Then, miracle upon miracles, we were delivered a space right outside the hotel entrance. The moral of this story? Get the bus.More on Perking the Pansies
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