The checkpoint for entering Bethlehem, under Israeli military control, is a lethargic place, slow-moving under a blazing sun. Placed on the wrecked rubble remains of a city street, the barrier is manned by skinny, young, fit soldiers in uniforms so big they could fit a friend in there with them. They have M16s, body armour and pistols, and are covered in insignia. Their skin is fresh or pimply, their necks long and slim. Their young eyes are dull, narrowed into the sun. We have passports ready, but they don’t look.
‘Where do you come from? Oh, well.’ They lose interest, motion us on, turning away before our car has moved on.
We pass down the main street of Bethlehem across an area of flat stony ground where buildings have been razed. The shops are down at heel, the tourist signs fading, there are few pedestrians, even fewer cars. We are picked up by the inevitable tout, who introduces us to a ‘free guide’ around the Church of the Nativity in return for a visit to their souvenir shop.
Our guide is Muslim, but the young man has an impressive knowledge of the history of this cathedral built around the stable found by Mary and Joseph for the birth of Jesus. We are led down dark steps below ground level, the walls draped with dusty asbestos cloth. He rattles off the history.
The Church of the Nativity is the oldest church in the Holy Land and was built in the fourth century by St Helena, about whom little is known. The architects used a little guesswork to ascertain the position of the manger at the end of the Bethlehem village, and constructed a grotto, a cave, on the spot, substituting a silver manger for the original clay. The walls and floors are covered with marble, mosaics and mother-of-pearl. We have entered through the Church of St Catherine, but other chapels and monasteries also surround the grotto, built at various times by the Franciscans, and the Greek and Armenian Orthodox churches. We must bend to obtain access to the grotto itself. The entrance is very low – apparently to prevent the Ottomans from sheltering their horses there.
The air, as we descend, becomes stale and smells of incense. At the base of the final steps I am astounded by what I see in the half-dark. Did I really expect a manger? The floor is white marble, and there is a many-pointed silver star, denoting, presumably, the exact point where Jesus was born. Hanging silver lamps are strung around the star, keeping watch. Our guide explains that these are ‘owned’ by the Greeks, the Armenians and the ‘Latins’. The air is even more stale here, and claustrophobic, thick with the weight of centuries. To the right, in this small sacred space, is an altar, dedicated to the Three Wise Men. I am aware that the historical records of these biblical events are ill-kept. Historically, it is just smoke and mirrors. But I nod and say nothing.
There is more marble back in the dark recesses, on the walls, besmirched by the soot of burning lamp oil. There are tombs here, and other grottos, their history remaining as murky as the light that guides us through this now little-travelled place.
The tour finished, our guide takes us to his family’s souvenir shop, and they seem keen to talk. There’s desperation in their voices. There are just no tourists in Bethlehem these days, they tell us, and sometimes the checkpoint soldiers, who were so laissez-faire with us, won’t even let tourists through.
‘You know, we don’t live forever, we have only one life. They are taking it away from us.’ It’s a cry from the heart. ‘You know who is the biggest shit in the world? Arafat. You know who is the other biggest shit? Sharon. You know who is the other biggest shit? Bush.’
‘We used to have Jewish friends,’ our guide’s elderly father chimes in. ‘We used to work with them, visit them in their homes, and they would visit us – laugh and be friends. Now it is finished, and it is just a few politicians who are responsible. It is not the fault of the Jewish people – they think the same as we do. We just want to live our lives, and we can’t.’
We are moved and saddened.
The desperation in Bethlehem shows again in the frantic begging that we have to push through on our way back to the checkpoint in the car. There are small children trying to sell postcards, clawing at the car doors, handsome men pushing necklaces against the windows – small pitiful collections. The children climb around the car, knocking on the windows, pressing their faces against the glass. I am too sad to cry.
Later, back on the coast, there are some open-mouthed reactions from local Israelis to our visit to Bethlehem. ‘You went where? Into Bethlehem? Only because you are a tourist did you get out.’ We don’t know how true this is – misinformation is rife. Everyone keeps to the known track. It’s safer that way.
A few days later, ‘The Holy City’, a song of my childhood, becomes a reality. I do ‘stand in old Jerusalem, beside the temple there’. But I don’t see any light of God on the streets. What I see are dozens of soldiers bristling with weaponry, walking slowly, watching everything. So many guns . . . even children on school excursions are escorted by teachers with M16s slung over their shoulder. However, the gates are ‘open wide, and all who will can enter, and no one is denied’ – that is, I guess, unless you look in any way suspicious.
If you look past the guns, the old town of Jerusalem is a treat to the senses. We spend a couple of days there, walking, walking. I am surprised by the hilliness and lush opulence of the architecture of this most sacred of all towns. Somehow, Sunday school left me with the impression that where Jesus walked was flat – more like Suakin in the Sudan. We climb up to the parapets, slink down into dungeons, tread old ruins. We frequently stand in silent awe, or in quiet reverence.
Moving on in the car we visit the spectacularly beautiful Dead Sea, take a swim in the oily water – which is most unpleasant – then move on to Tel Aviv. While the city is alive and thriving, we find the ever-present guns carried by everyone, even the bike couriers, depressing. Ted is particularly affected by the guns and the security. While we are greeted by lovely friends there, he can’t wait to be gone.
In any case the sea is beckoning and I am glad to sail off for Turkey – back to the sea where I now feel so at home. It’s a slow sail – the sheets are just cracked, the sky cloudless, the seas rippled but flat, and eight knots of wind gives us an easy three to four knots. What peace after the challenges of the Red Sea and the tenseness of Israel. Time to reflect.
I have difficulty in remembering the person who left Sydney. I can remember the balance sheets and marketing plans and people issues that kept me awake at night. Now it’s a soft touch on my sleeping shoulder – ‘It’s your watch.’ I can remember the hated morning alarm; now it is likely to be the tinkling slap of a halyard against the mast. The desperate need to ‘keep fit’ is no more. We work all day in the sunshine, muscle-building, winch-winding, boat-clambering. I can see my toes, brown and rounded out from the lack of shoes. As I listen to the swish of water past the boat I recall the noise and congestion of the traffic, drivers with road rage, interminably merging lines of cars, the blare of a horn if you were slow, the waiting at red lights, the wishing that you weren’t there.
The dolphins are playing together this morning around the bow, but there are no sea birds yet, so we can’t be very close to land. The only tension in my life is on my sewing machine, and decision-making is about the joyous natural world around us – how much sail we need, and how much reefing. We don’t go to nightclubs or classy restaurants any more, but we have exclusive access to the moonlit shining sea, and moonlight on the water with a shot of luminescence is a heady cocktail. I feel a pervading sense of contentment to be a humble child of Mother Earth.
And I not only know how to sail Blackwattle, I have learned so much in that very different and more complex skill of seamanship. In a sense, I have done what I came for – learned to know the joy of a great boat and me, travelling as one together.
One morning, before we have seen any telltale sign of birds, the top of a high mountain range materialises out of the mist.
It’s Turkey. As we arrive at our first port of Kemer, on the so
uthern coast, I realise how much I have thirsted for green foliage, gardens, grass, mountains lush with vegetation – all of which we find around the marina. A gentle-eyed man has all the paperwork completed in a few minutes, with many smiles and jokes across the office in Turkish. The atmosphere is as refreshing as diving into cold water on a hot day.
We are shocked by the casualness of the check-in procedure.
‘Is that all?’ asks Ted.
The gentle-eyed man looks quizzical. ‘Did you want something else, sir?’
We intend to be two summers in the Mediterranean. We have travelled over 6500 nautical miles in the last fifteen months, and now the pressure is off. Turkey, we have heard, has a lovely coastline, so we intend to cruise along it, then on to Greece, maybe Croatia, ending our year in Italy, where we’ll ‘hole up’ for the bad weather and sharp cold winds of the Mediterranean winter.
After being in the desert so long, we marvel at the reckless beauty of the mountains, freckled with olive trees and saltbush. Jagged cliffs dive sheer into the sea, and above the tree line, so high there is a bluish tinge to the mountains, snow is still embedded in crannies and crevices. The sea is deep right to the shore, and midnight blue.
We travel west and then north to an anchorage next to the ancient port of Phaselis, a 2700-year-old Lycian city, almost intact. The city, we read, was variously owned by the Kingdom of Rhodes, the Greeks and then the Romans. The main street is made of marble blocks, with stepped sides between the footpath and the road, a place for the citizens to sit and chat and watch the passing parade. It’s easy to see their ghosts still relaxing and watching by the street. A small amphitheatre is set conveniently up the side of a hill, typically Roman in style, semicircular in shape, with a wide stage. As I climb the aisles, I imagine it full of people in togas, milling about, taking their seats, watching, cheering . . . I descend to bow obligingly from centre stage, ever the ham.
We wander further to the gymnasium with stone and marble public baths and tiled floors, still in place. I can almost see the Greeks there, limbering up on the slabs of stone, then bathing in the water that flows from the arched viaduct overhanging the city. I can see their slaves, rubbing them with oil afterwards, making their muscles shine.
As we sail on, the smell of cow manure and fresh-cut grass reaches us from over the mountains, where there must be pastures. But there are no birds, anywhere. Where have all the seagulls gone?
Small villages have markets – or, rather, bazaars, (‘markets’ in Turkey are supermarkets) – with fresh produce brought in by individual farmers. The tastes are a surprise to the senses, juice drips from fruit and garlic alike when cut, and the herbs in particular are rich with flavour.
Some anchorages are tiny, some could fit hundreds of boats. Every day is different. All the way from India to Israel, there have been guns everywhere; this country is like warm honey after the taste of lemon, like Camelot after a bloody battle. We wake to the sound of roosters crowing; in the evening, reflected lights bob and shine around us. We wander the villages and out of town into the countryside. The perfumes are heady – cut hay, baking bread and chook yards. The chooks all seem to wander free and old women potter in search of eggs. When not swimming or wandering we mend and tend to Blackwattle – varnishing, cleaning, repairing, sewing. We carry out these tasks with love. She’s a valued jewel in our hands these days, deserving to be polished and proud; or part of the family, a child, perhaps, where any misbehaviour can be traced to our own neglect.
Our next stop is Finike, where we are to prepare and wait for our very first visitors from home. Doing some reading, we find that Finike was originally named Phoinikos. It was established in the fifth century BC. The name Finike is supposedly derived from the Phoenicians who used the region as a viable commercial hub. What history! I assume it is because I am an Australian, and my school history books took me back only 200 years, that I am astonished by this town that is 2600 years old! As we sail in I am disappointed. Though old, the buildings that climb the hill are ugly. We later learn that today’s buildings were ‘thrown up’ after an earthquake left many of the town homeless.
It’s festival time in Finike, and most of the streets are decorated and full of street stalls. On our first morning I go for an early-morning walk. Laid out in the soft sunshine are all the street stalls from the night before, still full of goods – everything from sandals to evening wear to egg cups to watches and antique coins. After jogging through the empty stalls for a while, I realise I am almost alone. I stop and look around disbelievingly. Except for a very old man sitting enjoying the sun on the edge of the gutter, and a female figure in a black scarf in the distance sweeping the footpath around her front door, there’s no sign of life. No one. I wait a while, but still no one appears. There is no security at all.
At the marina, I ask other yachties.
‘You’re just learning about Turkey,’ I’m told. ‘No one steals.’
‘Look,’ says another, ‘I guess you want fresh bread this morning?’
‘Sure,’ I agree. ‘Where do we get that?’
‘Well, the hot bread is sitting outside the small supermarket over there. You’ll see.’
Ted goes to buy the bread. Sure enough, a great pile of bread is outside the shop, mouth-watering aromas wafting on the morning breeze. Just as Ted is looking around for someone to pay, a voice with a thick accent calls out from the coffee shop across the way: ‘Later! Later! You pay later! Don’t worry now.’ It’s the shop owner, enjoying his early cup of coffee.
‘But, er, you don’t know me,’ falters Ted.
‘Huh!’ The gruff voice is amused. ‘I know you, I know you. It’s okay.’
Then we urgently need a part which is only available from Istanbul. Ted phones, and I can hear the conversation.
‘You have it? That’s wonderful. Are you able to send it here to me at the marina in Finike? That’s great. How much is it? US $147? Okay, that’s fine. Now, how do I pay you? I need it as soon as possible, so can I pay you by credit card so you can send it straight away? No?’
There’s a pause as Ted listens, and then, ‘I don’t quite understand. If you can send it today, that’s great, but how do I pay you?’
There’s another pause. ‘Yes, that’s good, I can put the money in your bank account, give me the number and I will go to the bank now.’
More pauses. ‘But if you enclose the bank details with the package and send it all by courier now, you won’t have the money before you send the part.’
It takes a while before Sydneysider Ted understands that this man in Istanbul, who has never heard of Ted until five minutes ago, intends to send us a part to the value of US $147, and will then wait for Ted to put the money in the bank after he sends it. This is what eventuates, and the part is installed in the boat before the bank is even open to transmit the money.
We continue to have many tiny surprising experiences: The supermarket checkout clerk who doesn’t have change says, ‘Bring me the money next time.’ When I break my sunglasses outside a leather-goods shop the owner, lounging at the door, grabs them. ‘I have good glue!’ he says, and drags me and the glasses inside and starts to repair them. When I start strolling among the goods in his shop, thinking I should repay him his kindness somehow, he glances over wisely, glasses in hand, and smiles knowingly. ‘You not buy something – I just fix glasses, okay?’ I am embarrassed that he caught me mistrusting his kindness. Much later, I meet a very well-educated Turk who speaks English well. I express my wonder at the Turkish people’s great wholesomeness. His reply, after he has thought about it for a while, will stay with me for a long while. ‘They risk their trust so that they may have a nice life.’
Our dream of cruising the eastern half of the Mediterranean this summer and finishing in Rome now fades quickly. Instead, we decide to stay in Turkey for the winter. Our decision is mutual and the moment the thought occurs, we acc
ept it instantly, laughing. The ability to change our plans totally from one second to the next is still a joyous experience. Are we developing the souls of gypsies? I wonder with amusement. How wonderful to roam so freely, fettered by the only timetable that matters to us: the weather.
We will take a marina berth in Finike, make it our headquarters, cruise where we like up and down the Turkish coastline, and spend the winter months right here. Italy we know. In Italy they are sick of tourists, and sick of foreigners, and I don’t blame them – I read that 50,000 tourists a day descend on Rome, just from the cruise boats alone. Instead of Italian, in the winter I will learn Turkish (what I’ll use it for later I don’t know), and we shall blend into this community of people and maybe learn some wisdom.
So we go sailing with a new feeling of pleasure. Friends from home come to sail awhile with us, then others, and it’s wonderful to be able to share our new lives, even our new selves. But Sunsail charter company we’re not, and sometimes I can’t help wondering whether our city-bred friends regret their decision to holiday on Blackwattle.
I am in the cockpit, varnishing, when the raucous noise starts below in the saloon.
‘What is it, Ted?’ I call sweetly.
‘The f&%@ing gel batteries are cooked!’
‘That solves the problem of what to have for dinner.’
There’s no answer, so, dropping my facetiousness, I carefully place my brush where it can’t be knocked over and go below to find Ted head-down and bum-up in the battery compartment.
‘What do you mean “cooked”?’
His voice is now low. ‘It’s those f&%@ing installers in Pittwater again. A badly crimped wire on the alternator has broken, allowing uncontrolled charging to the batteries and they’ve overheated.’
Shooting Stars and Flying Fish: Swapping the boardroom for the seven seas Page 15