Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  I sought out one small rug shop whose walls were covered with Kilims. Their rich, jewel-like patterned colours — at once mysterious and accessible — hinted at stories from earlier times that seemed just out of reach of consciousness, as though I once lived them but couldn’t access them. I wanted to bathe in the colours and lose myself in their mystery.

  “You like my carpets?” the shopkeeper asked.

  “Yes, very much.”

  “I’m brewing tea,” he said in his soft accented voice. “Share a cup with me.”

  “No, I couldn’t. I’m only looking. I wish I could, but I can’t afford to buy.”

  “Still, have a cup of tea.”

  “No, really, I can’t buy, much as I’d like to.”

  “Your appreciation is enough.”

  I was sure this was a ploy. I remembered the shopkeeper in France, who ordered me out of her shop when I went in to admire the elegant chocolate sculptures she had on display. If you do not wish to buy, she had said, please leave.

  “Really, you don’t understand,” I said more emphatically. “I won’t be buying.”

  The shopkeeper pulled over a low wooden stool and placed a small glass of tea in my hands. “Drink,” he said.

  The next day I returned to the shop for my afternoon tea. I returned on and off for the next three weeks until we set sail, and each time I came I was welcomed.

  I visited the village often. If not to see the Kilim vendor, to pick up tubs of yogurt sold in unlabeled buckets, with swinging metal handles that made the tubs resemble paint cans. I could live on that yogurt, and did, for the length of our stay. No ice cream was ever as rich and creamy, and the texture so thick, the spoon stood straight up. Sharing that sensual experience with Bernard was one of my fondest memories. No matter how removed he became from everything else around him, his pleasure in good food was a constant. Long after we left Marmaris, I yearned for that yogurt. And as I write, I can feel its cool, unctuous texture on my tongue.

  My life became revolved around the subtly blended flavours of Turkish mezes and broiled kebabs, and the intricate, patterned universe of Turkish carpets. I felt comfortable with the local people and wanted to embrace the country. The yacht had become too small a world for me.

  “Let’s make a trip to Bodrum,” I suggested. Bodrum was another coastal village a short bus ride away, with a rich history going back to early Greece. A trip to visit its historical sites would be a good excuse for journeying out.

  “You go,” Bernard said. He dismissed my request with an impatient nod of his head. “Show some independence.” He didn’t say this with anger, but more as though he didn’t want to be bothered.

  My feelings were hurt. Why couldn’t he understand that part of the enjoyment of travelling was sharing the experience? Part of me still held on to the hope that I could spark a mutual interest that might bring us together again.

  “I’m getting on a bus to Bodrum in the morning,” I said.

  Bernard didn’t comment although I knew he heard. He had stopped interacting with me and was focused on finishing his monkey knot, an elaborately knotted ball of cord that weighted one end of a rope to be thrown to shore for someone to catch. It’s rarely used in sailing today, but its construction is still a good meditation piece and a nice challenge. He was pleased he had mastered the technique.

  The bus heading for Bodrum was packed, every seat taken. We started early, and much to my surprise, passed through miles of dense, pine forest. I had no idea Turkey was so green. I had lumped it together with the dry, desert climate of the Middle East. Everything about the country was a surprise for me. At one point, we passed a bear sitting by the side of the road. Bears in Turkey?

  About a quarter of the way to Bodrum, the bus stopped to pick up a very pregnant woman. The man in front of me hastily got up to give her his seat.

  “Oh, no sir,” she insisted.

  “Yes, madam, for you.”

  “No, no.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  It was all in Turkish and I could only surmise this is what passed between them. I just know that he kept insisting on giving her his seat, and she kept refusing. The bus driver sat there patiently waiting. No one seemed annoyed or in a hurry though perhaps five minutes passed in this back and forth dialogue.

  Without a word, the bus driver got up and left the bus. That’s it. He’s fed up. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here. From my window, I saw the driver open a door in the side of the bus and pull out a small folding chair. He re-entered the bus and placed the chair in the aisle next to the arguing couple. The man promptly sat on the stool. The woman took the man’s seat, and the bus driver continued towards Bodrum with no further words exchanged.

  Every gesture was kind. Every person on the bus participated in their own way. I don’t know when I’ve ever seen a more gracious people. Someday, I told myself, I’ll return and explore more of this country.

  Bodrum was a pleasant, European-looking resort town with gleaming white buildings, posh shops, and high-end yachts moored in the marina. Standing across the harbour in bold contrast to this pretty, up-market town was Bodrum castle, built by the crusaders in the 1400s. The massive fortress-like structure seemed like an aggressive intruder on this airy, whitewashed vacation playground.

  Looking over at the castle and then at the streets of Bodrum lined with picture-book palm trees, I recognized that I had left behind my gritty, sea faring existence and was about to enter an easier, more upscale lifestyle within the boating community. The medieval castle represented an earlier part of our adventure where we sailed into countries that were steeped in history but not travelled as much by Western yachties. Most of the yachts we had encountered so far were manned by adventurous Australians or New Zealanders, and a handful of Europeans to whom sailing rather than lifestyle was the main objective.

  The town of Bodrum represented a dividing line, its history no more than a quaint backdrop for tourism. The high-end luxury yachts and huge motorboats in the harbour supported my perception. I felt a sense of loss and relief. I knew the world I had passed through would not be there much longer, and that if I were to go back one day, it wouldn’t exist. At the same time I felt a lightness knowing that life would now be more predictable — and more comfortable, that wherever we went from here on, there would be a marina with showers.

  The castle didn’t hold much interest for me as I had seen enough in the way of stone fortress- like walls in the churches of Cyprus. But another ancient site in Bodrum did — the tomb of King Mausolus. I had learned about the Mausoleum in school. It was one of the Seven Wonders of the World built in the fourth century BCE by Queen Artemisia whom I learned while in Bodrum was Mausolus’ sister as well as his wife — a relationship I found a bit shocking. The ancients, it seems, knew how to take nepotism to its extreme.

  The Mausoleum had been a marble tomb almost forty feet high surrounded by imposing columns, and housed detailed, life-like sculptures done by famous sculptors of that period. What was left by the time of my visit was a field of rubble surrounded by a scattering of low, unimposing walls. An earthquake had toppled the Mausoleum in the twelfth century, and the crusaders had taken much of the marble for their castle two hundred years later, the embedded blocks still clearly visible in the castle walls.

  Bodrum had been called Halikarnasseus in ancient times. It was a Greek city state. What was it doing in Turkey? King Mausolus was Greek. I was sure I had learned that in school. What was he doing in Turkey? On the bus ride back to Marmaris, I thought about Greek history and how much of it I found centred in what was now Turkey.

  I learned that not only was Mausolus born in Bodrum (Halikarnasseus), but so was Herodotus, considered today the father of history. Other illustrious names born on now Turkish soil were Homer, Pythagoras, King Croesus, Midas, and even Rhea, the mother of the gods. Turkey was littered with ancient Greek sites and history. I discovered Troy is in Turkey, as is the temple of Artemis at Ephesus in Lydia, Lydia being where coins we
re first minted under government control.

  The minting of coins was a boon to trade taking place from East to West along the Anatolian coast of Asia Minor. Phoenicians, Egyptians, and Persians travelled this route, and it’s likely that this confluence of cultures fed Greece’s Golden Age; the country barely separated from Turkey by a narrow slice of the Aegean Sea. I felt that I’d touched the tip of a historical treasure, and it reinforced my desire to return to Turkey one day to explore more of its buried past.

  Three weeks later, Bernard charted our new route, and I bought as many buckets of yogurt as I could store without them spoiling, to the exclusion of a number of other provisions. Our plan was to head towards Rhodes by way of Kas and Castellorizon, two neighbouring islands, one Turkish, one Greek.

  Kas came into view within hours of our leaving Marmaris, its craggy terrain rising from the sea like the hump of a petrified whale. A jumble of red tiled houses inched up its side layer by layer and flowed back down to the waterfront. It was charming, comfortable and laid-back. Bernard seemed relaxed here. He was even willing to explore some of the town with me. I didn’t know what had shifted his behaviour. Maybe it was because we sailed without mishap in a pleasant five-knot wind, maybe because he could explore without the Santa Rita being out of view for any length of time. I had no idea what changed him, but I appreciated the company that I had missed so often on our adventure.

  We wandered the narrow streets, took in the sweet scent of jasmine that flowed out of pots, and marvelled at the light filtering through the mauve bougainvillea that hung off terraces and climbed walls. We sipped coffee at one of the small cafés that lined the waterfront and whiled away the time watching other people doing the same.

  Our rhythm was shifting from hyper vigilance to sybaritic selfindulgence. It seemed fitting. Sybaris was an ancient Greek colony, and we were heading towards that part of the Mediterranean. The luminous light, the clear azure water, the welcoming climate lent itself to a more hedonistic lifestyle. Scent and colour are missing at sea and it heightened our pleasure ashore.

  The next morning we lifted anchor for the Greek island of Castellorizon, so close to Kas a strong swimmer could easily have swum the distance. While musing on the physical closeness of the two countries, I was shaken from my reverie by an astonishing sight. Spread out below me, buried in the sea bed, was an ancient city. We glided over its ruins in water so clear that it looked like a scene in one of those heavy glass paperweights that snow when turned over. It was so unexpected and otherworldly that I couldn’t believe it was real.

  “Bernard,” I shouted. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Bernard looked over the stanchion lines to where I was pointing. “It’s a Roman town,” he said. “Do you see those huge amphorae? They’re ancient wine vessels.”

  “My God, yes, I do.”

  I had become jaded, having seen so many ancient sites and was reluctant to see another, but this was something special. It was not part of a tourist-planned excursion. There were no roads leading to it, and it could only be seen from this particular location on the water. The surprise of the find and the uniqueness of the view brought home once again how fortunate I was to be at this moment in this place. It pleased me that the discovery of the city brought Bernard further out of his shell.

  I cast my eyes towards Castellorizon with anticipation of what might await us there.

  Castellorizon was the most remote of the Greek Islands with a population of around five hundred people. From the moment we tied the Santa Rita to the pier, I was seduced by the unhurried, immutable atmosphere that permeated the waterfront. There was no feeling of the layers of history so evident in Turkey, though I learned that the island had changed hands many times and was devastated during the Second World War. Perhaps because of the small population, the island had managed to keep a timeless feel as though nothing had changed for eons.

  Most of the people lived in colourful houses on or just behind the waterfront that was lined with low-key shops and restaurants. I wanted to remember the seductive lure of this out-of-the-way place, and bought a small embroidered cushion cover made on the island. It came with a broken zipper and still has a broken zipper. But the small, multi-coloured geometric pattern, stitched onto the course fabric in measured but graceful lines, makes up for the defect. It makes me think of Castellorizon with its soft charm, coloured houses and wounded past.

  Before we sailed out, we had an excellent fish dinner with some good local wine. I started to believe that old adage about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach. It was over a good meal that Bernard and I connected once again.

  Rhodes was our next port of call. I knew little about it except that it had housed the Colossus, another of the Seven Wonders of the World. I hoped to see some remnants of the statue, but whatever remained of it after an earthquake around two hundred BCE had been carted off long before we arrived.

  We entered Mandraki Harbour, where the Colossus, almost a hundred feet high, was said to have stood guard, a foot anchored on a pedestal on each side of the harbour. Its straddling the harbour turned out to be a myth, though the Colossus was not, and people came from all over in ancient times to see it, even after the destruction. It must have been an impressive sight, since early records say that the thumb itself was so big that few people could wrap their arms around it.

  Instead of the Colossus, a couple of deer, a stag and a hind, stood on pedestals on each side of the harbour. They were a disappointment after my envisaging the great feet of the Colossus anchored where the deer now stood.

  But Rhodes got better once we left the harbour. Entering the old city was like stepping out of a time machine into the Middle Ages. Everything was made of stone — the streets, the houses, the alleyways, the square with its Grand Masters’ Palace and the Church of St. John — all built by the Crusaders. Time warp is what I think of when I think of Rhodes. I remember thinking how young North America was, and how flimsy our structures were. Rhodes felt anchored and forever. It was humbling to know it was already thriving before the birth of our Western religions.

  I wanted to visit Lindos, with its temple of Athena on the acropolis, but as always, Bernard was reluctant to go too far from the yacht, and as always I felt sad to see it alone. Like a turtle, his head had come out for a brief moment and then retreated back into that dark shell, of which the Santa Rita had become an extension.

  As we travelled farther west, we no longer saw yachts from Australia and more appeared from Europe and North America. Anchored near us in the Mandraki Harbour was an American couple who had sailed from the States. “Your main sail looks pretty worn,” the young man said.

  “The Red Sea,” Bernard replied. “It took a beating. Those tears, I’ve got to get them repaired. No way it’ll take a heavy squall.”

  “We’ve had a few tears, but we’ve got a sewing machine aboard. My wife made our sails.”

  She made their sails? For a moment I felt inadequate, but I rose to the occasion and let my pride go.

  “Can she repair ours?” I asked. “We’re short of funds, but I read palms and can give you both a reading.”

  Until the Harbour Master in Colombo’s harbour in Sri Lanka had asked me to read his palm and then praised me for my skill, I hadn’t thought of using it to barter on the yacht. But his words boosted my confidence and, when we sailed back to Galle, I exchanged a palm reading for a flute lesson for Bernard. Much later while moored in Larnaca, I gave a reading on my birthday for a dinner for both of us at a high-end restaurant.

  With the agreed-upon exchange made and the repair done, the Santa Rita could once again handle rough weather. We left over-priced Rhodes for what we hoped would be the less expensive Cyclades, the group of Greek islands sprawled across edge of the Aegean Sea.

  But our departure was short-lived. Soon after we left port, we heard a noise coming from under the hull.

  “Something isn’t right,” Bernard said. He stripped off his shorts and dove into the sea.


  “It’s the propeller,” he said surfacing. “The security pin’s fallen off and the nut’s come loose. I’ve tightened it but it won’t hold for long. It’s brass and corroded. We’ve got to head back. I need to find a stainless steel nut in one of the harbour shops.”

  Within a day the yacht was repaired, and we again set sail for the Cyclades. But I was more aware than ever that to depend on a tiny object floating in water to secure my life was a naive fantasy. If Murphy’s Law that states that “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong” exists anywhere, it’s at sea. I first heard about Murphy’s Law when we moored in Hong Kong, and then many times over wherever yachties gathered.

  Sailing came with a price, but it didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. I looked forward to the Cyclades. I’d been interested in visiting this group of islands since I was a child, and read their names in stories that brought to life magical creatures and naughty gods; and later as an adult, in stories that conjured up sensual pleasures and poetic angst.

  Chapter 27

  WESTWARD HO!

  Autumn 1984: Greece

  There can be no boredom with anything that varies in such a way as always to tip one’s thoughts just over the horizon; and the absence of boredom must be one of the main attributes of happiness.

  — FRIEDA STARK

  Before visiting the Cyclades I had imagined this circular array of Greek islands to be alike, but each one we visited was different. They all had charming whitewashed houses with blue window trim, narrow winding streets and cascading bougainvillea. All were drenched in Mediterranean light, but each had enough difference to give a feeling of discovery and offered a hint of surprise and something to anticipate as we sailed from one island to another.

  Santorini, our first destination, was made up of a large island called Thera surrounded by several smaller ones. Thera was the rim of a gigantic water-filled caldera, the aftermath of a huge explosion that took place thirty-six hundred years ago. Some archaeologists believe that the blast was so powerful the backlash from its tsunami wiped out the whole Minoan civilization on the island of Crete.