It's market day in town today, and the central streets are closed from day break onwards, as people congregate to prepare the stalls for a prospective day's trade. Walking past all the clothes, produce and household goods stands towards the station, I kind of wish I was staying another night, but another day, another destination. The whole square bristles to the sounds of shouting, tractor engines, and laden boxes hitting the ground. I'll miss Selcuk.
The bus pulls out on time and I contemplate the generous, welcoming nature of a lot of these pension hotels. Essentially, they are often people's homes, guests and owners living in the same building, sharing breakfast and sitting room,and everyone gets on just fine. I suppose it's part of an overall observation I've made of this intriguing country- people don't necessarily need to make a distinction between work and private life. Pensions are often homes, Restaurateurs eat with their families at a spare table, and shop keepers sit at their counter, and play cards and drink coffee with a friend. Nobody appears to get stressed. I'm not saying it's an ideal situation, but people are content enough. I think that when you are more satisfied in what you do for a living, there is far less of a desire to flee from it at any given moment.
It's time for me to finally leave the coastal regions today and head east, inland. We randomly pick up passengers at gas stations and roundabouts. We collect a mother and her two young sons, who clearly don't want to leave their granny behind, but the tears soon dry. Eventually I become involved in what is known as a "service transfer", whereby the big bus leaves you at roadside, watching the traffic roar past you, as you wait for a (usually ) smaller bus to collect you and take you to a (usually) less popular destination. It runs like clockwork and, within minutes, I'm speeding onwards once more. Four hours later, I find myself in Pamukkale on a gorgeous sunny afternoon. I pleasantly ignore all the speculative shouts of all the restaurant and shop owners offering me a room at their "cousin's place".
Attempting to find the Information centre, I approach a soldier manning the town's security office. The said soldier informs me that I can't because there isn't one. Hakir is a very friendly individual. Usually, he's an english teacher, but for the next five months he will undertake his mandatory national service. We chat for a long time in the pleasant afternoon glow. It's all a bit surreal as his guard duty ends and he hands over his radio and automatic machine gun to his colleague. Hakir provides a tremendous insights into life here and the everyday thoughts of a Turkish man. I also receive the lowdown on the the area's attractions, before I reluctantly say "gule gule" to him - I still haven't seen anything yet.
I certainly don't have to walk too far to the main attraction, which is located right next to the town itself. This town is famous for it's calcium terrace formations, that cover several of the hillocks, giving the place a wonderful winter like shine. Looking at them, you feel that you could be back in the wintry chill of the north. There's a lovely little lake at the bottom of the formations, where adults walk their children and throw bits of bread at the lethargic ducks and geese. Every so often, guards in uniform break the serenity with a blow of the whistle, beckoning down visitors who may damage the site by venturing too high up onto the terrace. There is a real effervescent smell, with cool, clear streams running down the mineral faced earth into the flat calm pond itself. I can't help but have a little paddle, and, as nobody blows the whistle, I figure all is ok. The Romans loved paddling here so much that they built a grand city called Hireapolis just along, what is now, the modern day highway. I'll visit it tomorrow.
Today has been a very tranquil day, far away from from facts and figures and all things crafted from stone. I enjoy a cup of tea back at the hostel, in front of a very welcoming stove heater. Turkey's equivalent to "The X factor" is on (minus the humiliation), and I probably look slightly bemused, being drawn to one of the hopefuls singing a song about Facebook, whilst I attempt to read my book.
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