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The shuttle drive
It was the end of the season and Ally and I were heading home. On the
way we had to call in and sell some kayaks to the local paddlers working
as guides on the Dalaman river down by Marmaris. Marmaris is horrible
and I felt that I had driven out of Turkey and into another country but
somehow I had managed to miss the border crossing. Coming from where a
T-shirt and shorts is regarded as near to nudity this strange new
country where pink people wandered around the main streets of the town
in speedo swimming trunks or string bikinis and the restaurants offered
all-day full English breakfast. The beaches were rows and rows of deck
chairs set out in regular lines. Ugh. It is unbelievable that this was
the same country as Eastern Turkey where I have been running my holidays
for the last 20 years. Our attitude was find Sinan, the buyer, sell the
boats and get out of this hell. We called at Alternatif’s offices
where we met with Sinan’s wife; Sinan was working on the Dalaman river
so we headed there and waited for him to finish his guiding.
Whilst we were waiting another Turk, Sencer, asked us if we were
interested in paddling the higher stretch of the river, the so called R2
stretch, the following day. The arrangements were simple - he had
contracted a local driver, Mehmet, to take us the put-in that evening he
had bought and slaughtered a goat. We would camp at the put-in, and
Mehmet would take the camping gear back down to the finish in the
morning. Fine, Ally and I agreed to join him, Sinan and another local
paddler. According to Mehmet it was about an hour and a half to the
put-in up a very rough road so we should leave at around 6.00 p.m. to
have time to BBQ the goat in daylight. We arrived at Mehmet's house at
6.00 p.m. as arranged. At 7.00 p.m. Sencer discovered that I had spare
mini-cell foam and decided to fit new hip pads. At 8.00 p.m. it was
decided to BBQ the goat at Mehmet's before we set off as it was getting
late. At 9.00 p.m. the other two paddlers turned up and they needed a
boat - Sinan wanted to try the boat he had bought - and so we had to
unload the boats from my Transit and sort out more foam and fittings. By
now it is around 10.00 p.m. and time to leave and now Mehmet starts
phoning around his neighbours to see if they have any spare diesel. None
can be traced so we have to siphon it out of my Transit. This is not
easy, the difference in height between the two tanks is insufficient to
make the siphon work. Mehmet fetches his compressor and pressurises my
fuel tank. Mehmet pumps 20 litres, carefully measured, of diesel across
to his van and I am promised that it will be replaced. It is now 11.00
p.m. We load the boats into minibus with enough space the five of us
plus Mehmet and his wife. We set off finally but there is yet another
delay; we have to stop on the way out of the village. We have to buy
beer, cigarettes and collect the fifth boat. 11.30 p.m. and we are on
the road at last. We drive down to the river, cross the bridge, and set
off up the dirt track to the put-in. 5 minutes later Mehmet stops, lets
out a cry of “Allah! Allah! Bes dakika” (Allah! Allah! Five
minutes). Now, Mehmet never gave me the impression of being a devout
Muslim and also the sun had set well over two hours earlier (the time
for evening prayers) so I am confused as to what the stop is for this
time. It transpires the problem is secular mechanics and not religious
devotions. The temperature has gone off the top of the gauge. This is
not as simple as it seems. When Mehmet turns the headlights off, the
temperature returns to normal. There is obviously an electrical problem
but this does not mean that the engine is not overheating. Mehmet keeps
this beat-up bus going by a mixture of mechanical know-how, tender love
and care and also physical violence, he knows its foibles well and is
worried about the engine overheating on the brutal drive to the put in.
The oil is checked and topped up - well more like refilled judging by
the quantity poured in, the radiator is filled with water and we are
off; beers are handed around, the Turks start singing, making up new
lyrics to popular songs - describing tonight’s drive, the river
tomorrow, Mehmet sexual exploits, - the boats bouncing around in the
back keep landing on the heads of those sitting in the back seats when
Mehmet brakes. The road climbs up through pine woods, steep and rutted
with drop-offs of unknown heights into the dark on the bends. Suddenly
Mehmet slams on the brakes, we grab flying kayaks and wonder what
disaster has happened. I climb out from under the kayaks just in time to
see Mehmet leaping out of the driver’s door. Visions flash by; the
engine has overheated and is on fire, there is a rock fall happening,
the locals are blocking the road and Deliverance is going to be
re-enacted. None of these disaster scenarios is happening. Mehmet has
spotted a rabbit in the headlights and has grabbed his shotgun and is
off hunting. Unfortunately in his haste he has not pulled on the hand
brake, so while he is taking aim, his wife is climbing over the engine
and trying to reach the hand brake to prevent the minibus running into
her husband or worse off the edge of the road. 1.30 a.m. we arrive at
the put-in and Mehmet sets off to wake friends or relatives and order
breakfast for 6.30 a.m. as he has to be back at the bottom of the river
for 8.30 a.m. to be ready to drive the tourists to the put-in for the
lower stretch (R3 run) and we also have to be at the put-in for the R3
run by 12.30 p.m. because Sinan has to work as a raft guide for this
group. I lie down and watch a shooting star scream across 30 degrees of
sky - it is the beginning of August and the start of the shooting star
season but I am asleep before the next shooting star shows.
6.30 a.m. Alarms go off on wrists and we sit up in our bags to see the
minibus has a flat - the one thing that did not happen on the night
drive. Mehmet finds a compressor and sets off to work we have breakfast
in someone’s house: fresh gosteme (chapatti like flat bread), boiled
eggs and loads of tea. Real Turkey does still exist in South-west Turkey
- you just have to get away from the tourists’ destruction of culture.
The Dalaman was a fine run, the water levels were too low to do its
reputation justice but we found one good play hole and also spent some
time discussing lines through the one portage (This spring there was a
huge rock fall.)
The dam at the bottom of the river is busy being built and the Mehmet
expects to be offering boats trips from his lake-shore property in about
five years. He will also collect kayakers from the lake head who have
paddled the upper run of the Dalaman and do not want to paddle the 12
kms. across the lake to the road! If you do end up there and meet up
with Mehmet tell him he still owes me 20 litres of diesel.
--
Dave Manby
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