Life's a beach, and then you die

It turns out that, after all, Turkey is a banana republic. The proof is hidden on the roughest bit of coastal road between Fethiye and Antalya. As if something to be ashamed of, the crops are only witnessed in the secluded valleys on the mountainous route.

The fact that I crossed this feat of nature in a bus has a long history, but the mechanized transport almost made me scream with joy, as the coastal path mirrored the Croatian one: no curb, no fencing to prevent a minimal 10 meter drop, and way too much traffic. But this time with four times the change in elevation and hundred percent more rain. The thunder outside mixed smoothly with the new age birds in my ears, at the courtesy of the bus company’s inride entertainment system.

In matters that concern the nose, Turkey is the country of masquerade. Colognes are offered after a long bus ride, perfume applied before leaving the house and several automatic stench covers are set up in houses, restaurants and bathrooms just under the ceiling. Unlucky as I am with my height sometimes, it appears that every now and again I will receive such a cosmetic payload right in my unwarned eyes.

After crossing the small seaside town for a second time in 24 hours, it became hard to believe that I had been here before. Not a single building, restaurant or feature begged recognition. If I was told that I had spent my holiday years ago at a completely different location I would have believed it.

The Turkish road knows many hazards, but the most serious might be the high way reverser. Often with a phone glued to their ear, drivers who have missed a turn might drive kilometres backwards on the curb of the high way in the backward direction. I am normally not one for prescriptive judgements, but in my view this behaviour should not be considered morally defendable anywhere in the world.

But finally, I had found the sun I was looking for so long. And so I mused, as I saw the big red ball drop for the last time on Turkish territory. With my feet in the sand I realized I knew the saying, but had spelled it wrong the whole time: life’s a beach, and then you die.

You can peel an orange, but you can't peel a blue

The morning on the West coast of Turkey is chilly, but even the November sun has the power to the day up quickly. Doused in Bob Ross's bright autumn palette, the trees and bushes flank the ever green-grey olive trees weighed down by their load of green, red and black specks. The numerous hotels are currently hosting only the owners and their family, some of them carrying out small chores on the terrain. The delivery of the bread truck arriving at the seaside restaurant consist of only two loafs.

What's a male beer called in Israel? A He Brew. The sun is back, the fun is back. Red in the face is the way to go. And I've seen my first dead horse on the side of the road. Another thing that caught my eye are the numerous stray caps, possibly because of this particularly windy patch. But when I have the wind in my back its only a annoying me when I'm standing still.

For a while it looked like it was done with fruit picked on the way, and even the olive trees were not going to be of help, as it turned out that they need to be prepared. I discussed this nuisance with my fellow travellers. One started of hopefully: "My parents make them... but since I avoid spending time with them I don't have an idea." The other one topped this by declaring: "my father told me once... but I didn't listen". My idea to look it up online was frustrated by the lack of internet in the breezy olive orchard where we had set up camp, so we peeled another wild tangerine and looked out over the Aegean Sea.