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Saturday 22 November 2008

Electric Fethiye

Fethiye, Turkey

It’s one of the most striking natural harbours you’ll ever see. A dramatic bay, which courses back in on itself to form an almost complete circle. The walls of the bay are the sun-baked foothills of the Taurus mountain range. And the turquoise waters belong to the Aegean sea. We’re in south-western Turkey. More specifically, we’re in Fethiye.

This market town and port is built on a bedrock of rich history. The ancient Lycians founded their civilisation here, some 2,500 years ago. And the Persians, the Greeks and the Romans have all left their footprints in the dusty earth. Thankfully, fragments from this past remain. The Lycian rock tombs, which gaze dolefully out from the hillsides, are especially haunting. But I’m sure history junkies will also enjoy the crusader castle and Hellenistic theatre which stand defiantly in the centre of town.

Much of Fethiye’s daily routine has also stood the test of time. Each morning, a small flotilla of fishing boats heads out into the bay, to return a few hours later with their nets stuffed and with turtles lolling in their wake. And every Tuesday and Friday, farmers come from miles around to sell their produce in the town’s crowded market-

places. It’s a sight worth seeing, as Turkish lira are exchanged for outsized tomatoes and jars crammed full of leeches.

None of this charm has escaped the outside world, and tourism has squirmed on to the scene in a major way. Downtown Fethiye is a cluster of hotels, restaurants and bars. And their menus invariably feature a ‘Full English’, composed of ‘Tesco bacon’, ‘Asda sausages’ and ‘HP Sauce’. Lovely jubbly, as many of the store owners would put it, while they hawk knock-off football shirts emblazoned with the names of Ronaldo, Rooney and Torres. The sorry erosion of a native culture? Or signs that Turkey is entering a buoyant, Western-looking future? Probably a bit of both. But, either way, I found the whole set-up oddly comforting.

Besides, there’s still plenty of what might be called the ‘real’ Turkey left. There are the markets and fishing boats, of course. And when you stroll away from the town centre, things become appreciably more authentic. Shops soon stop selling their wares under English names and at inflated prices; the hammams become less gaudy; and there’s a goat in every garden. You can always be sure, too, that the image of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk will be radiating from every free inch of wall space. An almost divine presence.

More articles from: Peter Hoskin | this section

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