After much more travelling around the Travelling Teacher finally had time to update us on his travels around the other side of the world.
As always he is accompanied by LOMLF (Love Of My Life Fiona!).

Our next trip was to Essaouira. This is a small village on the seaside about 2.5 hours drive from Marrakech. It’s quite a popular tourist attraction because of the fact that Marrakech is so dry and hot and this is cooler due to the wind off the sea. It’s also a very good place for getting a seafood meal at a very exorbitant price. (However, more of that later).

Essaouria’s main claim to fame is the shellfish that grow in the surrounding waters. These were collected by the Romans who processed them and made a purple dye which was used to dye the togas and garments of the Caesars and royalty. This made this village one of the wealthiest in the entire the Roman Empire.

Anyway enough of the history lesson. Let’s get back to the journey.

As discussed in the last story the name of the game was to pick up a group of suckers, sorry tourists, in the school vans and using the labour of the schoolkids in my class give the tourists the experience of their lives and coincidentally make some money on the side. One of the things that I taught the children in my weekly talk on tourism is that you have to clip the ticket as many times as is possible. This trip then became a practical lesson with that aim in mind.

The vans we had were fairly small and held 12 people plus the driver. I took with me 2 of the older children and LOMLF had the same in her van. We had made sure that the windows wouldn’t open and so 45 minutes into the trip everyone was ready to pass out with the heat. The buses had no air conditioning. I had advised the kids to stock up on bottles of cold water (kept in a chilly bin) and these were produced at this stage. They had cost us the equivalent of a dollar each and we then sold them to the perspiring punters for $5. We were quite sure that they would have paid more but we didn’t want to gouge them too much.

After an hour we passed through an area which produced a very high quality oil which has a very high vitamin E content. It’s a real tourist attraction because of the way that the seeds are collected.

In this area there are a large number of goats. Traditionally the goats would climb into the trees and eat the fruit. The seeds would then pass through the goats system and be collected by the locals. They are then ground up and the oil extracted. Without the pungent odour of goat dung you would hope.

The shop we stopped at is a co-op started by one of the local women and only for the local women. They all work together and take a share of the proceeds. Not only does it help with the finances in the home but it also gives them some self esteem of which apparently they were all sadly lacking.

Well we ushered our enthusiastic band into the place and they watched the demonstration of how the oil was removed from the seeds and then they were encouraged to buy this lovely oil. It’s great for lines under your eyes or for those ugly blemishes or any problem known to man apparently. Anyway we had an arrangement with the shop that we would get a 10% commission on everything sold so we encouraged our passengers to spend up large.

We left with bag full’s of stuff and eventually arrived at the town of Essaouira.

It looked beautiful with old fashioned buildings and battlements around the entrance to the Harbour.

As we explained to the tourists it was eventually colonised by the Portuguese who to protect their interests built a small fort and Medina there. (This was added to the UNESCO world heritage list in 2001).

However we didn’t immediately head into the town. We had another ticket to clip first.

We stopped at a very unassuming factory and were ushered inside by one of the owners. Here they make the parquetry that the area is famous for.

There was every type of furniture under the sun all beautifully inlaid with many different colours of wood. As they were happy to ship the furniture to the home towns of the tourists quite a lot of money went over the counter of which 10% went into our back pocket.

As we approached the harbour we could see that it was full of brightly painted blue boats. They were all lined up waiting to sell their fish to the locals who had formed a line of about 100 metres.

After stopping in the walled Medina we ushered our clients to the biggest and most expensive open air fish restaurant.

One of the attractions of this town is the wonderful array of freshly caught fish that is available. The restaurants have it all on display in colourful displays. All you have to do is choose your poisson and they will then gut and cook it for you and present it, at a price.

We had found it to be about the same as going to a good fish restaurant in Auckland. Anyway we again encouraged our charges to eat up and listened eagerly as the tills rang because 10% was coming our way.

We tried to discourage the tourists from going down to the beach as just over the wall that separated the medina and the beach there was a pile of rubbish all the way along it. It smelt bad and looked worse.

Originally printed in Good Teacher Magazine: Term 1, 2010, pages 34 – 37

One of those oopsie moments when you think everything is looking great and you turn a corner or as in this case look over a wall and all the beauty surrounding you is tarnished by this one area.

It is a real shame.

It was now time to let our charges loose on the rest of the town. The town is very pretty with very narrow streets and all of the walls whitewashed.

The windows have shutters over them all painted this beautiful shade of blue (the same as the boats). A lot of the houses have very old carved wooden doors which adds interest to those with an itchy camera finger.

2 hours later we were on our way home. As we had run out of bottles of water we had miraculously found a way to open the windows and the trip home was a lot cooler. We dropped our charges off at their respective hotels and wound our weary way home.

Arriving at school the following day we were again summoned to the heads office. He obviously had been briefed by the resident student spy and knew within 20 Euros of our earnings of the previous day. He presented us with an invoice for the hire of the vans (bloody exorbitant) and for his cut of 15% of the balance.

As we had made a very healthy profit we weren’t too concerned and paid up gladly. Unfortunately the other bit of news was not so good. He explained that the teacher that we had replaced was coming back early and from next week we no longer had a job. However he did mention that he knew of 2 jobs that may suit in Prague or Barcelona.

He was very sad to see us go as we had provided him with quite a nice little income stream. However we were ready to move on. Morocco is fine as long as you don’t spend too much time there.

The poverty, dangerous traffic, creepy men with their long hooded coats, the beggars and the decay gets to you after a while. Its not a place I would like to be in if I was a young woman alone.

Until next time this is the travelling teacher signing off.

Just to bring you up to speed. Lomlf and I are spending a short time in Marrakech looking after a couple of classes.
We have had one trip through the souk or market. Pretty scary and the weather was disgusting.

So the the following day we talked about the tour experiences we’d had the previous day. We talked about the effect tourism has on the economy in this area. Also how the downturn in the world economy is going to create long term hardship. Most people are on the poverty line. Remove even part of their income and they drop into the starvation area.

I pointed out that Morocco is the biggest recipient of aid from the EU for developing countries, getting some 650 million per year. They have also been ‘loaned’ billions of dollars of weaponry from the USA. The money from the EU is going to build new hotels and roads to attract more tourists.

However with the uncertainty in the world economy and the violence in the middle east,  tourism is dropping off. This creates the perfect breeding ground for the Al Quaeda Sympathies. (Ed Note: a New Zealand Herald story confirms this point).

We decided we would ‘borrow’ a couple of the school vans and do a real tourist trip. With real tourists.

As part of the research I popped down to the reception in our hotel and got a photocopy of all the trips that the hotel did. The team and I then worked out what the cost would be for us to do similar trips. We felt we could do it better and cheaper.

We spent a full day designing a pamphlet. We were going to utilise the computer and printer at the school. We felt the pamphlets in colour would be more effective than  the black and white pamphlets that most hotels had. Luckily one of the parents had a business where they could make magnetic signs for the vans. He was happy to do it for free as it was a school project.

So with the pamphlets given out, local children as guides, Lomlf and me as drivers and free vans… we were in business.

Our first arranged trip was to the Ourika Valley. This is a valley in the Atlas mountains. It was only about 45 minutes from Marrakech so we picked up our first 4 guests.

All around us were people who looked like they were starving, thin and angry. As we drove over a one and a half lane concrete bridge with no sides we passed buses and trucks going the other way. Scary stuff.

There were trucks piled high with thick duvets (looking as though they had just arrived from Russia). There was an area out in the open where they slaughtered goats, sheep, ducks, chickens etc. No OSH requirements or health restrictions.

As we crossed the bridge the men walking beside us couldn’t stop staring at our guests. It was almost like cobras staring in at a bevy of mice waiting to be eaten. Really scary. There were very few women around which made Lomlf very nervous. We were going to stop and have a look around but with the experience of the men looking in we thought better of it.

After driving to the end of the village I backed up and turned around. The people weren’t aggressive or outwardly angry but you could feel this simmering feeling that they were pissed off and they were just looking for a target to latch onto. As we left the village there was an audible sigh of relief from all on board.

Our next stop was one of the many swing bridges over the river. Our guests go out of the van and we encouraged them to take their life into their hands and walk across the bridge. All the rungs were made of pieces of wood picked up from the river. It was a bit like lotto, you didn’t know if the piece you were standing on was rotten or sound.

Once we had them on the bridge I got the  boys to start swinging it. This caused much consternation with our guests to the extent that they began screaming and sobbing with what I felt was pure unadulterated pleasure. It turned out to be pure unadulterated fear. I had the guests screaming and sobbing on one side and Lomlf screaming at me to stop in the other ear.  As the  guests were begging me for mercy I got the boys to stop swinging the bridge. It had been my intention for the guests to pay for that pleasure but in the end thought better of it.
Having got back into the van we proceeded to the restaurant for lunch. Having had a look through the guide books we had chosen a restaurant on the edge of the river. When I say on the edge of the river I actually mean in the river. There were tables set on small islands across the river. The tables had plastic chairs arranged around them and you felt as tho the chairs should have a warning on them “In the event of a flash flood please use this chair as a flotation device. The cost of this chair is included in the price of your meal. No refund is given for the return of this chair.”

We had organised a set menu with tagines (lamb, beef or vegetarian) with fresh fruit as desert. Very appetising and healthy and cheap.
We quickly finished the meal and then proceeded to the upper part of the village where the guide was waiting to lead us on the “walk” through the valley. We had been informed that this guide was the best available and he again was very cheap.

With all the guests fed and watered we set off. The first part of the walk was comparatively easy going up a number of flights of stairs but as in everything in Marrakech nothing is as it first appears. The steps became steeper and steeper.

Every 20 meters or so there was a little stall either selling trinkets or soft drinks or both. It was almost like going back to the days of the hippies when there would be crowds of kaftan wearing, long haired, unshaven louts hanging around smoking copious quantities of hashish.  They’re gone but the stalls were never removed and stand there as ghosts of times long past.
The thing that has drawn the people of the world to this area over the centuries is not just the beautiful scenery but the minerals in the rock. Even Winston Churchill spent time in the Atlas mountains to paint the beautiful scenery. As we walked up thru the rocks everywhere there were veins of different coloured minerals showing up. There was quartz, red minerals, turquoise, green mineral a bit like greenstone or jade, plus others of all different hues. These are still being mined by the locals and used for their local jewellery.

The hike was slowly becoming more and more challenging to the extent that the guests were starting to complain about their sore legs and being out of breath. Although Lomlf and I were also feeling the same we couldn’t let on. The kids from the school were bounding around like mountain goats so we certainly weren’t worried about them.

We eventually arrived at a rock face that looked a little like Hillary’s steps  in the Himalaya’s. The face was about 15 feet high, smooth rock , slightly wet and slippery, with only a couple of hand or foot holds. We stood beneath it looking up wondering what the hell were we going to do here. No problem said our guide. I’ll climb up and then I’ll pull you all up one by one. Who wants to be first?  “Lomlf”,  I volunteered eagerly pushing her forward.

The guide zoomed up the rock as if his feet and hands had suction cups on them. Then Lomlf gingerly approached the rock face and attempted to start the climb. Her feet slipped on the footholds but as she reached up the guide reached down grabbed her hand and literally hauled her up. Bloody hell I thought. He’s got to do that for the rest of us as well. Well the guide was as strong as an ox although only one tenth as big. One by one he hauled us up the rock face with what looked like no effort at all. Well after that it was all downhill literally. It only took us 30 minutes to get back to the van and after we all piled in it was back to Marrakech.

We dropped the guests back to their hotels and as they do in Morroco I stood outside the door of the bus with my hand out. Every second guest gave me a nice little tip. I even had a couple of men comment on how exciting the trip had been. All in all a very successful day out. Our next trip is to be to the coast. An old Portuguese fishing village.
But thats for next time.

Travelling Teacher

The Travelling Teacher provided the images to accompany this story.
As usual, the Editor takes no responsibility for the Travelling Teacher’s meandering mind!

After setting of from, Cappadocia as per my last musings, LOMLF and I arrived in Istanbul 18 hours later.

The bus trip was uneventful apart from the dog that was run over by the bus and the driver’s complete disregard for the rules of the road.

In Turkey they are meant to drive on the right side of the road but it seemed that our driver and all the others that we passed, and who passed us, had forgotten this.

The rule apparent was that you drive in the middle of the road and only pull over to the right when someone is coming the other way, or if a faster vehicle comes behind you and gives a polite tap of the horn, normally of 30 seconds duration. If you are coming to the brow of a hill then “ensha Allah” applies (“if God wills”). So it was only by the “Will of God” that Lomlf and I arrived at all. At the third or fourth near miss you tend to relax in a dazed adrenalin depleted stupor and allow life to wash over you.

So it was in a spirit of absolute mental exhaustion that on arriving in Istanbul. I heard that my father was very ill and that we were required to go home to New Zealand. Catching a flight home was the easy part as the family, knowing of our perilous financial plight had placed enough money in my account to pay for the tickets. Wanting to stay true to New Zealand, Lomlf and I winged our way to London and travelled cattle-class with Air New Zealand all the way home.

To cut a long story short we had to cancel our posting to Florence (much to the delight of the school I’m sure) and spend some time in New Zealand dealing with the family and other matters. Lomlf hadn’t met my family at this stage and I was really pleased that Dad was still alive to meet her. He was an interesting man with some very different ways of assessing a woman’s character.

When she walked into his room (he was at home – the cancer being very advanced) and I introduced the love of my life his first words were “she’s pretty tall for a woman isn’t she”, this was followed by the question he always asked, “Have you got your own teeth?’. He used to own racehorses and knew that good teeth meant good health.

He certainly was a character. After exchanging a few more pleasantries I asked him what his plans were for the rest of the day. Looking at his nurse he replied. “We’re going prick hunting”.

Apparently he an his nurse had taken his wife to the dentist the previous day. They had parked the car outside the dentist and two men in suits told him he had to park 100 metres down the road. He was going back today to ‘hunt the pricks down’. Who knows what his intentions were if he found them, but at least it keeps him happy.

Unfortunately a week later he died, much to everyone’s relief. It had been a long battle and I was lucky enough to be with him when he passed away.

Lomlf and I had left our details with a agency in London on the way home and we were very surprised to be offered a 2 week posting in Marrakech over the Christmas period. They were trying to replace two teachers who were going on holiday, and they couldn’t find anyone else.

One way tickets were supplied as was accommodation in the hotel opposite (the Myrium Hotel), breakfast included. The school was a private school and my class was of children between 14 and 16. Both Lomlf and I jumped at the chance to visit such an exciting place. We had heard on the grapvine that it was pretty wild but nothing we couldn’t cope with we were sure.

Our flight took us through London and then by Easyjet to Marrakech.

All the stories and TV programmes about Easyjet gave the impression that it was a disorganised airline staffed by rude incompetent people. Not so! We found that it was well organised and although you had to buy everything, the service was excellent. On a three hour flight they came through the aircraft three times with food and beverage trolleys.

We arrived in Marrakech in late afternoon as the sun was descending.

After going though immigration (one hour) we eventually staggered through customs (non-existent) tried to find a bank to get local currency (not open) tried a number of cash machines (none worked) and were eventually directed to the one cash machine in the airport that did work from where, armed with the required local currency we braved the taxi queue.

Lomlf and I had absorbed every word from Lonely Planet about Marrakech. We were indeed experts in the field. We knew the taxi fare to our hotel was 60 Durham. Yeah right!.

When our turn came in said taxis we were told the cost was 100 Durham. (5Durham = $1 NZ) I tried to argue that Lonely Planet said 60 Durham. All the drivers laughed at my ignorance and said yes that was for daytime. It’s now nightime and the cost goes up.

After a bit of toing and froing we agreed on 90 Durham. A massive saving of $2 NZ. We hopped in the old diesel Mercedes painted light brown (probably to blend in with the colour of the desert), and were driven to our hotel. Obviously the people who named it were unsure as to the spelling. This ranged from Myriam, Maryan or Merriam Hotel. However it was 4 stars and far as Lomlf and I were concerned was no less than we deserved.

We checked into our room after assuring staff that we were married and after passing the sign saying no food or alcohol was allowed into the rooms we proceeded to our room.

Time was ticking as they say and so we came downstairs for dinner. We were on a pretty tight budget and so the cost of $34NZ for a mediocre buffet was a bit steep. However it was all that was available so we persevered and had a moderately good meal.

The next morning, bright and early, we ventured across the road to meet our students. As Morocco is Muslim, Christmas means nothing to them. As our New Year hasn’t the significance it has in the West as they work with a different calendar. They have a holiday on New Years Day but apart from that the school year goes straight through.

It took me about fifteen minutes to reorganise the class into the traditional method I have always used. Me as the nucleus and the students as electrons floating around the outside.

The first morning was spent getting to know the kids and I discovered to my delight that we had an equal number of new kids (just arrived at this school) to ones who had been there for a while. As Lomlf and I were only there for two weeks and school was open six days a week, it meant I could use this as an excuse to go on numerous school trips. As I am sure you all know relieving is fairly difficult, especially when you try to carry on with the curriculum as approached by the previous teacher. If you don’t know the curriculum it is impossible to teach, Lomlf and I therefore decided we could go on trips. A trip one day, revise what we had seen the the morning of the next day and then plan for the next trip in the afternoon.

Our first trip was to the Souq. This is a large market area about as large as a rugby field, divided into hundreds of small alleys. Once you’re in there it’s almost impossible to find your way without help. No problems we thought. We’re descendents of Kupe and Maui by osmosis at least, two great navigators, and Captain Cook.

As dawn broke, we realised that the skies has opened and it was pissing down. Luckily most of the market is under cover so we rounded the kids up, loaded them into the school vans and we were off. You enter the Souq from the Medina (square) so we got the vans to park at the first alleyway and promised to be back at about four in the afternoon.

The Souq is an area that has been frozen in time. It could easily be the same as it was 500-1000 years ago. It’s cobbled but the shops are like eaves in the side of blank buildings. The alleys are about three metres wide and they are full of people. I had spoken to my treasures and told them, “Don’t bargain unless you intend to buy.” The stall owners get really septic when after hard bargaining they discover you have no money. It’s AK47’s at five paces. Although as Prince Harry famously said “These rag heads don’t use AK47’s, the weapon of choice is the Kalashnikov!”

After working our way past carpet stalls, spice stalls, lantern stalls, curio stalls we chanced apon a stall selling scarves. The charming gentleman accosted Lomlf by throwing a silk scarf around her neck and efficiently garrotting her. Not quite but almost. He was an excellent salesman and talked to the kids as though he was a teacher (He probably was). He showed us the difference between a badly dyed scarf (wet a little of the scarf and squeeze and the dye comes out). Whereas with a properly dyed scarf no dye comes out. He then proceeded to dress Lomlf and myself as Berber tribesmen.

After the kids had died laughing he took us all around the corner and showed us a small alley where all the wool and silk is dyed to make the scarves. Once dyed it is hung up in the rafters to dry. All of the dyes are natural and are made from local minerals, vegetables or flowers.

We then proceeded back to the stall for the piece de resistance. Sell these tourists a scarf. Both Lomlf and I have a Celtic streak so spending money is an anathema. When he told us Lomlf’s scarf was only 570 Dh, about $135 NZ we almost died laughing. So without a flicker of emotion he came back with the typical response… “What do you think it’s worth?” After some serious whispering I said 130 Dh. A look of shock appeared on his face. “Do you want my children to starve” he replied. I realised a diversion was in order. Leaving Lomlf to continue the struggle I took the kids aside and talked about how it’s really good to try before you buy and that  trying on the scarves could be good fun. So with the kids grabbing the scarves and the shopkeepers attention suitably diverted we hit him with our final offer, 170 Dh. With a gulp and a last gasp 250 Dh he eventually accepted our offer. Really good buying we thought as he pocketed the money. The challenge was it was possibly his only sale of the day and he had to look after his wife and kids on that income. Hey why let poverty interfere with the money saved.

While this saga was unfolding the rain had started to soak through the roof and was mixing with the dust which was on and between the cobbles. Within half an hour there was about 1.5 cm of liquid mud flowing over the cobbles. Very unpleasant.

Time to move inside I though so I looked around for the nearest carpet shop. Luckily just down the alley, around the corner, down another alley was an older man dressed in a fine Jedi outfit. Luckily the hood was down so he was obviously one of the Goodies. “Like to buy some carpets for your wife (Lomlf) and children (students)?”
He oozed.

“We also have women weaving the carpets for you to watch” he offered generously. So in we trooped. Wet and bedraggled, with Lomlf and her new scarf.

I have always fancied myself as playing a character out of the Bible. Not JC himself but maybe David against Goliath or Moses parting the Red Sea. However as we came up the stairs into the lair where the carpets were I felt very much like Daniel in the Lions den. My head appeared over the balcony and I could hear and sense the expectation of the 7 men lounging on the settees along the walls. They slowly got to their feet and as they mentally licked their lips they padded over to us. “What a lovely family.” one smarmy carpet seller purred as we dripped all over his beautifully varnished wooden floor. Bugger I thought, we’re going to get eaten alive by these predators.

Thinking quickly I asked if they had any silk prayer rugs. “Of course your honourableness” he growled, prowling to the back of the room. He reappeared with 5 beautiful silk rugs. He placed them reverently onto the floor and stepped back expecting to see my look of wonder. “Boys” I said to the male students. “I’ll give 5 Durham to whichever of you can jump on one of these carpets and slide the furthest. With that the boys raced to the other end of the room, turned as one and sped towards the carpets. As if they were linked by an invisible steel rod they  jumped onto the carpets and slid 10 – 15 metres across the very large room.

There was a shriek of anguish from the salesman as he saw the desecration of these sacred items. The salesmen roared and bared their teeth in anger as Lomlf, the kids and I beat a hasty retreat down the stairs and out to the rain and mud that had enveloped the market.

Looking at my watch I realised it was getting close to 3pm and about time to mosey back to the buses. One thing the stall owners are is polite. We asked how to get back to the Medina and they pointed us in the right direction. There had been a kid hanging around and following us for some time, One stall owner realised we were a group and told this kid to bugger off in no uncertain terms. He told me that there are two types of guides. The official kind who are always in front of you and the unofficial one who trail behind. If you don’t get rid of the unofficial ones they will demand money when you reach your destination. Anyway we got back to the buses without any further trouble and sped home.

*Why Do We Travel? will continue in Term Two.

The Travelling Teacher provided the images to accompany this story.

As usual, the Editor takes no responsibility for the Travelling Teacher’s meandering mind!

Well it took LOMLF* and I some days to get over the fact that our visas had been revoked but all the while we had to work out a way to say goodbye to the kids.

We discussed various options.

The normal way:- having a get together of the parents and the kids and the usual speeches where everyone wishes you all the best etc.

The New Zealand approach:- where we all get together over a few bottles of wine and everybody gets totally plastered. (At least here in Goreme when we send a person to the liquor store for more supplies they don’t take along a “22” rifle.)

Then we hit the jackpot.

As it was almost time for the summer solstice we thought we could have a little play to send us off. We quickly convened an emergency meeting of the afore mentioned war committee, to discuss the different ideas that we were sure would be brought to the surface by our over-intelligent classes.

As it was a combined meeting of both our classes we had to have it in the playground as neither classroom was big enough. We trooped out our children in single file and organised them into a half circle around LOMLF and I.

After explaining the situation to them all and fielding the comments such as why we hadn’t shot the gentleman concerned (seems that Turks and New Zealander’s do have that in common) we started to get down to tintacks.

I had recently been sent a piece out of the Bay of Plenty Times about an aerial display that had been performed at the Tauranga Airport. It was of the battle between the Germans and the British in the Second World War. I suggested that we re-enact the battle between the Turks and the Anzacs during the 1st World War. Anything to do with fighting really interested all the boys (junior classes as well) and as we explained to the girls they could be nurses. We already had a donkey (remember the donkey? …refer to the Xmas story – Term 4 2007) to re-enact that famous painting of the wounded Anzac soldier being transported by donkey back to the beach. We had a balloon (refer to the trip by balloon across Cappadocia) so we could drop flour bombs on all and sundry. We even had the trowels to dig mini trenches with. All we really needed was some rifles and someone brave and smart to be Ataturk and some idiot to be the Anzac commander.

Unfortunately the young lads hadn’t yet started to grow to their finished height but there was one young lady who was not only the tallest in the class but also the brightest. Why not a woman Ataturk I thought. LOMLF of course seeing the chance to pierce the glass ceiling agreed whole heartedly.

When I described to the massed classes what was required for the British Commander (rather stupid, no idea of tactics, a rather cavalier attitude towards the safety of others), surprisingly, the vote was unanimous in my favour.

We decided that planning for the war would be out of character as there was little or none in the real thing so we decided that we would divide the classes in half and just let them have a go at each other. We were approaching close of school on Friday and our last day at the school was Monday.

So to recap, our thought was to have the play after lunch on Monday. Well we spent the rest of the day writing out invitations to all the parents and I sent a combined invitation to the teachers. I omitted to send one to the Headmaster as I knew that he would be delighted to be surprised at this wonderful reenactment of one of the few victories that the Turkish army ever had.

I sent all of our young soldiers and nurses home and asked them to get their parents to make them replica guns out of wood or whatever material was at hand. I also asked for bandages as I was sure that they would be required as I had a feeling there may be casualties of some sort during the fracas.

I asked the young Ataturk to stay behind and also the oldest of my soldiers who were going to be fighting for the allies.

With Ataturk we went through the basic order of battle where she/ he falls back before the invading force and then with great courage rouses her troops to regain the lost territory and win the day.

The weekend was spent rounding up the balloonist, the donkey and copious quantities of tomato sauce.

Monday arrived and all looked great for a well executed war. The sky was clear, the temperature was in the 20’s and the kids looked eager to go. They had succeeded in persuading their parents to make weapons for them which all looked fairly convincing. We had spent all morning using our trowels and digging fairly minor trenches in the playing fields. Ours were slightly deeper than the Turkish ones at about 40cm deep. With the rampart in front it gave almost 80cm of cover. The Turkish trenches were a little shallower at about 60cm of cover.

Immediately after lunch we lined up the troops on opposite sides of the battle field (playground) and I gave my troops a rousing rendition of “we will fight them on the beaches” using my best Churchillian accent.

The young Ataturk could be seen striding amongst her troops rousing them and reminding them that this was not for real. This had a far greater significance than that original conflict. This was in front of their parents and they certainly didn’t want to look like cowards… did they.

We had the donkey tied up beside my troops and the teachers and parents were sitting along the front of the school.

As soon as I saw the balloon appear over the cave houses I shouted to my troops “Forward”. They leapt to their feet and waving their guns and swords ran straight for the Turkish ranks. Unfortunately for us LOMLF had decided that the Turks may require a little help and had become a turncoat and was now seen popping up amongst the other side (female solidarity with Ataturk I think).

Unbeknown to me she and Ataturk had spent all weekend making flour bombs. As we raced forward we were met with a wall of flour bombs which caused a hurried retreat back to our trenches.

At this stage the balloon appeared closer over head and started dropping flour bombs indiscriminatly. Obviously they had not been trained in the art of aerial bombing as they seriously missed their targets. The bombs started dropping amongst the teachers and parents.

At this stage both Ataturk and I launched our counter attack against each other. The troops met in the middle of the ground as I tried to direct the war from my bunker (the gardeners shed) some way behind the trenches.

As the noise and confusion escalated the donkey became seriously worried and started jerking at its halter. With a final neigh of fear it pulled the halter off the post holding it, and made a beeline for the front door of the school. Terrified it lost control of its bowels just as it entered the school entrance and just outside the Headmaster’s office door.

Hearing the shouting and screaming the Headmaster opened his door and stepped into ….. Well you know the rest. He wasn’t at all happy but the good thing was that there was nothing he could do about it.

All in all a great result. Only minor injuries resulted and we all felt that this was a fitting send off. The war had no real outcome very much like the original.

Tuesday bright and early LOMLF and I boarded the bus to Istanbul on the first leg of our trip to our new positions in Florence.

It was sad to say goodbye to all the neat kids but it was also good to be back on the road again. When you get the travel bug you can only spend so long in one place. I felt that it was time we moved on.

See you next time and travel safely.

* LOMLF= Love of my life fiona

For privacy reasons all photos are merely representations of the people mentioned in this story.
As usual, the Editor takes no responsibility for the Travelling Teachers meandering mind!

“For gods sake turn the light off!” I hiss to Lomlf*. She hurriedly turns the light off in our decrepit garret of a flat in the middle of Goreme. We’re on the second floor and I’m hiding behind the curtain watching a man across the road who seems to be doing nothing. But he has been there for over an hour now. He’s dressed in a long raincoat and dark glasses for goodness sake, even though its night. It looks like the same guy who has been there for 4 days. He seems to be just hanging about there waiting. What for, we don’t know, but it’s getting right up our collective noses. Lomlf seems to think that he‘s also been following her to school. There has been a rumour going around the neighbourhood of a stranger in the area and we have come to the decision that he is a stalker and has targeted Lomlf.

It’s really quite scary and there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do about it. We can’t go to the cops because they’d just laugh and say, “you have to stop wearing those provocative clothes… and you too madam.”

The neighbours while being nice are also very conservative and keep to themselves a lot. So we wouldn’t get any help from them.

It’s really at times like this that you start to think of the security of Newzilde and long for the comforting embrace of the Helenanny state with its unemployment benefit, sickness benefit, accommodation allowance, DPB, etc. etc. However back to reality and the man across the road. What do you do? Who do you talk to? How do you manage in a police state when the police can’t or won’t help?

Lomlf and I have spent the last 4 nights curled up in bed like 2 bananas in a small bunch terrified that this madman is going to break in and do god knows what to us. Luckily up to this point he has been content to stay outside and watch but our nerves are being stretched to breaking point. I honestly don’t know how much more we can take. Lomlf and I have looked at our options. You can’t get a gun and shoot him as that would be murder. We don’t want to run away as we’ve both got jobs and we’ve made some good friends. We can’t just ignore him as you can’t tell what he’ll do next.

One thing that Lomlf came up with was to expose, humiliate or ridicule him so that he wouldn’t be a threat any more. After a lot of discussion and some rather heated moments we decided that this was the only way to go.

The Plan.
Next morning (Monday) I convened a meeting with our newly appointed war council in the war room previously described as my classroom. The war council consisted of me, taking the place of Prime Minister Churchill, and my kids who were loosely described as the war cabinet.

To ensure that secrecy was maintained all windows and doors were taped up to guarantee no conversation escaped. After two kids fainted due to excess heat one window was opened and the largest, but not the brightest, student was placed outside the window to ensure our planning was not overheard. All kids were told to swear and write an oath in their own blood not to tell anyone about our plans. After one child was rushed to hospital with a large cut to a finger (only 3 stitches) caused by his pocket knife I supplied a pin.

Objective:
Organise ambush on as yet unknown assailant. Humiliate assailant to ensure that he leaves area.

Method.
Ensure kids have plentiful supply of ammunition and are aware of target.

Kodak (budding photographer) dispatched to wait outside our flat and get photo of target.

Organise battleground to ensure that we have the upper hand.

Planning.
Discussed with kids what we could use as ammunition.
Ammunition types were
• Old eggs.
• Rotten spuds
• Tomatoes
• Old oranges

Discussion was undertaken on how the soldiers would carry ammunition. Plastic bags were suggested. This was adopted with the suggestion that the plastic bag was threaded through the belt holding up trousers, skirt etc.

Kids were asked to stockpile said ammunition in classroom, in boxes provided.

H day (Humiliate day) was set for Wednesday night. Kids were told to tell their parents that we were having a field day (night).

Tuesday afternoon arrived and the amount of ammunition was accumulating nicely.

Kodak had pretended to be an urchin (he was) and had asked the target if he could take a photo of him for a fee. Target paid the equivalent of $US 1 for the privilege.

Kodak had blown photo up and it was now plastered all over walls of the war room.

Soldiers (war cabinet) now aware of target.

Meeting held on Tuesday afternoon to discuss battleground.

It was decided we needed to get target into the open.

Best place, it was decided, was the middle of road.

It was also discussed… how to get target away from wall.

Moses (no relation to the late great Charlton Heston who’s main claim to fame was his comment on seeing George Bush walk by – (“Where’s a gun when you need one?”) – came up with the idea of one of Lomlf’s students running down the road and being bowled by one of my students on his push bike. Hopefully the target will come away from the wall into the middle of road where he can be bombarded by other kids appearing from doorways.

Positions of children in doorways was ascertained. Timing was… after school and before Target arrived in area. Kids encouraged to act like homeless waifs. It was suggested that they use the loo before they leave school to cut back on inappropriate leakage.

Wednesday afternoon arrived finally though not quickly enough. Lomlf and I had been watching the target outside our flat each night. Our undercover agents had noted the target following Lomlf to school.

Wednesday afternoon and the ammunition was shared out. Most was given to the strongest and most accurate throwers.

It was decided that the throw would be controlled by an order from PM Churchill (me).

Wednesday evening. Dusk. The team are waiting outside our apartment. In disguise. It all looks very real. PM Churchill waiting behind door to flat. Door slightly ajar. PM Churchill watching through crack in the door.

Target seen walking slowly down the road. He looks a little suspicious. Approaches war zone. PM Churchill texts Lomlf to release first child to walk around the corner and down the road.

PM Churchill texts Lomlf to release the next child with its bike.

Bike with child and small child collide convincingly.

Small child lets out a scream as does the child with the bike.

Target looks across. Sees the distressed children and walks into the middle of road. PM Churchill thinks great, nothing could go wrong from here. Screeches FIRE in best Churchillian way. A fusillade of rotten produce appears from doorways and strikes the Target. Target shudders to a halt. Sees children. Sees PM Churchill now exposed from behind door. Sees Lomfl appearing from around corner.

The Target reaches into inside jacket pocket. PM Churchill recognises that target is going for his gun.

FIRE he repeats. Second fusillade of rotten produce hits its target. Target’s rain coat now dripping egg yolk and encrusted with orange and other interesting melange of product. Still keeps advancing toward PM Churchill. Target stands in front of PM Churchill and utters a despairing word as he holds out his wallet showing a warrant card. ………..

“IMMIGRATION” he says.

“Bugger”, says PM Churchill.

It appears that we have overstayed our visa and must leave the country immediately. I ask whether there is a chance of leniency. “Not much”, he says as he spits out an orange pip.

So to round up the nights action. The ambush was a great success.

The young child knocked over by the bike, One broken leg.

Child on bike, 2 grazed knees.

Target, absolutely pissed off.

Lomlf and I, asked to leave country.

Fun had by other kids.

Priceless.

The next day we were summoned into the headmasters office. With a huge grin he told us how unhappy he was to lose us but he had to comply with the government requirements. However he had a friend who ran a school in Florence. Would we like to go there. “Yes please”, said Lomlf without even consulting with me.

Well we start there in 2 weeks so need to finish this and start packing.

Look forward to catching up with you again from the sunny countryside of Tuscany.

All the best
Travelling Teacher

* Lomlf = Love of my life fiona

For privacy reasons all photos are merely representations of the people mentioned in this story.
The Editor takes no responsibility for the Travelling Teachers meandering mind!

Xmas was fast approaching, as was the end of year xmas concert.

Now you may be wondering why I am using the word xmas rather than the other word that denotes that it is a religious festival. As you probably know Turkey is not necessarily a Christian country although there are a lot of Christians in the country.

Not wanting to annoy anybody who’s name starts with Osama or some such who may be lurking in the caves that surround Goreme I decided to use the more usual version which denotes that it is just a shopping festival.

Now the Turks can understand that, as their whole lives revolve around the fact that shopping is a good, if not a sacred, pastime. This is as long as you’re buying my or my brothers or cousins or cousins-cousins carpet, Turkish coffee set or backgammon board or whatever.

After reading about that poor teacher in the Sudan who allowed her pupil to call a teddy bear Mohammed and who got chucked in prison for it, I was a little cautious about allowing any of my pupils to go home extolling the virtues of the Christian xmas just in case one of the parents got the huff and came looking for me with one of those trusty scimitars that the Turks had back in the old days.

So I racked my brains for an item for the xmas concert. It was advertised as the end of semester concert but I knew it was really a Christmas (damn, that one slipped in) read xmas concert.

All the kids and I sat around in the classroom and had a brainstorming session. If you have read any of my previous stories you will remember how I set my classroom up. I have my desk in the centre at the front with all the little dears in concentric circles around me. Its like I’m the nucleus and they are charming little electrons chasing each other round the cosmos which is what the classroom is like a lot of the time, come to think of it.

Which reminds me have any of you seen certain Bishop’s number plate. You know the Destiny church chappie. I was sent a photo of it by friends back home. His number plate reads “Proton”. For all you non science teachers a proton is a positively charged particle. Cute eh! Personally I would have thought that BLKHOL would have been better. My online dictionary says it means “a celestial object or dark region in space, perhaps formed by the collapse of a large star, with such a great mass that its gravitational field will not let even light escape.

Jezabel’s mother’s donkey

Anyway back to the story.

With me in the centre of the class I was able to control the ebb and flow of the discussion as we went from: the fact that the three wise men probably came from Turkey or came through Turkey at any rate (that was rejected as we didn’t have any camels and they’re smelly); to the baby Jesus in a cradle. We could use one of the many babies in the village (just contact Rent a Babe we thought. Well we rang them and discovered that the agency is for babes a little older than baby Jesus. They told us we needed Rent a Baby). After ringing them and deciding we didn’t want a Croatian baby for the weekend we gave that idea away as well. Also Jezebels mother (a not too PC family) has a donkey, which is not very nice at all. Fairly incontinent so I’ve heard. One young biblical scholar thought that Jesus on a cross would be good. I told him the story of Easter and he just said that he thought the sight of nailing somebody’s hands to a cross would look great. I couldn’t disagree but as nobody volunteered we gave that away as well.

We tried to look at the Muslim idea of Xmas (whoops I put in a capital letter there. That’s probably worth 20 lashes of the whip.) What do Muslims associate with xmas. I do know that they consider Jesus a prophet although not as good a one as Mohammed.

Interesting enough when I was in Istanbul with Lomfl we went to the Sultans museum and discovered that they had the cooking pot of Abraham, the staff of Moses with which he smote the sea to make it part and the arm of John The Baptist. So obviously they do hold some of our beliefs in reverence. Maybe they just bought them at a bloody good price in exchange for a couple of old carpets.

So I thought to myself what would a country of itinerant salesmen find exciting about our xmas?

A couple of weeks before I had been to one of the sporting highlights of the winter season in Goreme.

Planning for the xmas concert

Now you have to realise that the cradle of civilization is only 2 hours drive away from here. They are surrounded by and live in caves and phallic shaped houses and sit on top of underground cities that are 3000 to 4000 years old. It’s enough to turn even the sanest person into someone with ideas that are slightly different from the norm.

The sporting highlight of the season was curling. They had built this largish ice rink in the square and the idea was to throw your stone into the middle and get as close to the bulls eye as you could. Like normal curling you used brooms to smooth the ice so the stones would change course or go further. The team throwing their stone was allowed 2 minutes to confer with their stone and tell them what was expected. I’m hearing a gasp of incredulity here. Did I not tell you that the stones they were using were dwarfs. This is a sport that has grown in popularity since the All Blacks visited Europe over 20 years ago. The Turks, have a great affection for everything NZ’ish (probably because of Gallipoli) and they follow the All Blacks with great passion. They also research other sports played in NZ and that was about when Dwarf tossing entered the pub scene. The Turks of Goreme thought this was a great idea and merely changed it a little to suit the conditions.

So there they were tossing their dwarfs across the ice and it was really rewarding seeing the dwarfs actually doing their bit for the team. The rules allow a moderate amount of kicking and elbowing but biting and eye gouging are strictly forbidden. They get a red card and are tossed in the bin. No, not the sin bin, just the bin.

Any way having seen this amazing sporting highlight it came across me like an epiphany as we were planning our party.

Why not dress up as elves I asked the kids. Elves are funny, they are non religious, they make the presents and help Santa deliver them. Well the kids were delighted.

Another decision that they had reached themselves with only a little help from me.

The next thing to arrange was the costumes and what would they do. The boys were no problem. Digging was something that elves did and digging was a very old tradition in this town. Here if you wanted a house or a house extension you had to dig it.

Charlotte’s Mother

The girls were a little more of a problem. What could they do? Then Charlotte put up her hand and said her mother was a dancer and she could teach the girls to dance. Well I had seen Charlottes mother and she was a stunner so I agreed wholeheartedly. With the concert being the 7 days away (the following Friday) time was of the essence. I arranged for Charlottes mum to come to school the following Monday morning.

She arrived bright and early in her dancing attire which did seem a trifle brief, but who was I to complain. When the kids arrived she started to explain to them what dance was all about. She talked about the expression you need to put into the performance, the energy and how you need to connect with the customers. Audience I corrected. No No she replied. The customers. Well to cut a long story short she worked at the local bar as a pole dancer.

Charlotte’s Mother demonstrating, please excuse picture quality... camera shake

The idea of teaching the girls pole dancing seemed a bit risqué but having seen papers from NZ where women have dancing academies where they teach pole dancing I thought well why not. Also I suppose it’s a little like belly dancing only the belly is gyrating around a chrome pole.

So we set to work. I left the girls to the tender mercies of Salome (probably her stage name) and the boys and I went to work on the rest of it.

My thought was to have a panorama of small sets showing the xmas story at its best.

The first one would be of a child writing a letter.

Second would be an elf receiving the letter and then typing into a computer. We didn’t have one at school so we were going to use my laptop.

Third would be boy elves digging up the minerals to make the presents and other elves with hammers etc making them up. We had a slight accident with the boys on Tuesday where one clonked another (accidentally of course) with his shovel. We immediately got rid of the shovels and got the kids to pinch their mothers gardening trowels instead.

Fourth would be some girl elves (the ones who had 2 left feet and didn’t like to dance) wrapping them.

Elves aplenty!

The fifth and final would be Santa and Mrs Claus, suitably attired (Lomfl and myself) being entertained by the dancing elves.

Well we had to get a large number of the local fathers in to prepare the set but by Friday it was ready.

We were going to run it like a mini movie and with the discreet use of lighting we would illuminate one set at a time. The ideal was to have each set illuminated for as long as it took for all the parents to see their little dears performing and for them to clap politely.

The time for our little set piece arrived quickly. Lomfl and I had to race to the back of the stage and don our best made up santa costumes. Lomfl had scoured the shops and had found some brilliant cheap red fabric. Having no sewing machine I thought like a teacher and we stapled all the bits together. Cotton wool and lavish coatings with the glue stick provided the hair and beard and before you could sashay a pole we were dressed and ready to roll.

With a little organisation we were all in place before the lights went on.

Unfortunately I had misread the enthusiasm that the local parents would exhibit when they saw their kids. There was no polite applause but deafening cheering and whistling. I was keeping an eye on the headmaster while our little pageant was being performed and he actually wasn’t watching, being in a very close conversation with Salome. However when the last scene was lit up and the cheers became deafening at the sight of 5 young ladies pole dancing he turned around. I could see his face change from sickly yellow to Puce in an instant. His scream broke through the rest of the cheering like a hot knife through butter. The kids froze.

Then amazingly the crowd of parents obviously thinking the heads screams were of approval and excitement, broke into even more rapturous applause. And my little troopers continued their pageant. Well suffice to say that the pageant was an amazing success. The head had to swallow his pride and agree that what the kids had performed was pretty amazing, although he did talk of an incredible opportunity in a school down by the Iraqi border that he would like me consider. I assured him that I was very happy in Goreme and went back to my little hovel with my beautiful Lomfl. I wrote a poem to commemorate the night.

Twas the week before xmas
And all through the town
The elves were all waiting
Waiting to dig down

The big night arrived
Lomfl was oozing with charm
She came and she showed me
my suit on her arm

With the lights at the ready
And the kids on the ground
We got the show started
As the Head turned around

The kids danced and they dug
Just as well as they could
But the Head was beginning
To look very odd.

There’s an almighty commotion
His temper flared like a flame
Then all of a sudden
The kids started again.

The parents applauded
Increasingly loud
Because all the kids
Were looking quite proud

Twas the night before
And after the show
The children were dreaming
Of presents you know!

The Travelling Teacher

For privacy reasons all photos are merely representations of the people mentioned in this story.
The Editor takes no responsibility for the Travelling Teachers meandering mind!

Ever had one of those dreams where you are flying through the air with no visible means of support (very much like us teachers), where everything is deadly quiet around you, you have this wonderful view of the surrounding countryside, the wind is ruffling through what is left of your hair, you believe you are one with the gods when suddenly you crash and come to your senses.

Well welcome to hot air ballooning Cappadocia style.

Well the “love of my life Finona” (lomlF) and I, having heard so much about the wonders of this incredible experience decided to save our drachmas and indulge in what was truly one of the most amazing things I have ever done. Although the cost was high, anywhere between 150 Euro and 230 Euro (290 – 450 $NZ) it was well worth it.

As “lomlF” and I were being paid a pittance it took us some time to save up for this luxury.

When we woke to the sound of the alarm that momentous morning all I could think of was the amount of cheap Turkish wine we’d had the night before. The thought of going sailing with the birds at 1000 ft was not an exciting prospect and it was also only 5.30am. Having dodged the amorous “lomlF” and struggled out of bed, I showered and had my Turkish pick me up, a cup of the tar that they commonly call coffee over here.

Standing on the side of the road at 5.55am I could just get a glimpse of the dawn breaking over the mountains, a very faint pink and gold colour. It was going to be a momentous day.

We had chosen a company that was the cheapest we could find and after much bargaining we had eventually got them to knock 10% off the price on the condition that they could use us as ballast and that we rode on the outside of the basket. (Just kidding). When the van arrived we understood how they could give such a cheap price, as they certainly weren’t spending money on transportation.

We arrived at the launch site and Cape Canaveral it certainly wasn’t. Apparently they move the site depending on the wind and conditions on the day. The balloon was draped across the ground like a very large, brightly coloured unrolled French letter. We were invited to partake of croissant and coffee while the menials scurried round getting everything in order.

Suddenly there was the sound of a 747 taking off. My reflexes were up to the challenge and with amazing dexterity and courage I threw myself flat on the ground. Realising that nobody else had been so quick (they were all still standing) I looked around and realised that it was the burner igniting which they required to start to blow up the balloon. Having dusted myself off and tried to remove the goats droppings from my jumper we watched as the aforesaid long tube steadily became more and more rampant until at last there it was fully erect and tugging at the ropes that held it firmly to the ground.

We had decided to take our video camera and to take a film of the experience as most of the kids at the school had never been on a balloon before.

With “lomlF” manning (or should it be womanning) the camera (appropriate, as I am the star of this story) I was helped into the basket by one of the attendants. No brightly coloured uniform for this crowd, it was strictly jeans and jumpers all round. I then very courteously helped “lomlF” into the balloon, along with the other 14 passengers and the 2 pilots. With a roar of the burner and an “up, up and away” they released the ropes and we started to climb rapidly. It seemed to rise faster than the average plane probably because we were in this small shopping basket that they were using and the feeling of danger was considerably heightened.

The sensation was of absolute freedom. In between the roar of the burner it was deathly still. There was no feeling of rising or falling. Just this sensation of floating above the world. Absolutely wonderful. After 5 minutes we had climbed high enough to witness the glory of the dawn over Cappadocia. The shadows made the landscape even more surrealistic than it was normally, with its natural towers of what is called tufaceous rock standing like a very disorganised army of stone giants.

By the time we were at an altitude where we could see the sun we were approaching Goreme. Here we had the most amazing view of the townspeople getting ready to start the day. We dropped down to about 50 ft off the ground at this stage and our pilot was able to control the height with the judicious use of the aforementioned burner. With “lomlF” videoing every move we were able to catch a lot of the kids from school on film. In fact once the word got out it was like a veritable pied piper with us being the piper at 50 odd feet and a trail of children chasing us down the road. The kids were popping out of their cave houses like rabbits out of warrens.

What made things more interesting was that we were drifting across town but not in line with the streets. So not only was it a matter of the pied piper and the trail of kids but they were also having to take part in a mini steeplechase as they climbed over the fences and stone walls that surrounded the homes. We left Goreme and the trail of kids and drifted across the landscape for over an hour seeing a small part of this beautiful scenery with its amazing valleys and caves and incredible cave houses.

Eventually we reached the area where we were to land and we began a nice slow descent. Unfortunately nobody had bothered to tell our pilot about the large poplar like tree that was directly between the landing ground and us. No problem to this kamikaze pilot who went straight thru the tree with the only slight problem being the basket tilting over to be level with the ground and the screams of the passengers. A matter of milliseconds later we hit the ground with the same gentleness as a large bag of cement. We were all spilled onto the ground and after we had disentangled ourselves we were treated to a glass of very welcome bubbly. We were then presented with our badly interpreted souvenir certificates to show that we had survived the experience.

The following day “lomlF” and I were back at school reliving this experience with our kids. What amazed me the most was the absolute delight of the children when they were able to see the view of their homes and themselves from a different perspective. It made me realise how absolutely privileged we are in NZ where we have such incredible opportunities available to us all the time.

Over a few drinks that evening with more of the bad (but cheap) Turkish wine and a couple of the locals we were regaled with stories of how harsh justice was in Turkey. The local innkeeper where we had stayed when we first arrived in Goreme told us of his experience when he was renovating his hotel. The hotel was partially above ground with a few rooms built into the hill face. It was thus thought of as a national treasure which could only be altered by agreement with the local council. Apparently he had permission to change some of the structure but nothing to say he could change the steps leading up to his entrance. After he had finished his renovations he was arrested and charged with altering the steps without authorisation. The judge said to him a number of times “now Mr ………… you didn’t alter the steps did you.” But being a truthful Turk he replied that he had. He was eventually found guilty and spent some months in prison for this dastardly crime.

One of the things that Cappadocia is famous for is the underground cities. It is believed that there are about 300 of them of all different sizes and types. Some of the cities are thought to be 4000 years old and they are mentioned in the writings of Xenophen of about 400BC. Also Genesis (Gen 23:20, 49:30, 50:13) has mentions of the Hittites and caves. They can be up to 90 metres deep.

Two stories of underground living!

There is a theory that they were built (dug) by the Hittites as secure storage areas and then were extended and used by Christians who were being persecuted by the Romans. Other theories are that they were created later by the Phrygians as a line of defence against the Assyrians or that they were excavated during the Roman or Byzantine times. Its unlikely that they were ever built as a permanent settlement but they were clearly built to withstand attacks and could support large numbers of people and animals for long periods of time. Extensive networks of passages linked family rooms and communal areas where people would meet work and worship. The cities were complete with wells, chimneys for air circulation, niches for oil lamps, stores, water tanks, stables and areas where the dead could be placed until such time as conditions on the surface would allow their proper disposal. Most importantly, carefully balanced stone doors resembling large mill stones about 8 feet across and 2 feet thick were carved out of the rock to quickly block the corridors in the event of attack. Of course they could only be opened from the inside. There was normally a hole in the middle about 6 inches across for the defenders to fire arrows at the invaders and to put a piece of wood through to open the stone door. They were very heavy.

Well, having shown the kids the highs of the area, I thought it would be really good to take them to see the lows of the area as well, as in one of the buried cities.

The one we chose is called Derinkuyu. This city which is about 18 to 20 stories deep was only discovered in 1963 and it is believed that up to 20,000 people lived here. It contains at least 15,000 ventilation ducts, which provided fresh air deep within the bowels of the earth.

Well we planned the trip for the following Monday and went through the rigmarole of getting parent helpers and permission slips from all the parents. By Friday it was all organised and we proceeded to give the kids the mandatory talk about behaving themselves and that any valuable artifacts found were to be given to one of the 2 teachers (“lomlF” and myself) and that we would have the right to dispose of them as we saw fit.

Monday morning saw all of us arrive at the school at a breathtaking time of 7.30am. It was an hour’s drive to the site of the city and by the time we had arrived, unpacked all and sundry and lined up and completed a count it was 9.30.

The city has all the usual amenities found in other underground complexes (wine and oil presses, stables, cellars, storage rooms, refectories and chapels.) What is unique to this city is on the 2nd floor a spacious room with a barrel vault (believed to be a religious school), then between the 3rd and 4th floor is a vertical staircase which leads to a cruciform church on the lowest level. Each floor has a large stone, which can be rolled across to isolate the floor in case of attack.

Things were going really well. We had been to all the niches and I had explained the areas where they crushed the grapes for the wine and where they collected the grape juice, shown them some of the ventilation shafts, and the stables and the areas where they had their candles. We had been to the vaulted room where in the time honoured manner of all zealots I had sat the children down and talked about religious tolerance especially between Christian and Muslim. Like all Turks they were very polite and listened patiently until I had finished. I suppose I should also point out that the only lighting was a single power line, which ran between the surface and the lowest point, which we reached after navigating the vertical stairs, and we then entered the church. The power line went down the stairs and through the doorway.

Stone door on an upper floor

Things were going so well that I let my normal attention slip. As previously mentioned there were big millstones at the entrance to each level. They were positioned so  that they were on a sloping groove, which sloped so that if the door were unencumbered it would roll closed. The only thing keeping the door open was a rock in the shape of a wedge. Completely secure I thought. Not so when you consider the devious minds of the little genius’s in my care. While I was expounding on the masterful way that the past inhabitants had built this amazing church, 3 of my little charmers were struggling to free the door from its encumbrances.

You might wonder what is the worst sound you could ever hear when you are 40 feet underground. No, its not the sound of an earthquake, it’s the sound of rock against rock as a very large and very heavy round rock rolls shut removing any chance of escaping from this underground tomb. This sound was a millisecond ahead of the lights failing as the stone door tore the sole power line to shreds. Ever been in a place that is totally black. It’s not a good place to be.

What do you do? Well, on the advice of “lomlF” I asked all the kids and parents to sit down where they were. We then asked everyone if anyone had a lighter or matches.  One of my 13- year-olds replied that he had a lighter and produced it and flicked it on. With the ice broken, 10 of the fifteen boys in my class then admitted that they also had lighters. Smoking is endemic in Turkey it seems. Keeping just one lighter going we sat down and looked at our challenges. The door was solid rock. Although it had a hole in the door it could only be opened from our side. It was also bloody heavy. To be able to move it we really needed to get some leverage. There was nothing around. We had really run out of options.

Ventilation Shaft

What do you do when everything seems hopeless?

You do what every good teacher does.

Ask for another opinion.

So, I turned to “lomlF” and said “Darling, this was your idea, What are you going to do?” Surprisingly she turned our challenge into a learning experience. She talked to the group and reminded them of our predicament. She then asked everybody to try and remember what was special about this underground city. Silence descended and you could almost hear the cogs clicking over, interspersed with the expletives from the young man holding the lighter as it heated up and burnt his fingers. Good, I thought, until his light was extinguished as the pain became unbearable. No problem as one of the other kids flicked his lighter on.

A lone and plaintive voice spoke in the semi gloom and reminded us that this was one of the few cities that had wooden poles to hold up the passageways. They were normally in the lower levels where the pressure was the greatest. Why didn’t we see if we could find a piece of wood and use it to roll the door open.

What a great idea I thought, so without further ado I organised a search party and we moved to the next level down. Brushing past the signs that said Danger etc., we progressed down two further levels only being hindered by rockfalls. These apparently are a problem in this city.

We searched using the light of a lighter and eventually found a piece of wood 1.5 metres long and about 100mm thick. We returned to the church with our precious find, and being in charge of the group I turned the organisation of opening the door over to “lomlF”. She organised 3 of the larger male parents to hold on to the wood and poke the other end thru the small hole in the door. She then told them to move to the left holding the wood perfectly stiff. As with our experience with the young Turkish men in Assos (see previous story) they appreciated the direction, especially coming from a woman. However terror overcame pride and they worked together very well. Wonder of wonders the door slowly opened. It was a revelation and I suddenly realised how Jesus must have felt after the crucifixion. Well to cut a long story short we eventually arrived back at school a little late but a lot wiser.

All in all it was a successful day. I wasn’t transferred and I think that we all learnt a lot from the experience.

See you next time.

Travelling Teacher

Goreme

Isn’t it amazing …
that there are certain things that will bring tears to your eyes either with joy, sadness or laughter.
Things like a new born baby,
a painting by Gauguin,
a beautiful sunrise over an azure sea,
an unresponsive computer that won’t do what it’s told,
a class of children in their best finery ready for action with their faces painted like Red Indians.

All of which leads me quite nicely into my next episode on travelling through Turkey. If you remember I had travelled down through Turkey having been to Troy, Ephesus, Assos, and having had a few challenges with the car and tires on the way.

As I arrived in Cappodocia with my newfound love of my life Finona, we had steeled ourselves to a life of austere deprivation. Having to drink Turkish wine was bad enough but living in a small village which lacked the basic essentials like a good cappuccino and excellent croissant was going to be a real challenge.

Goreme

Which reminds me of a story about Marie Antoinette. I’ve just seen the most boring film ever made about her (the best parts were the views of Versailles, which I had visited a few months earlier. With no children you will be pleased to know) and I thought you would like to share a piece of history with me. Apparently Marie Antoinette brought the croissant to France when she arrived from Austria. The Croissant was first made in Austria to commemorate a battle in which the Austrians beat the Turks (appropriate to my circumstances you would think). The story goes that the Turks or Ottomans as they were called in those days were attacking a walled city in Austria. The Ottomans were great miners and one of the strategies used was to dig under the walls of a city, build a large fire in the tunnel under the walls which would then make the walls collapse allowing the Turks to attack and raze the city. In this case the bakers of the city baking the daily bread at 2-3 am heard the Turks digging. They alerted the soldiers who then attacked the Turks and the Austrians won the day and eventually the war. This was the furthest that the Turks ever got to in Europe. Anyway because of this the bakers were asked to bake a bread to commemorate the victory. They came up with the croissant (based on the crescent on the Turkish flag). Apparently Marie Antoinette brought this bread to France, however the frogs weren’t pleased enough to make an allowance to excuse her from her appointment at the hands of Madame Guillotine.

Anyway on arrival at Goreme we were remarkably pleased to notice that indeed there were café’s with passable Turkish coffee (strong enough to stand your spoon up in) and they also made passable Danish pastry.

So with this problem conquered we then set out to meet with the board of the local school. Obviously my reputation had preceded me as there were armed soldiers about every 50 metres along the road. On walking into the staffroom we were overwhelmed at the hospitality offered. Apple Tea was flowing like water, as were the names and phone numbers of the many relatives of the staff who just happened to have the best Carpets shops in the whole of Turkey. The head teacher of the 5 staff was a fine looking man with an amazing handlebar moustache reminiscent of those Turkish men of the 1800’s. Having battled our way through this and having persuaded them that Finona was almost as fine a teacher as I was, we found ourselves assigned to new entrants (Finona) and the equivalent of year 8 for myself.

As this story is all about me I will only spend a few short lines on Finonas teaching exploits. She prides herself on being a descendant of the kings of Norway and Sweden and has a lot of that Norse Pagan way of persuasion about her. If you can cast your minds back to the civilized way that the Vikings helped to repopulate half of the civilized world you’ll know what I’m talking about. So the first task she was asked to accomplish (as she was dealing with new entrants) was to up skill on herding cats. You may remember in the last episode the farm of small furry things. Well it was a farm of cats and this was where the new entrant teachers were shown how to look after their new charges. Finona passed with flying colours and apart from the school having to repopulate the cat farm (Finona persuaded all the new entrant parents to take them home as pets) all was well.

Well back to the most important part of the story. ME.

My children were a lovely bunch, all keen and eager to learn. This to me is probably the biggest difference in the education systems of the civilised world and the so called 2nd or 3rd world countries. In NZ the children in the main, have little or no interest in education, as most know that it doesn’t matter what they do when they leave school because Nanny State will look after them. The girls can have babies and go on the DPB and the boys can go on the dole. In a country like Turkey the kids know that if they don’t succeed at school then it is almost literally a matter of life or death. There is no welfare system to speak of and they live by their own hard work and their wits.

This makes teaching them a real joy. Absenteeism is almost non existent as the parents are determined that their kids will succeed. Because their trades revolve around tourism in the main they also speak very good English and sometimes 2 or 3 other languages as well. They arrive at school having had some breakfast and ready to soak up every pearl of wisdom that I am prepared to share with them.

The teaching progressed well for a couple of weeks with all the usual matters being sorted out, like who sits where, how do we organize the room, who are the monitors and what do they monitor and learning all the names of these budding Ataturks. I have a special way of organizing my classroom. I put the children in a semicircle around my desk, as I am the focal point of the class. I divide them into two equal groups and run the class a bit like parliament, but without the lying, bitching and not answering questions that has developed to such a high standard over the last few years.

As you may have gathered my teaching style is based on a little bit of theory and lots of adventure and trips. One of the topics that I was asked to teach was cultures of the indigenous peoples of the world.

Having thought about this for a while and having had a charming weekend trip to a local township for some R&R with “my new found love of my life Finona” I decided to cover the ways of the Red Indian of America. Now I only call these people Red Indians because that’s what my kids know them as, having learnt a lot of the history of  America from the movies especially the cowboys and Indians variety. Some of the best Westerns were actually made in Italy, as it was cheaper than making them in Hollywood thus coining the name “Spaghetti Westerns”.

Finona and I had decided to go on a little trip to a town nearby where there was reputed to be a really good pottery shop. We were looking for small pots for our flat to put some greenery in, as it is incredibly dry and dusty in this area. We arrived in the town and having spent some time trying to find a parking space (almost as bad as Queen St in Auckland but not as expensive) we set out to find the shop. A lot of these places are built in caves as the ground is made up of a top layer of hard soil with a very deep layer of volcanic ash. By deep I mean 20 or 30 meters. The hard top surface stops the ash washing away because it is quite soft. The ash can be dug out and makes very habitable living areas or shops. Once the ash is exposed to the air it hardens up and becomes a bit like a roughly plastered wall.

Anyway that’s your geology lesson for the term.

Finona and I eventually found the shop, which was very small considering all we had heard about it. It was only when we started exploring it that we discovered that the small cave that was the front of the shop was merely one of many that ran back into the hill. There were pots of every description and we realised after having listened to a lecture from a very well meaning and charming shop assistant (probably the owners 2nd cousin twice removed) that as well as Carpets this area of Turkey was very famous for its pots.

As we traversed our way deeper and deeper into this underground labyrinth we noticed this older sleazy looking guy following Finona around and looking at her hair. He actually came up to her and mumbled something in Turkish and touched her hair. Well Finona being descended from the Norse gods or their earthly equivalent (like King Vladimar the terrible) doesn’t take this sort of behaviour lightly. I must explain that Finona’s hair is like a verdant pasture, thick and healthy whereas mine is a bit like the same pasture after it has been mown and then partially plowed. So it appeared that this rat of a man wanted to take some of her hair. Finona in her typical and tactful Norse way told him to b****r off but to give him credit he stayed put and persisted. A bit like Gregan round the scrum, you just can’t get rid off the little blighter. Anyway we were persuaded to follow him through into the last cave. As we walked in you had to duck your head and as you raised your eyes it was as if you had walked into the lair of a very successful serial killer who collected the hair from his victims. This room (about the size of a large staff room) was covered from ceiling to walls with locks of people’s hair, and when I say covered I mean you couldn’t see the walls or the ceiling for hair. There were thousands of bits of hair everywhere. Each was tied up with a piece of ribbon and a card showing the date, name and telephone number of the lucky contributor. Well I am sure that you’re asking yourself how could such a shifty little man get people to give him their hair. Well it was almost like he mesmerised poor Finona. A bit like a king cobra and a mouse. It took only a few minutes of gesturing and mumbling and out came the scissors and he lopped off a good chunk of Finonas hair. I think he didn’t approach me as he realised that what little hair I had left was fairly precious to me. Well before you could say “scalp a whitie” he had it beribboned, carded and up on the ceiling.

As we staggered out through the maze of caves Finona was wondering what had happened and I was thinking “scalping, red indians, indigenous peoples, new topic, wow.

So back to school …

Well there I was on Monday morning explaining to my little treasures about this shop. Not surprisingly they all knew about it (the boys had probably sold their sisters hair to the guy) and as we talked about it, it didn’t take too much of a stretch of the imagination to lead them to the wild west and the Indians. We talked about scalping and how it was done. A cut with a sharp knife around the top of the forehead and then down just above the ears and a quick tug and whacko the goose you have the need for a large hair transplant. I also explained to them that like other indigenous cultures a lot of these bad habits (if you can call scalping a bad habit) actually were behaviours that they had picked up from people who invaded the country. In this case the French (bless their devious little hearts) when they came into the American continent put a bounty on Indians and the means to secure the bounty was to produce a scalp to verify the kill. The Indians being quick learners thought this was a great idea and ran with it (as they say in the corporate world.)

So in the class we developed a strategy for putting our new found knowledge into practice. In the adversarial way that I had set up my class (2 competing teams) we  decided that we would have a competition which would run over a week and the team which collected the most locks of hair (with no skin attached) would be exempt from cleaning the class room for 2 weeks. (I forgot to say that with the schools being reasonably deprived we did our own classroom cleaning). So I sat them down and issued them face paint to paint themselves as Native Americans of the indigenous variety. (I was incredibly lucky as I had been rummaging through the 2 Drachma shop and I had come across these paints from China. Being a careful Kiwi I checked the ingredients and discovered that there was no flavouring or MSG just a moderate bit of lead so I bought them very cheaply)

With this task completed and with lunch around the corner I had them line up and collect their scissors. After the obligatory taking of fingerprints and getting them to sign a declaration to promise to return them I had them return to their seats and get ready for the break.

As the bell rang for lunch time, the kids were out of their chairs and off. They charged through the door like a bunch of Catholic’s trying to get to the Sistine Chapel. An hour passed and back they came. What an incredible haul. I had all the cards and ribbons ready so that we could start to categorise all of our trophy’s. I was amazed to see just what the kids had collected. Whole pony tails and locks of hair were everywhere. I did notice that some of the children were looking a little unkempt and some even looked as if they had been in a fight or two. Just normal behaviour I thought. Then I saw a lock of hair which looked strangely familiar. Thick, greasy and redolent of Turkish tobacco. Where had I seen it before? At this stage there was a huge bang on the door and in marched a rather incomplete head teacher sporting a brilliant red face with a sadly diminished large moustache. (Did I forget to tell you that he had a siesta at lunch time.) Bugger I thought and then in the same breath what a brilliant  accomplishment for one of the class… must find out who it was.

Well I was invited down to the office for a quick chat. It was suggested that it could be a really good idea if the competition was called off immediately if I didn’t want to be assigned to a little school on the border of Turkey and Iran. They had an immediate vacancy as the last teacher had just been killed by friendly fire. (How can people be killed by friendly fire? Surely if it kills you it must, by definition, be unfriendly).

Well I declined the head teacher’s very kind offer of an immediate transfer and we agreed that my little competition would cease. As I left his office I complimented him on his moustache saying that the one sidedness of it gave him a very distinctive Turkish look.

Anyway it is now 4am so it is off to bed for me and I look forward to catching up again next term.

Travelling Teacher

Ayah Sofia

Dear Editor
How quickly the last months have flown past. Ever since my epic school trip through the Louvre almost a year ago I have been like one of those aimless brown leaves being blown from one corner of the playground to another.

However just to bring you up to speed on the news. After that excellent trip to the Louvre I was asked to appear before the Board and told in a very Gallic way that although I was an excellent teacher the exuberance I brought to my subjects was a little flamboyant for the school. I was also informed that the fact that I had been Frogmarched (pun intended) out of the Louvre by a regiment of the foreign legion was bad for the reputation of the school and would I consider another posting say to somewhere like say Turkey.

So as I hadn’t been to Turkey and because I could see the writing on the wall so to speak I agreed to be transferred to Capadoccia.

I raced home to my garret looking over the square that was beside the road that ran close to the boulevard that was almost on the banks of the Seine and looked up in my glossy atlas where in Turkey Capadoccia was.

Bosphorus Bridge

Obviously because of my great attributes as a teacher and as a reward the Board had insisted that I leave immediately and take a week to get to my new school. (No  pressure) I think that they wanted to send over all of my inspection reports to ensure that my new school fully appreciated the sensational teacher they were about to acquire.

I hopped on the earliest flight I could get and the cheapest, as money was a little short and winged my merry way to Istanbul. Turkey’s gateway to the West and East. Did you know that the bridge that spans the Bosphorus is the official transition point between Europe and Asia. If you go to the centre of the bridge you can stand with one foot in Asia and the other in Europe.

If you ever get the chance to go to Istanbul –take it. What an amazing city.

Ayah Sofia Interior

I was lucky to be staying in a small hotel about 300 metres from Ayah Sofya. It was very quaint and amazingly convenient to all of the attractions in the old city.

Its amazing the hospitality of the Turkish people. The hotel had provided, unbeknownst to me in the next room, a young lady from NZ who was also looking to extend her horizons and was happy to share the cost of a car to Cappadocia.

She persuaded me to venture out immediately to see Ayah Sofia. For those of you who don’t know, Ayah Sofia is one of the largest churches ever built in Christendom and is named after “holy wisdom” (Sancta Sophia). (Although St Peters in Rome is larger it wasn’t built until 1506, a thousand years later). Built in 537 by Emperor Justinian it was turned into a Mosque by Mehmet 11 when he conquered the City on the 29th May 1453. Ataturk turned it into a museum in 1935. One of the wonderful things about it is that because the Ottomans don’t allow art that shows God they plastered over all of the ceiling mosaics in the church. This preserved them and the plaster has now been removed to show this wonderful art in its original colours.

We were very lucky to meet a young university student (read brother of a cousin who owns the carpet shop next door) who offered to show us through the church. It is absolutely stunning in its beauty and among other items we were shown was the handprint of Christ the Child on one of the building stones. We found this hard to believe but after going through the museum in the Topkapi Palace where amongst other things they had: the staff of Moses; the cooking pot of Abraham; the arm (encased in gold armour but with a small window cut out to show the bones) of St John the Baptist; and one of the gates of the city of Babylon, you start to wonder “what if”.

Istanbul is populated by about 12 million carpet salesman and one or two other people. On every corner is a carpet shop with the relatives all out on the sidewalk dying to show you their extensive range, which, they tell you, is so much better than those cheats down the road. You are their best friend and will always be so. Just come and look, there is no need to buy. Yea right! Be aware that if you accept the offer of a cup of apple tea and then buy carpets from another shop you immediately become persona non grata

In the evening we went out for a meal in the Taksin Maydani district, where all the trendy young Turks hang out.

Fantastic experience – the streets were packed and noisy, hustle and bustle everywhere as the call to prayer rang out. After walking through the streets, we turned into a covered avenue full of restaurants, tables out in the lanes, waiters trying to tempt us in from all sides. With the dull roar of voices, music, laughter; faces looming from either side, it was just magical. Once we’d chosen a restaurant, we had a traditional mezze – a selection of hot and cold appetizers accompanied by copious amounts of bread and water. We tried some mashed aubergine, mint yoghurt, a kind of salsa dish, and some pickled mushrooms, followed up with some fried goats cheese in breadcrumbs, absolutely fantastic and cheap as. Along with the Turkish wine it was a night to remember. I topped off the experience for my new friend from NZ by doing a big twirl as I put my leather jacket back on and subtly knocked all the glasses off the neighbouring table.

Next day we took in some of Istanbul’s cultural delights starting with the Blue Mosque. Very strict dress code especially for ladies, Basilica Cistern with long sleeves, long skirts, scarves to cover their heads, and – at the sign outside the entrance, that said remove your shoes – we removed our shoes… we were then told off for taking off our shoes outside where it was dirty! Just can’t win!! The mosque was impressive, but not as good as Aya Sofia.

Basilica Cistern

Next was the Basilica Cistern, which was hard to find. We didn’t realise it was underground and it turned out to be a large reservoir built in Roman times (isn’t everything!) You go through a small doorway down some stairs and whacko the goose you’re in a huge underground cavern, filled with rows of pillars supporting arched, brick ceilings. A boardwalk led through the large room, over water filled with strange looking fish, and water dripping from above. In a far corner, two stone images of Medusa had been used to prop up two columns, strangely one was upside-down, and the other on its side…apparently no one knows why!!

Our last day we spent in the Grand Bazaar. If you can imagine a site bigger than the whole of Eden Park with shops about the size of a normal bathroom, selling every imaginable item you could think of then that is the Grand Bazaar.

We both bought leather jackets here and were amazed at the prices. Obviously bargaining is an art form and is expected. We normally started at about 1/3 of the asking  price and would normally agree at about ½ of the price.

Having decided to move on, my new friend and I caught a boat to the other side of the Bosphorus and stopped at Yalova just long enough to hire a car and leave.

Our next stop (other than a brief one at Troy, where we saw the original but rather modern looking wooden horse, amazing what they can do with wood preservative these days) was Behramkale, the closest point to Greece from Turkey.

Behramkale was set at the bottom of a very steep windy cobbled road which when rained upon becomes so slippery that
a You can’t get back up.
b If you do manage to get halfway up, the road is nicely tilted so the car and the occupants slide over the edge of the 400-foot cliff and into the Mediterranean.

The Turkish army had a small garrison there and it was a little disconcerting to see so many soldiers with submachine guns ready to repel the Grecian Army like they have been doing for thousands of years.

Behramkale called Assos in ancient times was built about 800 BC. Aristotle lived here from 348 to 345 BC. It was here that I wrote my soon to be published pamphlet on how to change a tyre in rural Turkey. The necessary ingredients are:-

Ingredients Checklist: for tyre changing in rural Turkey

• A town at the bottom of a steep slippery cobbled road made impassable by the rain.
  • Check
• A small car backed into a parking space at the front of the hotel.
  • Check
• Said Parking space to be sloping downwards from left to right.
  • Check
• Puncture in rear right wheel on downward side of car.
  • Check
• Nearest garage 300km away assuming they can get down aforementioned road.
  • Check
• Right side of car jacked up, with car tilted onto jack because of slope.
  • Check
• Dent in side of car where jack is stopping car from toppling over.
  • Check
• Left wheel of car off the ground.
  • Check
• 20 helpful young macho male Turks all with a different method to resolve problem and all determined that their solution is to be the one that we choose.
  • Check
• One NZ male teacher determined to show these Turks that although we didn’t get far at Gallipoli by god we would prevail here.
  • Check
• One long 100mm diameter steel pipe found by a helpful Turk on instruction from Young NZ female.
  • Check
• One large piece of rock to use as a fulcrum and found by NZ male teacher.
  • Check
• Greek mathematician Archimedes theory on leverage which had to be explained to young Turks which states “Give me a lever and a place to stand on, and I can move the earth.”
  • Check
• 20 young Turks pushing down on lever and lifting back of car.
  • Check
• One very nervous NZ teacher changing wheel extremely quickly and hoping that young Turks would not let go of lever.
  • Check
• 4 bottles of Ouzo to help ease inflammation in throats from too much shouting.
  • Check

Selcuk

After the excitement of the puncture we retired into the hotel where we noticed that the porters were playing Backgammon. Stupidly I accepted the offer to play a game. The Turks play very fast and once the dice are thrown they immediately remove them off the board. So fast that unless you are watching very carefully you won’t see what was thrown and you then need to rely on what they tell you. Surprisingly they usually seemed to get exactly the right dice. I ended up having won one game and lost one. A bit like Gallipoli I suppose. Stalemate.

When the rain cleared and the road dried out we headed off to our next stop on our way to Cappadocia.

Selcuk

This was the town of Selcuk, close to the ancient town of Ephesus. Apart from the Roman ruins the main claim to fame here is the supposed tomb of St John. For those of you Philistines who don’t know the Bible, Jesus from the cross said to St John and referring to the Virgin Mary “This is your Mother” and to the Virgin Mary referring to St John “This is your Son”. The story goes that shortly after the crucifixion St John and Mary travelled to Ephesus where they lived out their last days and died there. Up in the hills overlooking Ephesus is the supposed house where Mary ascended to heaven. This is now converted into a Church with its necessary wall of taps all pouring out holy water for the faithful who arrive by the busload. Best to go in the late afternoon.

The ruins at Ephesus are truly remarkable, especially so because it is here that it was discovered that the Romans had an underground Sewerage system, which ran from the communal toilets away from the city. It also had a brothel with signs set in the stone streets pointing out the way.

Selcuk

Our last stop before we got to Cappadocia was a small town called Olimpus. Renowned throughout backpackerdom for its isolation, no shops carpet and otherwise, cheap accommodation and the presence of the old wacky backy, its a young holidaymakers dream come true. We had only stopped there because of the presence of the Chimaeras.

These are gas plumes that spring from solid rock and ignite spontaneously as they hit the air. Nobody has really explained where the gas comes from or why it ignites but it was a great place to spend the night and explore.

The rooms we were allocated were absolutely wonderful. Not. The sheets were damp and smelt of mildew, as did the rest of the room. The restaurant was cheap, the food lousy with the only bright spot being the bar which was well stocked. Not a great place to stay, but hey, it was cheap. We were lucky to get a Kurd to drive us to the Chimaeras and he did so with all the gusto of a man without a care in the world. They have a speed limit in Turkey. The signs have F/O which I suppose means flat out because that’s how they drive. It was nice to be driving down these narrow winding roads on the left side until I realised that we were meant to be on the other side. Thank God there were no other cars coming.

Goreme

We stopped about five minutes walk from the mountain and when we got to the area where the flames were, we all sat down, opened up a couple of beers and had a sing song. It was hard to get the rest of the group to comprehend that NZ and Aus were different countries so we compromised and sang Waltzing Matilda which most of the group had heard of

Our trip to Goreme in Cappadocia began in earnest the following morning when we left at daybreak looking forward to a long drive with a change of climate including the expectation of snow ahead. This is because Cappadocia is a bit like the volcanic plateau with an altitude higher than it is on the coast thus being a lot colder.

Goreme

By lunchtime we were driving through high mountain passes with snow on the side of the road. We had time to stop and build a snowman before we continued on our lonely trek towards what I was hoping would be my next step up in my teaching Career.

Onwards and upwards I thought to myself as we swept around the bend and there ahead of us were the strange looking houses that make up Cappadocia. I saw the small school on the outskirts of town and they even had a herd of tiny looking sheep in a large caged area just to the side. They looked a bit like cats but why would they cage cats? Anyway we had arrived in one piece and I was looking forward to this new career move with great expectations.

See you next time and keep on talking.

Yours,
The Travelling Teacher

Originally printed in Good Teacher Magazine: Term 1, 2007, page 26 – 27

Dear Editor
After spending some 23 days travelling through Italy, France and London I wanted to share a few travel secrets that I picked up along the way.

These may or may not help you to negotiate the cobbled paths that beset the unwary traveller as you wend your weary way from coffee to café through Europe.

Toilets (bogs to us Kiwis)

1. For the month before you leave home do your exercises.
a) Pelvic floor clenches.
b) Squatting with backpack on and money belt around chest just below breasts.

2) Always have change in your pocket or purse for that urgent dive into the nearest toilet when you suddenly discover that the dinner from last night is just about to appear in another form. Cost is currently running at .70 Euro.
If you don’t have change you can
a) Try to use the change machine. May not work
b) Ask the local gypsy begging outside the door for change of E5.00. May not work either.
c) Pretend you’re a gypsy as well and beg for change.
d) Ask one of the locals.

3). Be prepared to use one of three toilet types.
a) NZ style with a seat.
b) European style without a seat.
c) Turkish style with a hole in floor and foot pads for you to squat on.

4). If you want a clean toilet go to McDonalds. They are required under their franchise agreement to keep their toilets clean and tidy.
You may be required to buy something. The code for the toilet is on your receipt. Or ask one of the other customers for their receipt.

5). Cleanest toilet in Venice. Peggy Guggenheim museum on the Grand Canal. She was an American millionaire who collected modern art. She is buried in the grounds of the museum along with her 20 or so dogs. Museum is worth while going to as well as to use toilet.

If travelling with children

6. Leave at home the all terrain, 3 wheeled vehicle otherwise known as a pram. Instead, buy one of those cheap buggy’s made in China with the 4 small double wheels and plastic upholstery. It will save you hours of frustration and angst. They are light and easy to use and if they get run over by one of the testosterone fuelled Italian drivers, hopefully without the child in it, you can buy another very cheaply.

7. Don’t even bother to look at going to the Vatican Museum or Sistine Chapel.
a) the queue is always about a kilometre long.
b) They don’t allow prams inside.
c) It is always totally crowded (twice as bad as leaving Eden Park after a test match.)
d) Very muggy. About 35 degrees and 95 % humidity.

Instead go to St Peters Basilica.Its large, spacious, cool, plenty of room and absolutely stunning.

9) Don’t expect children to have the same stamina or interest in 16th Century art as you do. They will wilt in about I hour.

10) Always have hats for you and the kids. It will help to keep them cooler. Buy ones that are all the same colour and the brighter the better. This allows you to keep an eye on your family through colour recognition.

Beggars.

11) Do not give money to beggars.
Once you give money to one, its like you have the mark of Cain on your forehead. They will all pester you mercilessly.

12) Be aware that in Rome, and other places I’m sure, the gypsys drug their babies to help them beg. Very distressing to see but do not weaken.

13) If a young woman with a bright Romanian style dress asks you “Do you speak English” answer in your best German or French, Nein/ non. If you say yes, you will be handed a plaintive note saying that her father is ill in hospital and she needs the money to save his life, etc. We struck about 5 in about 500 metres in our walk in the park near the Arc de Triumph. All with the same story. Must have been a large family.

14) If you are buying a train ticket at a vending machine be careful to have someone with you to shoo away the beggars who come swarming around to help you and then
demand the change as payment.

Finally … Coffee

15) Be careful where you have a cup of coffee. Prices vary enormously.

16) If you have coffee at a table you will be charged more than if you stand at the counter. Look for cafes that advertise “no table charge”

17) Don’t have coffee in the piazza beside a famous Cathedral or Museum. It cost us $11.00 per cup for coffee beside the Duomo in Florence. Around the corner it cost about $6.00

18) If you’re desperate for a pee most cafes have toilets. May be worth the $12.00 or so to use their loo.

19) If you’re going to hire a bike get one that looks really scruffy. My brother had his nice new shiny one stolen from outside the Florence Railway Station in broad daylight even though it was secured by 2 metal security chains. We found both chains on the ground cut with bolt cutters.

20) Food. If you have a look around, most areas have Tourist menus, which are 2 or 3 courses for about 15 Euros. (about $30.00). Normally very good value.

Till next time.

Yours,
The Travelling Teacher