Ephesus

“Gidday mate. Ow’s it going,” greeted Suliman, the hotel keeper, with a very good impression of a Sydney Bridge painter. He informed us many Australian visitors frequent his establishment and we chatted for some time about his town, Selcuk (say sell chook), farming, hotel life and the price of lamb.

“Bastards charge too much!” he said with more venom than I had heard from any Turk.

From the rooftop terrace he pointed out the sites in the immediate vicinity, the 700 year old mosque next door, the 1500 year old church across the top of the adjoining hotel, the domes across the street of the 13th century Turkish bath where he and his boyhood friends used to play, and the sandy beach in the distance past the vineyards and olive and pomegranate groves.

“See that house on the hill?” he said pointing to a dot below two communication towers on a mountain in the distance.

“Mythology has it that that is the home of Mary, Jesus’s mother.”

The drive up the winding mountain road behind a rusting and smoking van allowed us to view over the fertile and plentiful countryside. The groves and vines we glimpsed from the terrace stretched to neighbouring mountains.

Mary’s house was seen in a vision by a bedridden German nun who had never left her native country but had described this setting in detail which was found by an enterprising French priest and pilgrims now visit the reconstructed building in droves. Many leave messages and prayers on a wall but visitors forget to bring note paper as most are written on tissue or toilet paper.

Our Australian ex-pat dinner companion from Antalya suggested a guide is essential for visiting Ephesus, the Roman city destroyed by an earthquake in the 3rd century AD. So we stood at the entrance for a moment, inconspicuous as tourists with a large camera slung around the neck and the Lonely Planet guide book in hand. . Thus disguised, we were ready to haggle a good price as experienced travellers. They came like pins drawn to a magnet and we/I negotiated a price which was agreed all too readily by Dervis. You know the feeling. You thought you’ve struck a good deal and, quick as a flash, his firm hand comes out to grab your limp one and immediately the feeling you’ve been had again strikes.

He was good though, obviously a history buff, and knew all the emperors, generals, sultans and their sultanas. Dervis was also proud of his Assyrian Christian heritage.

“I am from the east of Turkey near the Iranian border. I am Assyrian. Not from Syria,” he added as if confusing his heritage might alter the terms of our contract.

“That’s OK, Dervis. We have the same problems with kangaroos in Austria,” I said.

He gave us the cook’s tour of the site at a pace we were not used to. At times I observed him standing under his umbrella watching us read as if he were checking his meter to see if his deal was as good as he had originally agreed. When guide books say two hours recommended, we usually double that to four. We read, we sit, we photograph.

Dervis spoke to a number of people on the way through the site. Some were fellow guides and police. He spoke to another man in a bright orange shirt who seemed to be having technical issues with his audio guide. He showed one group of Japanese tourists a photo on his phone of a Japanese movie star he had guided, and they all babbled their excitement and took photos of him. He refused their offer to accompany them and still found time to tell us what we paid him for.

He pointed out a carving in the stones outside the ancient brothels. The inscription supposedly read.

“Place your foot here. If it is smaller, don’t bother entering!” The paths seemed a little further worn in this section of the road.

Austrian, not Australian, archaeologists interrupted their dig to watch with us two large dogs sniff each others bottoms then roll with each other in playful ecstasy on the marble street.

Ephesus is a wonderful ancient site. We meandered down a long marble-paved curving street lined with columns, arches, theatres, baths, latrines, fountains, terraced houses, the grand library and piles of seemingly meaningless carved rubble.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, Dervis wound up his presentation, a little quickly I thought, we shook hands and departed. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I caught him moments later leading a group which included the bright orange shirt who had technical issues with his audio guide.

It was two kilometres up the hill again so we retraced our steps up the paved street reading everything that Dervis had told us and leisurely exploring the site again.

The sun was lower, the crowds had thinned and the cats came out of their holes.

We parked the car outside Suliman’s hotel following our Ephesus visit and his head appeared over the terrace wall to greet us in the street.

“Gidday mates! Ow was the bloody pile of rocks?”

To join in his Australian spirit, we sat on the terrace with a beer and wine and saw the sunset again.