demre, day trip two of three, is the other way up the highway from tahtali.
i had to change buses in a little town called finike. i sat and waited for my bus while people loaded cargo onto the bus -- plastic bags stuffed full, duffel bags, plastic crates, propane tanks, baskets, a splattered painter's radio. the bus was full, even people standing, though i imagined demre to be quite small. going down the highway the sea was to my left and the mountains were to my right. the highway went right along the water, precluding any beaches or swimming holes except one tucked under the guard rails: a small pebbley beach, a shabby looking restaurant with a new cooler that said pepsi, old pallets stacked, deck chairs and umbrellas, a decrepit looking shower. further up the mountain, power lines followed the road.
where the earth had been cut away to make space for the highway you could see the layers of soil slanting down to the sea. the stoney loose earth was reddish brown like cinnamon. the rock was white like dirty salt. most of the trees were olive trees, which i can recognize, now. the rest were some kind of bright pine with upturned needles. every now and then, a citrus orchard. the water on the other side was very blue beneath someone's very grey battleship.
the hot sun made me sleepy. i awoke in demre.
i found the town square easily, with its slightly larger than life gold statue of mustafa kemal attaturk, on a tiled pedestal with wreaths in front. there was a central traffic circle. nearby was a little tented shop that sold rubber boots, hinges, bells for cows and sheep, the metal ends of shovels, collars, bridles, tool boxes, steel clamps, iron pans, little barbeques, stove-top toasters, carabiners, metal hooks, sawblades, woodworking tools... and a double boiler of tea and bowl of oranges. there were jewelry shops with english signage.
some of the buildings in the town centre needed a fresh coat of paint. others had huge, perfect murals of attaturk in a fez on a red background.
up the brick street it became all tourist shops. a man called to me when a hexagonal nazar caught my eye. and everywhere kitschy portraits of saint nicholas in the reds and golds of orthodoxy, always with ring finger touching thumb. the tourist shops sold not only trinkets, but also sunglasses, watches, and leather hand bags.
the men wore suits, jackets, vests underneath, wool hats and leather shoes. often you heard the sound of a low-tech engine sputtering, or the sound of a public address system. many people rode bikes and a man came to get one from the rack where he had not locked it up. children all seemed to wear the same school uniform, with green crested shirts. a handful of them played volleyball with a rubber ball so light the wind would move it. men with canes walked unafraid, worry beads in hand.
