THE RUIN OF THE RAIN
Somewhere between breathing and death, I am poleaxed by a germ, picked up on a flight from Istanbul to Dalaman, a British-tourist hotspot in southern Turkey, with azure seas, scattered islands and a sun-washed beach.
Turns out you can have too much of a good thing. After two days of beach bars, bobbing boats and Brits, we headed for a more cultural destination: the Roman, Egyptian and Hellenic ruins of Patara, top of the Lycian league.
In my infected state, I slumped into the back seat of the vehicle and closed my eyes, lulled by driver Harum’s historic running commentary blended with Turkish pop from the radio.
The motion ceased, we had arrived. My eyes prised open to the lightest patter of rain on the windscreen.
Proceeding to the ruinous forum, we passed an aged shepherdess, head bowed against the wind, tending a flock of goats next to a wizened tree in a scene straight out of the Old Testament. Her flapping, plastic-bag covering was less than biblical, but she was amenable to having her photograph taken. A moment in time.
By the time we reached the city remains, the rain had ratcheted up, eclipsing my post-nasal drip. Our borrowed fold-up macs would protect us from the elements, so we supposed, and we stepped briskly out along the length of the
Roman road flanked by pillars and reassembled rocks, engraved like so many Rosetta stones.
Across from where we stood, a clutch of damp artisanal archaeologists sheltered under an archway. As we paused in front of what has been described as “the original Ann Summers sex shop”, with a frame featuring a giant penis in bas-relief, they cheered and waved.
Just then a little heavier, the rain had us duck into a roofed area, where the story of Patara’s discovery and restoration was outlined. Then, in a dry second of sunlight, we were out into the amphitheatre, where wild animals and humans were once pitted against each other. A lusty bunch these Lycians: they may have been architecturally ahead of their time, but they were not big on animal or human rights.
At this point, the god Apollo (whose son is said to have founded Patara) did a complete disappearing act and the heavens opened. In diagonal sheets, rain lashed the ancient ground, no doubt unearthing more relics and drenching us to the bone.
A sprint back to the van, where Harum managed a sympathetic smile as we peeled off wet layers and steamed up his vehicle. Thoughtfully, one of the party had brought a picnic — we were momentarily consoled with cold spinach crêpes and beer.
By association, the driving rain forced me to make a dash to the palm-fringed WC block, where, for the cost of one lira, an unhappy gentleman dolled out paper towel.
With a second break in the tempest, I decided on a further dash down a boardwalk to the beach, said by the guidebook to be one of the best in the world. It turned out to be not unlike Noordhoek and a hot cup of tea at the beach café was as likely as the second coming of Apollo.
We cut our losses and persuaded Harum to take us to nearby Jimmy’s café, where we washed down his famous menemen (a sort of Turkish frittata) with hot tea in tulip glasses and a raki chaser. The effect was instantly thawing.
While the downpour may have ruined our expedition, it did at least gladden our
Capetonian, climate-conscious hearts and rehydrated us nicely, like well-oiled olives.
L © Nancy Richards