I know lots of educated young Turkish people are fighting for a secular democracy in our neighbourhood, but how are we supposed to get our kebabs? Are they going to do home deliveries during a protest with teargas and rubber bullets floating and flying? No.
Talk about SELFISH

If anybody ever decides to visit the Gallipoli I can totally recommend a retired Turkish professor by the name of Kenan Celic as your tour guide.  He has taken Bob Hawke, Sir William Dean, and Quentin Bryce on personal tours around the battlefield. He received the Order of Australia for combining a profound knowledge of the campaign with an incredible ability to communicate. Sadly we got a Kamal not Kenan. We only met Kenan in the carpark at Chanuk Bair after our tour was over. Next time.

Kemal, our tour guide, spoke a form of Turklish that would have been almost impossible to understand without full concentration and a lot of pre-reading. His strange dialect was, I think, the next-of-kin to some long deceased form of Olde English. There was a lovely Spanish guy who made an unfortunate decision to join this tour because he had nothing to do that day. He lacked both pre-reading and full concentration and as a result he was defeated by the Kamal the Talking Turk soon after the ANZACS had landed

I felt a range of emotions throughout the day and throughout my reading. The reckless and almost criminal incompetence of the British officers is still infuriating, especially in contrast to the wonderful leadership of some of the Turkish units. Information about the poor performance of some of our troops makes tough reading (More than a quarter had caught some form of STD in Egypt.  A number of Australian units headed back to the boats at the first chance. The Aussies became good soldiers but the Kiwis won that test hands down.)

I was amazed to hear and read about the performance of the famous Turkish 57th Batallion – just 160 men opposed our entire landing force for the first two hours. They had no machine guns, – just rifles, bayonets, great leadership – and stacks and stacks and stacks of raw courage.  No wonder the Turkish army has retired that jersey. There has never been another Turkish 57th Battalion since, out of respect for those blokes.

The diminutive size of some of the sites is terrifying. At The Nek (of Mel Gibson fame) nearly 350 West Australians became casualties in a few minutes on a battlefield not much larger than a tennis court.  Lone Pine is not much bigger. You can see from the beach the second ridge where the Australians were ordered to stop for morning tea. Nine months and 8000 deaths later they had essentially gone no further.  The famous healing words of Ataturk are particularly moving when you see them carved into marble at ANZAC Cove, as is the obvious respect the Turks have shown to our fallen.

We didn’t get to Cape Helles, or Suvla Bay, or the French sites on the Asian Side.  There’s only so much emotion that can be expended in a few hours with someone whose words you can’t really understand. But it is a pilgrimage of commemoration that is well worth the effort. On this day I thought a great deal about Bronny and Damion, I also thought a great deal about various Dads -Scotty’s, Maryanne’s, Don’s – and Ted Evans of course. It is impossible not to think of them and be affected when you are in a place such as this – a place where such enormous sacrifices were made.

Lest we forget? I don’t think we could possibly forget.

After an emotionally scarring cappuccino experience on our first morning in Istanbul, we have become converts to the genteel practice of drinking tea from a glass.

Our borek breakfast is accompanied by two cups of tea. Our pistachio-filled baklava is washed down by two cups of tea. A retail purchase is celebrated by the sharing of a glass of tea or two. Our lunch banquet is not complete without …. two cups of tea.

Tea drinking defines the Turkish day. We have discovered unlimited opportunities to drink tea, observe tea drinking and photograph tea drinkers.

Better let you go Scotty, time for a malt Efes or two.

The narrow, hilly streets of Istanbul are filled with men pushing carts. There is the occasional overloaded human porter with an impossible weight on his head or back, but almost anything movable is moved by men pushing carts. They become mobile bakeries, mobile hardware shops, greengrocers, drapers, fishmongers, florists – even chemist shops. I have seen carts that specialise in hot corn and in catfood, pies and pide, tea and trinkets. There are carts that are just for collecting empty plastic waterbottles, some for bottles filled with iced water.  I have seen a cart carrying a cart.  I think at Gallipoli we probably needed more carts.

True, the Turks got advice from Otto von Sanders to help organise their defence but we had to have Winston Churchill planning our campaign, they had Kemal Attaturk on the ground and we had General Bridges.  They had forts but we had the tragedy of the River Clyde.  The Turkish navy had lots of very effective mines to use against our fleet of aging ships.  They were fighting to protect their homeland and we were trying to invade.

However we only had Simpson and his donkey.  But they would have had lots and lots of little carts I reckon.  This would have been the real tipping point for the Gallipoli campaign. I suppose we’ll find out the truth about their secret weapon on our guided tour tomorrow.

Just a collection of the Englandish language as she is spoked in Turkeyville.

I think we once stayed in a hotel from this chain in Budapest:

Kind of English writed:

I’ve eaten here:

I think I ordered the stager, cheese and spinach plication:

Coffee is good for your plumbing:

Try doing this with a cat:

Hats maketh the man. This man would like to maketh himself like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz:

Umbrella hats are seriously underrated as a fashion item.

I have tried hard to extend the photographic hand of friendship to the the neighbourhood before Mitchell arrives. Mitch is always SO excited by my attempts to connect with the locals that he walks away or hides -probably to calm his proudly beating heart.

This is Ali. He serves us borek and çay for breakfast every day. Bless you my son.

His two workmates are called Ali and Ali. (The one on the left is Ali)

We buy our beautiful fruit and veg from this stall. I never quite catch his name, but I’m pretty sure he says it’s Ali, or something like that.

I love simit, the local sesame bread. I buy some every day from my mate Keith (not his real name)

There are heaps of other locals we’ve had the opportunity to get to know. At least one is not called Ali.  Ahmet the shoe shine man was the fourth son. Sadly for Ahmet the only good name was gone by then.

This is Bruno. I’ve already said I don’t want to talk about him.  I wish he was more like my Turkish mate Ali.

I like chapplilling as much as the next man, and I too chaplill quite often.  But I don’t go round writing about it all over someone’s wall. Some things are best left undisclosed.

The street merchants have all put out sets of masks, goggles, helmets, Turkish flags and Kemal Attaturk t-shirts for sale. Everything you need when you want to share a peaceful demonstration with the local police force.

Probably a really good day to stay close to home. I wasn’t that keen on seeing the Dervish dancers today anyway.

Oh, and it’s soon time to welcome Mitch and Maryanne. Hope they bring their own mask and goggles- there’s no way they’re having mine.

(Check out this bloke’s home made version made from a water bottle and a bunch of tissues – Turkish ingenuity. Another example of Turkish ingenuity and make-do is the electrical wiring in our block of apartments. In fact this bloke could well be the electrician judging by his ability to improvise!)