All That's Glossy Is Not Gold
Created | Updated 3 Days Ago
All That's Glossy Is Not Gold
Prestige: admired and respected because it looks important and expensive.
FWR Dictionary
Ahem, I beg to bloody differ!
Over the last few years, since Covid locked us all up in our own tiny universes, we've decided to do at least one touristy guided trip on every holiday we are lucky to take. See some off-the-beaten-track stuff we'd never find on our own. Stuff is good.
So far, we've thoroughly enjoyed each and every one. From foodie tours in the Canaries, the small villages of Croatia, to sunset boat trips in the stunning blue-ness of the Aegean.
So our latest jaunt proved a little. . . .erm. . . challenging?
We'd done some online research into the places, sights, and experiences that the area around Side in Turkey had to offer. Narrowed it down to five must-sees.
Walking along the seafront to the Temple of Apollo (also on the list but an easy stroll from our hotel) we popped into a rather nice-looking visitor and attractions place. Very glossy posters showing all the things we wanted to do and see.
Prestige Tours looked very nice, the staff very friendly, the brochures stunning and the prices reasonable. And they offered a day trip that took in all five of our wishlist places, plus a few detours thrown in.
Deposit paid, we were informed that our luxury transport would pick us up early the day after next.
Perfect!
Erm. . . not quite. . . not even close. . . but I'd promised my wife I'd stop moaning about things I couldn't change, suck it up buttercup. . . . and just enjoy the experience, after all you'll have something to scribble about for the Post. . .
We were waiting with typical English promptness for our transport outside our hotel. Wife breathing in the hot morning air, me complaining about breathing in a cloud of diesel fumes, as I craned my neck to see around the antique junkyard-worthy coach that was blocking my view. Didn't want to miss our ride because of this piece of junk!
The hippie driver waved at us, easily visible as the bus had no windows. His colleague stepped carefully around the holes in the rust on the running boards, lit a cigarette and coughed through the smoke.
Not exactly a cough, more of a call. . . calling out in an accent that was a mixture of Turkish, Eastern European, and bronchitis. . . . calling out our names, in fact!
No. Bloody. Way!
My wife smiled that smile, but even she couldn't resist a nervous look as she sat down, pulling her bag away from the holes she'd noticed in the floor. Actual holes, in the actual floor!
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I grumpily sat next to her, the ripped seat collapsing backwards against my weight. My wife laughing at my almost horizontal position, 'Comfy?'
I fiddled with the seat controls, eventually gave up playing with the pre-war levers, and sat forward, sure there'd be a few empty seats we could move to. The bus was thankfully half empty.
We set off in a huge cloud of black exhaust fumes.
Two minutes later. Two whole minutes. The 'guide' coughs into a microphone. Russian, Turkish and German. As an afterthought he spluttered, 'Cigarette break, ten-minute stop here!'
Ok, we didn't know how long the wreck had been on the road before we boarded, and any excuse to get off and escape the torture device that was my seat.
Amazingly, another identical piece of scrap pulled in behind us. This one was crammed full, standing room full.
Another hippie driver shouted to our guy, pages of travellers were pored over with yellow fingers, something shouted in Russian, people herded towards our rust-bucket. Herding Russian speakers from wreck 1 to wreck 2 took several more cigarettes.
Bugger that, I'd swap seats before it filled up!
More holes in the floor, more ripped upholstery, but at least the seat worked. The Russian guy who now reclined in my original place didn't seem to mind being horizontal, simply cracked open a beer and swigged at the vodka bottle his partner offered around.
Jeez, us Brits have a bad reputation abroad, but this took holiday drinking to a new level, it was only bloody half-eight in the morning!
Ah, well, we'd soon be exploring the hidden ruins in the beautiful hillside forest, then swimming in the stunning Green Canyon, cooling ourselves off in the beautifully impressive Manavgat waterfalls, a tour of a stunning orange Grove, sampling local delicacies, then a gourmet lunch break aboard a private boat, looking forward to jumping into the crystal waters of the Green Lake.
What did it matter how we got there? Maybe there was a mechanical problem with the 'luxury travel' vehicles?
We decided to enjoy the experience – revel in the bizarreness of our situation.
And it turns out there was a lot of bizarre stuff to come!
The ruins were very interesting, but sadly, the beautiful forest had been victim of a very bad forest fire the year before, so not exactly as scenic as the beautifully glossy brochure. The guide puffed through many cigarettes as he coughed out facts in Russian and German. Thankfully the Turkish Tourist Board had thoughtfully placed signage in several languages to explain what we were looking at.
The road to Green Canyon was horrific: narrow gravel paths with open drops, perfect for the hippie driver to show off his overtaking skills. I nearly turned religious as my wife squeezed the blood from my fingers with each bend!
We narrowly missed another coach called 'Traum Tours', I remarked that if you stuck an A in the middle, they'd've nailed it.
Still, a swim in those beautifully advertised canyons would be worth it. . . . . . erm, no, not a hope.
The place itself was actually stunningly beautiful, but the canyon was merely a reservoir for the huge hydroelectric dam. No swimming, just a twenty-minute photo op, and the chance for tobacco companies to earn a few more thousand Lira. The drive down was just as TraumAtic.
The waterfalls. The beautifully advertised waterfalls. OK, they were nice. Surrounded by a suspiciously unadvertised concrete visitors centre, fenced off and very busy, the hordes jostled to get a photo of the falls, carefully avoiding the 'swimming prohibited' signs. We waded through the cigarette smoke that surrounded the rustbucket and took our seats.
The Green Lake was gorgeous, the large cafe very ramshackle, but the clear crystal water looked so inviting.
The 'No swimming. It is dangerous and prohibited' sign wasn't so inviting.
But they sold alcohol, so the Russians were happy, and smoking was deemed neither dangerous nor prohibited!
The hour-long boat trip was nice, slightly ruined (in the same way the dog chewing your best shirt slightly ruins it), by the p.a. blasting out Russian rap music and awful German pop. But the scenery was beautiful, and our fellow travellers sang along with much gusto, vodka and beer!
Lunch and Gourmet. Two words that should never ever be allowed to have been typed next to each other on the stunningly glossy brochures!
Mystery meat, a soggy bit of salad, and some pasta-style-thingy. Not good. I gave up and succumbed to the lure of a cold beer.
The beautiful Orange Grove and the local delicacies?
Three trees, a padlocked gate (presumably into the groves you could just see over the huge fence) and a shop selling tourist tat, and vodka and orange.
A strangely disappointing visit to a beautifully decorated mosque left us a bit flat and confused. I've had a conversation with DG about the missing feeling of. . . well I'm sure he'll explain it in Deep Thought.
A bizarre day, and the most bizarre aspect was. . . . we actually enjoyed it!
Instead of being irate at the misadvertising, furious at the lack of anything resembling luxury, prestige, or even comfortable, disgusted at the liver-damaging behaviour of our fellow travellers, we swallowed our expectations, enjoyed the unique day out, laughed our heads off with each brochure-busting disappointment, and looked forward to having a tale to tell.
Next time you book to see Roman ruins, ignore the glossy brochures, forget trip advising websites, check out h2g2 and remember your school-days Latin: caveat emptor!
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