“That was a dumb way to die” is a line in my novel The World Between Dreams.
I never expected to apply it to myself.
Yet on this particular afternoon in Türkiye, the phrase surfaced more than once.
I made a mistake. Then another. And another. Then a fourth.
When I left the magnificent ancient city of Ephesus, I should have exited the lower gate rather than the upper one. But I had fallen in love with Ephesus. After exploring the entire site, I decided to walk back through it simply to experience it all over again. First mistake.
When I finally emerged at the upper gate, there were no taxis. Because in the afternoon, they’re all at the lower exit.
My hotel in Selcuk was only about 3.7 kilometres away. A pleasant walk on a warm spring afternoon, I reasoned.
My phone map suggested a shortcut. Second mistake.
Then I took another shortcut. Third mistake.
Soon I was wandering along a narrow dirt track between orchards. A few scattered houses appeared now and then, along with several large and distinctly unfriendly dogs, fortunately kept behind fences.
I kept a close eye on those fences.
After 700 metres, the track forked. One branch led toward a dry creek bed. The other ended among a cluster of crumbling buildings that appeared to have lost interest in civilisation many years ago.
Maps insisted the creek bed was the correct route. To me it looked like the opening scene of a true-crime documentary.
I backtracked and trudged uphill.
By now my feet were protesting. Ephesus is spectacular, but ancient paving stones weren’t designed with moder knees in mind.
Eventually, I spotted the main road into town in the distance.
Another shortcut beckoned. Fourth mistake.
Off I went down another deserted dirt lane lined with orchards. Halfway down, I heard a motor scooter behind me.
A man of robust build pulled alongside, smiling broadly and gesturing for me to hop on the back.
I declined.
Politely.
Repeatedly.
He continued to ride beside me.
There was nobody else around. No visibility beyond the trees. No houses. No traffic.
Just me, an orchard, and a very determined stranger.
At this point I remembered a passage in the guidebook warning against wandering alone in rural areas.
Excellent timing. Not!
The man pointed at my lower leg and spoke rapidly in Turkish.
Reflex kicked in. I looked down. No injury or ripped shoe. Not even an untied shoelace.
I moved away.
He stopped, switched off the scooter, dismounted, and approached.
Still smiling. Still pointing at my foot. Still talking.
It was not the ideal moment to tug out my phone and pull up Google Translate.
I backed away.
He came closer. Fast.
Then, before I could decide whether to run, he dropped onto one knee and gestured for me to place my foot in his hands.
I declined that invitation as well.
Then things became truly weird.
He clasped my ankles in his very large hands, lay flat on the ground, and kissed my feet.
Both of them.
I kid you not!
I stepped backwards.
He let me go easily enough.
I began walking away at a pace that could reasonably be described as brisk.
He called out in English.
“Mother. Mother”
I looked back. He was still prostrate, still smiling, head raised toward me.
“Mother!”
Then he climbed onto his scooter and rode back the way he’d come.
I have travelled extensively but would have to say that this remains one of the strangest encounters I’ve experienced anywhere in the world.
I finally made it back to the hotel, exhausted from walking an unnecessary four kilometres on top of a long day in Ephesus.
I laughed.
Not immediately.
But later, sitting under the arbour in the courtyard with some tasty snacks and a nice glass of wine.
Because while many things had been mentioned in the guidebook, having a random stranger prostrate himself before me and kiss my feet was not one of them.
