The MSC Opera - Istanbul and Canakkale

September 18, 2020 Sandra Groom

THE MSC OPERA - ISTANBUL AND CANAKKALE

22nd April 2015

Today is Earth Day, a day for honouring the planet and supporting environmental protection.

Today is also my sister's birthday, she was born in 1944 in London during WW2 and so is 71 years old. My father happened to be home on leave from the Western Front when my mother went into labour with their first child, during a fearful shelling of London. My father ran through the streets trying to find an ambulance, which was guided back to their tiny flat through bombed streets and the ruins of buildings, holes so big you could drop motor cars into - with the aid of lit matches. My father ran up the stairs ahead of the ambos and as they placed my mother into the ambulance, she gave my father instructions about what to eat in her absence.

We spent the last two days touring.

Day One was in Istanbul, where a man called Metim (as in I met him in Turkey, he tells us) - where we visit the Byzantine Cistern, an underground water source, protected by thick walls and massive doors, so that the enemy could not poison the city's water supply. Lit with yellow lamps, light flickering off water in which fat Koi swam, walking up and down ancient stone stairs, with water seeping down off the roofs, we marvel at the ingenuity of mankind. The place is held up with huge pillars, apparently built to last for centuries, yet Metim shows us how haphazard some of this building is - there are pillars placed upside down, easily distinguishable as the faces are doing head stands, or lying sideways. There is a constant procession of tourists filing through this damp and gloomy place, and I am relieved to get out into the sunshine.

We walk and walk and walk to the Blue Mosque, where we queue and queue and queue to get in, we women wrap our heads in our scarves, and there are scarves available for those who do not have them, remove our shoes, and carry them in a plastic bag. We shuffle along, inching our way into this incredible building, stand in rows ten deep and take photos, shuffle our way to the corner, where Metim gives us a short speech, which includes the information there are 21,000 tiles in this building. Really? 21,000 million I am thinking, of all colours, of such magnificence, of such design and wonder how it was possible to even contemplate such a building, let alone construct it, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the complexity and resources necessary for such a building today would have technology churning - but back then? How? I am mesmerised at what humanity is capable of, even though I cannot fully appreciate what I am seeing, wedged in by tourists all around me, and all taller. If only they would all leave and we could see this in peace. Hah.

It is cold but sunny, we put our shoes back on, although some people are having trouble getting down to their feet and walk to a carpet gallery, where we are treated to apple tea, and an entertaining demonstration of exquisite silk, cotton and woollen rugs of vivid colours and rich designs and a demonstration by a master weaver, a woman wearing a veil, her fingers deftly counting and doing the 'double knot', something which is apparently only done by the Turks. It can take years to complete a rug, and the more intricate the colour and pattern, of course the longer it takes, and the more costly the item. He hastens to inform us that although his staff are not paid 'excessively', perhaps $700 a month, they would otherwise be unemployed, and have no sense of independence and dignity, and they only work 3 - 4 hours a day, the work is so demanding and detailed. His rugs are displayed by slim and agile young men who almost dance as they unfurl each rug, spinning some in the air - a flying carpet! - and run from one corner of the large room we are seated around, to the other, my oh my, there are carpets everywhere, and if we cannot find what we want here, he has 12,000 more rugs, right here, in this building. These rugs are an investment, his own home is filled with rugs which he inherited from his Grandma, about 90 years old, and more beautiful today than they were when made. We would have a beautiful item of ever increasing value gracing our homes forever, and then the homes of our children and grandchildren! Just imagine! He is a handsome man who does not even try to persuade us, just shares his story and enrols us with the beauty and brilliance of his rugs. The ones on the floor sell for between $1000 and $6000. Perhaps thirty minutes into his presentation, the door opens, and perhaps eight men enter, 'The Closers' as Gary says, and a man approaches us directly, asking "Which ones do you like?" In a matter of minutes, Gerald and I are in a room two floors up, with he and a carpet thrower displaying rugs on beautiful wooden floors for our inspection. Of course, the one I cannot tear my eyes from is a thing of such beauty, the colours mellowed with age, pale terracottas and blues, intricate lozenges of patterns, a thick knotted fringe at one end, a short fringe at the other, it has a 'hidden signature', and is considered an antique, at ninety years old. It is $6,800. Gulp. The bus is waiting, we will come back next week when we are staying here in Istanbul at the end of our boat trip, but he Arras will not be, so he introduces us to one to the most charming men I have ever met, Mustafa, who has lived in Sydney, and is friends with the Mayor of Perth, a lady whose name I cannot recall, and tells us Russell Crowe was here in this shop recently, after completing the film, The Water Diviner. He shows us a picture of his daughter, and says he will collect us from our hotel, have a 'cuppa' with us - or lunch! - and he gives me his private number, which he confides he does not give to everyone. He tells Gerald he looks like his father, and will bring a picture to show us, and he tells me I look Turkish - the women in Turkey of course are the most beautiful in the world. As I say, charming. Two or three couples have bought rugs, one for $5,000 and the other have bought two, one for $4000 and the other 'more expensive'. They will be shipped to their front door, no GST, insured, 'free of charge'.

We walk some more - down cobbled streets thick with traffic and small shops selling trinkets and coffee and pide and fish sandwiches and delicious smelling kebabs, Gary purchases one, filled with tender morsels of beef and salads, and two large very hot green chilis. We sample it, divine. Now we walk through the Grand Bazaar, this is a sight to behold. A vast structure with unfathomable laneways leading off at all angles, shop after shop with dazzling displays of gold and turquoise and leather and furs and Turkish Delight, macadamia candy and pastries, rugs and more rugs, shoes, silver jewellery, scarves, belts, souvenirs, men spruiking their goods, "Come in Madam! Its almost free!" - men sitting drinking tiny cups of evil looking broth, and cigarette smoke wafting continuously wherever we go. Its mayhem and its magic, you could spend a month here, and not see it all, and be lost the entire time. There are seven different entries, so you better ensure you leave by the same you entered, or we will lose our group.

We walk and walk and walk some more to our restaurant, which is in the grounds of the Topkapi Palace - it is a vigorous excursion, with kilometres of walking between sights, many stairs, and inconsistencies in pavements and holes in the road and you need to keep your eyes on where you are walking. The streets are shoulder to shoulder with tourists, is it always this way, or is this 100 year Anniversary of Gallipolli attracting the thousands and thousands of people we are competing for pavement space with? The restaurant is up some more stairs, more queues, but Metim guides us into a side entrance, and we fall thankfully into chairs, it is 2 pm and my back is sore and I am hungry, and dying to pee. The queue for the loo has 26 women in front of me, vying for 3 toilets, and moves interminably slow. The gents, on the other hand, has men in and out in minutes. I ask the attendant, can we go into the gents if you clear out the men for a while? She looks shocked and shakes her head, and gesticulates how easy it is for men to pee, holding an imaginary penis and shaking it dry. Yes, but. The queue inches along, for God's sake, how long does it take to pee, ladies???? Eventually a chivalrous Italian man, seeing his female companions distress, clears the men's and starts ushering women into it, standing protectively at the door keeping men at bay. You gotta love a man like that. But I am only four from the ladies, and reluctant to lose the ground I have fought for, and finally I am in. The relief makes me giddy.

Lunch is served, a large bread basket which I cannot eat, as I am gluten intolerant, an inedible pastry and cheese dish which most of us leave, a Shepherds Salad (chopped cucumber and tomato) which I devour, and then chicken and beef kebabs, mashed potato, rice, and zucchini, more cucumber Gerald insists, and leaves it. A pastry similar to a Koeksuster is served, a honey cake, with ice cream, and strong tea. And then we are off, more walking into the palace. No beer as Turkey is 95% muslim !

There are four courtyards, and we have only just entered the first one. A million tourists queuing up for everything, tickets, food, the museum, the shop, the toilets - oh the toilets are at a premium everywhere here - we wander about, gazing upwards, trying to follow Metim with his handkerchief size flag, and not get lost, my battery has died already on my phone, but Gerald is taking good shots. Guides are holding up signs, doing head counts, describing in several languages what their group are seeing, there are people from every corner of the globe, judging by their clothing, and many Turkish women, clad head to toe in black, and people of every financial level - I see faces assisted by the surgeons knife, clad in Chanel tripping on Manolo Blahnik stilettos (really, sightseeing???), carrying large expensive hand bags, I see families chasing kids and pushing prams, young back packers sharing a bag of potato crips and a can of coke, Turkish men wearing caps, Indians in saris, people queuing up at the shop to dress in traditional Turkish clothing, being carefully arranged by the photographer - its a kaleidoscope of sound and colour, teeming with humanity, its overwhelming and loud and busy and amazing. We walk and walk and walk, marvelling at the architecture, the age, the majesty, and eventually, there is 'free time', many people choose to sit in the sun out of the freezing wind, but I wish to see the Harem in the Palace, and pay 15 lira to get in ($7.50)m as Gary, Jenny and Gerald wait outside - we have an hour to kill. I wander through this labyrinth of chambers and ante chambers, each one more beautiful than the one before, with names like 'The Black Eunuch's Chamber', and 'The Queen Mother's Chamber', 'The Sultans Chamber' - richly decorated with Delft tiles and gilt edging, carving and sumptuous platforms covered in thick mattresses and cushions, where I imagine He lay, beckoning one or several of his 150 wives. He was certainly kept busy, as he travelled to war a lot, and when he came home, 150 wives were waiting, and he had to produce as many sons as possible. The sons were able to stay with their mothers until they were in their teens, then they were sent off to war, and when they returned, a sort of vote was held dependent on their war time success, to decide who was to be the next Sultan. Girls, Mitem says airily, were 'sent overseas to marry other royalty'. Really? All those 150 mothers daughters were married off to royalty? I am looking at the large wells all around and suspect that some of these unfortunate females may have had a very different end. The First Wife may not even have shared his bed, but she "organised" the other women. Oh my, I can just imagine the petty jealousies and hatred and miseries and arguments of 150 women in that beautiful place, filled with lush gardens and sumptuous art - and women vying for sons and the Sultan's attention. Girls were chosen for their beauty and families were honoured to have their daughter selected for the harem. I am glad that tradition is over.

I walk and walk through room after room, gasp at the beauty of the Bosphorus through each arched window, the gardens covered in grass and tulips and roses and hyacinths and herbs, and suddenly realise my hour is nearly up, I must find my way back to the others. Finding the exit requires assistance, and when I leave I find myself in an unrecognisable area, nowhere near the entrance I went in. I feel a rising panic. I have no phone as the battery is dead, no money, and no map. Well, OK, the map I may not have had, but truthfully, the map has never been of much assistance to me. Lost amongst thousands of tourists, I remember the woman who was lost earlier today, and momentarily joined our group, she did not know her bus number nor the name of her guide, and I smirked at her ineptness.

Well, Sandra, how smart is THIS?

Gerald, in times like this, gazes upwards, and gets his geographical position from the sun or the moon or the stars, or something, and confidently strides out, recognising landmarks and street signs. I, on the other hand, have no sense of direction at all, and I walk first one way, then another, hoping heaven will guide me, in this instance that the entrance will miraculously appear, but to no avail. I hurry down one long walkway, and feel encouraged, as I DO remember this building, Gary had commented on two blue tiles in the corner, and Gerald had asked about the metal bars, literally holding the building together. But do I go forward or back here? I remember the guide saying he would meet us in the Museum Shop. YES! I can go there! I ask a man selling corn on the cob and chestnuts where it is, which one he replies, there are three? Oh, shit. I wander some more, and minutes tick by. I run back to the corn on the cob/chestnut man. Do you know where the entrance to the Harem is? Yes, he says, and gives me complicated instructions to get there (another of my weak points, following directions to find anywhere), I am trying to remember if I should turn left at that corner, or right. It is a long way, he says, so I guess the harem is a very big place, and the entrance and exit are at opposite ends of different courtyards, oh Metim, if only you had told me this earlier! An important announcement, people, if you go to the Harem, be aware that you will be totally lost when you exit and will need complicated directions and a fifteen minute brisk walk to find the rest of your group. I am half running and bumping into people eating ice creams and smoking, but finally arrive at a large sunny area, and there seated amongst dozens of others, are "My Three" - Gerald, Gary and Jenny, I almost weep with relief, but downplay my panic, as they are laughing and making jokes. Barry has told Gerald that my application for the Harem has been accepted, and I won't be returning. I love the Aussie sense of humour. When we came here (AUSTRALIA) 42 years ago, I didn't understand it at all, and used to watch Paul Hogan and shake my head in confusion.

We finally assemble our group and walk and walk and walk back to the bus which takes us back to the boat, its been a long and tiring day, my feet hurt, these Skechers do not give me sufficient support and my back is groaning. Few comfort stops, lots and lots of walking, a very late lunch, and being lost has taken its toll. We queue up again to get on board ship, pass through security, and sink into our cabin gratefully, clutching a gin and tonic my Beloved has gotten us.

Day Two, is in Canakkale. Pronounced Chan Ak A Lee. Not Can A Kar Lee. There is a fair bit of grumbling and mumbling amongst the troops on board, the organisation is woeful, planning appears absent, things happen haphazardly, we have dozens of staff on board but all but a few of them appear to have had any training at all, rumours are rife, and confusion reigns for all. Gary and Jenny, who booked at the same time we did, are getting off with us in Turkey to spend 8 days there, but no, the 'system' has them staying on board and heading back to Venice. Gary has several times spoken to Graeme, one of the ineffectual staff members of Military Cruises, a sort of John Cleese character, grouchy and uncooperative, who gave the first military talk on board ship, and who walked off stage saying he would not answer questions, as he was busy doing other things Now he is making endless lists of complaints in a notebook, and placing a determined line under each query by our disgruntled passengers. When Gary went back, he made another entry, although Gary reminded him of his first (undated) entry. Graeme says no, he has started ANOTHER list. They want Gary to sign a 'no responsibility' clause, which he understandable does not wish to, as he will kiss his money goodbye.

The irony of all this is how we can draw certain similarities of this debacle to the Anzac Landings. I do not intend disrespect, or give the impression that we have suffered or lost lives, but many passengers have drawn the same conclusion. The analogy is the same. A giant cock up. As one historian said yesterday, we didn't know how to fight, and neither did they. Communication was absent, there were thousands of untrained men out for an adventure, rules were followed that shouldn't have been followed, other fundamental life saving that should never have been broken that were broken.

We were up at 6 am as disembarkation would start at 6.45 am. Ha. We didn't leave the ship until 8.30 am, there were over thirty buses carrying 44 passengers (brand spanking new Mercedes Benz buses, but no toilets on board), our tour guide is a woman of about forty, OJ, not OJ Simpson she says, but the juice. She has an attitude, and is harassed. This day, so long anticipated, turns out to be a marathon.

We are gong to Lone Pine, The Nek, and the New Zealand Chunuk Bair areas. Our historian is a distinguished looking gentleman in his eighties, named Matt. He is frail, and somewhat confused, I think of my Dad, and my heart goes out to him. He has been invited here as a sign of respect, and for that, I am grateful, but he is way out of his depth, he speaks and we cannot hear him, he drops his notes, cannot find his lists, and does not have a microphone. Gary points one out to him, he sees it, but has no used one before, I suspect, and ignores it. He starts to speak, and there is a level of honouring his man by OJ, but clearly she can see, this is not working, and is uncertain of how to address it without offence. I feel for her. Gary suggests to Matt he use the mike again, using that Aussie mateship blokey kind of language, which gives no offence, and he does. He speaks a little about where we are going, but the bus is lurching and he needs to sit down. OJ takes the mike, and shares a little of her country's admiration and affection for Australia, that she has visited Australia, she has a young daughter, and is a Muslim, who married a Belgian Catholic, and she imported him for ten years, then she exported him back to Belgium, and divorced him. We laugh, so she has a sense of humour after all. She too, and her company, have been thwarted by this tour, and the lack of organisation, she was up at 4 am a few days ago to come to the ship to escort us, but all plans fell in a heap, they were not met, there was no food nor accommodation, everything was late, they arrived starving and exhausted, had three hours sleep, and then had to be on board, Smiling Tour Guide. I tell her, I hope you do not think that all Australians are as disorganised as this, as we are not. The Anzac Landings are going through my brain. Perhaps we are? She graciously tells us of her experience in Australia, where everything worked perfectly.

The bus has to travel some distance to the Ferry Harbour of Canakkale, where there is a specially designated ferry which will take us to Icebeat, the European side of Canakkale, as we sit inside our warm bus. Of course there is a queue, and once on board, the driver skilfully manoeuvres our bus alongside eight others, and people disembark as OJ tells us, for the 15 minute journey. It takes an hour. Turkish Time. The wind is against us. Really? At one point today, two people are not at the designated area on time. OJ has a melt down. 'I am not going to find people! They must find us!' she shouts, eyes scanning the horizon for our miscreants. And she starts walking, so we follow. Go, girl. She has a job to do, I know, having taken dozens of youth overseas for months at a time, I have a sense of how hard this is.

This day is An Ordeal. It is filled with incidents and accidents, including a broken leg, lost people, mistimed programs, lack of information and lack of planning, upsets and motor car bingles, our designated bs ferry is 'appropriated' by the Jandarmie for their cars, and we wait additional hours to get back to the ship. Starting with a complete disaster as 1000 people try to leave the ship, a determinedly cheerful South African woman calling out numbers of buses as we wait expectantly to get off, the Aussie sense of humour is working again, this is a lottery! - some have won it, and others have not, there is laughter and chaffing and a sense of camaraderie in a disaster zone. Sitting alongside of us is a young man, a gigantic young man, of 200 kgs or more squeezed behind a glass topped table, and as his bus number is called, I expect to see his stomach sliced in two as he rises, but no, he squishes out, calls upon his inner resources to stand, using the back of the sofa as assistance, and lumbers the few feet out. He is already breathless. How will he cope today?

This day is also filled with moments so special, I do not know how to share them with you.

Let me try by starting with our bus, Number 16, filling with passengers, and as they alight, I see people wearing bright red knitted poppies with a big black centre. Oh! Another and another come on board, wearing poppies. When everyone is seated, I stand and ask "Where is the little poppy girl? I want to buy some please!" Several rows back, a mother raises her hand, and a small blonde girl next to her smiles. She is about 10 years old and comes to our seat, with her brother about 7. He has no front teeth, and my heart explodes, oh Joshua. These two are committed to this project, they have 400 poppies, which their Grandma made. Their GRANDMA made. And the funds will go to a local Aussie school, no price, just a donation. We buy four, and later I buy four more, Sue and Ross and Sam will love these each year on our Anzac March. The little boy is teased by Gary, who suggests he could pocket the money, but he looks earnestly back and says "My Dad says I can have a new bike when I get home!" What colour, asks Gary. "Flouro!" I have a vision of this wee boy on his technicolour bicycle in a month's time. There are three children on our bus, and they behave impeccably, interested in the stories, respectful and undemanding. Josh would have been bored out of his brain.

We travel here via ferry which operates across the Dardanelles between Canakkale and Kilitbahir or Canakkale and Eceabat - over these couple of days, we use a few different routes, the ferries are large and as many as 12 buses each with 44 plus passengers on board. It makes my spine shiver to imagine what would happen if one of these sank and how we would get out of the buses, parked tightly together with inches between them.

We arrive at Lone Pine, the Pinnacle of our journey. Lone Pine Cemetery is located on a strategically important plateau on the southern extreme of the Anzac sector. A Turkish stronghold, it was attacked by Australian forces on 6th August 1915. For four days, fighting raged over the ground on which the cemetery stands, until the lst Turkish counter-attacks ere defeated. Lone Pine was then held until the evacuation of the peninsula in December. We will travel along the ridge above the beach to several cemeteries on what was once the front-line: Quinns Post, Courtney's and Steel's Post, and Johnston's Jolly. This last site marks the position reached by the Australians on 25th April, but was lost the next and never recovered.

There are buses everywhere, TV stations setting up satellite dishes, temporary racks of seating surrounding the gravesites, men carrying equipment and testing sound systems, to me, all so irreverent to the space and the situation. Matt, our historian, so elderly and uncertain, we are all protective and concerned. He falls as we leave the bus, I am shocked, he is dusty and dishevelled, he makes his way uncertainly to the Lone Pine, where we assemble. My thoughts are on him, is he OK? I see my Dad in this situation, and want to prevent any more discomfort and I know, humiliation. Another woman feels the same way, she is helping him with his notes, picking up things he has dropped, as I have done, and her eyes tell me she has had a Dad in a similar situation. Matt refers to his notes and speaks, but we cannot hear him, he is shaking and confused, and we only have a short time here, as we were delayed earlier in the day, and have a schedule to adhere to. We do not learn much from Matt, God Bless him, and wander off to view the Lone Pine, the graves, the view, the memorial, and I sign the book of greeting, where I express gratitude. We find two Guthries engraved upon the wall. W.E. Guthrie and G.E. Guthrie, I wonder who these men are, could we possibly be related? We take photos. But we have to leave, we have to leave, and I have to wee, I have to wee, and so do a couple of dozen others. So my time at the hallowed Lone Pine is spent largely in a queue for the loo, which is already not working, there is no hand wash, and some loos are not flushing. 20,000 or more are due here in a few days time, and there are eight toilets. One lady confides that although she and her husband won the lottery to be here, they will not come, as they are not given a seat number, and no guarantee of a seat at all, they could be in the thousands who will congregate in the bushy surrounds, and watch it on a large TV screen. And the lack of toilets. The wind. The freezing cold.

So how was it for the Anzacs?

Absolutely bloody appalling.

A litany of stuff ups and break downs in communication, the incredibly difficult terrain and lack of equipment, food and training. Our young men landed with an issue of four biscuits, a bottle of water, dressed in shorts and a short sleeved shirt, with instructions their weapons should not be loaded, with nothing in their magazine, with bayonets fixed. Our men - boys largely, aged 17 upwards - faced the Turks across enemy lines as wide as a country road, 8 metres, and death was imminent. For four days, fighting raged over the ground on which the cemetery stands, until the last Turkish counter attacks were defeated. Lone Pine was then held until the evacuation of the peninsula in December.

Further along the ridge lies The Nek. This was the ground on which the men of the Australia Light Horse made a famous and fateful charge on 7th August 1915, in an area the size of a tennis court. How can we imagine such proximity to the enemy and to certain death? Only 10 grave headstones remain to mark the burial place of some 300 soldiers, and they bear engravings such as "My Beloved Son, died for his country" and "They will be remembered always". But will they? I wept over each grave stone, I said a silent thank you, as people tramped over this place where as recently as 1990 when a historian visited, and thought there was snow on the ground, until he drew closer, and realised they were bleached human bones. Of our young Aussie boys. Apparently even the ambulances were misinformed, and were not ready to evacuate the wounded. So for the first time in Australian military history, our boys were left to die on foreign soil.

This is what Mutafa Kemal, the first President of Turkey said, words which are inscribed on a memorial at Anzac Cove.

"Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives; you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side, here in this country of ours. You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land, they have become our sons as well."

This same man who was a brilliant leader in war, gave the famous order, "I do not order you to fight. I order you to die. There will be others to replace you." In an almighty tactical blunder, orders given by the British commanders to our men, were that four waves of 150 men each, were to go over The Nek, and seven minutes before that planned 4.30 am assault, all firing stopped, the element of surprise was gone, and our Aussies hesitated. The men were told to wear shorts only and T shirts, no ammunition, bayonets fixed and only 4 biscuits and water. The commander wanted no noise as the surprise for the enemy. The command went forth, "Go!" and the first wave did, and were mowed down instantly. The second wave of 150 men prepared to go forth and the order was questioned, but rank stood firm, and they went forth and they too, were mowed down. A mad scramble ensued as the third wave of 150 men assembled, and risking military court martial, the leader questioned, and was told to proceed. These died too. And the fourth wave prepared, but the advance was halted by an officer who refused to allow any more of his men in this suicidal tactic.

Can we IMAGINE this?

I did not realise that 20,000 British died at Helles. 20,000. But somehow, 20,000 I cannot begin to imagine. But I know what a a group of 150 people looks like. Four groups of 150 people. So this horrific scene of men going over into certain death is shocking beyond comprehension.

The morbid statistics for this terrible piece of history is this: 7,000 Australians, 2000 New Zealanders, 20,000 British, and 70,000 Turks. SEVENTY THOUSAND TURKS. They held the superior ground they had the superior training and equipment, they fought on their own land for their own country, so WHY were their losses so great? We have to understand their relationship with their God, with Inshallah, God's Will, and the fact that their commanding officers, the Immortal Mustavah, (who survived a direct hit as his medallion around his neck deflected the bullet) and the Germans, had battalion after battalion of soldiers, human soldiers, human sacrifices, who just continued to send men in to certain death.

Over 30 cemeteries were built, containing the remains of 19,000 servicemen, of whom only 6,000 were identified. A further 2,500 who were believed to be buried among them are commemorated in the cemeteries by Special Memorials. The remainder of those buried in unknown graves, or whose remains were never found, make up the 27,000 named on six memorials to the missing on Gallipoli.

Most of the cemeteries and memorials on the peninsula were designed by the Scottish architect, Sir John Burnet. Due to the extreme climate and landscape,they look very different from those of the Western Front. To prevent masonry sinking into soggy ground, they used stone faced pedestal gave markers instead of headstones, and a walled cross feature rather than the free standing Cross of Sacrifice. Rubble walled channels surround the cemeteries to protect them from flood water.

The high proportion of unidentified casualties gives these cemeteries on the peninsula a unique character. Their burial places are marked on cemetery plans but their graves are not marked on the ground, meaning that many cemeteries have wide expanses of open space dotted with just a few grave markers.

Our opposing sides gained inch by inch of territory, climbing through walls of sand and bush, fought hand to hand combat in trenches, using fixed bayonets and their hands to kill and maim. They were wet, freezing cold in the wind, hungry, filled with disease and dysentery, and the losses were so great, the bodies piled so high, that the stench could be smelled from ships a mile off shore.

There is a myth, or perhaps not a myth, that the Turks "allowed" the Australians to leave the peninsula, over a few fateful nights in the dark. There are mixed opinions about this. This certainly was one strategic plan that was faultlessly executed, and not one casualty was incurred. Thousands and thousands of men were evacuated over a period of a few days, as our soldiers developed techniques to 'fool' the enemy that their trenches were still occupied, one being a rifle which fired shots as a jar of water dripped down a piece of string, and unmanned, fired a volley of shots.

We traversed the New Zealand Chunuk Bair, the highest ground, a maze of trenches and wires and logs and unbelievably beautiful views, which I am sure were never noticed. The terrain was so difficult, so steep and high and windy, that it took a group of men forty eight hours to carry a six inch barrel, just the barrel, up the rocky ridges to Chunuk Bair. There was no way they could have got a large machine gun up there.

It was hopeless, hopeless, hopeless, and the loss of life was horrific.

If the Anzacs had taken the 'vital ground' , held it and won the battle........once they were there, it would not have been possible to attach the Dardanelles as they were out of sight and therefore not reachable.......the whole confrontation was in vain!

It was a sombre day, cold, windy, and uncomfortable, and several times I was present to how easy this day was for me, compared to the countless thousands who died here in terror, pain, frozen, hungry, and sick.

So the next several hours it took to get back to the ship was nothing to complain about. We left Chunuk Bair and raced down to the Ferry, getting there with half an hour to spare for our ferry, which was then hijacked by the cops, so we wandered about in the cold and the wind for an hour or more, I had a cup of apple tea, and Gerald purchased an adaptor for 10 lira ($5). I left my cushion behind in the restaurant, which I had only gone into to use the loo, and used the gents in error, much to the amusement of the staff. I had to race back to get it, and the kiss I gave the young waiter caused merriment. We took photos of an huge bronze statue of a Turk carrying a Kiwi in his arms off the battle field (remember we left our casualties there as the ambos did not know where to go?) - and a weeping mother. We finally got on board the bus, travelled the 15 minutes (actually 50 minutes) to Canakkale, confusingly this city lies on two different continents this city, one in Asia and one in Europe, half way across the ferry master switched course, and took us to a place 'that would be faster' - which turned out to be longer, and we waited for the bus to get off the ferry, and we drove through the charming city of Canakkale, and then 40 minutes to our ship, where we then queued for 45 minutes in the cold and rain to get on board. Personnel were dispatched to take the young and the elderly, the disabled and the sick on board. And we queued.

It was 7.30 pm before we got on board, we had been on the go since 6 am, a total of 13.5 hours, and we had spent just under 3 hours viewing Lone Pine, The Nek, and NZ Chunuk Bair. What a day.

In keeping with the mismanaged day, one thousand people descended for dinner at the same time, us included, unshowered, hungry and desperate for alcohol. It was an hour before I got a meal, and a different one to what I had ordered, it was inedible. It took twenty minutes to get a glass of wine, and I was into my third wine before my food arrived. It was chaos on a major scale, although we finally got a young Indian man who was determined to serve, who apologised and appeared to be the only one working. What a shame, said Gerald, this young guy, so enthusiastic and willing, will be so peeved in a few months time, he will give up, and never do hospitality again, thinking all cruise lines are the same. We shared dinner with Keith and Maryann, he is an orthodontist and they live in Canberra.

Jenny is not well and went to bed, with a headache and a cold. During dinner, in her dessert, she has found a large chunk of what looks like glass, about the size of a five cent piece. We pass it around the table, it is perspex. Gary calls the maitre d' over, who shakes his head, and explains "This is a piece of plastic from the ..." and he points upwards, as if we are to imagine a plastic light exploding perhaps. Then he says casually, "Sorry." and walks away. Gerald, Gary and I take our hard won bottle of wine into the bar to drink it, and drink margaritas as well. I dance alone to a young male pianist, who beams as he sees me. I am the only one appreciating his music, although I ask several people, including Gerald and Gary and a lone woman, all of whom refuse me. I think she thinks I may be out for a lesbian good time, and stares resolutely ahead, not making eye contact.

I leave my cushion behind, in my exhausted and alcoholic state, and Gerald retrieves it the next morning from Lost and Found.

Today is the 23rd April, we took a day off yesterday, we were exhausted from our marathon the previous day to Lone Pine, The Nek, and the NZ Chunuk Bair areas. Instead, we spent a pleasant day relaxing and reading and writing this blog.

So we and did not get to see V Beach, Capes Helles, and the Lancashire Landing areas. Unbelievably, 20,000 British soldiers died at Helles. The historian tells us that the sea was red with blood, and I shiver at this visual.

Today we visited Anzac Cove Beach, Shrapnel Cemetery, and Plugge's Plateau, the smallest Commonwealth cemetery at Anzac.

As British forces made landfall at Helles, the men of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZACS) came ashore further up the peninsula, at Ari Burnu. Having overshot their planned beachhead at Kabatepe, they were now faced with sheer cliffs rather than the low foothills they had expected.

Their attempt to take the high ground of Sari Bair was halted by Turkish forces. Driven back to the beachhead by heavy bombardment, the Anzacs had no choice but to literally dig into the narrow split of land along the coast, thus earning their nickname, 'diggers'.

The entire Anzac sector has been preserved as a memorial to the men who died here. It contains 21 cemeteries and three memorials as well as the Anzac Commemorative Site, which is the location of the annual Dawn Service on Aril 25th. The cemeteries here can be split into three main areas: the landing beaches, the front line and the valleys and slopes in between.

On the coast, Ari Burnu and Beach cemeteries were begun almost immediately after the Allied landings at Anzac Cove. Throughout the campaign, they were exposed to Turkish artillery fire from the ridges above, and are the final resting places of hundreds of Australian, New Zealand, British and Indian troops.

Shrapnel Valley got its name after the heavy shelling it was given by Turkish forces in the days after the Allied landings. This cemetery was located on an essential road that led up to the frontline. Accessed by a track leading up a ridge is Plugge's Plateau, we hike up to it, a 600 steep metres, people are determined to make it, even Gary with his bad leg. The view is wondrous, and its hard to co-incide the carnage and suffering that took place - the sun shines on a glittering navy blue sea, birds chirp peacefully in trees, flowers bloom and the beach below is turquoise and shallow, inviting a dip. And they did, the Anzacs risked their lives and cooled off and bathed in the sea. Bodies were washed in the sea.

Chaos reigned on a major level all through the day out, but the experience of being there in such a breathtakingly beautiful, sad sad sad place, outweighed the inconvenience. Thousands and thousands and thousands of people are walking, hundreds of huge buses are reversing, parking, vying for position, police cars are whizzing by, security men stand sullenly, hundreds of musicians and singers are waiting in line for a chance to rehearse, and throughout all of this, the rugged, intimidating cliffs rise above us, the pale blue Agean clear sea in the bay whispers gently to shore. Everywhere you look there are cemeteries, white grave stones, bright red poppies placed lovingly along side, and the mood is sombre.

Our historians have been excellent, apart from the dear old gentleman, Matt, on the first day. One comment which stands out in my mind is "They sent boys to do a man's job." He goes on to explain he means no offence nor wishes to diminish their courage, resilience and fortitude, but they were boys out for an adventure, to see the world, boys who were untrained and inexperienced. As I look at these gravestones I see the ages of those who lie beneath them - so many 17, 18, 19, 20, 21 year olds, boys who had absolutely no idea of what they were headed into. How could they? How could anybody? They meet us and talk to us passionately, knowledgeably, and one man Jefferey does not try to hide his emotion as we stand at North Beach and he talks about The Ten Men - (and I use capitals purposely, as that was how he spoke them) - who came ashore in the very first boat on reconnaissance. The ten men were from a battalion in South Australia, each of them in their prime, each of them elite athletes or with glowing University degrees, each of them leaders in their field, with a shining future ahead of them. An entire generation of leaders, lost in this terrible campaign. He told us about each of them, as if they were his mate, the first man to die was rowing ashore, he was a champion rower, and was shot in the boat. And then there were nine. One soldier, and I forget his name, (I am sorry dear man, we heard so many noble tales today) kept a diary which was almost word for word perfect to one recorded by another of their group, which detailed their landing and what followed. This man's was a small black book, and inscribed in it was "For My Little Nellie". Little Nellie was his wife of six weeks, whom he married in Cairo attended by these same men rowing ashore with him. A photo shows young smiling men, with a guard of honour for their mate and his bride Nellie. Nellie was a nurse stationed on an ambulance ship at sea, if I recall correctly, and when she heard the news of her husband's death, she asked that his meagre possessions be distributed amongst his mates. She received his diary. Soon after, she discovered she was pregnant. And if this story is not sad enough, both she and her baby died in childbirth seven months later. Here our strong historian pauses, his eyes fill, and he looks out to sea, then recovers, and continues with the fate of the other eight men.

Only 25% of all those who landed at Anzac Cove made it home.

We made it back to the ship with little problems, unlike the fiasco of a few days ago when the police commandeered 'our' ferry and the lady broke her leg and the ambulance collided with the bus. It was a warm and sunny day, and Gerald and I were one of the first off the buses and into the warmth of the MSC Opera. Gerald went directly to collect our passports and I went directly to get us two large gin and tonics, plus two packets of hot chips, and we met up again in the room. Jenny and I have decided to go to see the Ancient City of Troy, and get our tickets for US $35 each, I see OJ our tour guide, and buy her a gin and tonic, and exercise which took 25 minutes, as there was ONE barman at the nearest bar, and hundreds of thirsty travellers embarking. Absolutely ridiculous. Back in the room I discover my ticket says TWO people, and fearful of being charged $70, I head back down to correct the error, Jenny kindly comes with me. Diedra, Barry's wife, would like to go with us, but Barry has decreed that she can either go to the Dawn Service OR Troy and she has opted for Troy. Excuse me? She explains calmly that 'That is just how Barry is. Like you, I have been married for 45 years, and I take the good with the bad. He has a dominating personality. I pick my battles.' This gentle woman had breast cancer five years ago and is so grateful to be alive, and they are walking the Camino after the boat journey. I want to smack Barry in the face. How dare he dominate her this way? How could she allow such domination to take place? For so long? I take a few deep breaths. Does she want to join Jenny and I, then? No, she says, smiling - I want to go to the Dawn Service, but thank you. Later on, Jenny tells me that Barry and Campbell are not even GOING to the Dawn Service. To come on this commemorative journey and choose not to go is a big mystery to me.

We share dinner with Jenny and Gary and head down to the theatre to watch the truly talented Barker College entertain us with a night of jazz. Oh my goodness, what fun they are having, and how our ship enjoys their contribution! They are dressed to the nines, some of the boys wearing Blues Brothers outfits, many with smick suits and large sunglasses, and pert hats. The girls are dressed to the nines, cocktail dresses and short skirts, high heels and beautifully made up. Three young men tell us the story of 'their Barker soldier', one young Asian leaving us spellbound, he speaks without notes, he makes us laugh me makes us cry, a natural orator and an entertainer. They give us their all, invite us up to dance with them, and I am the only one who does. I ask for the microphone at the end of the performance, and acknowledge them, telling them how much I wished their parents could see them, how proud they would be, and thanking them for all they had given us. They are gazing earnestly up at me, a sea of shining, hopeful young faces, and I see a tear or two in some of their eyes. They clap enthusiastically and thank me, and this morning after breakfast, we meet a young dishevelled sleepy unwashed unbrushed member of the group in the lift - he says "Thank you so much for your kind words last night, everybody really appreciated what you had to say." I am so touched.

Friday 24th April, 2015. Gerald and I have breakfast, a lengthy affair - a cup of tea takes 20 minutes to arrive, long after Gerald's coffee, and only with a second request, and a tea bag appears from a drawer not five feet from where we are sitting, and a pot of hot water above it. Not that hard to organise, then. The grapefruit is delicious, there is not much you can do to ruin a grapefruit, but Gerald's kipper and omelette are tasteless and greasy, his potatoes au gratin are warm and edible. My salmon is good, my a gratin potatoes have come straight from the fridge, cold enough to make my teeth ache. There are platoons of stewards standing about, one yawning and leaning on the bench top, till a maitre d' strides down, flicking his napkin, and snarling unpleasantly. They leap to attention, but as he leaves, they fall back into slump position. To be fair, there ARE a handful of trained, pleasant and helpful stewards, both men and women, who we have been fortunate enough to find - but the rest are abysmal. Unhappy, poorly trained, not interested, not looking to serve. If they are treated this badly in a public arena by their maitre d', I hate to think how they would be treated behind the scenes.

MSC Opera does NOT get our vote. And neither does the Military Tours.

After some confusion, Jenny and I find each other out on the dock, where I have secured two seats on Bus 19, which happens to be guided by Metin, our guide in Istanbul a week ago. He is woeful today. He repeats his patter word for word, "After four glasses of raki you speak Turkish. After five glasses of raki you speak Japanese." And "In Turkey you can pay with cash, credit card, your wife, your children, anything". People who were with him before do not laugh, but the rest of the bus do. Metin assures us he went to University for 4 years to do this job, and he knows all of the 7000 ancient sites in the country. Wow, impressive. Unfortunately for us, The Ancient City of Troy does not appear to be one of them, he is clearly uninformed, not interested, and does not want to be here. But our bus is one of the first to arrive, which IS fortunate, and Jenny and I make a dash to climb up into the replica of the Trojan Horse, much smaller than I imagined. A crazed crowd of Koreans stampede the horse, and I literally have to shout 'STOP!' at them and forcibly make hand signals to make my way down the narrow staircase, wide enough for one, and very steep. They scream at each other as if in a violent protest, and shove and push and elbow their way without a blink. The noise they make crescendoes in the hollow horse, and we are relieved to start our tour.

The site is impressive and the views magnificent, it is built on nine different levels, due to erosion - the architectural skills are hard to imagine for a people who lived here so long ago in the 9th Century. We see the remains of their homes and have a glimpse into their culture. We are told we will learn many of the mythical stories of the site and surrounding areas, and why its final destruction occurred, the history of the excvations the excavators and their findings - but this is not to be. I see Metin stroll ahead, as a group are directly ahead of us, and another directly behind us, we shuffle shoulder to shoulder, uncomfortably through this place, and Metin sidles up to the information board in the front of each site, gleans a couple of pieces of information quickly, and then delivers them. I wish we had come without Metin, and hired audio phones, and taken a leisurely pace throughout this lovely site. We see the a lot of the excavation work taking place continually, (and frequently stopped for lack of funding), we see the fortification walls of Troy VI with its tower and gateway entrance, the Temple of Athena, which was the focal point of a great annual festival in honour of the goddess Athena. A German man, Schliemann is attributed with the discovery of Troy, he was responsible for the initial excavation and its continuation. We have to use our imagination to imagine the entrance ramp to Troy II, a wide cobbled entrance where I visualise one of the centurions from Ben Hur driving up in his chariot, and the sanctuary an important religious centre of its time, the odeon after which so many movie complexes are named, which was used for the presentation of musical performances, this is very clearly an amphitheatre, with rows of seating still standing - here Metin gets an apparently important phone call, and sees "See you back at the bus at 10.50 am" - and leaves us. That was a US$35 rip off.

Back at the ship by 11.30 am, Gerald and I have a gin and tonic and an early lunch alone in the restaurant, served by an excellent waitress, a woman from Mauritius, with pink streaks in her hair. In preparation for tonight, I strip off, get into my PJ's and go to bed with the curtains drawn, and sleep for 2.5 hours. Its a quiet afternoon of writing, an early dinner with the O'Briens, and I go to bed at 8.45 and sleep until 11.45 pm, when Gerald wakes me. Our bus leaves the dock at 1 am.

25th April, 2015 - ANZAC DAY

Gerald has got us two cups of strong coffee, and I dress in many layers, specifically two pairs of woollen thermal leggings, plus jeans, thick wool socks and ankle boots, a woollen camisole, a short sleeved thermal t shirt, a long sleeved thermal top, a fine silk long sleeve blouse, a roll neck long woollen jumper, and at our destination, I put on my gloves and my duck down padded jacket with the tightly fitting fur framed hood. I am warm as toast.

Our disembarkation at 1 am and travel to Gelibalu via bus and ferry goes without a hitch, there are 40 buses travelling in a very orderly convoy, and we arrive there about 3.45 am, clutching our white lunch bags filled with crap like Oreos, Fanta, cake, crackers, Pringles, three chunks of parmesan, three white soft rolls, tomato sauce, mustard, a knife and fork (??), jam, and a bottle of water. I remove as much crap as possible and reduce it to one bag, and carry it - our passengers can be identified by the white carrier bags they carry, and all around the ship, the boat, and the docks are neat piles of perfectly wrapped, uneaten food left behind. But I think about our boys, those Anzacs, who went ashore with four biscuits and one canteen of water and feel grateful.

The Gallipoli Campaign of 1915. By early 1915, the war on the Western Front had reached a stalemate. The Gallipoli campaign was intended to break the deadlock. In the spring of 1915, Allied warships bombarded the peninsula's coastal forts and attempted to force their way through the narrow Dardanelles Straits, controlled by the forces of the Ottoman Empire. On 18th March, three Allied battleships were lost to mines and the naval attack was abandoned.

A 70,000 strong Mediterranean Expeditionary Force was assembled, comprising British, Canadian, Indian and French troops, along with the fledgling Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC). It's mission was to seize the peninsula, opening the Straights for Allied warships which could attack Constantinople (now Istanbul), taking the Ottoman Empire out of the war, and opening up a route to provide Russia with much needed supplies.

So - one hundred years ago today, around 4.30 am, British forces landed around Cape Helles on the southern tip of the peninsula, and the Anzacs came ashore further west, in an area later named Anzac Cove. Over the next eight months, determined Turkish resistance prevented both forces from advancing and the campaign degenerated into trench warfare. Despite a major offensive in August 1915, the Allies were unable to break the deadlock. An evacuation began in December, and on 9th January 1916, the last Commonwealth soldiers left the peninsula without a single casualty. A remarkable feat !