Sure Beats Drinking Bull's Blood

Approximately 90 km west/southwest of Ankara, near the modern village of Yassıhüyük, is the ancient site of Gordion, capital city of the Phrygian empire I wrote about two posts ago. We took a day trip there last Saturday to get out of the city, but also to show the girls and Lizzie's parents the so-called Tomb of Midas, which holds the bittersweet distinction of simultaneously qualifying for most amazing and most anticlimactic archaeological experience in Turkey.

King Midas is often dubbed a "quasi-legendary" figure because although his factual existence is attested and roughly dated to 700 BC, both by Assyrian texts and an account in Herodotus about him dedicating a throne of ivory to the oracle at Delphi, most of the information we have about him comes down to us from Greek myths, vague inscriptional references, and locally varying legends. The most widely known of these, of course, is the curse of his golden touch. It also appears the name "Midas" was so common among Phrygian royalty that it might very well have been more of an honorific, like Caesar, so it's unclear whether we're talking about one man or a succession of kings.

The ancient Phrygians honored their noble dead in one of two ways: either they carved a tomb directly into rock or they built some sort of burial chamber and then piled a bunch of earth on top. In both cases, the actual space where the dead were laid to rest was usually designed to model a gable-roofed house. Scholars like Lizzie are still working out all the whys and wherefores, but which method was chosen was likely a matter of resources and topography. We saw a bunch of the former in the Highlands, where soft and dramatically situated rock outcrops are plentiful. The latter, called tumuli, are much more common on the relatively flat plateau between Ankara and the Highlands. They're also very common in Lydia, the ancient kingdom to the west that eventually supplanted Phrygia as the dominant force in western Anatolia.

Besides the effort required, another problem with burying your dead beneath a massive dirt mound is that it makes it pretty obvious where to go grave robbing. No need for a treasure map when a man-made mountain marks the spot. The Phrygians had surprising prescience on this front and often offset the burial chambers in an effort to fool would-be thieves. Nevertheless, the discovery and proper excavation of a burial mound that hasn't already been looted is pretty rare. The so-called Tomb of Midas at Gordion is the largest intact tumulus ever excavated. Rodney Young was the man responsible, along with a team from the University of Pennsylvania, which has been sponsoring excavations at Gordion for the last sixty years. They used a well drill on top to locate a cavity in the mound and then tunneled toward the cavity from the side.

Inside was oldest standing wooden building ever found--a large gable roofed house, with no entrance or exit, constructed sometime around 740 BC of massive (and I mean massive) logs of old growth juniper. The flooring was cedar, the inner walls pine. All the earth atop it, as well as several layers of gravel and a sort of clay casing, had created a hermetic, temperature-regulated environment and the first people to see the burial chamber were greeted with the horrifying sound of all that ancient wood cracking from the in-rush of moist air. After stabilizing everything and building a concrete frame, they cut a rough hole through one wall. Inside were the human remains, laid inside a log/coffin, along with an incredible assemblage of grave goods that suggested a great feast had been held and then all its implements--the tables, the bowls, the cooking vessels--had been placed inside before sealing. Gold and jewel-encrusted grave goods are impressive to some, but the hobbyist woodworker in me finds the beautifully inlaid tables and screens from the so-called Tomb of Midas (now on display at the Museum of Anatolian Civilization in Ankara) to be the most impressive ancient artifacts ever found. The skill they exhibit, the level of craftsmanship, is absolutely magnificent. One can only imagine what that ivory throne at Delphi must have looked like.

By now, you've no doubt noticed my repeated use of the phrase "so-called." Most scholars now agree it isn't the tomb of Midas. Even Rodney Young, once he had excavated it, thought the tomb probably contained the remains of Midas's father, Gordius, after whom both the city and the legendary knot was named (a topic for another day, perhaps). There are two main reasons why: the age of the tomb, first and foremost (done via dendrochronology, or tree ring dating), but also the history of what happened to Gordion. The Cimmerians sacked the city sometime around 700 BC and Midas would have been too busy dealing with that to build himself an expensive grave monument. Legend has it that, like Hitler, he committed suicide when it became clear his city was about to be taken. However, times being what they were, old Midas opted for drinking bull's blood instead of cyanide or shooting himself in the head.

Few non-classicists have ever heard of Gordius, though, so perhaps we can forgive the Turkish Ministry of Culture for continuing to call it the Tomb of Midas. That's one reason I say it's a bit anticlimactic to go there. The second is that after the drama and suspense of entering the tumulus through an elaborate gate and walking down a long narrow tunnel to the burial chamber, you are now greeted by an iron fence that keeps you from going inside or even seeing much of the structure. Both Lizzie and I recall at least walking around it when we were there in 2000 (possibly due to special treatment afforded the group we accompanied), but it certainly makes sense to protect this national treasure from the tourist hordes. In any case, you can still gape in awe at the massive logs used to build the oldest wooden structure in the world and the tunnel itself is a very cool feature (in every sense of the word).

For anyone who might never have the opportunity to get to this part of the world, but still wants to experience a little taste of the Phrygian high life, there's always Midas Touch, a beer made by the pioneering craft brewery Dogfish Head with the help of Dr. Patrick McGovern, a U. Penn Archaeological Scientist, who analyzed the molecular remains of a serving vessel found inside the tomb and came up with a very accurate recipe. Curiously enough, one of the key ingredients in the brew (along with honey and white muscat grapes) is saffron, which currently holds the title of most expensive spice in the world. Fortunately, I picked up a jar of the good stuff for a reasonable price in Safranbolu and plan to whip up a batch as soon as I get back to the States. It might not be quite as delicious or authentic as the original, but it sure beats drinking bull's blood. 

Sense and Sensibility in Safranbolu and Amasra

When you stop to think about it (and we too seldom do), perception is a funny and deeply flawed thing. The very same five senses that secure our survival and seem to give us an accurate measure of the world are also the organs of our everyday prejudice and bias. The eye is also a blinder. The ear is also a muffle. The tongue that gives us so much gastronomic pleasure is also the gatekeeper that stops us from enjoying every taste that nature has to offer. Technically, of course, what actually impairs us is the complicated bundle of experience, influence, and preference that serves as middleman between our senses and our brains, but I would argue that in most humans these interpretations are so instantaneous and automatic, so ingrained and unexamined, that distinguishing perception from preconception becomes a moot point. Despite all the advances in physics and psychology that tell us everything--literally everything--is relative, as a species we still too often cling to the comfort of certainty. Not only the certainty that our subjective reality has an objective Truth, but that we have a natural right to impose it upon others or judge those who perceive another.

On a recent road trip north to the Black Sea, with Lizzie's parents Mike and Julie Paulette gamely in tow, our senses were treated to the full Monty. We stopped first in Safranbolu, a Unesco World Heritage site and one of the only urban areas left in Turkey where the Ottoman architecture and lifestyle hasn't been paved over with concrete and progress. One could liken it to Colonial Williamsburg, but a close examination of the differences provides a good example of what I alluded to above. Whereas Williamsburg is a prettified and whitewashed simulacrum of history, staged with actors and props, Safranbolu is a living breathing town, with all the texture and grit that entails. To Western sensibilities, it might seem a little cluttered and claustrophobic, a little imposing and precarious, especially if you arrive in a not-so-mini van on a rainy day in late October. The streets are narrow and extremely difficult to navigate, as are the cupboard-size bathrooms in the period-accurate hotels. A deep gorge cuts through the town, and some of the tourist shops are propped over its mouth with foolhardy nonchalance. Nighttime lighting is sparse, stray animals are everywhere, almost no English is spoken anywhere, and finding the "attractions" requires an intrepid foot and a keen eye.

Flipped on their heads, all of those descriptors are actually what makes Safranbolu so worth the trip. That full sensory wash--the acrid smoke of the fires that heat the hamam hanging heavy over the valley; the closeness of the quarters, outside and in; the creaking floors and wood-grain gloom; the patina of humanity in every handhewn inch, every perilous step up or down the sloped stone streets--all of it is exactly what makes visiting this 700-year-old town so transportive and charming. Nothing is spoonfed or sanitized. Even finding the Kaymakamlar House Museum (a gorgeous Ottoman mansion, complete with heirloom kilims and creepy mannequins) felt like a mini adventure. The townspeople are welcoming without any of the pandering or tourist baiting so common to other postcard destinations. We met a master locksmith who showed off his work (highly prized and featured in historic renovations all over Turkey) without ever once trying to interest us in a sale. Our meal that night at Imren Lokum Konak (good wine, an incredible köfte stew, a regional type of mantı) was among the best I've ever had in Turkey, but it was served simply, in a building you might never find if the affable but no-nonsense owner of your hotel doesn't happen to recommend it. Once a key stop along the caravan route, and famous all over the Ottoman empire for the quality of its namesake spice, Safranbolu certainly left a colorful, full-flavored impression.

Much the same can be said for Amasra, a small port town on the Black Sea about an hour and a half north of Safranbolu. The road there led us over a series of mountain passes and river valleys with enough fall splendor to rival anything in New England or Virginia, and then down a 12 degree incline into town that felt more like falling than driving. Our trusty GPS tried to send us down a narrow back alley en route to our pension, but our preconceptions once again got the better of us until Şennur, our gracious and indefatigable innkeeper assured us that it was in fact the way to go.

As in Safranbolu, nothing in Amasra (besides perhaps Şennur) makes an overt effort to impress or be anything other than what it is. Its charms--fresh fish, pretty views, a picturesque Roman bridge and citadel--are either enough for you or they are not. It's no skin off their backs if you expected Cape Cod or the Riviera, or you are disappointed by a Rabbit Island with no visible rabbits. During our walk around the citadel, we came across a friendly little man in his seventies who was happy and proud to give us an impromptu tour of the Byzantine ramparts and point out all the decorative architectural fragments used more practically in walls and arches. He had no self consciousness about walking us through his cluttered yard, where both the trash and the chickens lived free range. Nor was he doing it for a handout. When I tried to slip a ten lira note into a handshake, he pulled back and refused it, only accepting when Lizzie made it clear how much we appreciated his local perspective.

The morning we were leaving Amasra turned out to be Republic Day, a national holiday akin to our 4th of July. There was to be a parade through the central square later that morning, and after we checked out we found our little back alley parking lot was blocked by several fire engines. With no choice but to stick around, we milled around the edges of the crowd and listened to too many speeches we couldn't understand until the girls grew bored and restless. (Truth and Reality are most certainly relative, but one universal fact is that parades always take too long to start.) I walked Callie and Ella around town again and by the time we got back the parade was finally ready to begin. Police cars and fire engines filed out after all the civic groups on foot, then a contingent of construction equipment, and finally some utility vehicles. Bringing up the rear was a lowly street sweeper who must not have been paying much attention because no sooner had he begun to move when he smashed into the vehicle in front of him and shattered his oversized windshield. I have little doubt that in America this accident would have caused a small scene, with heckling spectators, police reports, official condemnation. Here in Amasra, however, the embarrassed driver just backed up enough to turn around. Then he turned on his brushes and cleaned it up. Because, after all, that's what street sweepers do.