This article was written by Inka Piegsa-Quischotte

Doganbey Photos by Inka Piegsa-Quischotte

Ancient ruins, broken columns shrouded in early morning mist, seemingly floating on water. Jean, Steve and I stopped the car and gazed in wonder.

This is Turkey.

A few years back, we had each bought a small place in Didim, a small fishing village about 200 miles south of Izmir. On the coast of the Aegean Sea, the town is located near the Didyma Oracle, a place of worship to Apollo, as important to the ancient world as the better known Delphi oracle was. However, Turkish everyday life still rules: throwing dice and playing dominoes in the cafes, eating freshly caught fish prepared to order in the locantasis ("restaurant" in Turkish), and, exploring the many historical sites within easy travel distance like Ephesus and Miletos.

The muezzin's early call to prayer woke us on this particularly overcast Wednesday morning in February, the day we had planned a trip to Miletos. Visiting Turkey off season has many advantages. Traffic isn't dense, and no souvenirs of hideous replicas are thrust at you, leave alone belly dancing costumes in the most inappropriate places. Not to mention you can enjoy historical sites without the "benefit" of umbrella touting tour guides who claim to be keeping their sheep from straying but mostly strive to provide explanations of the nearby sites which are too often incorrect.

Fortifying ourselves with a Turkish breakfast of tea, fruit, honey, and goat cheese, we wrapped up warmly and set off. After about 40 miles of winding, near empty road, our eyes were met with the magical sight of the ruins of Miletos, with the sun's rays bursting through. The floating ruins were of course an illusion, created by the recent rain falls, but the light which reflected off the water gave the columns and structures a new dimension.

We parked the car in the empty lot and, only disturbing a few grazing sheep and stray cats, climbed the steep steps of the well preserved amphitheatre and meandered through the bath and angora to our hearts' content. So absorbed were we in the sights that only the squishy sound which emanated from our shoes could bring us back to reality. We had worn light boots and trainers, but even so, had failed to notice the glistening grass which had thoroughly soaked our foot wear.

"Look at that," Steve moaned, lifting a mud-clumped trainer. "We'll catch cold if we don't get dry shoes." But of course, this being a day trip, we didn't carry spares. "Let's drive to Soeke market and buy dry ones," he suggested. Soeke was the closest large town, about 25 miles to the northeast and only remarkable for its market. We couldn't agree more, because wet feet really take the pleasure out of travel, so we hopped into the car and set off. That was the point where the real adventure began, unexpected and eye opening. It all happened because we took a wrong turn.

At first, we followed the main road north, but then we came to a cross roads which wasn't clearly marked and instead of east, somehow turned west. The road got narrower and narrower, traffic became nonexistent and although we could still have turned around, our spirit of adventure prevailed over damp feet. "Let's see, where this leads," Steve exclaimed. "We're definitely headed towards the sea and a mountain range and maybe we'll find a nice fish restaurant where we can dry our shoes near the open fire." Nobody protested.

After many twists and turns, we came to an even narrower side road very close to the mountains and a sign which read 'Doganbey' with an arrow pointing to the left. We had never heard of the place, which was yet another incentive to go and explore. Struggling through potholes and sending pebbles flying in all directions, our four wheeler groaned uphill until the road came to an abrupt end. The sight that opened up before our eyes brought a communal "ohhh" to our lips.

Before us was a veritable ghost town, a seemingly abandoned mountain village divided by a deep ravine in which a crystal-clear river flowed. The first glimpse was of a mosque with a caved in roof and a bizarre half broken tower. Next to it, buildings in various states of dilapidation climbed up the steep mountainside, but the most disconcerting was the rule of absolute silence and the absence of a living soul. Not even the sheep or cats were evident. Involuntarily whispering, we asked ourselves, "Where have we landed? What is this place? What has happened here?"

We got out of the car to take a closer look. The sun was high by now and cast eerie shadows onto the buildings. Some walls stood, resembling rotten teeth. Open windows with no panes or shutters. The minaret tower resembled a chimney; the crumbling walls formed ridges. A wind had risen and was blowing swirls of dust over everything. The racing clouds, which covered and uncovered the wintery sun, cast a diffuse light over the whole mysterious scene.

That was the moment when I experienced a strange sensation of deja vu. Of course, I had never been to this place before and yet, somewhere in my mind I seemed to recognise it. Slowly, with every advancing step on the crunching ground and every new aspect of this site of desolation and dust covered ruins, it dawned on me that I was looking at a scene from my all time favourite novel: F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby.  In particular I saw his description of the valley of ashes, a setting which is of such vital importance to the book.

In chapter II, Fitzgerald describes the valley of ashes as follows:

a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the form of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with transcendent effort, of ash-grey men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

His valley of ashes is a real landscape, a place near New York which is today Flushing Meadow Corona Park. In much of the literature concerning the meaning of symbols and colors in Fitzgerald's writing, the valley of ashes has been interpreted as a destroyer of hopes and dreams or as a representation of the wastefulness and moral corruption of the wealthy. However, I never saw only gloom and doom in all that crumbling and greyness. It was always my opinion, that beneath the desolation and despite the tragic events which unfold in the valley of ashes, there is an underlying current of eternal hope which keeps mankind going, making hope, of course, the central theme of Gatsby.

This unanticipated connection with my favourite novel suddenly caused me to realise how green everything was. It was only the buildings which were covered in grey dust, but the vegetation was rich. The small river, gurgling in the ravine, provided water to the surrounding land causing it to flourish in incredible hues of emerald and sage. Ample plants and trees covered the mountainside and, finally, in the distance, we could make out a waterfall which, although narrow, cascaded down from a mighty height.

Fitzgerald talks about a fantastic farm. A farm of course, even if formed by ashes, is a symbol of life and hope, of fertility and a future. The lush trees and plantlife of Doganbey seemed to be overflowing with possibilities such as these to which Fitzgerald alludes.
 
"Look," Steven poked me in the ribs, jolting me out of my musings. He pointed across the ravine at a house on the other side. "See that? There are brand new shutters on that building and new wooden window frames. It looks to me like someone has started on restoration here." He was right. On closer inspection, we detected several more buildings that showed clear signs of recent work done to them, and here and there even flower pots had been placed on terraces, but still no people. Even so, hadn't I just thought about the idea of hope in Fitzgerald's novel? For whatever reason this village had been abandoned in the first place, clearly, someone was coming back and the prospect of new life was springing up just as Gatsby's ever-present optimism.
 
But, where were the ash-grey men? The absence of any people was all the more disturbing, as there was no visible reason why the village had been left to decay. This part of Turkey is of course earthquake country, but the buildings bore no sign of sudden destruction. Perhaps the reason was an epidemic or famine? As if on cue, we suddenly heard footsteps behind us and nearly jumped in surprise.

Two elderly Turkish gentlemen came slowly up the hill and approached the bridge across the ravine we were standing on. They seemed quite jolly types, not at all crumbling or ash-grey. As they drew closer, we dredged up all the Turkish words at our disposal and greeted them with merhaba hoping that they might be able to shed some light on the mystery of Doganbey. They reciprocated warmly enough and added hos geldiniz which means "welcome." With much sign language, two or three words of broken English, and several more in badly pronounced Turkish on our part, we ascertained that they were the caretakers of the newly refurbished houses we had noticed, and they proved the fact by happily dangling a bunch of keys in our faces. The "welcome" came about, because they thought that we might be prospective buyers, conveying this by pointing out a "For sale" sign on several more houses we hadn't noticed up until now. Furthermore, it came to light that the houses they were looking after had been bought by three or four Americans, two of whom were a writer and a photographer respectively. That, of course, explained their few words of English.

They couldn't or wouldn't tell us the Americans' names and our language skills didn't stretch to finding out what had happened to the original population of Doganbey, but one thing was clear: someone else had already discovered the beauty and potential of this place. I was then struck by the idea that Doganbey truly had all the potential of a new artists' colony. The colors and shapes of the mountains and valley could inspire any painter and the quiet and isolation practically cried out for a writer's creativity.

Hope and new life are born from destruction or, in Fitzgerald's words, from ashes. To quote Nick Carraway:

a belief in the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us, but nevertheless, we beat on, boats against the current.

A scene, a glimpse from a book that had remained in my mind for many years because of its compelling symbolism had come to life for me in an abandoned Turkish mountain village. A place which outwardly has no connection whatsoever with the novel or its author but serves to show how a writer's strong ideas transcend the actual setting of a book and can be perceived anywhere in the world.

The experience, triggered by something as mundane as a pair of wet shoes, had given me a better understanding of Gatsby and fuelled my hope to sometime return to Doganbey and find out what really happened there.

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