Urban Designer - Vernacular Architect - Maritime Planner - Owner-Builder - Servant of Piglet - Educator - Author - Revolutionary - Peacenik - Tour Guide 

Tony Watkins

 ~ Vernacular Design 

Gallipoli Jury Meeting Print E-mail

From Walkers Ridge
The Malone brothers landed together at Gallipoli, and they were side by side as they clamboured up the crumbling clay banks above Anzac Cove. When his younger brother was shot dead beside him Malone had no chioce other than to carry on alone.




The trauma of such an experience is difficult to imagine, and years later when he was a teacher back in Australia he never tired of telling the story to his pupils.

One of those pupils, in sixth grade, was Glenn Murcutt.

As we quietly walked away from the Lone Pine Cemetery Glen told us that he had found Malone's grave.

Lone Pine


(Note  Glennys Miller's grandfather was in the first landing on Gallipoli. )


Illustration : Chunuk Bair.

The Scarpa Exhibition in Viennna at the Austrian Museum of Applied Arts and Contemporary Art, curated by Peter Noever, displayed 2,500 drawings without a single explanatory caption and without a catalogue.

For me it remains one of the most memmorable exhibitions I have ever seen. With affection I recollect the little doodles, the quirky nudes looking out from behind details, of the scribbled notes to pick up some coffee on the way home. The experience was not confused by someone else's interpretation of their perception of the way in which Scarpa communicated with those who brought the Brion tomb to life.

The experience was pure. It was contemplative. Carlo Scarpa's genius was made as accessible as it might be by the gathering together of the drawings. Mystery, awe, wonder, delight and surprise we everywhere in the emptiness of the room, just as they were in the tomb itself.

Peter Noever remembers it as his best ever exhibition. He used only simple trestle tables, in simple lines. The drawings were displayed just as they had been drawn. Extensions had been added to the sheets again and again as Scarpa wanted to go beyond the bounds of conventional expectations.

The art of conveying much with little.
Turkish monuments like a sledgehammer.


The setting sun and the rising moon.
Islands are places of light.


The sea which links all nations.

Integrity and identity.


Imitation graves like big Macs
Taking away the experience of the real graves.
Violence to truth.
Thousands of years with a few stones in the desert speaking of a memory.
Now false clues laid to confuse the unwary
Of course they will feel cheated, by those who play with their emotions.


The sound of the sea. The wind in the trees.
The clip-clop of the horses.
The intrusion of vehicle noise.
The broom at KB or the noisy motor.

Smells and their association.

The smell of death.

Positive energy.

Buildings may be positive or negative.
Conversations may be positive or negative.
Attitudes may be positive or negative.

Interior of the Kilitbahir fort
Friday 10 October

Auckland - 747

An excellent stress-free sleep. How unusual for me, but I was very conscious that I would need to be running when my feet eventually touched the ground, so that I could begin work immediately.

Left Karaka Bay around 1pm after a rather systematic and stress-free morning packing, closing up and doing final checks. Suddenly realised I would need Gerry and Maggie Lau's address. Two apples to Piglet, telling her to cause no trouble. I leave her surrounded by adoring children and parents, who rate her as a top holiday attraction.

Off in Lisa with Helen to Singapore Airlines office. With minimum fuss I collect my ticket, but am a little surprised that it only gets me as far as Singapore. With hindsight I realise they probably could bave told me that the Turkish Airlines PTA had not arrived, but I did not know to ask, and I guess they did not think to tell me. They have a map which which is good enough for my purposes, so I settle for that, with a visit to Speciality Maps becoming unecessary.

On to Photo Warehouse where I bought 3 Fuji 400 HGV films ($32.10) He attempted to give me four, and I regreted not capitalising on his mistake, as I ran short of print film.

I concluded that sending in my exam paper might be a mistake. It is due and it is ready, but a long lead time opens up the possibility of interference when it has not been checked by John Hunt. Being early leaves people time to cause all manner of problems.

The "Animal Rights" lecture simply slipped through my fingers, along with a few other things, but I am satisfied.

I am at the airport at 2.05. With flying Business Class I only need to check in an hour before the flight, so I am early for my 2.15 deadline. Ticketing is easy. I have no baggage to check. The Kris Lounge is on the other side of Customs, so I need to farewell Helen lest there are delays. Just as well. There are big queues. Two coffees and three orange juices in the Kris Lounge to try and fight off dehydration. When I checked in I had changed my seat and the new one is perfect. Right at the front of the 747 top deck, Starboard. An empty seat next to me, and plenty of room for my gear.

A fresh orange juice to greet me as I get on the plane. The alcohol is tempting, but I avoid it. As things turn out it was a wise move. I certainly needed to be fully alert.

SQ 88 Departed 15.15. A lavish meal as we cross the Tasman, and I am pleased that it has concluded before we cross the Australian coastline right over the top of Coolangatta. I am able to stretch out and enjoy the sheer luxury of flying over Australia. The are excellent views of Brisbane, just to the north, with the river snaking out to extensive lagoons protetected by island sand dunes.

The landscape and the river patterns are primeval and incredible. Folded earth. Dry rivers. Up to the flight deck. The instumentation is much simplified from the old days. There are computer screens rather than dials. Now there is no radio operator, no engineer and no navigator. Only two pilots on the flight deck. One is a kiwi, now living in Singapore, and the other a Finn, who takes a 22 gear folding bicycle from Oregan with him, and went riding past Karaka Bay on the 50km route only a couple of days ago. Next time he will call down to see Piglet, and me. He knows Finnish architects well. I think his father worked for Aalto.

With a personal phone at my seat it seemed crazy not to use it so I rang Clive from just south of Darwin, at 9.05 NZ time. When I rang Helen she was so startled that she hung up, and I had to ring again to try and assure her that I was actually on the plane. Darkness falls as we go over Indonesia. Cloud. A few atolls to see, and some mountins. I play with my personal video screen until I have finally mastered the whole system. Films, information, games, but best of all the opportunity to check your position at any time.

A light meal. I put my clock back 5 hours, and we land at Terminal 2. A quick check at the Transfer Counter tells me that Turkish Airlines fly from Terminal 1, so off by Skytrain. At the Transfer Counter the girl is more or less helpful, but she tells me that the PTA has not arrived and that she cannot issue me with a ticket. She does not seem to be into problem solving, and she does not think there is a Turkish Airlines office in the Terminal, so I ask her to ring the office, wherever it may be. They only seem to know that there is no PTA, so I ask if they can ring Ankara. To my astonishment they pass on the message that they have no authority to make toll calls. The Transfer girl tells me I had better do it myself and points vaguely into the distance to a bank of credit card phones. After elbowing my way through a rather distraught crowd of people clutching credit cards I find out what their problem is. None of the phones will actually accept a credit card. I decide my need is more desperate than their's and begin pushing in my card. Upside down, backwards, heated in the palm of my hand. Suddenly "wait a moment" flashes up and success seems to be within my grasp. On the assumption that one call may be all that I ever get to make I decide to ring Raci. Unfortunately he is not in. The girl who answers speaks English and is helpful, but suggests that I should ring the Travel Agent myself. Eventually I convince her, I think, that this could be the only phone call I ever get to make. Then I wait.

Knowing that accurate information is essential for quick decision making I decide to check out the gate and the plane. Along the way I found a free local phone, and rang Gerard Lau. Maggie had already gone to bed. We agreed to meet on my way back through Singapore, although I could not turn up my itinerary to give the precise times. Back to the Transfer Desk, only to find that everything is a stalemate. I realised that this was not a simple problem which is just going to solve itself. It was in fact a crisis which was going to leave me stranded in Singapore.

Desperately I raced back to the credit card phone and through projecting lots of positive energy it worked. I managed to get through to the Travel Agent, on the number which I had fortunately asked Raci to give me last evening. At first he was polite. Then I managed to convince him that if the PTA was not in Singapore in less than 15 minutes I would not be coming to Ankara. I could feel him springing inot action as he hung up.

Back to the Transfer Desk to ask them to ring Turkish Airlines. There was no reply. Fortunately I had had the experience of trying to find the KLM Office in Osaka. At the end of the line there was only one person in the office and when the plane arrived at Kansai she simple closed up and went down to meet it. There were no staff at the time when you needed them most. I guessed that the Turkish Airline staff were at the plane.

I was right at Linda was at Gate C1. She was positive, helpful and efficient. She had prepared a ticket, which she was holding in her hand, but she still lacked the authority to issue it. She checked the computer again, allowing me to look over her shoulder, but there was no PTA. With the final minutes ticking away I was at last in control of the situation. She asked if I had any plan B. I could only suggest paying by credit card. To my astonishment I found the fare was Singapore$2,700, more than an entire return fare from New Zealand to Istanbul. If I could pay with cash it would be only $800.

Off to the bank, to find a painfully slow queue. At last I reached the window. "$800 please." "I am sorry we can only issue a maximum of $300." Off I raced in search of an ATM. It was impossible to find, but eventually after asking an asortment of people for directions I found it. I thrust in my credit card. "This card is not acceptable" it told me with that cold stare which only machines can give. My options were exhausted. It was 10.36 The plane was scheduled to take off in four minutes. I ran the whole length of the Terminal to get to gate C1.

Linda saw me running through the crowd. "It's come through" she yelled, as I swung past the security checks without so much as acknowledging them. Linda thrust the ticket into my hand and ran towards the plane with me following. Suddenly she realised she had forgotten about luggage. "I don't have any" I yelled back with neither of us slackening our pace. "Don't shut me in. I am not flying" she called as she saw me onto the plane. Before I could make an adequate thank you Linda's farewell wave  slid out of sight as the tunnel moved away and the door of the plane closed behind me. She had been holding the plane just for me.

The Airbus 340-300 was rolling across the tarmac before I could begin to look for a seat. To me it did not really matter whether I had one or not.

I was supposed to be flying Business Class, but fortunately it was full, so I ended up in Economy whcih was not. My alloted seat was in the centre, with no leg room. I looked for a window, and there was one spare. I moved. I looked again and realised that four seats between the two aisles were free. In a flash I had moved out and spread my things over the whole four.

After a light meal I bedded down and went to sleep, dreaming about Piglet, and all the positive energy she brings into my life. I woke up unexpectantly in Bangkok. Flying certainly is full of surprises. It was a 50 minute stop-over and we could stay on the plane so I just went back to sleep.

It had to happen. I was woken when two gentlemen who had boarded the plane there asked me to wake up so they could sit in their seats. They were however true gentlemen. Instead of being squeezed in they could see the advantages of them have a pair of seat each, over against the windows, and so I was able to go back to sleep. The only lucky person on the plane with a full bed. Thinking back I realise I probably slept right through a meal, not to mention the B-grade movies.

Saturday 11 October

747 - Ankara

A light meal, and we arrive in Istanbul at sunrise, around 7.30am. I adjusted my watch by another 5 hours, making a total of 10 hours time difference from NZ Summer Time.expected to have the complication of getting to the other terminal, but find instead that I am a transit passenger. Collected a new boarding pass and settled down in the lounge to begin a trip diary. Cleaned my teeth, had a shave, and felt fine. A bus takes us out to the plane, with the other passengers busing from the other terminal.

The 9am RJ-6 flight is absolutely full, as was the 8am flight, which I could almost have caught. The windows are badly scratched, making photography impossible.

In Ankara the three "international" passengers exit by the rear door, and are taken to a different entrance to the terminal. A quick passport check. Customs. Out into the sunshine. No one is about. There are a couple of tourist mini-buses, but none of them seem to have anything to do with me. In the manner of the best spy stories I wait for the next clue. Nothing happens so I settle down to read a newspaper. I am hesitant to leave in case someone arrives and we all end up missing each other. Eventually a figure appears, carryinbg a "Tony Watkins" sign. Ergin Baysar has been waiting out side the domestic exit, while I have been waiting outside the international exit, at the other end of the terminal.

I meet Dogan Kuban and Ayiz Bayer, and the three of us set of by minibus for the middle of town, Hills.High rise apartments.

The bus driver, Halim, would be our driver for the whole week. He was very formal to begin with, but relaxed over the course of the week.

At the Sheraton I meet Raci. He is my kind of person, and I realise instanly that we have a lot in common. He is ready to go. I ask for half an hour to have a shower. He looks a little crestfallen. "Make it 15 minutes." He perks up. By the time I have had a shower I feel great.

For some peculiar reason I had no jet-lag. My body clock seemed to adjust perfectly, and during the whole trip I slept well. Probably a regular meal routine was good for me. For the first day I was tired, but not desperately so, and I was able to stay awake until after sun-down. Fresh air, exersice, and sunshine are important

Off in Raci's own Hyundai mini-bus. Generous roads, with little traffic. Motorway. The plantation pine forests of METU. The lake is to our left, but we turn right to the "doctors" co-operative where Raci lives. His wife, who is a doctor, is away in Uzbekistan investigatinf alternative medecine, but his four children and members of his extended family are home. The apartment are finished to lock up stage, and then completed by the people who move in. Raci has a basement office, which is unusual. Most men are forced out of their houses during the day, as the house is the women's domain. The men gather in the tea houses if they have nowhere else. If they are sick they will stay home, but then it is the woman who is in control.

The middle floor is for kitchen and living, and there are bedrooms on the upper level. There is a garden out the back, with vegetables proudly growing, but by New Zealdn standards it seems to be a tough and very dry climate.

We feast on selected salted fish from the Dardanelles, and other Turkish delicacies. Two beers leave me feeling drowsy for the first time.

On to the Competition Office at METU. (Middle East Technical University.)
I am astonished at what the small team have achieved in eight months.
We pour over the maps.
The discuss the politics.
We browse the Internet page. I had not realised that it existed.

A tour of the Department of Architecture. Very sixties exposed concrete, with elegant natural timber to contrast. A hint of Japanese sensitivity, with this also extending out to the gardens, which seem Western rather than Islamic. There is a strong presence of Corbusier, with models of Ronchamp, the Unite, or other icon buildings displayed around every corner. The post-war globalisation of architectural schools has been truly astonishing. Only a few photographs hint that Turkey has one of the richest architectural heritages in the world.

I am astonished to learn that they printed the two Competition volumes on their own printing press in the Department. I think of the sad story of our own press. I was instrumental in rescuing the Heidelberg, setting it up, and seeing some of the finest printing ever done in the University, With enthusiasts like Robin Lush it seemed as though we would go from strength to strength, but then the bureacrats killed everything.

Back to the Sheraton to meet Robert Riley, who has just arrived.

I am ready to sleep as darkness falss. I dream of Piglet, sleep soundly for eight hours, and wake up feeling fine.

Ahmet Gulgonen flew in from Paris around 9.30pm, while I was sound asleep.

A pall of smog hangs over Anakara. "It is caused by an inversion" they explain. It always seems odd to me that nature has to take the blame for everything. Before the people arrived the atmosheric inversions existed, and the ecology was in balance with the atmospheric conditions. Now the atmoshre is treated like a sink which is able to absorb all the pollution we pour into it, but if nature cannot sustain the ill-treatment, shen somehow gets the blame.

Salim Mutlu
Sunday 12 October


The call to prayer is at 6am., before the sunrise.

Breakfast lasts for three hours, until the discreet waiters finally ask if we would be kind enough to leave.

At first there were no jury members, and I struck up a conversation with a couple from New York, on a conducted tour. Then Kuban and Bayer turned up, and we were able to pick up our conversation from yesterday.

Metin Sozen arrived around mid-day from Istanbul. He is an advisor to the Jury, and his name is familiar from his extensive writings and the work he did for Habitat II last year. I had expected him to be erudite but remote, the "John Stackpoole" of Turkey, but found to my surprise and delight that he achieved a great deal through working closely with both the local people and the politicians.

For me the old tin flower pots sitting on the window ledge of the restored housing in Bursa became a symbol of the warm humanity of the man. Everywhere else in the world it seems that restoration means social dislocation, with the colourful original inhabitants being replaced by gentrified people more suited to the gentrified architecture. Sozen not only respected the vernacular quality of the old tin flower pots, but also recognised how important they were to the inhabitants. He caught the decay which was causing the buildings to crumble, while leaving the social and architectural fabric intact. Rather like the Turkish rug repairers, who do the least they can so that the integrity of the rug is never compromised.

The University administration has shut down the power for the afternoon and thus the Competition Office is plunged into darkness, just when the jury was scheduled to be there.

We set off in our minibus, following the route I had taken yesterday. It always surprises me that we can take in so much visual information on a first journey. The jogging path runs alongside the fumes, heavy metals and pollution of the major road. It is sad that the desire to imitate other nations is not more selective.

Towards the lake, and then we turn back north again, cross the road works of the new motorway to Istanbul, and go through a guard post which restricts entry to the campus. Our destination is the "senior common room" of METU. Our long table is on the terrace overlooking the lake. An exotic array of wonderful Turkish food.

The Vice-President of the University stops by briefly to greet us, and I am grateful for the opportunity to tell him what an amazing job Raci and his team have done.

We traverse the entire perimeter of the small METU lake and then go on to the Competition office. Everything has been immaculately prepared with a sensitive realisation that PR really does matter on a project like this. For my part I was so glad that I had had the chance to see a normal working day yesterday.

We see the slides. We watch the video. I congratulate the team on the work they have done.  We gather around the table and Raci explains the booklets. We look at the Internet site. The more I see the more impressed I am. An entire planning process has been established.

Time to freshen up back at the Sheraton, and we welcome Gaetan Siew, who has arrived from Mauritius.

On then to the Citadel, for dinner in the Washington restaurant. Unfortunately a shower of rain forces us indoors. From the terrace the whole of Ankara is spread out below. More culinary delights, and more people to meet. Ziya Tanali is obviously going to be fun on the jury. A brief speech from the Ministry for Forestry, who, I think, sponsered the evening.

The streets are Medieval, and the houses are timber. We explore the Citadel, and go on exploring when the bus becomes lost. Perhaps we became lost and the bus was in the right place.

Seddulbahir harbour
Monday 13 October


A great sleep and up for the 6am call to prayer. I cannot believe how lucky I am not to be suffering from maladjustment of my internal clock. Rang Clive before breakfast for his birthday. It is already evening in New Zealand.

Wonderful Turkish fruit, and excellent coffee. Another extended breakfast. I am intrigued that Ahmet should have seen "An Angel at my table", the film on Janet Frame's life.

On in our minibus the the Presidential Palace. Security checks, flights of stairs, long hallways, wooden panelling, chandeliers. Everything you might expect. Unfortunately the President, , is not able to see us as our visit clashes with the International Forestry meeting in Cappadocia. We are welcomed instead by Necdet Seckinoz, Secretary General of the Presidency. Formal speeches, all in Turkish. Formal photographs, with the official photographer insisting that he should take my photographs so that I could be in them. Turkish coffee.

We are ahead of schedule so off to the Ataturk Memorial, which was the result of a competition. The long approach axis has animals reminiscent of the approach to the Ming tombs. The mausoleum is on the cross axis, balanced by smaller buildings housing Ataturk's vehicles and other memorabilia. The inevitable tourist shop seems to be from another era, strangely lacking any glimmer of design flair.

We lunch at the Uludag family restaurant, now located in a new building with four restaurant levels opening off a generous spiral stair. The architect was one of Raci's students. It seems that every building we visit was either designed by one of our group or a close associate.

The specialty here is very thinly sliced beef, presented on thick crusty pita bread. Absolutely delicious.

On to the residence of the Australian Ambassador. David Evans, the Ambassador, is jovial, outgoing and very Australian. Indeed everything is very Australian from the taste of the decor through to iced marble cake. The cake was served with cake forks, on tiny unstable cake tables which constantly threatened to topple over. Imagine the tragedy and discrace of breaking an Australian china cup, with Indian tea, on such an occassion, leaving the Commonwealth in tatters on the floor. David however was ready for everything, in the best well-oiled diplomatic tradition. When I asked if I might take a photograph in less time than it took him to say "yes" he wisked open the curtain and usshered us all into a generous space with, surprise, surprise, an Aboriginal painting on the wall. We stood in line while the flashes flashed. In different circumstances I would have assumed it was a rehearsal for an Australian Goon Show.

When Dacid used TVA as example of co-ordinated planning processes such as might be appropriate for Gallipoli, I chided him gently, suggested he should be talking about Canberra. He was very diplomatic and could, I assume, see my point that he should be proud of Australia, rather than a stooge of America. The join in the conversation was flawless as he carried on talking about Australia. I doubt that he realised the contrast I was making between the public ownership of Canberra and the private ownership of many of the Anzac trenches. His heritage has survived by neglect and chance rather than any moves to afford it any protection.

Geoff Leech, David's deputy, has body language appropriate to someone on the way up the bureaucratic ladder. In contrast Tony Twiss is the epitome of British military training. His thin figure is rigid and unfliching until it is his turn. Then with the absolute precision of one who has spent time measuring the number of paces he must make he steps boldly forward. "I'm Tony Twiss. I'm the British Defence Attache." Everyone on the parade ground is left in no doubt.

In contrast Ian Kennedy, the New Zealand Ambassador seem very meek and mild. He arrives late, creating a valuable precedent for me me to follow, but for some reason I always seem to be on time on this trip. He has almost nothing to say, and stands sheepishly, perhaps representing the New Zealnad sheep who vastly outnumber the New Zealander people. However he is a good listener and a good ally. He has discussed the Peace Park with the New Zealand Government when he was recently in New Zealand, and he has prepared the appropriate quotation to conclude his summing up. "Mothers weep not for your sons because...."

Privately Ian is very generous and invites me to stay with him. He is disappointed that I need to go on to Gallipoli early in the morning, but I assure him I will be back. Publically I point out the New Zealand has an important role as a peacemaker, with the Peace Park needing to be seen in the context of recent events such as the Bouganville peace brokering process. If we are sccessful in getting each piece of the jigsaw into place respect will grow, which will make it much easier to complete the peace puzzle. I feel it is important that the Turkish President feels that the Peace Park proposal has wide international support. Building up that support is a perfect role for New Zealand. We have, it seems to me, much to gain and nothing to lose.

Barbara also comes from the New Zealand Embassy to support Ian. Sadly there is not time to follow up on all the work we did at Habitat II. Already everyone else is on the bus waiting for me. Generously they offer to taxi me back, but I would rather leave too early than too late.

Back to the Sheraton, and then there is a little free time which provides my first opportunity to explore both the hotel and the surrounding area. The swimming pool is deserted, but it tempts me less than the thought of a long hot summer waiting for me back in New Zealand. An ATM asccepts my Visa card, and welcomes me by name in English. The instructions are clear and each step goes methodically until it presents options for the amount to be withdrawn. They are all in the millions and I have not done my homework on rates of exchange. The ATM tells me I have taken too long thinking about it. I ask for more time, and eventually take a wild stab in the dark. Only when I eventually get back to New Zealand will I discover it cost me $76 to get around $30 worth of Turkish Lire. An interesting experiment which leaves the same feeling you get with telephones in hotel rooms. Very convenient. Very appropriate to the contemporary way of travelling. Very vulnerable to add-on charges.

The enclosed three-story shopping arcade which is attached to the Hotel has all the character of an airport duty free, and could be anywhere in the world, but outside the streets teem with life. I enjoy the intensity and colour.

We all meet again to go to the AOC Merkez Restaurant. This is to the south, close to the METU Campus. Numbers are down enough for us all to sit around a circular table. The wine and food are excellent, as always. We are not too late getting back to the hotel, so that we can get an early start in the morning. Everyone agrees however to 8.30am rather than Raci's original suggestion of 8am.

Andrew Wilcox ???? noted on my Embassy list, but who was he???

Boat parking
Tuesday 14 October

Ankara - Mudanya

Up as usual for the call to prayer at 6am. A lavish early Sheraton breakfast

Back to my room to pack, and comfortably on time for our 8.30am schedule when the phone rings. It is Raci to say the bus is waiting. Panic. I threw the last few things into my bag and dashed down below, only to find that I was not in fact the last person. Indeed I was one of the first, and 40 minutes later I was still sitting on the bus waiting. It is interesting how our minds jump to instant, but quite incorrect conclusions.

We cross a valley which is densly filled with with Post-Modernist landscape architecture and architecture. It was one of the schemes developed by Raci when he was Director of Planning in Ankara. The valley had been filled with "illegal" squatter housing. It was redeveloped at three times the density. One third to allow the squatters to move back into apartments. This gained their support. One third for local government, to sell to cover the cost of the infrastructure improvements. One third to contractor for carrying out all the work.

A little further on we see a valley where the squatter housing remains untouched. The houses are substantial and well built. They are individual two and three storey homes, and they form a rather relaxed urban design whole, with all the character of a vernacular village. So much so that when we pass another very similar settlement I asssume it is squatter housing, but am told it is one of the old traditional villages.

We stop the Competition Office to finalise preparations and ensure that everything likely to be needed is packed into the car which the student team will drive to Gallipoli to meet us there. There is time for me to look over the Department of Architecture once again and also the Archaeological Museum.

There are industrial zones on the outskirts of Ankara and each time that we seem to have left the city behind there is yet another cluster of half finished residential towers. Concrete frame and brick infil, with usually nothing more. Finally I will realise that they are dotted all over Turkey, destroying the integrity of the countryside.

Raci suggests that they are only partly built because they are co-operatives, which gather in funds only slowly. Others talk of all the wealthy who will be buying these places to make a fortune fro speculators. It seems to me that the economy is severely overheated and about to collapse.

The land is dry and barren. Steppes.

The road is a continuous road work, as the highway is being upgraded to motorway dual carriageway. I gather that this was chosen over the considered alternative of a new motorway.

We stop briefly at a small village, Polatli, I suspect. Raci is extremely disappointed to learn that Morales is not coming. How he found out at this spot mystifies me, but I presume it must have been by cell-phone.

We pass 11km to the south of Gordion, where Alexander the Great cut the Godion knot after becoming frustrated at untying it. He had crossed the Hellespont in 334 BC in his journey from Macedon, and went on to drive the Persians out and conquer the Middle East from Greece to India.

We pass a modern artilery range, but after Israel it seems very quiet.

The road forks at Sivrihisar, with the lower route going on to Afyon and Izmir. We head along the North Western route to Ekisihir. Spectacular mountains rising out of the plain suggest that this must have been a junction since time immemorial.

All along the way there are generous stopping places for travellers. A large courtyard. A petrol station. A place to buy a meal. A few have small mosques, but we did not experience any vehicles stopped for prayer. These modern caravanseri seldom seem to have somewhere to stay for the night.

We make a soup stop.at one of the larger establishments. Our progress has been rather slower than anticipated and the promised lunch stop will eventually be an evening meal.

The roads are crowded with trucks, and they tend to set the speed limit as our bus does not have the grunt to pass unless there is a long straight with no oncoming traffic. These are few and far between. On our journey we pass at least five overturned trucks lying alongside the road. It seems as though the drivers have simply gone to sleep.

We drop down from the plateau and the landscape changes dramatically. It is almost like driving through parts of New Zealand. We come to the fruit and garden area. Apple orchards. Melons. It seems as though almost anything can grow here, and yet there are also great tracts of neglected wasteland.

We skirt Mount Olympus, a National Park, to which people coem from Istanbul for skiing.

Bursa is a very large city, with a tangle of traffic to match the complete visual shambles. Somehow we wend our way to the old heart of the city. The mayor is expecting us, and we are welcomed into his expansive office. Speeches of welcome and reply. Then he takes us down to the basement which has been renovated to become an Agenda 21 office, with meeting and research facilities for community groups. Very impressive.

Immediately adjacent is the silk market. We are assured that prices are much lower here than in Istanbul, but more importantly Bursa was on the old silk route, so the tradition of trading here foes back over the centuries. Haluk does the bartering and reaches a price. I buy five pieces, almost exactly using up the money I had obtained last night.

The mosque is adjacent. It is subdued and rich. The calligraphy is the finsest I have seen, and the variety of styles seems endless. It is much more elegant than the Blue Mosque.

Our bus takes us once again around the route we seem to have traversed a number of times, and then we follow the side of the hill to a housing restoration project by Metin Sozen. The local mayor meets us there, and a number of the residents involved with the project. Minimal intervention has left many of the delightful folk-art features untouched. This is true rehabilitation rather than gentrification.

We eat at a night club venue which is like a faded remnant of a luna park. Rather strange, but the company is good. The mayor and his friends I assume.

Darkness falls as we wend our way out of the city. At a stop by the junction there is an orgy of sweet buying. I was not clear whether we were going to be beyond the reach of delicacies in Gallipoli, or whether this was just a very special shop.

The Mudanya Hotel is on the edge of the Marmara Sea. It was formerly the interface between the ships and the railway which went 60km into Bursa. What a grand architectural gesture.

Glenn Murcutt has arrived several hours earlier. He has not changed in the least since I last saw him, and is very chirpy after finishing a teaching assignment in New Guinea, flying to Sydney, working all night to get the contract signed ofr a major job, flown on to Bangkok and Istanbul and then been driven down to the hotel.

At 95 in 1998 she was in Behramli in 1915 and knew Ataturk
Wednesday 15 October

Mudanya - Gallipoli (Kum Limani)

A leisurely breakfast. Photographs.

The bus takes us for a very quick tour of the township. It is stunning. Narrow streets packed with wonderful timber houses run at right angles to the water, and the light quality in them is superb. Unfortunately there is no time to stop, so I am left regretting not having taken an early morning walk, as all this was only a stone's throw from the hotel.

Back over the hill to the main road, with expansive views across the Marmara.

As we move towards the Dardanelles it becomes quite difficult to relate to the landscape forms.

Black clouds build up and soon it is teeming with rain. The papers back in Australia have been reporting four days of intensive rain in Istanbul, with significant consequential flooding. We catch the edge of it, but nothing more. By tomorrow it will be sunshine again.

The newspapers also reported a bus accident, with a number of Australians hurt. There are rumours of a death, but nothing more. Back in NZ Bob Harvey says he heard it was on the Gallipoli road. There seemed to be nothing in the New Zealand papers.

There is confusion in Cannakale. We are running late for our meeting. It is teeming with rain, and the place is flooded. The bus will not fit on the smaller ferry to Kilitbahir, because of the height. I retrieve my Gortex coat, do a little exploring along the waterfront, and then it is decided that we should all take the Kilitbahir ferry while the bus takes the Eceabat ferry.

I have led enough trips to understand what Raci is trying to achieve as an experience, but conditions are really against him.

Our first crossing of the Hellespont is rough with the wind wipping up the salt spray. Kilitbahir harbour is tiny and delightful. There are only two taxis so we all stack in somehow. A couple of kilometers for a stretch at the headland to view the Dardanelles. Another kilometer and we are at the Park Headquarters. It has a very tired feeling.

Strangely there is no meeting space, so we end up in the hall, with a seating arrangement which makes interaction impossible. We meet the key personel from the Commonwealth War Graves Comission. Tim Reeves and Joseph Gilbert. John Price is on the Competition Technical Committee. Our meeting is really concerned with the politics of piecing the Peace Park together. At first the CWGC opposed the idae, I suspect because they felt it would impinge on their very cosy and tranquil little world. Slowly they realised that their world was in fact under threat and that the Park would be of significant benefit to the graves within their care. They had thought only of cemeteries and they were being asked to think about context.

We look over the museum, with its strange collection of memorabilia. A skull. Bones with bullets lodged in them. A water container. Rifles reminiscent of 303 Lee Enfields, and artillery which could easily have been the 25 pounders on which I trained. It all made me realise that there may have been a generation between the first and second world wars, but thinking and technology had changed little.

The bus meets us and we drive on through Eceabat to the Information Centre. It is bizarre. Ahmet's competition winning building is more like a gun emplacement than a source of knowledge, but with none of the elegance of the older gun emplacements on the Peninsual. It is a terrible space in which to display anything. The new monument outside is even worse. It is violent. Jagged and intrusive. It destroys the experience of looking up the ridge.

We drive on up the ridge to the Lone Pine Cemetery. I cannot believe that anyone could be so insensitive as to put a road up this ridge. I begin to realise that the Peace Park will need to address universal questions. We pause at the Turkish monument at ?, also by Ahmet. The theory of his argument is fine, but the results on the ground are dismal.

The sun is setting. The lanscape is superb. The cemetery has an astonishing presence. We go on to Chunuk Bair. I am overawed.

Back down and it is only a few kilometers to Anzac Cove and the Ari Burnu Cemetery.

Did we go on to the English monument and the Turkish memorial??

We retrace our steps in the darkness and go on to Kum Limani, and the Kum Motel. It feels as though it is very close to Greece.

A late meal.

Back in New Zealand I missed the first of Hugh MacGuire's series on the city in 2000, with Gordon Moller and Richard Harris.

Sulva boats
Thursday 16 October

Gallipoli (Kum Limani)

Breakfast at 8am.

A meeting of the jury.
Kuban and Ahmet need to leave today at mid-day.
Should we change Morales to Geitan?

A revised schedule was agreed to bt the jury.
Monday 16 March. Final submissions.
Friday 17 April. Final acceptance.
Monday 20 April. Technical examination begins.
Friday 22 May. Technical examination concludes.
Monday 25 May. The jury will convene in Ankara at 9am.
Monday 1 June. The jury will conclude its deliberations.
Friday 5 June. The results will be announced.

Election of a Chairman.

It was agreed that the responses to Questions and answers should be inclusive rather than exclusive.

Glen told the story of the Sydney Opera House.

I raised the question of computer modelling. It was felt that there were questions regarding inequality.

A round of personal ideas and responses.

My comment. (to be summarised into a two page juror's submission.)
1)  Movement, by land and sea.
2)  Differing degrees of access to the sacred.
3)  Differing levels of access to knowledge. (The superficial and the serious.)
4) Tourism. The hill tops are small.
5)  Idealism v political realisation.
6)  Humanity of scale. Touchability.
7)  Belonging. The sea edge forms.

Other key thoughts
1)  Silence. The quiet clop of the horses and carts being replaced by the horrendous noise of the motorbike.
2)  Natural or artificial.
3)  The integrity of ecosystems. Flowers in the fields. (The poppys of Flanders.
4)  Dignity or pastiche.

A walk across the dunes.
The oak tree in the hollow.
Fishing boats come very close in.

Off by bus. Our intended brief detour see the port at Limani becomes really exciting when I convince everyone that I really do need to get a photograph or two. The fishing boats have just arrived in with their sardine catch. The decks are awash with two feet of sardines and they are being shovelled into boxes. Conversations are struck up and we have an instant quayside party.

Lunch at Eceabat.
Fresh bread dipped in wonderful Olive oil.
Red wine.

Farewell to Ahmet and Kuban.

A meeting at the Park Centre, and we sign a release on our honoraria. I heard later from Glenn that there was some grumbling that the local people got 70,000,000 while the overseas people got 90,000,000. You can't win.

The fort. Kilitbahir.

Hilltop and Alcitepe village.

English Cemetery in the fading light..

French Cemetery.
Full moon.

Turkish Monument. ???

Sulva boats
Friday 17 October

Gallipoli (Kum Limani)


Up the ridge.

We stop at the Nek.
The cemetery.
Many plants to photograph.
Monash Gully.
Part way out to the Sphinx.

Up to hill 971.
Three helicopter pads.

New Zealand cemetry at Chunuk Bair.

Baby 700.
The new Turkish symbolic cemetery.

Anzac Cove.

Rocky headland.

Salt lake lagoon.

Back to the fish farm.
They are too afraid to allow us to go in, as any infection would kill all the small fish.

The Turkish monument.

Kucuk Anafarta is built almost entirely of rubble stone. We share a coffee with the locals in the coffee shop, with its raised terrace covered by a vine-covered trellis. Every weather-beaten face seems to express a story waiting to be told.

In the Bigali Village we walked the short distance from the Square to the Ataturk House Museum. Ataturk was here when he heard the guns of the English bombardment, and he rode his horse up to Chunuk Bair to find the Turkish soldiers fleeing. He commanded them to stop and lie down, and this created the false impression that Turkish reinforcements were on the way.

Photos of Eceabat.

Lunch with wonderful plates of fish.

Met outside by the Mayor's deputy. It feels more as though the mafia have joined us.

We head south.
Dozens of fishing boats are out again, and now they are catching the light.
A brief pause at the fortifications by the English monument.

The castle, with astonishing domes to each of the corner towers.
The harbour with its delightful scale.
Pilot boat.

The French Cemetery in daylight.

Supper at the Kum Motel.

Back in New Zealand I missed a triple A slide show on the Berlin competition.

Image Saturday 18 October

Gallipoli (Kum Limani) - Istanbul

Awake around 6.30am while it is still dark.
Packed the bottle of olive oil into my Hallmark bag.

Breakfast at 7.30

Farewells around 9am.
Gave my Papatuanuku T Shirt and hat to Raci.

As we drove north the significance of the enclosure of Eceabat and the exposure of Kilitbahir seemed clearer than ever.

The Dardanelles is rather like the Bosphorous in that the twists and turns create space rather than a sensation of length.



Birds nesting on the flats, which are almost flooded after the heavy rain.

Forest cloaks the hills and completely changes the character of the area.

The road from Greece.

Back in New Zealnd I missed a triple A site visit and Ted Athy's 60th birthday celebrations.

Image Sunday 19 October

Istanbul - Airbus 340-300

Woke with the 6am call to prayer.
Packed the three carpets.

Hagia Sophia

Aynur Sungur Tuncer

Left the Hotel at 5.50

The carpets needed to be checked through so I decided I may as well send my green bag too. I kept my Hallmark bag with the olive oil and the competion books, and my Kathmandu day pack with my camera bag, gortex parka, and the few things I might need for Singapore. This all worked out really well.

Departed Istanbul

Back in New Zealnd I missed Havel Stephen Smith's 60th birthday celebrations.

Image Monday 20 October

Airbus 340-300 - Bangkok - Singapore - 747

In the Silver Kris Lounge
Internet search for Piglet, to find ten pages of thousands of references.

Dad died 25 years ago today. 20 October 1972.
I had forgotten that James K Baxter died on 22 October 1972, from a heart attack, aged 46, only two days after Dad.

Image Tuesday 21 October

747 - Karaka Bay

The plane touched down a little ahead of schedule, around 10.45am, but we needed to wait for the gate to be cleared. I stocked up with six bottles of good red wine from the Hawkes Bay to let ther wonderful memories of the Iona Conference live on a little longer. A bottle of 1125 Johnie Walker Red, 1 ltr. Cointreau, and 1 ltr. Drambuie bring the total to $174.70.

Down to collect my bags, which arrived intact. The Customs were rather intrigued at my suggestion that the carpets might have come out of a jumbo bin and be worth $10, while on the other hand they could have been stolen from a museum, and be worth $10,000. He found himself unable to offer an intelligent suggestion. On to MAF. Wonderously they are not even interested in looking at the Olive Oil, and they are really helpful with the cotton. He goes away to check with the manual, and decides that with complicated heat treatment and other techniques it could be cleared. We conclude it is hardly worth it, and so I say farewell to Ataturk's cotton. On to the exit to find Clive faithfully waiting.

Barry Spring Rice died last Friday after a massive heart attack. Clve went down to Rotorua for the funeral yesterday.

Clive had been to Karaka Bay with Chris last night, and brought my car back to Papatoetoe, so we went there to collect it and I drove Lisa on to Karaka Bay.

Piglet is very excited to see me, and sqeaks and grunts a greeting. A great hot shower. Helen arrives home from work. We stretch out to catch up on news. She has survived well, but obviously the highs have been high and the lows low. She went in to wish Bob a happy birthday and Margaret told her to "Piss off", and ordered her out of the house. Bob was very upset. Cedric had been very abusive to her, and obviously to anyone else who came within range. Hayley Fitchett called down with her father, and when they asked which house was mine Cedric told them "They will not be here for long". On their first visit to the Bay they were rather taken aback. Cedric has also been trying to convince Joan to throw out Livia and the children so that he can take over the whole place. What a circus.

The "Lovely Piggy" which Akio sent from Sydney provides some light relief. Began unpacking and sorting out my gear. Organising my diary to catch up quickly in case I need to go to Peru. A walk with Piglet, and Helen. Everything was wet and muddy when I left and it is much the same on my return. Cedric has made zero progress on his boat. It seems indeed as though I have only been away for the twinkling of an eye.

Apparently the Sunday Star Times photograph of Piglet has found its way to a Welsh pub, where it prominently adorns a wall.

There are few messages. I ring Gus Watt in Wellington to thank him for his message wondering iff I was going to the CHH Awards. A message to thank Clive for coming to pick me up. Also rang the Competition Office in Ankara, to tell them I had arrived home safely, and to thank them. The girl who answered was very responsive to my enthusiasm. Raci was home, which left me pleased that at last he might be spending a little time with his wife and children.

Browsed throgh Pugsley's book to check out the photographs. In bed soon after 9pm, not because I was feeling tired but because I wanted to get back into a sleep routine.

















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