Holiday Snaps: It was crazy alright

Walking into the night

Night life in Marmaris is varied from the cosiness of restaurants to the bar and clubs that form the sea-facing facade of the probably 6km long promenade.

After dinner at the hotel, I made out to walk almost 4km towards the Eastern end of the marina that I had covered by bicycle earlier.

It probably took the best part of an hour or more, I do not walk as briskly as I once did and I had to take breaks on the way to ease the pain in my lower back, it was a case of will over ability, but that was what I wanted to do.

The journey was by no means easy as waiters called out to entice me into their restaurants or dens, you constantly had to stand your ground that you did not want a meal, a sip of any drinks or the conscience-tainting offer of a free drink that almost obliged you to go the extra bit to paying for nice but unwelcome hospitality.

There were many restaurateurs that recognised me as I walked by the docks and they all wanted to have a conversation about everything.

The crazy of Crazy Daisy

When I got to the end of the promenade, I turned left and the first street to the left was club land, a cacophony of sounds from at least 15 different bars and clubs with one so brazen that it lit up the sky with war-time searchlights and a green laser display of the club’s name on the mountains just about 1km away, I was on Bar Street.

Crazy Daisy was worth a look in, as one of the doormen was he-she, I could not really tell but it was quite likely no self-respecting lady will be dressed in a body-hugging leopard-skin leotard with a matching wide-brim hat that had one of the sides folded up into a something like a huge Napoleon Bonaparte hat.

I will err on the side of the person being male and his heels were mountain-topping though the burly bouncers turned away some they did let in others and eventually I made for the door.

The assurance that I would hit no one with my cane gave me a welcome entry into this cavernous place where the drinks were not going for tuppence.

Squeals of heels

Later the man in drag took the stage, by which time I was half-deaf, the loud speakers booming so load as if NATO was doing a night raid on Tripoli – clubs are just not healthy.

Being a disk jockey has nothing to do with disks or jockeying anymore, the man at the music stand had an Apple MacBook and probably a few cables that went into some amplification system and in between some synthesizing equipment to embellish the sounds.

Back to the dancer, it hard enough seeing certain ladies comment on the extraordinary daring of dancing in high heels and I have seen Rihanna, Lady Gaga and Beyonce do feats the foolhardy equivalent of tight-roping walking without a pole or a safety net.

What I saw I could not appropriately put in words, I spontaneously applauded the man as I thought the slightest mishap will lead to a series of skeletal fractures that would make the putting back together of Humpty Dumpty seem like a kindergarten finger-painting class.

I longed for bed

I saw enough and then trundled back to my hotel the pain in my back as bad as it can be for I had resolved to be a glutton for my own self-inflicted punishment.

The only disturbance along the way was a dog that started barking at me before I got to it and after I had moved on, it was still barking oblivious of the fact that I had completely ignored it – such busy-body dogs can only be a representative of their masters.

The bed received me as the pain in my back eased and I fell asleep soon afterwards.