The Museum of Underwater Archaeology - Bodrum, Turkey

23rd May 2014 - 20TL (about £6) (joined by Amanda Leat)

I'm a Turkish delight.

Merhaba, you old dogs.

Stuck on a south-western peninsula of Turkey, in one of its last bastions of secularism, sits Bodrum (née Halikarnassos), pride of the Aegean. The vista provides a sensorial overload that requires none of the brooding contemplation of the Lake District or Dartmoor. There’s something in the human soul that recognises sea, mountains and trees in that order as just good. The colour palate’s dazzling to the point of supernormal stimuli, reminiscent of those hideously printed kids books by Michelin or the AA, circa 1985.

In the centre of the bay sits the castle, the city’s frontispiece, with its high walls and twisting minarets. To say it was built during the crusades and has survived a litany of sieges and uprisings, it’s in remarkably good nick. It’s been built and rebuilt and is now used to tackle the greatest army to swarm the Mediterranean: tourists. The colossal floor space within is used (rather wonderfully) as the grounds for “Turkey’s only underwater archaeology museum”. Well… yeah. 

Amphoras

The proceedings were imbued with a frisson of peril by the website being incorrect about the entrance fee, opening time and closing time. It also failed to mention that it’s shut for an hour in the middle of the day for reasons that must’ve died with the Ottoman empire. 

The setting alone is arresting. The brutal Turkish sun, the flickering sea of shell-suit blue, the trees, the ancient stones, the call to prayer snaking through the air, getting in your blood. They could throw the Royal Armouries in there and it’d be interesting. Actually no, I take that back. 

More amphoras

After the entrance walkway, we get to the first real exhibit - amphoras. Our antique forebears treasured two commodities: wine and olive oil. But the inventors of democracy, music theory and the jacuzzi didn’t buy these commodities from the shops. No, they put them in amphoras - handled clay pots with a base that tapers to a point so it can be stuffed in the sand. Kind of the tupperware of their day. I’ve told you pretty much everything there is to know about amphoras. But Jesus, get used to them! The MoUA must have found a job lot under the sea because this is the terracotta army of terracotta crap. The entire first section is the evolution of the fucking amphora. If you like amphoras, come on down. When I was there it was practically empty, which gave me space to think that, in a thousands years time, would there be a museum dedicated to the bum bag?

Dead nice

As we walked around the beautifully tended gardens, they piped in Mozart’s Rondo Alla Turka (like Kew Gardens playing England Swings). They had boards describing the animals that live wildly in the castle’s grounds and marry them with mythological stories regarding their creation. You’re not fooling me, Bodrum. You’re sugaring the pill that there are fucking SNAKES near me. Fuck that for a game of soldiers! I don’t care what Asclepius did with them, throw them in the sea now. I hate them fingerless bastards. The two things I’ve retained from my erstwhile Catholicism is a crippling guilt complex and an emasculating terror of anything ophidian. 

The Evil Eye.
Said to ward off evil spirits, but
so omnipresent in Turkey that it
almost becomes an evil spirit 
in itself.

I’m a proud philhellenist, but they’ll never make sense to me. Artemis was a paragon of chastity (she had Actaeon transformed into a stag and hunted down by his own dogs just for seeing her naked), and yet they depict her as having hundreds of tits. Make up your minds, the Greeks. 

I can safely say I’ve never been on a mocked up boat inside a mosque before and, for a terrifying second, I thought there’d be no rubbish mannequins. Then everything came up Joe! This is why I write this thing. 

Onto the rare 10th century glasswork found on a local wreck. The Lonely Planet guide states that Britain’s museums using Victorian cabinets should take note of the MoUA’s modern approach. ‘Modern’ here translates as “hideous cabinets from the 1990s”, but whatever floats your boat, Lonely Planet. The glassware within was impressive, but chiefly for its rarity. I’m always underwhelmed by stuff that would be just knocking around someone’s house. I know I’m a snob and have the attention span of a giddy kid, but give me the glory! I want skulls and cannons. And to say it’s a display regarding excellently preserved glass, the cabinet’s glazing left a lot to be desired. There. The ne plus ultra of museum blogging, I’m criticising the glazing. Why don’t I just review films like every other fucker?

Some cheeky amphoras there

F.O.T.D. Fener is Turkish for Lighthouse. So the football team Fenerbahce translates as Lighthouse Garden. How dreamily arcadian considering their fans’ checkered history. 

Life size Action Men

A tower’s dedicated to the Turkish hero of the First World War, Ibrahim Nezihi. It felt strange seeing the word "hero" applied to a soldier on the other side, but why not, ey? Just because we’re taught Britain's historically infallible doesn’t mean the Turks weren’t spun the same rubbish about imperialism and promised it’d be all over by Eid. 

The English Tower, so named because it can’t face emotional confrontation without a couple of stiff drinks, overlooks the sea, waiting to chunder. The interior wasn't the most English thing I’ve seen. For a start, most of the flags in there were Turkish but they did play ye olde music by some troubadour on a lute or whatever. Not the England I know. It should’ve been covered in them little England flags wankers put on their car and had Shanks & Bigfoot playing too loudly, despite letters from the council. I’ll be honest (or perhaps cynical), it seemed like an Aunt Sally for Turkish military dominance. Which is a trick us noble Englishmen would never ever ever ever pull… ever. 

Look at all the cocks and shagging!

The German Tower, honours the simpatico relationship between the two countries by defying the German stereotype and being shut. This ‘special relationship’ doesn’t extend the length of a health and safety dossier, however. Whereas the Germans have an actual museum dedicated to Health and Safety, I nearly broke my neck on the unrailed walkways about six times and the Turks couldn’t have given less of a shit. In keeping with the disappointment of no German Tower, the galley slaves section was also locked, which was my opportunity to be serious and mature about the horrors on display. But I can’t now, because of them. Through the window it looked all of those things. 

Peacocks. Like David Beckham
or Kelly Brook, they look great
and sound like shit.

The penny eventually dropped as to the nomenclature of the towers, adding to the list the French and Italian ones (both closed), in that it's to appeal to the largest chunks of their tourism demographic. Chinese Tower pending. 

On a side note, if Islamic countries are loathe to take photos of people because of an aversion to any manner of idolatry, someone better tell the Turks because Ataturk’s mug is ubiquitous. I like the name Ataturk. It sounds like an American patronising his Turkish mate. 

The two remaining towers were the Health tower, which was bursting with cocks and fannies and was brilliant, and the Snake Tower which was filled with something even more terrifying than its namesake - amphoras. On Juno’s stone, there was a Roman senate style circle of chairs all occupied by amphoras from different ages. Fucking shoot me.

Did Conal (of the hilarious Cock Lion fame) do this?

Sick of this.

It wasn’t without its positives, mind. Sections dedicated to coins usually make me long for the liberty of death (which ironically would result in coins being placed on my eyes). The MoUA bucks fashion by giving the coins currency (boom boom) in stating their values and inflation rates. It was rather interesting, so thanks for that, Turkey. 

Queen Ada’s temple was a Grecian tomb replete with her bones that stands aside a mannequin modelled with advanced reconstruction techniques from the University of Manchester (The North 1 - The World 0). Inscribed on the tomb is “Rest in Peace”, a sentiment respectfully adhered to by the throngs of tourists taking selfies in front of it. 

How the Greeks saw her...

...spot on.

I saved the best for last: the dungeon. May I put on record that the Museum of Underwater Archaeology’s dungeon (that once imprisoned Redbeard, no less) is the worst part of any museum I have reviewed thus far. It fails as a piece of education, atmosphere and entertainment (until, realising how shit it was, I was laughing like a monkey in the foetal position). It united tourists of all languages like a bad Christmas cracker joke. I don’t say this lightly, but it made the Clink look like the World at War. 

ARRRGGGHHHH!!!!!

There’s an accessible, unpretentious grace to the museum. It has acres of charm, but maybe that charm has deforested some of its educative weight. There’s not much in the way of guides, and the accompanying text is either prolix or non-existent so I didn’t learn much, but the MoUA is a space that invites exploration around a massive castle in Turkey, so it’s better than a kick in the arse. Or The Sherlock Holmes Museum. It’s dog-eared, but on the head of a loveable and obedient dog that wants very much to be loved. And, if you want to find out about amphoras (which I know you do), get here quickly and bring a camera to cherish the memories of boring, old, forgotten crockery for ever. 

Teşekkür ederim, brothers and sisters.