IF SOCIAL MEDIA and post-Covid demand caused a tourism ‘boom’, we’re now living in its crater. Over-tourism became such a problem last summer that Spaniards took to the streets armed with water pistols, fighting back the sunburnt hordes.
The dilemma is complex, with many communities depending on holidaymakers to make a living. But the surge in numbers is destroying the culture and landscapes that attracted visitors in the first place.
I couldn’t face the swarms of people – or high prices – this year. A friend told me of a place across the water that the Turkish had largely kept for themselves. A coil of cobbled streets and whitewashed buildings cut into the side of the Mediterranean. Clear-water snorkelling spots with views of ancient sunken ruins. No super-yachts, no high-rise hotels. The town of Kas, pronounced ‘cash’. It sounded too good to be true.
Tourists from Western Europe have been coming to Turkey since the late 80s. Quiet fishing villages like Kusadasi have been transformed by the high-density construction of generic apartment towers, novelty pubs and souvenir stands flogging knock-off tat. A good place to buy a full-English breakfast, a bad place for an authentic menemen.
Flanked by the Taurus mountains, the obstinate terrain around Kas has immunised it from the mass development of other Turkish resorts. The limestone crags and rocky hills offer incredible sea views, but are a builder’s worst nightmare. The harbour is too small for cruise ships, and the nearest airstrip is hours away along winding mountain roads.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to get there. My friend had previously flown to Rhodes and taken a ferry. I booked a flight to Antalya – around 190km North of Kas – and hoped to catch a bus. The information online was sparse and it was not possible to book in advance.
My girlfriend and I took a tram ride to the city’s main otogar. A curious local took an interest in us and led us to the correct terminal. A café owner allowed me to hotspot off his phone while I waited for my departure and devoured a flaky borek pastry.
The journey took around three hours, with a pit stop just long enough to knock back a can of Efes. We checked into our seaside hotel just in time for sunset. The room had a Jacuzzi on the balcony with a view of the shore and was not nearly as expensive as it sounds.
Our days were spent seeking out sun spots. Around the town, beach clubs cover the jagged rock formations with over-water decking and sun-loungers. Renting a bed for the day costs around 10 Euros. Without sand, the water is clear like turquoise glass.
Beyond the old town, the coastline is dotted with secluded beaches and sheltered coves accessible only by taxi-boat. You can also catch a local bus from the main square for a short ride to the peninsula for dramatic views of the bay. Campervans of Turkish families crest the cliffs, preparing their evening meals on disposable barbeques as daylight vanishes behind the horizon. The landscape may have made the decision for them, but the Turks still have the run of the place for now.
It was the end of my trip before I heard an Irish accent. I was on a boat tour around Kekova Island to get a look at the lost Lycian city submerged under the waves. The ruins had been a thriving settlement until the 2nd century AD when a series of earthquakes cast the inhabitants into the tides. You can still make out the stone foundations of houses, staircases and sewage systems, shimmering underwater and coloured in greens and browns by the marine life that now resides there.
Later on the journey, we stopped at Kaleköy Island, trekking up to the village’s famous hilltop castle for a view of the archipelago. It struck me that the sights were as picturesque as South East Asia, the waters as clean and blue as the Maldives. In the age of travel bloggers and budget airfare, how was it that I was seeing all of this for the first time?
Bobbing in the gentle current during a swimming break, I considered my fellow travellers. Romanian and Spanish girls posed for photos on the ship’s bow, while a group of Muslim women navigated the water in burkini swimwear. When a person with the same wan complexion as mine floated nearby on a foam tube, I knew that I was not the only Irish person on the tour.
“How did you find out about Kas?” I asked.
“I saw a video on Tik Tok”, she told me. “I thought – that looks class!”
Kas offers value for money, good food and un-spoilt views right on the edge of Europe. But for anyone looking to evade the sweaty crush of other tourists next summer, it might already be too late.
Peter Flanagan is an Irish comedian and writer. You can find him on Twitter @peterflanagan and Instagram @peterflanagancomedy.
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