The ancient church of Eklisia was once the heart of Gümüşlük. A tiny Byzantine building with a rounded roof and stone walls draped in bougainvillea, it squats on a hill above the village on Turkey’s south-west coast, looking out over a cove cluttered with small yachts and fishing boats to the shimmering sapphire of the Aegean.
For a few years, from 2004, it was home to the Gümüşlük international classical music festival, which ran for several weeks in late summer and became the focal point of the village’s tourist calendar.
By the time I arrive, however, the festival has moved elsewhere. (“Personal tensions,” I am told. “Don’t even ask.”) Eklisia, just 30 minutes from popular Bodrum, is in search of a new identity.
A new open-air bar next to the church affords golden sunset views, but it is tucked away from the main thoroughfare of restaurants along the beach, which means it is missed by anyone who doesn’t know it’s there. Consequently, its sparse clientele is made up of loyal old-timers. Turkish rakı is the drink of choice. An elderly DJ pumps out a persistently incongruous playlist of deep house.
As a place to volunteer, it is idyllic and frustrating in equal measure. The volunteers sleep on mattresses on the church floor and, beyond some minimal cleaning and cooking for the household, have no work to do at all. Requests to the owner for guidance procure vague mumbles about doing some gardening – in a “garden” that is composed entirely of gravel and cacti.
This leaves us with long, languid days in which we explore the ruined, half-submerged city of Myndos, venture inland to visit ruined churches and hammams, take picnics of börek (filled pastries made of a thin flaky dough) and fresh fruit to deserted coves, and snorkel among the rocks, watching darting silver fish.
It should be the perfect holiday. But volunteering tends to change your expectations of a trip. Living for free and searching for a deeper engagement with a place, we find our lazy days tainted with guilt and so resolve to get creative.
Using a fork attached to a long pole we harvest the cactus fruits from the garden, which we use to make jams and juices which we incorporate into a new drinks list for the bar. We plant herbs and chillies, and build a trellis for climbing plants. Finally, we spruce up the bar and plan a party.
As the DJ flatly refuses to deviate from his playlist, we build a fire pit some distance away, gather all the instruments we can find and put a call out for local musicians. We make posters promising all sorts of things we’re not sure we can provide and hope for the best.
On the night, the bar is more crowded than I’ve ever seen it. Our guitarists are joined by a cellist from the village and drums are passed around. The owner’s girlfriend, a professional harpist who practises in the church, is persuaded to play. Bach vies with the defiant pump of deep house under the rising moon. It’s not quite the much-missed classical festival, but the village pulses with music once more.
• Cat organised her trip through workaway.info, which features thousands of volunteering opportunities
