Kindness of Strangers

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Nothing is as it seems in Goreme. We’ve spent the past few days exploring a very small corner of Cappadocia, and surprises appear around every corner. Most hotels are clustered in the village’s center, surrounded by throbbing music and overpriced soft drinks. We are lucky enough to be staying at the farthest corner of the town, nestled in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Groups of women draped in gossamer headscarves and roomy Aladdin pants crouch in doorways, concentrating on their needlework while catching up on the latest gossip. Morning announcements, just like high school, blast through the streets, announcing who’s getting married, who’s just died, and whose car is parked illegally with the headlights on. Children climb like monkeys on huge tractors, peering into the oval gas tank, while men gallop up the street on horeseback.

Walking through this idyllic scene, it’s easy to feel like you’ve finally managed to veer off Turkey’s well-trodden tourist path. Then, a cheery voice calls from a lidded doorway. “Hello. Hello, where are you from?” You stop and pause. “The United States.” “Oh, please, let me show you my home.” You walk towards the house, excited that you’re going to see a slice of real life in this charming village. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of a sign that says something about a pension. Soon, you are in a small alcove, where a woman is snapping necklaces on you that just happen to match the color of your shirt. Just when you thought you were in the middle of nowhere, you are reminded that you were never off the beaten path in the first place.

Much of our time has been spent exploring the valleys surrounding Goreme by foot. It’s not the easiest thing to do in scorching weather, and there’s lots of options for touring by car, scooter, mountain bike, ATV, or even hot air balloon. But walking forces you to slow down and get in the thick of this otherworldly landscape. Cones that looked small only a meter earlier suddenly soar when you stand at their base. The largest chimneys often contain cramped rooms, while small openings in others reveal labyrinthine passageways. Sunburned rock looks like banks of snow. Every set of directions we receive begins with, “You will want to go this way, but you must go in the opposite direction.” Nothing is at it seems.

It’s easy to feel like the last man on earth when exploring these valleys. The landscape is prehistoric, and the only sounds are often that of flapping wings and singing insects. Hours pass without seeing another human being. Just when you think you’ve found the middle of nowhere, a tea garden magically appears out of the thicket, as a man with a colorful, banded scarf on his head, covering impossibly long tresses, smiles and beckons you to sit down with the large table of tourists already seated. There are dozens of small cave churches - some from the time of Christ - built into the rock throughout these valleys that are free for discovery. Just when you think you’ve discovered a new one, a small stand pops up out of nowhere with a sign that reads “Church Visit” in English.

One day we walked through the Pigeon Valley to Uchisar, an even tinier town about two miles from Goreme. We emerged from a tangle of trees, dusty and dirty, feeling very much like intrepid explorers. As we made our way up the cobbled streets of town, we noticed crowds of locals gathered in small groups. Then, the military police, with their green berets and stony visage, appeared. What was going on? we thought. Suddenly, we found ourselves walking through a motorcade of black Mercedes with tinted windows. We learned later that afternoon that the Vice President was in town, this tiny dot on a map, for vacation.

Goreme is awash in contradiction. There are two worlds that coexist here, with people continually crossing back and forth between the two, an invisible border. But at the end of day, everyone goes back to the world they came from. At the top of the hill, far above the village’s din, with its rug shops and postcards and Coca-Cola dreams, it’s easy to forget where I am. Then I sit down to dinner, surrounded by backpacks, holding my English-language menu, and am reminded of my exact location in this world.