Kindness of Strangers

Saturday, August 23, 2008

We are trying to gather a meaningful souvenir from each country we visit. Portugal produced the bottle of wine from the generous farmer, which made it safely home via the Portuguese post. Since we were completely enchanted by Cappadocia, we wanted something to remember it by. Julie, the ex-pat photographer we met while staying at The Fairy Chimney, graciously volunteered to take our photos against Cappadocia’s lunar landscape. On Thursday we had an impromptu photo shoot, the perfect way to end our time in the region. The photos turned out great; we hope to get a few printed out when we return home. Check out Julie’s work – her travel photos are particularly cool – at www.juliebalsiger.com

Friday, August 22, 2008

“You should visit the Hair Cave.”

We were discussing how we should spend our time in Cappadocia with Julie, a filmmaker and photographer who has lived all over the world and is currently making her home in Goreme. She was suggesting a must-see trip to nearby Avanos, home to the elusive Hair Cave. It wasn’t in any of the guidebooks; in fact, Rick Steves had made a tour of the town and had somehow missed it, much to Julie’s amazement. Since Julie speaks German, I assumed she as referring to the “Herr Cave,” some hidden, World War II bunker carved into the surrounding hillside. But the Hair Cave was just as it sounded: a cave full of hair.

Julie had visited Chez Galip, a pottery workshop in Avanos, with a Turkish friend of hers last year. After touring the studio, she was secretively led to the darkest vestiges of the workshop, revealing a cave filled with clippings of foreign women’s hair. Each strand was attached with a tag that bore the donor’s name and address. Each year a lottery was drawn, and the lucky winner would receive a two-week trip to Cappadocia. Julie couldn’t get a clear answer as to why the hair was there, but was clearly intrigued. “Tell them Unal sent you,” she said, as if it were the secret password that would guarantee our admission to the inner sanctum.

We planned a trip to Avanos with Annie, a young American woman who was volunteering at our hotel for a month, to try and crack The Mystery of the Hair Cave: it was all very Scooby Doo. We were baking at the bus stop in the afternoon sun when an old, slate blue Mercedes slowed to a stop in a whiff of dust. “Avanos?” we asked. With the nod of the driver’s head, our trio hopped into the car. It was no Mystery Machine, but it would have to do. Annie has been living in Istanbul for a year and speaks great Turkish, so as we drove down the stretch of highway, Annie translated. “He says he wants to show us this monument,” she said, gesturing out the car window to the right, “but I told him we went there yesterday.” Annie directed the driver to drop us by the Avanos market. “He says that he wants us to come to Nevsihir with him, but I told him we had friends to meet here.” The expedition was already off to a strange start.

We wandered through the market, where one can buy everything from power tools to head scarves printed with the Turkish flag. Racks overflowed with children’s school uniforms in varying shades of blue and red. Some were emblazoned with charming quotations from Turkey’s national hero, Ataturk, on the collar. Others were adorned with Spongebob Squarepants on the pocket. “If only these came in adult sizes!” lamented Annie.

After the market we made our way into the town center, where we bought what has to be the country’s cheapest ice cream: a cone-full for one lira, about 80 cents. The shopkeeper artistically layered the flavors, strawberry, lemon, and kiwi, then back again, a citrus wonderland.

Fortified, we wandered the backalleys of Avanos, ducking in and out of pottery workshops, all of which seemed to have the word “Chez” somewhere in the title. Avanos is known for its pottery-making tradition, and some workshops still use the clay from the neighboring river to produce their pieces. We regretted having to pass up a round, earthen piece carved with small geometric shapes; the center bore a spooky face, the perfect Jack-o-Lantern for our New Mexican courtyard.

But we were on a mission. We twisted our way through the alleys when we saw it: Chez Galip. Next to it, a large black and white sign advertised “Hair Museum.” It was as if they knew we were coming.

We entered the poky studio, where a young man sat at a foot-powered pottery wheel, expertly throwing clay. The fluted top of a jar was perfectly executed. “We’re a friend of Unal’s,” we said, and the young man seemed to recognize who we were talking about. An older man with silver, electric-shock hair, bearing a striking resemblance to Bob Ross and Gallagher, greeted us. “Merhaba,” he said, extending a clay-covered hand. This had to be the man of Hair Cave fame. We took a seat and watched the pottery demonstration. Just as we were preparing to take our turn at the wheel, the older man produced a rustic jar, bearing his signature and a smiley face. “A gift,” Annie translated.

After throwing some misshapen pottery of our own, we were given a tour of the showroom. How would we ask, in discreet Turkish, to see the Hair Cave? We didn’t have to. We exited one room and were ushered into another, where the Hair Cave yawned before us. Thousands of strands of hair, in every shade imaginable, hung from every surface of the room. Even the lamp shades were dressed with silky strands. Each was attached with a name card – some bore photos, too – of the hair’s owner. The addresses weren’t all foreign – some were as local as Goreme. “This is creepy,” said Annie. It was.

It wasn’t a hidden, dark space, but rather an open, bright room, lit by curly, energy-saving lightbulbs. Perhaps a dark cave would have been more fitting. “No photography” signs, written in Turkish, littered the room. Sure, it was a cave in the sense that it was stony and cavernous; but there was nothing hidden about it. Still, attendants monitored our movements, and Maikael noticed a security camera lurking behind a curtain of hair.

We asked the young man how all of this had started. Nearly thirty years ago, a foreign friend of the owner’s was leaving Cappadocia, and he was sad. Wanting something to remember her by, she donated a lock of her hair. Women have been leaving hair ever since. The End. There seemed to be a few gaps in the story, but we’d never know the truth. It was time to head back to Goreme.

Friday, August 22, 2008

We are packing our bags and getting ready to leave lovely Cappadocia.  Yesterday we were in a bookstore and a British ex-pat came in, looking for someone to house-sit during the month of September.  For a moment, I was tempted to jump at the opportunity.  But alas, there is more of the world to see!  So, we are off to Cirali for five nights, a sleepy beach town on Turkey’s Mediterranean coast, where we will rest, read, and relax (but not before taking another overnight bus).  It is unlikely that we will have Internet access until we return to Istanbul on August 28, so you might have to wait a bit for some new posts.

Also, our itinerary is experiencing some changes, which we will post soon.  Instead of leaving for Italy on 8/30, we are staying in Istanbul until 9/2 and then going directly to Jordan.  We have decided to save Italy for another trip altogether.  We are still working out details of the next leg after Jordan, but stay tuned for some potentially exciting plans!

As always, thanks for reading.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

A few days ago my dad sent me an email, after looking at our photos of Pamukkale. “Where are the fences surrounding the pools?” he asked. It’s a good question: in the US we are so accustomed to seeing every natural site and attraction cordoned off that it looks foreign to see it otherwise. One of the things that has been completely astonishing about exploring Goreme is the abundance of churches – some from the 5^th and 6^th centuries – that are standing abandoned in open fields for public consumption.

Most visitors begin their time in Cappadocia with a trip to the Open Air Museum, which is essentially a concentrated outcropping of Byzantine-era cave churches. The earliest churches are distinguished by primitive crimson markings adoring the cave walls; in later years, these were covered by ornate and colorful frescoes, the best of which are preserved in the Open Air Museum.

While home to beautifully preserved works of art, the Open Air Museum is just that: a museum. What makes Goreme special is the ability to wander around the surrounding hills and valleys and discover these churches for yourself. It’s a bit like going on an ecclesiastical treasure hunt. The eye quickly becomes trained to spot the telltale red and black markings that hover over door frames, indicating a church entrance. Keyhole designs carved into the rock are also important; at one time, they would have held paintings of different religious icons.

Today we took a hike through the Sword, Rose, and Red Valleys (the valleys of Cappadocia tend to be named after their distinguishing geological features). As we entered the Sword Valley, I immediately noticed a splash of paint across a cave’s facade. Curious, I approached what looked to be a church, and was amazed to find a fading fresco gracing the ceiling, walls, and arch of the church. I felt like I had struck gold. I’m not one to get too excited about such things; I usually roll my eyes when I see people run their hands over surfaces at sites of historical importance. But being able to literally touch history sent shivers up my arms. Although on a much smaller scale, it is what I imagine explorers and archaeologist must feel when making an important discovery. That this modest looking cave had protected these delicate paintings for over a thousand years – and that little ol’ me could walk right up, unaccompanied, to admire them — was mind-boggling. I couldn’t help but run my fingers over a speck of salmon-colored paint that would soon fade to the cold gray ridges of the cave’s walls.

Later in the day, a serious wrong turn and a random head turn to the left rewarded us with a rare glimpse at an intricately carved ceiling of another church. Sitting down to admire these sanctuaries for a few minutes is the imagination’s playground. Who were these worshipers? What was the service like? Where did they sit? How did they climb into this difficult-to-reach space in which I was now sitting? I’m sure many of these questions could be easily answered by reading a book on the subject, but the imagining – much like the process of discovery – is the gift of these churches. Cappadocia has cast a spell over me, a potion concocted from the mysteries that appears around every bend.

We understand that many of these churches are being destroyed by a lack of protection. There is nothing as disheartening as seeing someone’s initials carved into St. Michael’s head. How do you protect these piece of living history while still allowing people to experience them without the obtrusive barriers that somehow alter the experience? I’m confident that these marvelously unassuming churches won’t always be so accessible. Usually I’m the one standing behind some fence, lamenting the fact that “I bet things weren’t always this way.” For once in my life, I’m thankful to be the one who grabbed the brass ring of history.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

When we travel to a new place, one of our favorite things to do is sample the local firewater. As a predominantly Muslim country, Turkey isn’t big on drinking. Many restaurants don’t serve alcohol – especially if they happen to be situated next to a mosque – and those that do often charge an arm and a leg. Efes beer (named after Ephesus) is especially popular, but mixed drinks are not. Alcohol is heavily taxed in Turkey, a far cry from the 1.5 Euro bottles of wine that we were downing in Portgual. Needless to say, owing to our present economic situation, we have done very little drinking in Turkey.

We did, however, want to try raki (pronounced “rocky”), Turkey’s high-octane wine. With an alcohol content of 45%, this stuff will knock you down quicker than you can say “baklava.” A few years ago, bootleg versions of this potent potable were being distributed and causing mass blindness in the general population, making us a wee bit leery. But we’re nothing if not adventurous. Last night, a woman working at our hotel invited us to a friend’s cafe for live sufi music and drinks. Maikael mentioned that he was interested in trying raki, and before we knew it, a round had been ordered.

Raki is typically served as a two-part deal: one glass contains the alcohol, the other ice water. One should always dilute the raki with water, lest they fall flat on their tushes. When the two combine, a milky liquid results. Our hostess also ordered us a fermented beet juice “chaser.” We took our first sip of raki, which tasted similar to Greek ouzo, an anise-flavored liqueur. As the heat glided down my esophagus, I took a swig of the sour-tasting beet juice. Maikael preferred the beet juice to the raki, but I was quite the opposite.

We just posted photos of Pamukkale and Cappadocia to our online photo album.  Enjoy!