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.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

I am writing this post from a cave. A real cave! Maikael and I are staying in Goreme, a town in Central Turkey, in the Cappadocia region, known for its unusual rock structures that look like The Smurfs’ house on speed. These formations were originally caused by the deposit and eventual erosion of volcanic material; their insides were first carved out by early inhabitants – troglodytes, or cave dwellers — of the area thousands of years ago. Over the centuries, these unusual cave-like homes have been repurposed time and again — an early example of “green” design?

We are lucky enough to be staying in an original cave room at the Fairy Chimney Inn. Every hotel in town seems to have “cave” somewhere in the title, but few can boast the opportunity to stay in a real cave. Most just look like caves; ours in the real McCoy. The Fairy Chimney is owned by Andus, an anthropologist-turned-hotelier, who first came to Cappadocia 25 years ago to search for his dissertation topic. His academic background informs everything in this Inn – his greatest concern in restoring and transforming this property to an inn was to maintain the character of the original cave dwellings. Rather than peddling rugs, Andus is more interested in sharing his obvious passion for and encyclopedic knowledge of the history of the area.

When I was little, I was constantly building forts in my house. My favorite place was the laundry room, where I would string bedsheets to differentiate different “rooms” on top of the washer and dryer. The dryer was always the kitchen – grocery shopping was conveniently located next door, in the real kitchen – and the washer was always my bedroom/living room (depending on the time of day). Staying in a cave brings me back to those early forts. Our bathroom is a small nook carved out of the rock, a simple batik curtain strung across to divide the living and bathing areas. The room is outfitted in exotic rugs and plump pillows, only adding to the feeling that I’m living in a fort for the next few days. We even have a porch with fabulous views of the Pigeon Valley, so named for the pigeons that were bred here to fertilize the surrounding farmland. There’s stlll a few left today.

Given our meager backpacker’s budget, we are making a major splurge by staying here (66 Euros per night with breakfast). But we have dreamed about going to Cappadocia after reading a New York Times article years ago on the area, and have always wanted to stay in a cave. So far, it’s been worth every penny. This place was the perfect antidote to my homesickness. The landscape, with its barren hills, dry weather, cool evenings, and loopy topography, reminds me of New Mexico.

These caves have housed different people for different purposes for thousands of years. I am but one person passing through, hunkered down with my laptop, a post-modern troglodyte.

Friday, August 15, 2008

I’ve been in a bit of a slump lately. Maybe it’s homesickness and hot weather. Maybe it’s too little sleep and too many tourists. Or maybe it’s too many overnight bus trips, or too short of time in too many places. Whatever it is, I’ve been down in the dumps, wondering a little too often, “Why did I take this trip in the first place?”

We arrived in Pamukkale on Wednesday, fresh off the bus. We had bought a ticket from a reputable bus company and, at the last minute, were transferred to another company whom we had specifically avoided. As the doors to the bus creaked open, a wall of heat and a mob of touts assaulted us. “You need room?” “I think I supposed to meet you here and take to hotel.” “Yes, please. I have very nice place. Come see.” We scurried around the bus, trying to locate our backpacks while pushing through the din of the crowd. As we walked down the dusty road, drenched in sweat, we were pursued by touts on motorcycles, who zoomed to our side and then inched along to match our pace. How many different ways can I say no?

Near the end of our walk, I suddenly realized that we had booked the wrong days at our hotel in Goreme, our next stop. Unless I look at my watch, I rarely know what day it is; so much traveling the past week has left me feeling spun around like a pinata. Our hotel in Goreme was one we had secured with a deposit. It wasn’t a big deal in and of itself, but it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. When we arrived at our hotel at the end of the road, I sat down on the bathroom floored and bawled.

With a full day of rest and the reservation fixed, we set out early the next morning to see the travertines. I’d been dreaming of this day for ten years, when I first saw a poster of Pamukkale on a faded posted in a Turkish doner kebap restaurant in Seattle. Thinking it was a field of snow, I remember I was shocked to learn that, not only was it rock, but that it was in Turkey. Even at 9:30 am the mercury was already rising steadily, and by noon the tour groups had arrived in full force, their sunburned bodies spilling out of the pools. The sun bore down hard. This was not how I had imagined this day unfolding ten years ago.

We returned to the hotel, where we started talking with a French woman, Cecile, whom we had briefly met over breakfast. She was going to the travertines at sunset, and wondered if we’d like to join her. We set off at 5:30 pm, getting to know each other better along the way. Cecile is a little younger than us, but spent three years working and traveling from Chile to Canada. She spoke no Spanish when she moved to Latin America, but is now fluent. She’s traveled all over the world, largely by herself, and makes a living as a documentary filmmaker in Paris. To me, she epitomized bravery.

When we arrived back at the travertines, it was a completely different experience. The sun had dipped low, casting soft shadows over the calcium facade that had appeared harsh and alabaster just hours earlier. The tour buses were long gone, replaced by clutches of independent travelers meandering their way to the top. We splashed our way through the cool pools, as ashen mud squished between our toes, discussing what travel meant to us. We all agreed that successful travel had little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the people you meet along the way. People like Cecile.

At the top, we bought beers and ice cream and scoped out an idea place to watch the sunset. The location was obvious: a terrace pool at the top, overlooking a huge valley. The pool was officially closed — the travertines suffered greatly from overdevelopment in the 1980s and 1990s, damaging many of them beyond repair – but it looked a little too perfect to resist. Maikael and Cecile hunkered down out of the sight lines of the many guards who tweet their whistles persistently at visitors who venture into restricted areas. I put down my camera, a conscious effort to take in the experience through my eyes rather than through my lens. Before long, the tangerine sun slipped behind the mountains, casting a citrus pall over the landscape. The pools twinkled in the waning light. I felt an irresistible urge to clap. I think we all must have had silly grins slapped on our faces; at least, that’s how it felt. It’s the most memorable sunset I can ever recall, as if we were at the ends of the earth. It had as much to do with the scenery as it did with the company. Why had I taken this trip? For these rare moments.

Within moments, the security guards galloped up the side of the hill on their mopeds, blasting their whistles. They had been waiting at the ready for the sun to set before breaking up the party. The spell broken, everyone reluctantly left the pool. The moon rose proudly behind us, a perfect white sphere, the travertines a rocky iceberg slicing through the azure sky.

We made our way back to town, happy as clams, so that we could meet our “special bus” to Goreme. The bus arrived just as we were saying our “goodbyes” to Cecile. Meeting her, I realize how much time I spend worrying about petty details that usually don’t matter. How I’m often so focused on worrying about the next potential pitfall that I forget to enjoy the experience that’s offered to me in this moment. If I’m going to make it through this trip, I need to take more risks and forgive myself for the mistakes.

In the end, the bus to Goreme was a total coup, not the disaster I had feared. We were a true caravan, eight travelers spread over thirty seats, with a very cool bus driver leading the way. It felt a bit like summer camp, and everything worked out as promised. Cecile said the most important thing you can bring with you when you travel is your intuition. It never fails.

We are in Pamukkale, and it is hot. Really, really hot. We can’t figure out why August is the height of tourist season in Turkey, as the heat is oppressive. But despite the heat, we dragged ourselves out of bed to take in the travertine pools that make this place famous. Thousands of years of calcium deposits have left an entire cliffside looking like a blanket of downy snow. It’s a pretty amazing thing to see in the middle of a dry, barren landscape in the dead of the summer heat. If only it were snow!

Our stop here is short. We are taking another overnight bus to Goreme, in the heart of Cappadocia, tonight. We have booked a “special bus” to Goreme. We ran around yesterday comparing fares, and it’s next to impossible to get a straight answer. One office says there are no buses available. The next one says there are plenty of seats. But no one will tell you how many seats remain. We stopped in at a travel agency that came recommended, and the owner said that today he has an “agency bus” that’s being driven back from Pamukkale to Goreme at the end of a tour. They are trying to make a little extra money by filling as many seats as they can, rather than driving it back empty. The price was a little cheaper than the other companies, but rather than transferring through two cities, we will literally go door to door from our hotel in Pamukkale to Goreme.

It’s a huge risk that will either be a major coup or a huge disaster. Like most things in Turkey, there’s no way of knowing how it will turn out until it happens.

We have been in Selcuk, Turkey, the past few days, and just posted photos from there, listed under “Mediterranean Turkey” in our albums.  Today we saw Ephesus, an amazingly preserved Roman provincial city, as well as Mary’s House, the location where Mary (yes, The Mary Mother of Jesus) was said to have spent her last days.  I tried to sign in to the priest’s roll book, thinking it was a guest register. Awkward!  We finagled a ride at a deep discount through a restaurant acquaintance…quite the story.  In short, we paid half of what a licensed taxi would have charged, and were waved through the admission line at Mary’s House because his friend was working the booth today.  Good times in Turkey!  Tomorrow we are on to Pamukkale to see the travertine cliffs and pools (Pamukkale in Turkish means “Cotton Castle”).  More updates soon!

Monday, August 11, 2008

We saw some gorgeous sites and thoroughly enjoyed our time staying with our friend’s parents and meeting his family, but in many ways Istanbul was hard for us. Being the height of tourist season, the crowds gushed into every nook and cranny of the city, bringing out the touts in full force. Hawking everything from blue glass baubles to ward off the evil eye to rugs, we were approached with a level of aggressive sales tactics that I’ve never experienced while traveling. A persistent “no” does little to deter a potential sale. In one extreme case, Maikael picked up a brush that a shoe shiner dropped, unbeknownst to the shiner, on his way home at the end of the day. Maikael signaled him so he could return the brush, but before we knew it, the man grabbed Maikael’s foot and essentially forced him to a shoe shine of his sneakers. We understand from local Istanbullus that these situations are unusual, and that they are often borne out of complex circumstances that we will never fully understand as a visitor passing through. But the unfortunate result was a “never engage” credo which, while reducing the amount of touts, went against the spirit of our journey.

We needed to stop feeling jaded. We left Istanbul for Selcuk, a small town on Turkey’s western coast that is home to the country’s most extensive remains of a Roman city. The journey began with a 10-hour, overnight bus ride from Istanbul, and, like most things in a given day, I didn’t know what to expect. We were transferred by dolmus to Istanbul’s main bus station, creeping through the underbelly of the otogar. The charred carcass of a bus sat lonely in a dark corner, as men roasted something over the equivalent of a Turkish Hibachi. We emerged into a sea of bright florescent, as rows of buses from our company stood at the ready. Swarms of travelers jockeyed for space. Long buses made narrow three-point turns, as troops of conductors managed the flow of traffic. It was pure chaos.

Our bus loaded a ferry as we crossed to Bursa. We slumped, bleary-eyed, on the top deck, as scads of people drank tea and chatted at 2:30 in the morning. The bus stopped every few hours to provide a break in the journey. I imagined we’d stop at crumbling roadside stands, where cups of tea would be served from ancient trays. Instead, we pulled into a gigantic complex created specifically for our bus company, lit up like the 4^th of July. A large cafeteria sat centerstage, surrounded by a full-blown cafe and rows of bathrooms. Men with long brushes outfitted with a hose cleaned the towering front windows, as others scrambled to and fro to gas up the rig; it was a long-haul bus pit crew. All the this activity was taking place in the dead of the night.

The bus deposited us in Selcuk at 10:30 am, and we were immediately accosted as we shrugged on our backpacks. “Where you going?” “What hotel?” “Please, I have information.” A car slowly followed us, begging for us to listen, even as we stepped foot in the tourist office.

We were exhausted and hungry and, after a short nap, made our way to a restaurant that our guidebook recommended. I paused in front of the doorway, studying the menu briefly. I waited for someone to leap out and urge me to come in. It never happened, and I took that as a good sign. We made our way into the leafy courtyard, as pomegranates, still green, dipped down above the table. Gigantic oranges formed a canopy over our heads. The waiter, a laid-back Kurd in flip-flops, explained that a baby cat had lost his mother, and pointed behind us. He cooed in Turkish at the little grey kitten, seeming very concerned about its well-being. Had it eaten too little or too much?

After a delicious and restful lunch, we made our way to the train station to see about leaving Selcuk for Pamukkale in a few days. Two boys sat on a bench outside the station as we studied the cryptic timetable. “Hello,” one of the boys called out in English. “Hello,” we said. “How are you?” “I am very fine, thank you. And how are you?” It sounded like he was speaking from a textbook. Chapter One: Introductions. “Your English is very good,” we said. “Do you study in school?” “Evet. Uh, yes!” said the other boy. ”

Where are you from?” one boy asked. It was the first time in days that someone had asked us that question with genuine curiosity, not in the hopes that it would lead to a sale. “America.” “Amerika!” the other boy exclaimed.

They were able to explain to us that the train station was closed. They ran around the station, pointing to the signs, written in both English and Turkish, reading them outloud in both languages. “How old are you?” I asked. They thought for a moment, whispering silently to themselves. “One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven.” Eleven!,” he shouted. We sat down on the bench opposite them, learning that they were cousins who were from Selcuk and had been to Izmir but not Pamukkale. They pointed to different body parts and recited them in English. Head. Nose. Eyes. Brown eyes. Blue eyes. They told us they were Muslim, and wanted to know what religion we were. One made the sign of the cross, questioningly. We learned that one cousins supported Galatasaray, which, luckily, just two days ago, I had learned was a very popular soccer club in Turkey.

I had a postcard of New Mexico, and sat down next to them to show them where we were from. They were fascinated by the tee pees, and wanted to know what they were. I explained that Indians from America used to live in them. “Indiastan?” they said, confused, thinking I was talking about Indians from India. But how to explain that in Turkish? It didn’t matter. We quickly moved on to geography, reciting all the country names we could think of in English and Turkish. They wanted to know where we had been, so I showed them our business card.

I could feel our hard shells breaking down by the minute.

After the train station, we took a walk to the Artemis Temple, one of the former Ancient Wonders of the World. Now reduced to one, towering column, it sits, rather unassumingly, in the middle of a dry and dusty field. We made our way down a shaded boulevard and passed a fruit stand. At the side of the road, a lean-to had been constructed; under its wooden awning sat a scattering of rustic tables draped with thin squares of printed cotton. A man scrambled out. “Tea! Coffee!” he called to us. We kept walking.

On our way back, we noticed two people sitting at the tables, eating heaping bowls of fresh fruit. I wanted to try the fruit so badly, but was afraid of what sort of shady sales it might lead to. We decided to take our chances. Taking a seat next to the other two travelers, one from Korea and one from Taiwan, the man scrambled out again. “Tea! Coffee!” I pointed to the bowl of fruit. He ran, excitedly, into the lean to and produced a plate gleaming with baseball-sized peaches, green figs, and bunches of green and purple grapes. He pointed to the figs. “Viagra!” he said. He jumped up again, returning with a plate of fresh-cut melon. After we wiped that out, he brought out a pear, which he sliced on the spot. He plunked himself down at the table, chatting amiably about all sorts of things, paying no mind to the fact that we couldn’t understand a word he said. He unabashedly plucked cigarettes from the Korean man’s pack, explaining (we think) that all of the orchards surrounding us were his.

When we ran out of fruit, more figs were produced. “Eat eat eat eat eat!” he urged us. When it came time to settle the bill, I held my breath. We had consumed a king’s ransom. He sat quietly, thinking. Then, he pointed to each of us in turn, speaking like a machine gun.  “Two lira, two lira, two lira, two lira.” Our fruit would cost the equivalent of $1.75 each.

We walked back towards town, content, feeling that Selcuk had once again reminded us of the kindness of strangers.