A bull mounts a heifer while the shepherds in yellow slickers drive them slick toward the storm, and bolts touch the ground green pasture from granite sky. Lightning flashes at quickening intervals. Maybe there is thunder, which I don’t hear behind my ears corked by earphones and the chorus of sax, piano and percussion akin to big band; behind the Turkish news blaring on the drop down TVs—thick white all-cap captions on red rectangular backdrops like skinny Turkish flags censoring the suit of the newscaster right where his nipples would be; and behind the hum of the bus on the wet asphalt.
Sometimes the lightening pinks or blues the dusk, stayed stuck behind the storm or else it breaks through and zigs horizontal, aligned with the horizon. The bus totters toward Samsun, where Serkan's parents live. I'd been nervous up to this point, but now I'm calm and sleepy, able at least to offer some chocolate-covered cotton candy truffles, bought from the 30-minute, 75-kurus bathroom break at the gas station-slash-tea garden in the middle of nowhere.
By the time the bus reaches the next town, it's night and rain. Rivers flood the streets and the downpour paints the bus windows, sheets of water distorting everything wavy outside. Thunder roars out the maw of sky, ending in a sound like tin trash bins dropping clunk clack clack to the cement.
Aladağlar Red Mountains
We escaped to the Red Mountains (Aladağlar) for a few days of backpacking from Ankara, the capital, busy yet efficient city. It's the first time I've been trekking since Chile, and it was so nice to be back to it! The mountains are exposed and not forested at all, so the morning sun would already start to bake us in the tent by 7 a.m. Even so, the nights were cool enough for me to wear a wool hat and hiking during the day still proved much cooler than in the city.
Our first night out, we watched the stars deepen and wondered which planets those brightest stars were. When suddenly: A faraway flash in the sky. No clouds.
Serkan: Lightning?
Me: but there's no thunder.
S: It might rain on us.
Me: Maybe somebody is taking pictures. There's a tent down in the valley.
S: Yeah, it's god. As a witness to our love because the moon's not out to see us. God says, What a beautiful couple, Let me snap some photos of them.
Me laughs herself into a ball.
No rain or thunder that night, just distant gray lightning.
Our first night out, we watched the stars deepen and wondered which planets those brightest stars were. When suddenly: A faraway flash in the sky. No clouds.
Serkan: Lightning?
Me: but there's no thunder.
S: It might rain on us.
Me: Maybe somebody is taking pictures. There's a tent down in the valley.
S: Yeah, it's god. As a witness to our love because the moon's not out to see us. God says, What a beautiful couple, Let me snap some photos of them.
Me laughs herself into a ball.
No rain or thunder that night, just distant gray lightning.
Capadoccia Roundup
Everywhere we go Serkan seems to hook us up somehow. Everyone is so talkative, not to me so much, because I don't understand anything. Though, that is becoming less and less true. Every once in a while, I bust out with a moment of utter understanding. I'm just unable to respond in Turkish. It's nice, however, to have those moments of clarity, to feel like a little kid again, extremely proud of oneself for accomplishing a new feat.
Our first day in Cappadocia, we went out for a walk to photograph some of the manmade structures in the rock around Ürgüp. One place was so elaborate, it even had a built in dining area complete with a table and benches. All of these houses and rooms are vacant now, which leaves them open to mountains of litter, urinating men and nighttime beer guzzling, which evidently ends, ceremonially, by breaking the brown bottles.
In the evening we walked toward a UNESCO world heritage site to check it out and said hello to the night guard there. It was already dusk, and it didn't look like we'd be allowed to loiter, but Serkan asked if it would be alright if we went in. Not only were we able to pass. The night guard proceeded to give us a tour of everything, even the buildings that were closed up for restoration. He took us into the old church (eventually converted into a mosque), the hamam (bath house), stables, wine cellars, all over. Serkan did his best to translate all the details for me, but the night guide went into about a 30-minute story on the Greek dude/martyr who used to sleep in the stable to be closer to the animals. If it was good enough for the animals, it was good enough for him. I did not get the 30-minute version of that story.
The next day we took a bus to Uçisar, known as Pigeon Valley, because most of the rock formations in this area are replete with nesting nooks for the pigeons (aka doves, famous hippie symbols of peace and love). We can only take the bus so far and then have to walk a few kilometers into town. We'd walked less than five minutes before an old man in an old blue pick-up picked us up. We weren't even hitchhiking. He just asked if we wanted a ride. We hopped in, and he told us how he is one of the area's most prominent carpenters, an expert in stone masonry. Then he pointed out the houses, which he had built, many of them more than a decade older than me.
The following day, the same thing happened on our way back from visiting the gigantic, multi-level underground city in Kaymakli. As we walked toward the main road to wait for the bus, a man in a fancy van asked us if we were going to Nevşehir--which we were to catch the next bus back to our temporary home in Ürgüp. He took us to the bus stop in Nevşehir, and before he dropped us off, he gifted us a handful of Napolean cherries and the most delicious apricot I have ever tasted.
We also visited the Göreme Open Air Museum, where we must have ducked into about 20 cave churches with Byzantine frescoes. Lovely, cool respites from the heat outside. On the way down the hill, back into the town of Göreme, we passed by a sign that said Fairy Chimney Valley or something like that. It was hot out and neither one of us was really feeling the whole walk-in-the-heat thing, but we figured we should check it out, just for a few minutes. As in life, one path led to another, until we were mini-trekking through the valley on the way to a different town altogether. A couple hours later, on our approach to the tiny village of Çavuşin, we were actually outrunning dark clouds, violent dusty winds and miniature twisters. The next bus wouldn't arrive for another hour, but we were able to hire a driver for only 15 lira back to Ürgüp. The downpour started once we jumped in the car. Whew.
Our first day in Cappadocia, we went out for a walk to photograph some of the manmade structures in the rock around Ürgüp. One place was so elaborate, it even had a built in dining area complete with a table and benches. All of these houses and rooms are vacant now, which leaves them open to mountains of litter, urinating men and nighttime beer guzzling, which evidently ends, ceremonially, by breaking the brown bottles.
In the evening we walked toward a UNESCO world heritage site to check it out and said hello to the night guard there. It was already dusk, and it didn't look like we'd be allowed to loiter, but Serkan asked if it would be alright if we went in. Not only were we able to pass. The night guard proceeded to give us a tour of everything, even the buildings that were closed up for restoration. He took us into the old church (eventually converted into a mosque), the hamam (bath house), stables, wine cellars, all over. Serkan did his best to translate all the details for me, but the night guide went into about a 30-minute story on the Greek dude/martyr who used to sleep in the stable to be closer to the animals. If it was good enough for the animals, it was good enough for him. I did not get the 30-minute version of that story.
The next day we took a bus to Uçisar, known as Pigeon Valley, because most of the rock formations in this area are replete with nesting nooks for the pigeons (aka doves, famous hippie symbols of peace and love). We can only take the bus so far and then have to walk a few kilometers into town. We'd walked less than five minutes before an old man in an old blue pick-up picked us up. We weren't even hitchhiking. He just asked if we wanted a ride. We hopped in, and he told us how he is one of the area's most prominent carpenters, an expert in stone masonry. Then he pointed out the houses, which he had built, many of them more than a decade older than me.
The following day, the same thing happened on our way back from visiting the gigantic, multi-level underground city in Kaymakli. As we walked toward the main road to wait for the bus, a man in a fancy van asked us if we were going to Nevşehir--which we were to catch the next bus back to our temporary home in Ürgüp. He took us to the bus stop in Nevşehir, and before he dropped us off, he gifted us a handful of Napolean cherries and the most delicious apricot I have ever tasted.
We also visited the Göreme Open Air Museum, where we must have ducked into about 20 cave churches with Byzantine frescoes. Lovely, cool respites from the heat outside. On the way down the hill, back into the town of Göreme, we passed by a sign that said Fairy Chimney Valley or something like that. It was hot out and neither one of us was really feeling the whole walk-in-the-heat thing, but we figured we should check it out, just for a few minutes. As in life, one path led to another, until we were mini-trekking through the valley on the way to a different town altogether. A couple hours later, on our approach to the tiny village of Çavuşin, we were actually outrunning dark clouds, violent dusty winds and miniature twisters. The next bus wouldn't arrive for another hour, but we were able to hire a driver for only 15 lira back to Ürgüp. The downpour started once we jumped in the car. Whew.
Fairyland
We arrived to Ürgüp around 6 a.m. on the overnight bus. The sun rose during our approach to town, splashing pink hues over the stone alleys, while the morning’s blue hot air balloons ascended. When we stepped off the bus to find a place to stay, the sky was already lighting up the apparent ghost town in the yellow phase of early morning. We walked up the street and up the stairs toward a mini plaza raised above the streets around it. All the tables and chairs were out, left to sit alone throughout the night, though none of the cafes or shops were open. Nobody in the streets. We sat down at one of the tables wishing for tea and joked how in Chile we would never see so many tables and chairs, even fridges cooling iced teas and water left out in plain sight overnight. In most places the furniture would be stolen or vandalized. Of course there’s a lot of vandalism in Turkey as well, mostly of national treasures, like the landscape and buildings carved into the rock in Cappadocia. It’s the same lack of respect for natural and/or ancient wonders we see everywhere. There’s really no escaping it, an education lack, but it’s another story.
Cappadocia may very well be one of my favorite places. After writing that though, it’s impossible to make such sweeping statements. In any case, Cappadocia is magic, it is lunar. It’s bizarre. The landscape created by volcano eruptions around 30 million years ago, covering the area with ash that eventually hardened. The rock, known as tuff is extremely malleable by weather and by people. Over time the rock has disintegrated creating spiky valleys known as fairy chimneys. They say the early inhabitants of Cappadocia called myriad towers “fairy chimneys” because they believed them to be the chimneys of fairies, who lived underground. What’s more amazing than the shape of the land, though, is the fact that people carved homes into the rock. Not just homes, there are entire underground cities that go down seven or so levels. Old homes were connected to escape routes and tunnels below the Earth. Today you can stay in renovated cave hostels, with rooms etched out from the rock or chill out in underground bars. There is a definite Flinstone feel; even a few eponymous businesses to boot.
Cappadocia may very well be one of my favorite places. After writing that though, it’s impossible to make such sweeping statements. In any case, Cappadocia is magic, it is lunar. It’s bizarre. The landscape created by volcano eruptions around 30 million years ago, covering the area with ash that eventually hardened. The rock, known as tuff is extremely malleable by weather and by people. Over time the rock has disintegrated creating spiky valleys known as fairy chimneys. They say the early inhabitants of Cappadocia called myriad towers “fairy chimneys” because they believed them to be the chimneys of fairies, who lived underground. What’s more amazing than the shape of the land, though, is the fact that people carved homes into the rock. Not just homes, there are entire underground cities that go down seven or so levels. Old homes were connected to escape routes and tunnels below the Earth. Today you can stay in renovated cave hostels, with rooms etched out from the rock or chill out in underground bars. There is a definite Flinstone feel; even a few eponymous businesses to boot.
Dreams
I keep having the same dream: Everyone around me is speaking Turkish, and I don't understand. The feeling is distinct and has its own evolution, depending on the time of day, who we are with, etc. Sometimes I try really hard to follow the conversation, and I can, relying mostly on gestures or place names or other familiar sounding words I hear: kayak, Patagonia, California. Other times I check out completely, submarining into my own world, which can be small or colorful or huge or sleepy, depending on the time of day, who we are with, etc.
But the real question is: If I can't speak Turkish in real life, what language are they speaking in my dream? Does my subconscious know Turkish? Or is it just some nonsense filler to help me feel that slight disunderstanding discomfort while I sleep? Maybe all I have to do is relax and start speaking in tongues. More likely I need to study more.
But the real question is: If I can't speak Turkish in real life, what language are they speaking in my dream? Does my subconscious know Turkish? Or is it just some nonsense filler to help me feel that slight disunderstanding discomfort while I sleep? Maybe all I have to do is relax and start speaking in tongues. More likely I need to study more.
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