220 - Proverbial Horizon (Bozcaada to Cappadocia, Turkey)
I TRADED A LAIR IN CENTRAL ISTANBUL for a lair on the island of Bozcaada, just off Turkey’s west coast. The weather remained dismal—cold and rainy with an intermittent day of sunshine here and there. This fit my mood and an impulse to withdraw into myself.
Leslie suggested Bozcaada. She’d visited right before meeting me in Tunisia, though her September arrival coincided with pleasant weather. I did see a few foreigners milling about, but the island was mostly deserted. I drank tea. Ate jam. Wandered aimlessly. Took naps. I’d planned on renting a scooter, but the rain and the windchill put the kibosh on that idea. I befriended a local café owner and killed time getting to know her over coffee and Wi-Fi. She was Australian born and had been living in Turkey for many years.
When the clouds did clear for a day or so, I took a stroll through the Venetian fortress that dominates the small town's skyline. That about does it for traditional tourist attractions. People come to sip wine, eat fish, lick jam, frolic on the beaches, and chillax, at least during the summer and fall. When I was there, Bozcaada felt like it had barely survived Armageddon. The weather painted this canvas. I’m sure during high season it’s downright lovely.
The rain, wind, and cold suited my temper. I knew my personal Armageddon (i.e. the end of the adventure) was above the proverbial horizon. I wasn’t sanguine about concluding my sojourning extravaganza. I’d been a fugitive for over two years and had little want to reacquaint myself with the general accepted version of reality. But someone anxiously awaited my return—my mother. The end was at hand… but not quite. After a week of sequestration, I returned to Istanbul to rendezvous with a friend for a frontal assault on Turkey’s Cappadocia region.
Courtesy of 4K Drone Türkiye
Courtesy of Drone Snap
Dmitry and I crossed paths a year earlier in the Nepalese village of Kagbeni in Lower Mustang. I had just come out of Upper Mustang. He was on his way to Annapurna. We hit it off and stayed in touch.
I hadn’t recorded my visit to Cappadocia. It came at the tail end of my quest, and although I intended to do so, I didn’t get around to it until much later. Details faded, shriveled, and blended together, making it almost impossible to recollect. But alas, I gave it the ole college try. It’s a little disjointed and represents more of a quasi “stream of consciousness” attempt to elicit memories than a faithful retelling. I suppose it’s better than nothing.
Why bother at all? As I debated that very point, I realized it underscored the reason I wrote about my trip in the first place—to remember. Had I not bothered to put thoughts to digital ink, the whole adventure would be a nebulous blob of discombobulated recollections. Thanks to my painstaking efforts, it’s nothing of the kind, notwithstanding my Cappadocia sojourn.
Back to the discombobulated blob. Dmitry had always wanted to visit the Cappadocia region of Central Anatolia in Turkey. My presence provided a suitable excuse to do so. From what I'd read, it sounded like a worthwhile trip. We were in.
I returned to Istanbul a couple days early to reserve a room for our two night stay in the city. After that, it would be off to Kayseri in central Turkey. We spent two days wandering the 'Bul. We fiddled around the Blue Mosque district for a spell, which included a visit to a carpet shop. As I know jack and shit about carpet, I found this a welcome diversion. I’d been intrigued before, but carpet salesmen aren’t window shopper friendly. If you plan on buying rugs, do your homework and be prepared for a crucible. Most salesmen are borderline lunatics. Too harsh? Perhaps. I never experienced the hard sell because I had no desire to purchase carpet, and even less desire to run the negotiating gauntlet.
Dmitry was interested, so I figured I’d sit back, observe, and learn. We were invited into a shop where the lights were turned on, tea served, and carpets laid out for display. I was given an impromptu carpet lesson by Dmitry and listened while he spoke with the salesman. When they learned Dmitry wasn’t ready to buy, and was only scouting for a purchase before leaving, they were not amused. One gentleman said something about wasting their time and complained about turning on the lights for us. We chortled and moved on. If you look, you must buy. Otherwise, they feign deep insult. Absurd? Sure, but if it wasn’t effective, they wouldn't do it.
We also explored a mosque or two and were both mesmerized by the sheer grandeur on display within some of these magnificent structures. Istanbul has a shit ton of enormous mosques. If you throw a rock, you'll probably hit one. (I wouldn’t recommend it.) Non-muslims are allowed inside many, but I’m always a tad uneasy entering sacred areas, as if I don’t belong and am committing blasphemy just by being there… and that I might explode… like a vampire in the bright sunlight… poof!
We did our fair share of meandering, making sure along the way to drink tea, drink coffee, eat pastries, drink more tea, eat fish sandwiches, avoid vomiting, drink more tea, and so on and so forth. We considered venturing inside a Turkish bath but were rebuffed. No appointment. We were treated like derelicts for having the audacity to enter without one. How dare we?!
We capped off one evening with a whirling dervish performance. Dervishes are Sufi Islam's version of Christian friars, Hindu Sadhus, and Buddhist monks. Sufism represents the more mystical components of Islam. Its followers adhere to a simple, devout lifestyle. Although many orders of dervishes whirl, the most famous are from Turkey (Mevlevi order). The whirling is a meditation undertaken to achieve religious euphoria. Although never meant as a performance, you can witness dervishes whirling all over Turkey. Go.
To Kayseri. Our flight from Istanbul landed in the morning. Upon arrival, we rented a car and beat a path to the heart of Cappadocia, the small enclave of Goreme.
Cappadocia is a veritable eye-gasm, filled with fantastic fairy-tale formations. These formations, known as hoodoos (a.k.a. “fairy chimneys”), are staggering to behold. The only logical explanation? Underground fairies… duh. (I love fairies, at least the benevolent ones. Bad fairies are real fuckers.)
The surrealist anomaly that is Cappadocia results from geological quirks and erosion:
“Hoodoos typically form in areas where a thick layer of a relatively soft rock, such as mudstone, poorly cemented sandstone, or tuff (consolidated volcanic ash), is covered by a thin layer of hard rock, such as well-cemented sandstone, limestone, or basalt. In glaciated mountainous valleys the soft eroded material may be glacial till with the protective capstones being large boulders in the till. Over time, cracks in the resistant layer allow the much softer rock beneath to be eroded and washed away. Hoodoos form where a small cap of the resistant layer remains, and protects a cone of the underlying softer layer from erosion. The heavy cap pressing downward gives the pedestal of the hoodoo its strength to resist erosion. With time, erosion of the soft layer causes the cap to be undercut, eventually falling off, and the remaining cone is then quickly eroded.” (Wikipedia)
The result is a remarkable landscape begging one to explore every nook and cranny. Do it.
The region became a troglodyte's wet dream and led to the creation of underground cities. Some were built out of convenience, others out of necessity (i.e. survival). The purpose and dates of construction are the subject of controversy.
“Graham Hancock, a journalist who has spent decades researching and writing about a distant and forgotten part of human history, speculates that the tunnels were Ice Age refuges from catastrophic cosmic impact events marking the onset of the Younger Dryas. This is the period that sees the emergence of sites like Nevali Çori, Göbekli Tepe and Karahan Tepe along with many other sites in the northern arc of the Fertile Crescent that seems to be witness to a new dawn of human consciousness apparently “out of nowhere,” as Graham Hancock once said with reference to Göbekli Tepe.
Academics suggest that these tunnels were originally used for storage in the near surface levels and as parts of surface dwellings before being expanded over time as needs determined, reaching its greatest extent during the Byzantine period when Arab Muslim raiders crossed the region in the 7th, 8th and 9th centuries. At its peak during the late Byzantine period, it is believed that up to 20,000 people could have taken refuge for weeks at a time in Derinkuyu alone.
The best way one can really decide between the two interpretations is to go and see for yourself…” (Easternturkeytour.org)
Underground structures blanket the region, not the least of which are churches containing original frescoes. These days, tourists occupy most caves. Cave hotels abound. After inspecting a good number, we chose our own little grotto. I believe Bugs Bunny said it best, “There ain't no place like a hole in the ground.” Very true.
Over the course of a week, we explored by car and on foot. By day, we’d explore the culture and geology of Goreme’s surrounding areas and beyond. By night, we ate delicious food, drank ridiculously sweet tea, and puffed on a hooka until nausea set in. Although there were a fair amount of tourists, most were of the tour bus lazy-ass variety, which meant for the most interesting hikes, we had the area to ourselves. I knew Cappadocia would be interesting, but I underestimated its magical quality. Get there while the weather is cool and before the hoards descend. You’ll not be disappointed. Crannies to inspect, caves to spelunk, and phallic “fairy” chimneys to ponder.
As a temporal place mark, I should mention how surprised I was to discover one morning Osama bin Laden had been dispatched. My reaction, or lack that of, was one of ambivalence. Part of me was relieved. Part was like, “Big woop (insert yawn).” Part was a teensy weensy alarmed at possible consequences. All of me was disgusted when I saw college students dancing in the streets screaming, “U-S-A! U-S-A!” in unison. I get the fact Binny was a twisted fuck fanatic, but there was something unseemly about partying like it was 1999. I think it made Team USA look like a bunch of doochebags of the Third Order. But then again, who the hell am I, really?
We finished our week looking for mythical fairies (no luck) and returned to Istanbul where we parted ways. He was off to the Crimea region of Ukraine for a week-long hiking trip, while I had a date with reality. We bid a fond farewell. I found a cozy café and started deliberating…
