Ahmet was talking on his mobile phone; his booming voice echoing through his small first floor, grubby office. Papers lay unattended on his table, the landline phone on the other table was ringing continuously, the fax machine was making beeping noises from the back. Around the walls of his office were dusty posters of dancing Turkish women and hot air balloons. On the front wall was a giant map of Cappadocia; cobwebs dangling around the corners of it. The smoke cloud from his cigarette gave the insides of his office the same feel as the grey sky outside.
“Sorry, brother. Please wait.” He said as he ended the call on his mobile phone and rushed to the ringing landline phone.
I sat on one of the creaky chairs in his office, waiting for him to check me in. The shelf in the corner had portraits of him, posing with a lady and a kid, presumably his wife and son. My rucksack, that I had kept upright at the door, fell on the floor; a small dust cloud emanating from the impact. I decided to let it be. I was tired and frustrated. I needed a shower. Maybe a nice hot cup of black coffee. A cold mug of beer will be better.
“Yes, brother.” He finally said with a smile.
I told him I had a booking. He went through my passport, wrote my name in a notebook, then typed something on his computer, attended a few more calls and smoked a few more cigarettes.
Ahmet, the owner of the cave hotel I had made a booking at, was a strongly built, middle aged man. The first few buttons of his checked shirt was open, from which his chest hair protruded. His teeth were stained yellow. His hair, disheveled.
“3 nights. Right, brother?” He asked as he dubbed another cigarette in the ashtray. I nodded yes with a forced smile. My journey from Konya to Goreme was not the most fun. I had reached Nevsehir by bus, from where I took a rickety local bus, which dropped me off in the middle of nowhere. I had been stranded at that lonely little bus stop for more than an hour until another bus finally brought me to the town of Goreme. I had witnessed my first few fairy chimneys during the last leg of the journey here, which did manage to momentarily lift up my spirits. Then the bus took a right and exhaustion and frustration took back over.
And now, dealing with Ahmet was the only hurdle that stood between me and a nice, cold, refreshing shower. The jasmine scented soap in the right pocket of my fallen rucksack was calling to me.
“Do you want to book a hot air balloon ride for tomorrow?” He asked, handing me back my passport. He pointed at the dusty poster of the hot air balloon, in case I did not know what he was referring to.
If you look up images of Turkey on the internet, you are sure to find pictures of hot air balloons flying over vast landscapes dotted with conical rock formations. Most of these pictures, if not all, emanate from Cappadocia, a small region right in the heart of Anatolia.
Cappadocia is famous for its landscapes, fairy chimneys and caves. And as fascinating as these are, to truly understand and appreciate Cappadocia, we need to know a bit about its history. Back in 4th and 5th century, when the early Christians were being persecuted by the Romans and the Byzantines, many of them came to Cappadocia for refuge. Being hilly, remote and almost impenetrable for outsiders, it provided them a safe haven to live, flourish and practice their religion. These settlers were responsible for Turkey’s Christian past. They led an invisible life, residing and worshiping in caves. To hide from invaders, they built underground cities, where they could survive for months at a time.
But that was then. Now people come here in throngs to ride hot air balloons at dawn. I had passed atleast a dozen tour companies offering these rides on my way to the hotel from the bus stop.
“Let me think about it. I’ll let you know.” I managed to say, while controlling the urge to just scream “JUST CHECK ME IN! I HAVE BEEN SITTING HERE FOR 20 MINUTES ALREADY!”
“Brother, you should book now. The ride today was cancelled because of the weather and it will be tough to find a spot if you don’t book now.”
“I’ll let you know tonight.” I said, through gritted teeth.
With revived spirits, after a shower, change of clothes and a cup of powdered black coffee, I ventured out of the hotel in search of lunch. The cave dormitory I booked was just like the pictures on the website. Though a bit thrown off by the misty smell inside, it seemed good enough for my 3 night stay. The best part about the hostel was the view from the terrace. You could see the town, with its cave dwellings and the winding paths leading up to them. Your gaze, no matter which way you turn, is sprinkled with fairy chimneys, open skies and hills.
Walking around the center of town, around the bus station, you could get a fair idea of the demographic of tourists that Goreme is most popular with. There were lots of shiny Chinese and Korean restaurants competing for business with small local Turkish places. Cafes and souvenir shops are in abundance. Lunch was a meal of meat ball curry with cheese, bread and rice. The menu said that it was a local delicacy but I doubt that. It tasted too touristy.
As it started raining that afternoon, I found shelter in what will soon be my regular hangout, One Way Cafe. Over the next few days, after tiring days of exploring, I would rest on their bean bags while having cold beer, listening to the house music and people watching.
“I am your tour guide for the day. You can call me Khan. Like Sher Khan from Jungle Book.”
The minibus filled with murmurs and sniggers.
“You…” He pointed at me. “You can call me Aamir Khan.”
We have had a short round of introductions during which he learned that I was from India. “Namaste” he said with folded hands as soon as I was done. The others in the minibus of course did not know who Aamir Khan was. I would learn later that Khan had seen Aamir in Istanbul when he had come for movie promotions.
“Do you remember the name of the movie?” I had asked.
He thought for a bit; his eyebrows raised from his fake Ray Ban sunglasses that he never took off as he tried to recall the name. “It was a movie about wrestling.” is the best he could do.
I normally do not join group tours but after being stranded the day before, I thought it was best to travel with a pre-arranged pickup and drop. I get to cover more distance and see more of Cappadocia. Apart from me, our group consisted of a family of eight people, with five adults and three kids, from Western Turkey, an older couple from Germany, a Thai woman and a young Taiwanese lady.
After a brief stopover at a panoramic view point, from where we saw a sea of fairy chimneys, cave houses and interesting rock formations, we reached Derinkuyu Underground City, the deepest of all the underground cities of Cappadocia. Seven levels consisting of churches, armories, kitchens, schools, store rooms and even a morgue. Though not all of the levels are open for visitors yet, walking, sometimes crawling, through the narrow passageways gave a fair idea of not just the ingenuity but also the grit for survival that the early Christians here had. While the underground city was not designed as a permanent residence, it was capable of not just sustenance for months at a time but also fight back the invaders.
“Do you think you think we have missed anything?” Khan asked after we reached a larger area where we could stand up straight. From the underground church, we had taken the left tunnel and then a right through a narrower one. At least, that’s what I thought we did. It’s very easy to lose all sense of directions inside. I had also bumped my head a couple of times, so my memory was a bit sketchy at this point. The whole place is like a maze and it was designed that way to confuse invaders.
We stared blankly at him. We had seen resting areas, kitchens, schools, churches. What did we miss?
“Did any of you see a toilet here?” Khan smirked.
So apparently, when using this place as a shelter, they would store their poop in earthen vessels, which they would later use as fertilizers for their crops when it was safe to go outside. I noticed that Khan did not touch any of the walls of this chamber, while we were leaning against them.
Standing there in the middle of the room, where vessels of poop were once stored and stacked, I learned that it was possible for history to be fascinating and disgusting at the same time.
I could see Khan and the driver talking animatedly in the front seat. Their voices, excited but deliberately hushed. The kids of the Turkish family had fallen asleep; their parents finally getting a break from the hotchpotch. The Thai lady was dozing off; her head bumping into the window every time the minibus took a turn or hit the break, waking her up with a start.
We drove through rolling green hills, every now and then passing through small towns, villages, huts, farms and shepherds tending to their herd of sheep. It is hard to believe that in the age of fast cars and high rise buildings, people chose to lead their lives seemingly away from it all. Sitting in my window seat, with music plugged to my ear and the sky turning greyer by the minute, was eerily romantic. The kind that makes you happy and strangely sad at the same time. I felt envious of the boy sitting under a tree at the foot of a hill in the distance as his cattle grazed nearby.
Next stop was a short hike to the Selime Monastery, which was a group of rock carved caves, once used as monasteries and cathedrals. We visited the residential quarters where the monks once lived, worked and worshiped. From the top you could see the road leading up to the monastery and a narrow river beyond the woods on the other side of it. Some of the hills beyond the river had similar looking caves.
While others took posed for pictures, sometimes standing dangerously close to the edge, I walked down to the small tea shop by the side of the road, where most tour bus drivers and guides waited while their guests visited the monastery. Khan was there in the back with his friends, with half empty tea cups and cigarette packets on their table.
“One cay please.”
The young kid manning the place gave me an ear to ear smile and rushed to the kitchen. It was a small shop that also sold various aerated drinks, snacks and souvenir postcards.
“Are you done?” Khan asked from his table. Though it was dark inside, his sunglasses were still on.
“Yes. Just ordered a cup of tea.”
He offered me a seat with his group.
“Ummm.. I was just going to take my tea outside and take a quick walk.”
“Okay. We have 10 minutes. Don’t go too far.” He said looking at his watch. One of his friends gave me a toothless smile and asked “Pakistan?”
“India.” Khan answered for me.
The waiter kid came out with a cup of tea; his smile still in place. I found a nice big rock by the road, just outside the shop to sit on. With the monastery at the back, the empty road and the small forest in front, sound of the stream flowing in the distance and laughs coming from inside the shop, I had the most amazing cup of cay.
When a few minutes later, Khan came out and said we are ready to move on, part of me wanted to quit the tour and keep sitting on my comfortable rock. But I am glad I did not give in to that urge as, after a tasteless lunch, we visited my favourite stop of the tour. The Ilhara valley.
We walked through the canyon, with lush green trees, and explored ancient churches and caves. Khan explained the depictions of the old, worn out frescoes. We walked along the uneven stony path by the stream, listening to the sounds of birds and rustling leaves. Though I was with a group, we had spread out so much that it felt like I was there alone. It was a 4 km walk through the valley and around the mid point, we reached a resting point where there were food and drinks.. and lots of ducks!
I am afraid of heights. Terrified, in fact. I remember this one time when as a kid I visited Shimla with my family and we rode a horse to a hill. I had my eyes closed the entire way. Whenever I peeked through, I felt like the stupid horse will slip and we will go rolling down the stupid edge, and no one was ever going to find our stupid mangled bodies.
Even now, whenever I travel on a stupid mountainous road, I make sure I get very little sleep the night before just so that I can sleep through most of the stupid journey. Window seat? No, thank you.
Heights are stupid. Altitudes are dumb. But I am not smart, either.
If I was, I would be able to explain why I paid good money to get on the basket of a hot air balloon at a god forsaken hour to ride above pointy rocks.
“Oh.. you will get a perfect view of the sun rise. It will be mesmerising.”
Fuck that!
The best answer I have at this point is that I got caught up in the tourist hype.
Anyone who says “Hot air balloon ride is a must do in Cappadocia!” will be beaten up by their own selfie stick. I promise you.
So as I sat, at 5 in the morning, sipping horrible milk coffee at our pick up point, part of me was excited, and the other wishing for it to be over and done with. All others, mostly East Asians, equipped with their GoPros and DSLRs, seemed thrilled. One family had packed a whole picnic basket of sandwiches, chips and soy milk.
The clock ticked on. Nothing happened.
Finally, when the guy on the table beside me, after a lot of dozing off and waking up, had finally resigned and fallen asleep flat on his seat, a middle aged man came out from behind the office doors and declared that the ride has been cancelled because of bad weather.
“You can try again tomorrow or get a refund.” He declared as sounds of disappointment and despair filled the room.
I walked into Ahmet’s office that morning.
“Sorry brother. You can try tomorrow.” Ahmet, ever the optimist.
“Actually, I want a refund.” I had booked the hot air balloon ride through Ahmet in a surge of drunken courage on my first night.
“Brother, do not worry. Weather will be great tomorrow.”
“Look out the window and see the dark clouds, man!” I wanted to say.
I do not know if the hot air balloon ride happened the next day or the day after, but I did not trust the weather. It looked ominous. I got my refund with which I bought a night bus ticket to Antalya, booked myself on another tour of Cappadocia, and splurged on food and drinks that night at the One Way Cafe.
The tour started at 9 am which meant I had just enough time for a cup of tea. Right down the road from my hotel, was this really cool cafe which was very popular with the elders of the area. Throughout the day, you can see groups of old men occupying the outdoor tables, playing backgammon, reading newspapers, talking and hanging out.
That morning, I met Mustapha who was this heavily built old man with a thin unkempt beard. He asked me to sit with him. During tea, he told me that his nephew owned a restaurant down the road and he came to visit often. He was well traveled and had visited India in his youth.
“People say I look like Shammi Kapoor.” he said, blushing. And he did. Kind of.
Few minutes in, he bid adieu saying he had to go a friend’s house. He gingerly walked to his car parked by the side of the cafe. I saw as he fit himself through the small door of his rusty old car; the seat creaking under his weight. As he turned the key, the engine let out a metallic cry. It took a few more tries for the engine to finally break through and come to life. And then he slowly drove away. Never have the personalities of the car and the car owner matched better. Mustapha belong to the car and the car belonged to Mustapha.
When I was done with my tea, the waiter will not give me the bill even though I insisted. He apparently does not charge Mustapha or his friends.
(Mustapha, if you are reading this, thank you)
During the tour, we saw more valleys, fairy chimneys, rock formations and panoramic views. We visited the much acclaimed Goreme Open Air Museum and explored the ancient churches there. We went to a pottery shop where they demonstrated how local pots are made. Potters of Cappadocia are magicians. Believe me. I saw it.
We saw more vistas of rolling hills, huts and towns. More shepherds and cattle grazing on open fields. It rained a few times but our bus rolled on, deeper into Cappadocia. We saw the Imagination Valley where the rocks were shaped like fishes, camels and people kissing.
“Use your imagination.” Our tour guide urged. “Tell me what you see.”
“That… That is shaped like a bear.” Someone suggested, pointing at one of the chimneys.
He had used way too much imagination, in my opinion.
My night bus was scheduled to leave at 10 and was expected to reach Antalya early next morning. It was raining heavily when I returned back to my hotel that evening from the One Way Cafe, well fed and happily drunk. I passed by the cafe where I had met Mustapha that morning. The place was still buzzing with backgammon excitement. I climbed up the stairs of the hotel one last time to freshen up and pick up my rucksack. It was going to be a rough night of travel.
“Brother?” Ahmet’s voice echoed from upstairs. “Come.”
It was his son’s birthday and he, along with his family and friends, were having a small get together upstairs. I am not a fan of pastries but that strawberry cake tasted divine. Ahmet took a lot of pictures that night. He had a clean shirt on for a change. He had even combed his hair.
“Don’t worry, brother. I’ll take you to the bus station.” He told me, as he served me a glass of cola.
Around half past nine, I threw my backpack in the back of his car and we drove through the dark, winding alleys of Goreme. It was raining heavily and I would have been drenched had Ahmet not offered to drop me off.
“Thank you for everything, Ahmet. I really enjoyed my stay here.” I told him, as we approached the bus station.
He smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. “Brother, you stay with us again next time you visit. Okay?”
We reached the bus station 10 minutes early. While I waited for my bus, I saw Ahmet taking out a box of pastries from his car and distributing it to his friends at the bus office. In an instance, he had turned that dark, gloomy little bus station into a lively, happy place.
The bus came on time.
“Take care, brother.” he said, waving the empty box of pastries when I boarded.
I do not know if I will visit Goreme again. But if I do, I will stay at his hotel for sure.
And while waiting for him to check me in, I will look through the dusty shelf in his office for a group photo of his family, friends and an out-of-place Indian man celebrating his son’s birthday.
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