Cappadocia has become wildly popular in the decade since I visited. Nestled in and around the Nevsehir province in central Turkey, Cappadocia looks like a moonscape or the other side of a portal to another planet. With its strange rock formations, a history of hermit cave dwellers, places with names like Fairy Chimney Valley and Uchisar Castle, and deserted underground cities that used to house entire civilizations, it’s easy to feel there’s something magical going on under your nose.
Still, I wasn’t expecting to come across so many strange, mystical happenings while there. On a walk to see some of the rock-cut churches in Goreme, I saw a tree that, from far away, looked like it had been wrapped in bandages, mostly white with a few colorful pieces sticking out. A closer look confirmed that they were strips of fabric that had been tied in knots on the branches, and a ceramic pot was carefully placed in the middle. The tree seemed to sigh under the weight of it all. I wondered who had dressed it up that way.
This sight informed my first suspicions that there was something strange going on in Cappadocia. Wandering around and looking into the holes in the rock walls, thinking about the ancient people who used to live in those caves, I started to feel like I was surrounded by magic.
The most mysterious thing I came across was during a walk from Cavusin into the red valley, which had some of the craziest orange landscapes and manmade stone walls that just appeared out in the middle of nowhere. My friend Iana and I were the only people in sight, we could have called out and our voices would have echoed for a mile or more back to the village, and much further into the rural valley on the way to Uchisar. I looked over one of the walls and found a neatly formed pile of eaten pomegranates, the discarded half rinds placed closely together, every seed seemingly sucked out. By who? The art made from nature felt intentional yet humble.
After a full breakfast at Kemal’s on my first day in Cappadocia, Iana and I sat down with Barbara, Kurdish Kemal’s Dutch wife. The couple met in Istanbul and moved to Cappadocia to build their beautiful inn in the 1990s. We told Barbara we wanted to take a hike through the region around Goreme, where we were staying, and Barbara handed us a “map” – an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper with some pencil doodles and arrows pointing us through valleys that sounded straight out of a storybook – Love Valley, Rose Valley, Red Valley and White Valley. Five or so hours of walking and we would be able to wander through the valleys and even make it to a castle at the end. I was excited about the kind of surprises we might find in terrain with fairy tale names.
Unfortunately, “surprise” came in the form of a strange stalker. Iana and I began walking up the quiet road that would lead us to the start of the hike, and immediately I noticed a young guy with spiky hair, chain necklaces, all-black clothing and heavy boots. I hate to generalize, but it’s all in context of place. He might have blended in on the streets of Istanbul; in rural Goreme, he looked completely out of place. Like he was in town for a purpose. I tried to stay calm as the street turned into a dusty path, the guy continued on our heels, and I looked helplessly at my conspicuous Nikon DSLR camera. I knew Iana had picked up on our tailgater too. We played a quick maneuver at a fork in the road, first walking up one way and then doubling back to the path, to confirm he was following us. And he was. I was hesitant to let this potentially harmless teenager ruin our hike, so we kept on for a few minutes, trying again to lose him by exploring a dead-end side path up a slope. When he came up there, too, and tried to make conversation, we immediately turned on our heels and walked back swiftly toward civilization.
Maybe if there had been other hikers around, or we hadn’t been in an empty, shadowy clearing, we might have forged on. But suddenly our surroundings, which the day before had seemed nothing but peaceful and beautiful, looked menacing in the absence of any other people. White tufty formations now loomed like deadly cliffs and rock-cut caves looked like creepy, criminal hideaways. We lost our follower at the edge of town and returned to Kemal and Barbara’s with our heads down.
Barbara was surprised to hear we were followed, since the area was known for being safe, but agreed that we were smart to head back to town. Not wanting us to waste the day, she suggested we rent a motorbike and drive the 3km to Cavusin and the Fairy Chimney Valley. Motorbike? Considering I’m a mediocre driver (at best) when it comes to vehicles with actual doors, I wasn’t sure this was such a great idea. But then I thought to myself that smart, confident Iana was surely an excellent driver. We smiled at each other, both feeling the twinge of excitement.
We headed down to the scooter rental place without so much as a word.
We signed some paperwork and tried on dusty helmets that probably had hairs from one hundred other people matted inside. I made a note to wash my hair when we got back to the hotel later. After a couple of practices, riding tandem with one of the rental shop guys, and then alone, we had keys in hand to our bike. As we walked toward the scooter, I could feel the eyes of the burly scooter owners on our backs, imagined them shaking their heads and wondering if we – and their inventory – would make it back in one piece. That’s when Iana said to me “Can you drive first? I don’t have a driver’s license.” I tried to feel confident, but as soon as we zoomed forward and then lurched back to avoid getting side swiped, I began to worry. “We just have to get to the main road, then it’ll be easy!” were Iana’s hopeful words of encouragement.
She was right, though; once out on the main highway there were few other cars and it was easy enough to putter along at a very grandmotherly pace. I felt like one of Hell’s Angels on Mars, the odd, otherworldly landscapes reaching up on either side of the road. We were the only vehicle in sight.
We made it to the Fairy Chimney Valley and managed to park the bike on the side of the road while we snapped some pictures and got a good look at the strange, phallic rock formations shooting up from the ground. The technical name for Fairy Chimney is Hoodoo (because that definitely sounds more scientific), and there is some geological explanation for them involving sedimentary rock and volcanic ash.
On the way to Cavusin we made a pit stop for some apple tea at a small cafe with a big parking lot (which was the main appeal – a wide berth from any other cars or people was essential for wobbling the scooter to a stop and not hitting anything). There was a huge, weird sculpture in the shape of a figure eight with an orangey, stripey pattern reminiscent of the wild west. That’s when I realized how much Cappadocia – the decor at the inn and restaurants in Goreme, the local people’s style of dress, the design of the buildings – reminded me of an old western movie.
Cavusin felt like a ghost town – abandoned houses, very few people, branches blowing across the streets tumbleweed-style. We did find a man selling oranges out of his van in the main square, but there weren’t any customers, which I guess is the explanation for the sour look on his face (that, or too many oranges).
Our day of exploration was coming to an end, mostly because we didn’t want to be maneuvering the motorbike back to Goreme on a dark highway. Iana was the designated pilot for the way home, with me on the back of the bike. We started on the hill down toward the highway, the steepest point being one prong of a three-way fork in the road. Cars were whizzing by and our positioning made it hard to evaluate the lapses. “Should I go?” she would yell, and I’d reply with a “Wait!” This happened a few times until finally instead of a question she said “I’m gonna go!” and as she gunned the gas my wail of “waiiiiiiiiiit” got lost in the wind. I had no choice but to grip her shoulders and squeeze my eyes shut as she steered the scooter onto the road, just in front of a sedan that had to slow abruptly to avoid collision. Iana moved us into the slow, right-hand lane, and the small blue car began to pass just as we were laughing giddily with relief. I looked to my left and planned to wave to the driver as a sign of thanks for not hitting us, when the passenger side window rolled down and the angry face of an older Turkish woman emerged, and then spat at us. The window rolled up and they sped on, the surprised faces of three children peering from the backseat.
I can only imagine what Cappadocia is like now. The sky overfilled with hot air balloons, the hotels filled with travelers hoping to get the perfect shot to share on Instagram. I doubt the roads are as empty. I doubt it’s possible to find oneself alone among the fairy chimneys and rocky caves, or for the locals to be surprised when two young female visitors on a bike roll into their lane.