Bursting our balloon
CAPPADOCIA—This region of Turkey, which translates to “Land of Beautiful Horses,” is by consensus the most popular tourist destination in this country.
A huge reason for that popularity is the unusual and weirdly wonderful landscape—rock formations that resemble beehives, wasps’ nests, bread loaves and waves breaking on shore, or else camels, mushrooms, a Madonna and child, three men in a huddle. The formations are the results of centuries of natural erosion and the action of wind, water, volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. But what some of the hills and mountains carry within them—human settlements, churches, monasteries, wine cellars, refuges—are entirely the result of human history and conflict.
By far the best views of this wondrous landscape, it has been argued, are from the air, aboard colorful, whimsical air balloons that have become such iconic images they’re used in Starbucks souvenir mugs to symbolize Turkey. I first heard about them on the Martha Stewart show, when, coming from a visit to Turkey, the doyenne of lifestyle aspirations waxed poetic about exploring Cappadocia (“Kapadokya” in Turkish) aboard a silent air balloon. My friend Karen Tañada, remembering her tour of Turkey, earnestly bade me “not to miss the balloon ride over Cappadocia,” tweaking my curiosity even more.
And so it was that by 4 a.m., our group of media women from the Philippines boarded a small bus to the gathering site. Excitement mounted as we met on the road other buses and, most exhilarating of all, vehicles towing huge wicker baskets and canvas balloons.
Upon arriving at the staging site, we were offered coffee, tea, biscuits and sandwiches as more tourists arrived and the crew released small trial balloons to gauge the wind direction and power. We waited… and waited… and waited. The aviation authority took its time judging the power of the wind gusts (too strong and the air balloons endanger the lives of their passengers). The darkness gave way to tendrils of light, but still the branches of the sparse trees swung wildly in the wind. By the time the sun came out, we were told no flights would be taking place that day.
“Umuwi kami ng luhaan” (We went home in tears) was our verdict, as we rode home in silence.
An aerial view of Cappadocia will have to wait for another time, another visit. Add one more item to the bucket list.
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The day before, we were taken on a tour of the “Open Air Museum” in Goreme. It consists of a cluster of caves carved into sandstone hills, housing a monastery and a network of churches with such whimsical names as “Sandal Church,” “Buckle Church,” “Snake Church.”
These churches were created by early Christians fleeing Roman persecution, building tunnels and complexes of living spaces and chapels where they could live, work and worship. Many of the chapels contain murals on rocks—rough ochre drawings and more elaborate, colorful frescoes in later churches. Much of the artworks are by now badly eroded, chipping off or else fading into the rock. But the scenes of the Nativity, the Passion and Death of Christ, the Resurrection, as well as icons of Jesus, Mary and the Apostles speak of the devotion of these early Christians hiding deep in mountain recesses, keeping their faith alive.
On another site, we were brought to marvel at the “fairy towers,” the remains of hills that, eroded through time and weather, jut out from the flat landscape. In “Imagination Valley,” tourists are asked to describe what the formations resemble, with an outstanding example in a cluster of stones resembling a camel. In “Pigeon Valley,” the hillsides are dotted with tiny holes that serve as nests for pigeons, whose dung was collected by ancient farmers to use as fertilizer.
We were told that even as late as the 1950s families were still living in some of these caves, until they were ordered to evacuate to avoid the hazards of erosion and cave-ins.
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Carved out of a hillside overlooking Pigeon Valley in the town of Uchisar is “Taskonaklar,” or “Rocky Palace,” not exactly a cave, but a small hotel where we stayed for two nights, whose owners/designers wanted the place to resemble an upscale version of the cave dwellings.
Each of the hotel’s 19 rooms and suites is unique, decorated with artifacts and household items of the region, with some suites boasting their own jacuzzis and balconies. The center of the complex is a garden featuring astounding views of Pigeon Valley and the mountains spread out below. On late afternoons, it is not unusual to find guests and the hotel managers lounging around the garden tables, sharing chilled wine and nuts while watching the sky darken above the stone formations.
It was while conversing over a bottle of white wine that we met Bulent Akarcali who, with his wife, transformed the once-abandoned hillside residence into a boutique hotel. Akarcali is a former minister of tourism and of health, and he still holds informed views on Turkish and European politics. Surprisingly, he had not yet seen a “Turkish Night,” a dinner-show of native dances and performances that has become a staple feature for tour groups around the world. Indeed, upon entering the Uranus Restaurant, we espied Spanish-speaking groups and a party of Chinese tourists.
When we asked Akarcali what he thought of the presentation that was supposed to be a panorama of dances from various regions of Turkey accompanied by a native band, he replied: “25 percent authentic, 75 percent made-up.” But he did seem—as were we—mesmerized by the belly dancer, whom the former minister deemed “professional,” and who astonished with her amazing flexibility and the undulations of her belly muscles and fingers.
