After two comfortable nights in a hostel in the tourist hotspot Göreme, we hang a quiet tent night in a winterproof café in the middle of the park. The Rose Valley is a few steps away, the rain stays away and we enjoy the evening magic of the place. The main season is long over here – and still during the day whole busloads of tour groups are disgorged. The main attractions, besides the obligatory balloon rides, are rides through the Rose Valley, noisy quad rides and of course working off the various selfie spots. A visit to Cappadocia is understandably high on the agenda of most Turkey trips. We try to imagine how it is here in the high season and quickly come to the conclusion that we consider ourselves lucky to be here in the colder season.
After the night in the park we leave it behind us but decide to stay another night in the area. We make a detour from our newly planned route and drive through a small side valley. We are not disappointed: we are again worlds away from the tourist circus. The small villages nestle on the valley sides and each of the villages really grows into the rocks. The transition from old to newer buildings is fluid, and chicken coops, warehouses, or even entire living quarters are partially scratched out of the soft rock. Elegant archways bear witness to long-gone architecture and the many decaying structures tell stories of yesteryear.
We explore some of the caves and multi-story rock caverns and encounter soot-blackened ceilings, chambers, chapels, stairways and mezzanines here as well. However, the urban exodus has long since set in in Turkey as well, and such villages in the countryside often seem very extinct and almost deserted.
That evening, Louie discovers for us a hollowed-out rock pylon that provides the perfect refuge for the rainy night. All alone in the nowhere, between harvested, steep grape plantations we spend so a quiet night.
The next day brings a lot of altitude and kilometers and only at dusk we drive into a small village to find another rainproof place to spend the night. The timing could not be better: While filling up our water bottles, a “pffff” sound announces the first flat tire of the trip. We approach a couple of guys in a small grocery store and already we are led through the alleys to a busy tea room. There is a lot of gesticulating, we don’t understand a word, but behind the tea room there is an empty room that we are apparently allowed to use. Trash is lying around, it is dirty, but the room is perfect; there is even running water and electricity. While we are setting up our tent and kitchen, there are four bangs on the metal door and several groups of men march into our chamber. “Chef”, one of them is introduced. The next one is then the “more Chef”. The tea room man invites us several times to tea and dinner in the heated room. We decide to accept the invitation and have tea in the pub first. Men and boys of all ages are there, engrossed in various card games. Soon Louie is invited by the guys and tries to figure out the very unclear rules. Much laughter can be heard from the table. Later we want to have our main course (pasta-cheese-vegetable stew) in the warm tea room. It takes some getting over when we realize that this is now filled to the brim with men hunched over their Rummicub plates. Rummicub, or Okey as it is called here, is played fervently throughout the country all day long. To this end, the men drink tea and with serious frowns, their teammates are paralyzed in quick moves.
The game culture here in Turkey is impressive. Even young men can be found in the game and tea rooms and devote themselves either okey or the further east we come the more often a game of backgammon. Natels are then forgiven and also the alcohol consumption is non-existent. Tea and games is the motto.
In the heated tea room it is much too warm for us and so we soon retire to our back room. The next visit is not long in coming. Again there is a banging at the door and suddenly two policemen are standing in the room. Outside the police car is flashing and we have no idea how to classify these visitors. The policemen examine briefly our tent, the one-wheeled bicycle of Louie, our kitchen and then demand our passports. No one can speak English, so Louie soon explains our situation to a friendly critical policeman on his cell phone. “No, it is not too cold for us. No, we don’t want to be taken to a hotel. Yes, we are fine where we are. Yes, we feel safe here. No, a hotel is really not necessary.” After some back and forth, the concerned officials are actually convinced of our well-being and leave.
The next visit startles us out of our sleep as my `alarm system` makes a clanging noise. Louie takes over the communication with the intruders and soon finds out that this time it is a nice young couple who wants to invite us for dinner at eleven o’clock at night. Here, too, persuasion is needed and finally we agree on a joint morning meal.
Freshly strengthened and enriched by a very warm encounter, we set off the next morning with patched tires in the direction of the Tahtali Mountains. The sun displaces the fog of the previous days and soon the view of the snow-covered Bey Dag, over 3100 meters high, opens up. Today a pass of over 2000 meters lies ahead of us and we enjoy every meter of this wild stretch. Only at dusk we reach the top of the pass and for the ice cold descent many layers of clothes are needed.
After this spectacular day we set up our night camp a few hundred meters lower in the courtyard of a mosque. A quiet night it becomes also here not Louie spends two hours before the tent and sits preventively guard – however, in the morning our nocturnal distrust disperses fast. The Murtar (= village chief) doesn’t miss the opportunity to invite us for a morning meal. So we sit also this morning beside a warm stove and enjoy bread with egg, olives, cheese, tomatoes, sausage and the obligatory black tea.
We are strengthened for a new day – at least we think so.