The last few days, the Indians have been enjoying Diwali, the Festival of Lights. Diwali celebrates Lord Krishna's defeat of a big bad demon, and the return of safety and happiness. The most apparent festivities consist of firecrackers reverberating through the air, the many happy groups of Indian tourists on the beaches (I saw about fifteen young Indian men making human pyramids and cheering in glee as they plunged into the water), and the flower garlands and strings of lights decorating homes, businesses, trucks, and rickshaws. When I was driving in Karnataka , I laughed with the taxi driver in amazement as we saw a truck with so many strings of pink, white, and yellow flowers hanging over the windshield it was a wonder the driver could see at all! With questioning, I learned that families spend days preparing food and then feasting. They also clean house and give oil massages to the children (ritual cleansing is quite important in the Hindu religion). At darkness the electricity is turned off and lamps and candles lit in all the windows. I witnessed this at our guesthouse restaurant in Gokarna, where they also rang bells and offered everyone an Indian sweet (ladoo).
On arrival in Mumbai (Bombay), the late evening was aglow with cloth lanterns, bright streamers, fireworks, and strings of lights decorating apartment balconies. I had some trepidation in coming to Mumbai, after really not liking Delhi, but the lights and festive attitude felt welcoming and happy. The brightness and wildness of the diverse decorations seem to represent my impressions of Mumbai in a way. It is a very diverse city, and people seem to be happy to live there. It is clean and modern, with trees and potted plants, smartly dressed young Indians, and billboards with the latest Bollywood films and Indian fashions (Side note: many men here wear designer jeans, though they are not so fashionable otherwise- maybe because they are made in India?). I was impressed with some of the British period buildings, ornate and grand in the city landscape. In the morning I saw the esplanade with people exercising, praying, meditating, and relaxing in the sunshine along the water. A nice 12 hour experience of the city.
31 October 2008
28 October 2008
Gokarna
After five nights in Palolem Beach, I caught a local train south to Gokarna, in the state of Karnataka. It was a bit lonely to leave Nancy, so I was very happy to meet two new friends while waiting for the (late) train: Yael, Israeli, 2 months India, and Marcelle, German, 2 weeks India, 11 month journey.The train tickets were general boarding, with no guarantee of a seat. When it arrived I had to push and pull my way aboard, ignoring the fact that my huge backpack was offsetting gravity and acting as a body guard against competing Indian bodies. I made it on with Yael and Marcelle, plopped my bag down, and stood in the aisle. As the Indian families and young men fi
lling the benches looked me over, I too eyed them with curiosity. I noticed at the first few stops that when people got up to exit, others appeared to seamlessly take their places, as if it were all planned out ahead of time. Eventually I encouraged a little girl in a sequined pink princess dress to scoot over and I squeezed onto the bench. When she got off at the next stop, I found myself with butt room and a nice Mangalore family to speak to about their pilgrimmage to Goa. The scenery out the window was really beautiful (in between seemingly endless tunnels). The landscape is very lushess green from palm trees, rice paddies, and jungley plants and ochre from the earth of the paths and roads and the peoples' houses. Every now and then we crossed a broad river.We stayed near the many-templed town of Gokarna at Om Beach, so named b
ecause its bays are shaped like the Om symbol. After one night in a Rs 100 woven palm frond shack with a communal bathroom, the sink 
of which consisted of a barrel of dirty water, we decided to share a nice bungalow with attached bath up above the beach. It was quiet and calm on the porch among the plams and banana trees, the waves rhythmic in the background.One morning I hiked a trail overlooking the sea to the next beach over. I was greeted by butterflies as I entered thought the cow-proof gate and found a sweet little beach with a small settlement just on the other side of the trees from the beach. I met three lovely beings who were renting a little house from the local family (the grandmother, who brought us a pineapple, apparently has to chase the monkeys from the rice
fields each morning). Sunil and Biju (of Kovalam, Kerala, India) and Christina (of Germany) invited me to join them for breakfast, and of course I accepted. They buy their food in town, knock coconuts from the trees with long sticks, sing songs, do yoga on the beach, and cook over a fire. Sunil had decorated the little house with flowers and leaves for Duwali (see next blog), and their shrine to Shiva and Bob Marley peeked out the door. I felt like a queen in this paradise as they fed me egg scramble with toast, black coffee, bananas, pineapple with chili powder, and fresh coconut milk. It was inspiring to speak with friendly folks living simply and happily.Palolem
On arrival in Palolem Beach, we surveyed the possible places to stay and found ourselves in a beachfront room in the hotel La Allegro, one of the pnly permanent buildings on the beach (more on this below). It has an attached bathroom, purple walls, a pink mosquito net, and a porch for good settin.' The days at Palolem are drift by easily, and people tend to stay much longer than planned. Something in the air makes each cell of the body relax into sandy earth. The many open-air beach cafes serve delicious Indian fare, including local (and fresh) Goan fish dishes (I look forward to eating, even when I have just finished a meal!). Kingfisher beers, sunshine, the warm Arabian Sea, palm trees, fresh coconut and pineapple, non-Goan Indians selling (cheap and not so cheap) jewelry and clothing, local fisherman pulling in their nets, cows meandering the coastline, homeless dogs being terratorial, a hundred Israeli tourists and a hundred more from Europe; this is Palolem Beach in a nutshell.Palolem is paradise in many ways, but it has been interesting to see how much it has grown over the past four years (when I was here before). I estimate there are four times as many coco huts (palm and bamboo bungalows), restaurants, and stores. The government has an interesting take on development, which local Goans seem to support: the hotels and restaurants on the beach have to be torn down and rebuilt every year. Furthermore, only a certain percentage of the land can have buildings on it, they must be 200 m. from the ocean, and only one story tall. The idea is that big ugly concrete buildings and permanent development will not ruin the beach. High season starts around Nov. 1, so the men and women are busy, busy, busy hauling sand in baskets on their heads, roping together the bamboo buildings, setting up the chairs in their restaurants, and tacking up blue tarpaulins. It is quite a scene... Many of the business owners and waiters are not from Goa, and the stores and independant sellers who come here just for the season often do not pay taxes. Being in Palolem makes me think a lot about how tourism adds to the commodification of a place...
There have been some particularly memorable moments here:
On one of the first days I walked to the end of the beach in the morning and met yoga teacher Raja. He encouraged me to walk to over the rocks and to go onto the small peninsula because I might see dolphins swimming in the sea. I walked up and perched myself overlooking the sea, and indeed I did see some dolphins jumping!
Because Nancy and I won't be together on my birthday, she decided we should celebrate early. She gave me a lovely scarf and a miniature wooden backgammon board, which I love. We then shared a piece of poundcake with walnuts and golden raisins and enjoyed some good ol' very sweet and milky Nescafe coffee. It was wonderful.
The first few days in Palolem were very humid and smoggy. One afternoon it started raining, and poured for the next hour. The rain was the soaking kind- big drops that fall heavy and close together, wetting you to the bone in a few minutes. It was such a relief from the heat and humidity. I thoroughly enjoyed walking in the sweet rain, recalling the freshness of moist Oregon... A few nights later, we again experienced the rain, but this time it was a grand storm, with sheet lightning every other moment, and strong gusts of wind. We holed up in our favorite restaurant, Fernando's, and watched as the electricity up and down the beach flickered on and off. The electricity seemed to be playfully responding to the flashes in the sky!
24 October 2008
Train(s of) Thought(s)
On the 18th of (what month is it again? oh yeah) October, we finally left the smogs and bogs of New Delhi on a 40 hour train to Goa. While waiting for the train, I noticed a man pushing a wheeled cart with large ice squares dripping from under their canvas cover in the heat. It recalls for me America back in the day, when people stored their goods in ice boxes and depended on the ice delivery man to bring the frozen blocks with his horse and cart. India has this timeless quality to it. You can't tell if the buildings and sidewalks are 10 years old, or 150. In fact, besides the ever increasing population and cell phone use, it's hard to tell what year it is. Clothing and hair styles don't reveal specificities of time period either; there are no trends apparent to my eyes. Oxen and cows roam the streets; people carry heavy loads on their heads and backs. A very strange feeling- timelessness...
For the train ride, we chose the less expensive sleeper class, where there is no A/C, but you can have the windows open to see the scenery. Unfortunately, the open window also meant an infestation of little black bugs at twilight flying in the windows (to add to the cockroaches) and smells of the tracks. The train bathroom consists of a squat toilet with no flush and a tube that leads directly to the train tracks. Trash is thrown out of the windows by the passengers, and garbage from the snacks, food, and drink sold on the train is puched between the cars onto the trakcs by the train staff. This also must be the time for slash and burn, as there was smoke all among the fields the whole way south. Hence, the breezes wafting into the windows are usually not so pleasant. There were some fresh spots, however, and I enjoyed watching the fields of flowering grasses, corn, bananas, rice, and marigolds. I decided that if I lived in India, I would have a garden full of marigolds. I would make them into strands and lays for people to hang above their doors and drape on deities in the temples. The bright necklaces are holy, healthy, and happy blessings in all villages and cities in India.
For the first night, we were joined by an Indian family (Sonya and her husband Topan, her sister, her so very cute and sweet and talkative 5 month old baby daughter Angel, and Topan's parents) on their way south for a pilgrimmage. The five of them (and the baby) somehow managed to have purchased only four tickets, so when it came for sleeping, Topan slept on the floor between mine and Nancy's bed platforms. (This was quite normal; the floor of the train was full of folks). They were a happy and kind family, and fed us homemade chapati with Indian mango pickle. Between games of a three deck card game called Marriage, I spoke to Sonya about the henna designs she had on her hands. She told me she had them done to honor a recent day of fasting, wherein the wife fasts so that her husband has a long life. She said that she does it for him, and he does it for her. Religion here is complex, varied, and paradoxical; but it is also accepting, dynamic, and colorful.
{Sonya's fasting is the third example of fasting I have experienced so far on this trip. The first was the Muslims for Ramadan in Turkey, the second were two Israeli women (both named Rachel) fasting I think for Yom Kippur.}
We made it through the train ride, caught an hour bus, and found ourselves, relieved and happy to find ourselves at Palolem Beach, in souther Goa.
For the train ride, we chose the less expensive sleeper class, where there is no A/C, but you can have the windows open to see the scenery. Unfortunately, the open window also meant an infestation of little black bugs at twilight flying in the windows (to add to the cockroaches) and smells of the tracks. The train bathroom consists of a squat toilet with no flush and a tube that leads directly to the train tracks. Trash is thrown out of the windows by the passengers, and garbage from the snacks, food, and drink sold on the train is puched between the cars onto the trakcs by the train staff. This also must be the time for slash and burn, as there was smoke all among the fields the whole way south. Hence, the breezes wafting into the windows are usually not so pleasant. There were some fresh spots, however, and I enjoyed watching the fields of flowering grasses, corn, bananas, rice, and marigolds. I decided that if I lived in India, I would have a garden full of marigolds. I would make them into strands and lays for people to hang above their doors and drape on deities in the temples. The bright necklaces are holy, healthy, and happy blessings in all villages and cities in India.
For the first night, we were joined by an Indian family (Sonya and her husband Topan, her sister, her so very cute and sweet and talkative 5 month old baby daughter Angel, and Topan's parents) on their way south for a pilgrimmage. The five of them (and the baby) somehow managed to have purchased only four tickets, so when it came for sleeping, Topan slept on the floor between mine and Nancy's bed platforms. (This was quite normal; the floor of the train was full of folks). They were a happy and kind family, and fed us homemade chapati with Indian mango pickle. Between games of a three deck card game called Marriage, I spoke to Sonya about the henna designs she had on her hands. She told me she had them done to honor a recent day of fasting, wherein the wife fasts so that her husband has a long life. She said that she does it for him, and he does it for her. Religion here is complex, varied, and paradoxical; but it is also accepting, dynamic, and colorful.
{Sonya's fasting is the third example of fasting I have experienced so far on this trip. The first was the Muslims for Ramadan in Turkey, the second were two Israeli women (both named Rachel) fasting I think for Yom Kippur.}
We made it through the train ride, caught an hour bus, and found ourselves, relieved and happy to find ourselves at Palolem Beach, in souther Goa.
17 October 2008
India All Over Again
Only now, this evening, am I in a state to fairly represent my first (again) impressions of India. I am refreshed tonight, after having a yummy noodle soup for lunch, a chai and a bidhi, and a much needed meditation in a Tibetan Buddhist temple (where my attention was held with the chanting, chiming, drumming, and cymbal whacking of four monks). And, we leave Delhi (finally) tomorrow afternoon.
I slept poorly last night, having a hard time dispelling a feeling of discomfort and dread and a voice that kept telling me I needed to escape the nightmare. Yesterday, Delhi was a very, very old woman with sagging skin and filthy torn rags, the remnants of a firey sari, hanging from her hundred long limbs. Her breath, hot and putrid, surrounds her with a grimy black smog. She begs as she squats in a dark puddle, bits of bright plastic rubbish floating near her black-mucked toenails. Her eyes are blank, empty, her voice so hoarse it is nonexistent. Her wretchedness is ignored and forgotten. Traffic in the darkness, rickshaw riding trying not to inhale fumes of exhaust and shit. It is hard to believe the traffic even moves, so many millions of motorcycles, rickshaws, buses, trucks, cars, motorcycles, cows, even elephants and camels. We spent an hour and a half getting home last night, usually a 20 minute ride, partly because our rickshaw dide in the middle of the street and we had to run back and forth crossing the traffic (I'm talking a two lane road with 10 lanes of traffic, but no lanes) until we found an empty rickshaw willing to give us a ride. It is almost funny, sometimes, the gasping-close calls and lurching and swerving and braking. But then when you see certain things, of which I can't write because it makes me cry, it can't be funny anymore. Poverty, death, illness, and decrepitness test my humanity, my sanity.
On a lighter note (sort of...): We are staying in a little area of town called Majnu ka Tilla, which is the Tibetan colony in Delhi. It is much calmer here, if still stinky and dog and fly-infested. The Tibetans stare less and seem far more easy-going than the Indians. It is less crowded and the wares sold remind a person of the Himalayas, of trekking, of Buddhism, of hot tea, of natural rocks and gems of the earth. Tibetan flags are strung across the tops of the multi-colored concrete buildings, and the sounds of Tibetan Buddhist monks recall the prayers from the camii minarets in Turkey. While feeling so distraught here, I thought about the Tibetans' displacement from home. They don't have the option of going home. They must make their home here. TVs around the neighborhoods show discussions witht he Dalai Lama and others about the plight of the Tibetan people.
There are spots of color amid the chaos and darkness: smiling children that like to say, "Hellooo, what is your name?," women with intricate freshly painted henna designs on their hands and wrists, walking the crowded streets with arms raised like masts over their yellow and pink sari sails to prevent smudging, interesting and exotic wares for sale, temple decorations in sparkling in nearby trees. I am optimistic again, but so glad to be heading to Goa, a calm breath for a bit...
I slept poorly last night, having a hard time dispelling a feeling of discomfort and dread and a voice that kept telling me I needed to escape the nightmare. Yesterday, Delhi was a very, very old woman with sagging skin and filthy torn rags, the remnants of a firey sari, hanging from her hundred long limbs. Her breath, hot and putrid, surrounds her with a grimy black smog. She begs as she squats in a dark puddle, bits of bright plastic rubbish floating near her black-mucked toenails. Her eyes are blank, empty, her voice so hoarse it is nonexistent. Her wretchedness is ignored and forgotten. Traffic in the darkness, rickshaw riding trying not to inhale fumes of exhaust and shit. It is hard to believe the traffic even moves, so many millions of motorcycles, rickshaws, buses, trucks, cars, motorcycles, cows, even elephants and camels. We spent an hour and a half getting home last night, usually a 20 minute ride, partly because our rickshaw dide in the middle of the street and we had to run back and forth crossing the traffic (I'm talking a two lane road with 10 lanes of traffic, but no lanes) until we found an empty rickshaw willing to give us a ride. It is almost funny, sometimes, the gasping-close calls and lurching and swerving and braking. But then when you see certain things, of which I can't write because it makes me cry, it can't be funny anymore. Poverty, death, illness, and decrepitness test my humanity, my sanity.
On a lighter note (sort of...): We are staying in a little area of town called Majnu ka Tilla, which is the Tibetan colony in Delhi. It is much calmer here, if still stinky and dog and fly-infested. The Tibetans stare less and seem far more easy-going than the Indians. It is less crowded and the wares sold remind a person of the Himalayas, of trekking, of Buddhism, of hot tea, of natural rocks and gems of the earth. Tibetan flags are strung across the tops of the multi-colored concrete buildings, and the sounds of Tibetan Buddhist monks recall the prayers from the camii minarets in Turkey. While feeling so distraught here, I thought about the Tibetans' displacement from home. They don't have the option of going home. They must make their home here. TVs around the neighborhoods show discussions witht he Dalai Lama and others about the plight of the Tibetan people.
There are spots of color amid the chaos and darkness: smiling children that like to say, "Hellooo, what is your name?," women with intricate freshly painted henna designs on their hands and wrists, walking the crowded streets with arms raised like masts over their yellow and pink sari sails to prevent smudging, interesting and exotic wares for sale, temple decorations in sparkling in nearby trees. I am optimistic again, but so glad to be heading to Goa, a calm breath for a bit...
14 October 2008
Moments of awareness, alıveness. Controlled grapplıng along the rock face on the edge of the creek and then clımbıng lıke a mountaın goat up the sıde of the valley. Two of them watch me from across the valley, stıll lıke black 
rocks... Sound of the waves gentle and rhymthıc, the earth solıd, holdıng me from wıthın. The pebble art of thıs hıdden beach speaks all languages and none... The sea cool and refreshıng, lıquıd whıspers on the skın... The camp dog watches the sunset wıth a medıtatıve calm... Thıs place teaches me that love ıs sacred, that my mysterıes remaın secret, that love ıs an unspoken pact of freedom, pe
ace, and magıc. Precıous creatures we are when we embrace truth together. Insıghts wıth acceptance of ınherent aloneness... A chance rıde ın the back of a jeep to Fethıye, watchıng the people and the houses and trees fade away as we speed along the road, the ıslands and the sea so far below the edge so near. Gleeful grın wıth the wınd dancıng my haır.
I had planned on goıng north to a town near the Black Sea called Safronbolu, known for ıts Ottoman wooden archıtecture. Instead, I was drawn to Kabak, back on the Medıterranean Coast, where Nancy remaıned.
I spent four nıghts ın Kabak Valley, a small valley wıth a beach and camps wıth bungalows and platforms overlookıng the beach wıth lots and lots of pıllows. To get there you have to take a mınıbus through a resort town (a Florıda nıghtmare: Chınese
Indıan Pızza restaurants, pıles of neon floaters for sale, and haıry drunk Australıans), around a crazy curvy road, and then hıke down part of the Lycıan Way. It ıs stıll a relatıvely unknown spot, despıte ıts Lonely Planet status. The days and nıghts were peaceful, the valley exudıng a warm calm that 
urges a person, slowly, "Lıe down. Stay awhıle. Relax my darlıng. Don't worry about gettıng a job. Don't worry about beıng bored or lonely. It's not ımportant. No problem."
The valley dıdn't want to let me go I guess, because on the day we were supposed to hıke out I got very ıll, and we had to stay another nıght. It was a gruelıng tıme of breathıng through waves of nausea and tryıng not to thınk of home. The next day I lay on the beach, grateful to have regaıned some strength. Down the beach a blond famıly played ın the sun, lıttle naked creatures splashıng courageously ın the waves, a father's laughter. Boats perused the horızon and the bees contınued to buzz. And they probably stıll are, even as I sıt ın Istanbul, waıtıng to hop on a plane to Indıa. We really can't control fate, just as we can't control the roll of the dıce ın backgammon. Often, I can't even read what the dıce say.
rocks... Sound of the waves gentle and rhymthıc, the earth solıd, holdıng me from wıthın. The pebble art of thıs hıdden beach speaks all languages and none... The sea cool and refreshıng, lıquıd whıspers on the skın... The camp dog watches the sunset wıth a medıtatıve calm... Thıs place teaches me that love ıs sacred, that my mysterıes remaın secret, that love ıs an unspoken pact of freedom, pe
ace, and magıc. Precıous creatures we are when we embrace truth together. Insıghts wıth acceptance of ınherent aloneness... A chance rıde ın the back of a jeep to Fethıye, watchıng the people and the houses and trees fade away as we speed along the road, the ıslands and the sea so far below the edge so near. Gleeful grın wıth the wınd dancıng my haır.I had planned on goıng north to a town near the Black Sea called Safronbolu, known for ıts Ottoman wooden archıtecture. Instead, I was drawn to Kabak, back on the Medıterranean Coast, where Nancy remaıned.
I spent four nıghts ın Kabak Valley, a small valley wıth a beach and camps wıth bungalows and platforms overlookıng the beach wıth lots and lots of pıllows. To get there you have to take a mınıbus through a resort town (a Florıda nıghtmare: Chınese
Indıan Pızza restaurants, pıles of neon floaters for sale, and haıry drunk Australıans), around a crazy curvy road, and then hıke down part of the Lycıan Way. It ıs stıll a relatıvely unknown spot, despıte ıts Lonely Planet status. The days and nıghts were peaceful, the valley exudıng a warm calm that 
urges a person, slowly, "Lıe down. Stay awhıle. Relax my darlıng. Don't worry about gettıng a job. Don't worry about beıng bored or lonely. It's not ımportant. No problem."The valley dıdn't want to let me go I guess, because on the day we were supposed to hıke out I got very ıll, and we had to stay another nıght. It was a gruelıng tıme of breathıng through waves of nausea and tryıng not to thınk of home. The next day I lay on the beach, grateful to have regaıned some strength. Down the beach a blond famıly played ın the sun, lıttle naked creatures splashıng courageously ın the waves, a father's laughter. Boats perused the horızon and the bees contınued to buzz. And they probably stıll are, even as I sıt ın Istanbul, waıtıng to hop on a plane to Indıa. We really can't control fate, just as we can't control the roll of the dıce ın backgammon. Often, I can't even read what the dıce say.
Faıry Chımneys
(Thıs was 9 days ago now...)
I arrıved ın Göreme, Cappadocıa (Kapadokya) by overnıght bus just before sunrıse, at the tıme when the bırds are all chırpıng ın antıcıpatıon of the break of day. The folks at the
guesthouse were stıll sleepıng, so I dropped my bag and went to wander about. The town ıtself ıs full of cave dwellıngs, carve
d out hundreds of years ago by ancıent Chrıstıans. Some are empty and dark, others are stıll used by the people of the town and for the numerous hotels and hostels. The locals call some of the rock formatıons Faıry Chımneys because they are tall skınny protrusıons, empty ınsıde but as ıf waıtıng for some magıcal occupants to come home. It was fascınatıng walkıng about the roads, but I then spotted a lıne of about eıght half flat raınbow hot aır balloons on the ground ın the dıstance.
"They must be about to take off for sunrıse!," I thought, and changed my course to
wards the valley, fındıng myself on a dırt path that wound out of town, past a cemetary, and up ınto the natural rock formatıons. I watched as one by one the hot aır balloons were fılled up and slowly raısed themselves off the ground, blasts of fıre sendıng them hıgher and hıgher. After watchıng for a lıttle whıle I went onto the top of one of the hılls of whıte rock to medıtate over the valley below. A few mınutes later I heard the blasts of a hot aır balloon and saw one approachıng! It got wıthın about 25 feet and I laughed and waved wıth the passengers as I heard one of them call out, "Where dıd she come from?" It was a magıcal mornıng.
The next day I rented a bıcycle and attempted to explore the Rose and Red Valleys, named for the color of the rock and sand along the spıky rock formatıons and clıff faces. I dıd end up explorıng, but I ended up gettıng quıte turned around and ın a very very long valley wıth a road that turned ınto a path that got skınnıer and skınnıer. At fırst I saw other tourısts, then local folks pıckıng the grapes from theır vıneyards, then I was alone wıth only the ghosts of the hundreds and hundreds of gapıng wındows and doors up ın the rocks. I had to carry the bıcycle over boulders and around trees and take ıt through tunnels. Eventually I had to turn around and retrace my steps, but gettıng lost was worth ıt. It was so peaceful and beautıful wıth the bırds and cottonwood trees and dreams of a forgotten people.
I dıdn't pay for a tour of the area, so I dıdn't learn much about the people who lıved there. They were Chrıstıans, and some of the rock caves are churches. You can stıll see the paınted ımages of saınts and geometrıcal desıgns, but they are badly graffıteed. There are underground cıtıes near Göreme, some up to eıght floors
deep, where the people hıd themselves and theır anımals from ınvadıng Muslım armıes. Can you ımagıne lıvıng underground? I wander how these people lıved. What were theır magıcal belıefs? Dıd they use candles? Dıd they decorate theır caves wıth the textıles and rugs that thıs are ıs know for? Göreme was a stop for camel traıns, up untıl the 1950s. Was ıt always a tradıng center? Despıte the rampant tourısm, Cappodocıa ıs stıll fascınatıng and mysterıous.
I arrıved ın Göreme, Cappadocıa (Kapadokya) by overnıght bus just before sunrıse, at the tıme when the bırds are all chırpıng ın antıcıpatıon of the break of day. The folks at the
guesthouse were stıll sleepıng, so I dropped my bag and went to wander about. The town ıtself ıs full of cave dwellıngs, carve
d out hundreds of years ago by ancıent Chrıstıans. Some are empty and dark, others are stıll used by the people of the town and for the numerous hotels and hostels. The locals call some of the rock formatıons Faıry Chımneys because they are tall skınny protrusıons, empty ınsıde but as ıf waıtıng for some magıcal occupants to come home. It was fascınatıng walkıng about the roads, but I then spotted a lıne of about eıght half flat raınbow hot aır balloons on the ground ın the dıstance."They must be about to take off for sunrıse!," I thought, and changed my course to
wards the valley, fındıng myself on a dırt path that wound out of town, past a cemetary, and up ınto the natural rock formatıons. I watched as one by one the hot aır balloons were fılled up and slowly raısed themselves off the ground, blasts of fıre sendıng them hıgher and hıgher. After watchıng for a lıttle whıle I went onto the top of one of the hılls of whıte rock to medıtate over the valley below. A few mınutes later I heard the blasts of a hot aır balloon and saw one approachıng! It got wıthın about 25 feet and I laughed and waved wıth the passengers as I heard one of them call out, "Where dıd she come from?" It was a magıcal mornıng.The next day I rented a bıcycle and attempted to explore the Rose and Red Valleys, named for the color of the rock and sand along the spıky rock formatıons and clıff faces. I dıd end up explorıng, but I ended up gettıng quıte turned around and ın a very very long valley wıth a road that turned ınto a path that got skınnıer and skınnıer. At fırst I saw other tourısts, then local folks pıckıng the grapes from theır vıneyards, then I was alone wıth only the ghosts of the hundreds and hundreds of gapıng wındows and doors up ın the rocks. I had to carry the bıcycle over boulders and around trees and take ıt through tunnels. Eventually I had to turn around and retrace my steps, but gettıng lost was worth ıt. It was so peaceful and beautıful wıth the bırds and cottonwood trees and dreams of a forgotten people.
I dıdn't pay for a tour of the area, so I dıdn't learn much about the people who lıved there. They were Chrıstıans, and some of the rock caves are churches. You can stıll see the paınted ımages of saınts and geometrıcal desıgns, but they are badly graffıteed. There are underground cıtıes near Göreme, some up to eıght floors
deep, where the people hıd themselves and theır anımals from ınvadıng Muslım armıes. Can you ımagıne lıvıng underground? I wander how these people lıved. What were theır magıcal belıefs? Dıd they use candles? Dıd they decorate theır caves wıth the textıles and rugs that thıs are ıs know for? Göreme was a stop for camel traıns, up untıl the 1950s. Was ıt always a tradıng center? Despıte the rampant tourısm, Cappodocıa ıs stıll fascınatıng and mysterıous.07 October 2008
The Otogar
I left the beach town of Kas and headed to Cappadocia (Kapadokya), the land of fairy chimneys. Nancy saw me to the minibus and off I went along the curvy highway along the Mediterranean, the driver honking as needed, or more often, being honked at as cars passed us by as we shuddered uphill. I arrived at the otogar, or bus station, in Antalya, a large modern looking city where I would catch an overnight bus to Goreme in Cappadocia. I had six and half hours to wait, and had decided not to try to navigate the city's transportation system with my huge pack. So, I had a long time to sit.
The otogar, as it turned out, was a node for cultural examination (the anthropologist in me has been surfacing a lot lately). All sorts of people travel by bus here- tourists from all over the world, small town traditional folk with their belongings carried in blue crates and plastic bags, stylish Muslim women with the latest head scarf and long coat fashion, modern city women with thick makeup, styled hair, and high, sharp heels, young men annoyingly eager to practice their English, families with smiling babies, educated Istanbulites, the whole gamut. Watching all the people, such a variety of self-presentation, such an amalgamation of values, I had to ask, who decides what is appropriate?
The government here has been trying to pass a law that says women are not allowed to wear scarves in places such as universities. The law is specific, but really it is a general push for change. Understandably, it is very controversial. I hear tales of conservatism in Konya (which happens to be the birthplace of Rumi, the poet of love), where non-Muslim Turkish women have been mistreated. Society is inherently conservative, no matter where you are. Acting different, regardless of how outrageous, will almost always attract disapproval, if not outright rejection. Acting different has been cause of violence and excommunication the world over. There is a gray area between being an individual and not disturbing the well being with uniqueness. As a foreigner reprimanded (albeit in a friendly way) by a Turkish policeman for stretching on the lawn in front of the otogar, I wonder, how much should I alter my behavior to avoid causing offence or annoyance by the people of this country? Where and when is it more important to sacrifice the creative, unique self (and perhaps sacrifice a potential to open others' eyes to something new) to maintain order and societal cohesiveness? I feel blessed to ave my home in a place where uniqueness is expected.
I remember philosophical talks from the night before over tiramisu and two nargilehs. Our friend Onur commented that when the people are ready, ideas will spring up and change will come. Sometimes this coagulates in the genious of an individual (and no, I'm not talking about Obama). I am afraid that America is not ready to change; our people are lost in sprees of infinite shopping, denying the role they play in their own lives. Everyone is searching for something to give meaning to their lives. It is interesting to see a new type of conservatism here. Here it is religion. In America it is 'consumer.'
The otogar, as it turned out, was a node for cultural examination (the anthropologist in me has been surfacing a lot lately). All sorts of people travel by bus here- tourists from all over the world, small town traditional folk with their belongings carried in blue crates and plastic bags, stylish Muslim women with the latest head scarf and long coat fashion, modern city women with thick makeup, styled hair, and high, sharp heels, young men annoyingly eager to practice their English, families with smiling babies, educated Istanbulites, the whole gamut. Watching all the people, such a variety of self-presentation, such an amalgamation of values, I had to ask, who decides what is appropriate?
The government here has been trying to pass a law that says women are not allowed to wear scarves in places such as universities. The law is specific, but really it is a general push for change. Understandably, it is very controversial. I hear tales of conservatism in Konya (which happens to be the birthplace of Rumi, the poet of love), where non-Muslim Turkish women have been mistreated. Society is inherently conservative, no matter where you are. Acting different, regardless of how outrageous, will almost always attract disapproval, if not outright rejection. Acting different has been cause of violence and excommunication the world over. There is a gray area between being an individual and not disturbing the well being with uniqueness. As a foreigner reprimanded (albeit in a friendly way) by a Turkish policeman for stretching on the lawn in front of the otogar, I wonder, how much should I alter my behavior to avoid causing offence or annoyance by the people of this country? Where and when is it more important to sacrifice the creative, unique self (and perhaps sacrifice a potential to open others' eyes to something new) to maintain order and societal cohesiveness? I feel blessed to ave my home in a place where uniqueness is expected.
I remember philosophical talks from the night before over tiramisu and two nargilehs. Our friend Onur commented that when the people are ready, ideas will spring up and change will come. Sometimes this coagulates in the genious of an individual (and no, I'm not talking about Obama). I am afraid that America is not ready to change; our people are lost in sprees of infinite shopping, denying the role they play in their own lives. Everyone is searching for something to give meaning to their lives. It is interesting to see a new type of conservatism here. Here it is religion. In America it is 'consumer.'
03 October 2008
Digging Deeper
Awakening the inner artist. I remember it now, it was right before the ferry ride back to Eminonu, when we spoke of mermaids in the sunken city and of what animal we would be. It was crowded and I closed my eyes, feeling safe with Nancy and Klaus. The sounds of the waiting room at the dock filled my ears and played in my mind like pieces and parts of a collage. Sometimes overlapping, emphasizing or masking one another, like the sounds of a river over small rapids. Patterns were created and lost again. There was a moment when I sank into the surrounding sounds, like sinking into an old quilt with geometric patterns of many designs and colors. I am learning to breath with the universe.
Turkey straddles the two continents of Europe and Asia, and can't decide where it belongs. Arabic and French go hand in hand within the Turkish language. A push for modernization runs up against what some see as stagnant tradition. I am told that the EU wants Tur
kish people to stop eating cocoroch (barbequed sheep intestines) if the country is to join. Turkey is under-recognized for its importance in world history and culure among many Europeans. The Germans know Turkey for the immigrants from there, and forits sunny inexpensive resorts along the Mediterranean coast; the cultural sites exist as bonus side trips for pinics.
And yet, Turkey is a land littered with the remnants and ruins of a plethora of ancient civilizations and invaders. The sites so central to the myths of our own civilization lie here, partly shrouded by the everyday lives of contemporary Turkish people, and also shoved into the spotlight because of rampant tourism. Troy, Mt. Olympos, Constantinople. Shrouds of pottery can be found on the ground in the countryside; it is a recognized problem that chunks of history are being carried away. Whose history is it? Lycian tombs on the cliff faces, dating probably to the 3rd century, gapingly watch over this beach resort town; they are empty and forgotten. Why should it seem strange that they crumble as Turkish tourists below ride their scooters, learn to scuba dive, and drink Pilsner as they dance to American pop music? Meanwhile, the Koranic prayers echo to all over the loudspeaker, rhythmically and regularly five times daily.
There is charm here and though identifying what makes Turkey Turkey is confusing, it also makes the country that much more fascinating. It is like halva: the taste of Turkey is made up of sweet and bitter layers mostly hold together as a firm but delicate delicious whole. Guzel.
Night two in Kas, way way south on the Mediterranean Sea. The 12 hour bus ride from Istanbul turned into 15 and a half. I think there is a point reached when additional hours don't really make a difference. When we finally arrived my spirits were split between Istanbul memories and relief to be moving from the big city to a warm and relaxed fres
h locale. I am still trying to find a balance between goodbyes and hellos. On the radio a man's deep voice spoke mysteriously over electronic music: "Do you believe in miracles? Do you believe in consequences? Do you believe in coinceidences?" Whether I do or not, will that change the effects of my actions?
We met some Turkish friends here on holiday in the cushioned terrace of our guesthouse. They are very hospitable and fun, enthusiastically teaching backgammon, sharing their special licorice liquor (it changes color when mixed with water), and exchanging bits of language. We teach them Spanish and they teach us Turkish and even a bit of Chinese. Tonight we ate a delicious Turkish meal cooked by the owners of the guesthouse, replete with a large grilled fish for each person (of which there were about 20). After dinner we heard a variety of traditional Turkish music from the computer and danced. Tuva, a beautiful Turkish woman on holiday from Istanbul performed some belly dancing for us and then with us. Then, laughing and cheering, I accepted an offered pinky and learned a traditional group dance, consisting of stepping and kicking in unison around the room. It was great fun! I learn over and over that to successfully navigate a foreign country one has to laugh a lot, be friendly, and let inhibitions go.
Turkey straddles the two continents of Europe and Asia, and can't decide where it belongs. Arabic and French go hand in hand within the Turkish language. A push for modernization runs up against what some see as stagnant tradition. I am told that the EU wants Tur
kish people to stop eating cocoroch (barbequed sheep intestines) if the country is to join. Turkey is under-recognized for its importance in world history and culure among many Europeans. The Germans know Turkey for the immigrants from there, and forits sunny inexpensive resorts along the Mediterranean coast; the cultural sites exist as bonus side trips for pinics.And yet, Turkey is a land littered with the remnants and ruins of a plethora of ancient civilizations and invaders. The sites so central to the myths of our own civilization lie here, partly shrouded by the everyday lives of contemporary Turkish people, and also shoved into the spotlight because of rampant tourism. Troy, Mt. Olympos, Constantinople. Shrouds of pottery can be found on the ground in the countryside; it is a recognized problem that chunks of history are being carried away. Whose history is it? Lycian tombs on the cliff faces, dating probably to the 3rd century, gapingly watch over this beach resort town; they are empty and forgotten. Why should it seem strange that they crumble as Turkish tourists below ride their scooters, learn to scuba dive, and drink Pilsner as they dance to American pop music? Meanwhile, the Koranic prayers echo to all over the loudspeaker, rhythmically and regularly five times daily.
There is charm here and though identifying what makes Turkey Turkey is confusing, it also makes the country that much more fascinating. It is like halva: the taste of Turkey is made up of sweet and bitter layers mostly hold together as a firm but delicate delicious whole. Guzel.
Night two in Kas, way way south on the Mediterranean Sea. The 12 hour bus ride from Istanbul turned into 15 and a half. I think there is a point reached when additional hours don't really make a difference. When we finally arrived my spirits were split between Istanbul memories and relief to be moving from the big city to a warm and relaxed fres
h locale. I am still trying to find a balance between goodbyes and hellos. On the radio a man's deep voice spoke mysteriously over electronic music: "Do you believe in miracles? Do you believe in consequences? Do you believe in coinceidences?" Whether I do or not, will that change the effects of my actions?We met some Turkish friends here on holiday in the cushioned terrace of our guesthouse. They are very hospitable and fun, enthusiastically teaching backgammon, sharing their special licorice liquor (it changes color when mixed with water), and exchanging bits of language. We teach them Spanish and they teach us Turkish and even a bit of Chinese. Tonight we ate a delicious Turkish meal cooked by the owners of the guesthouse, replete with a large grilled fish for each person (of which there were about 20). After dinner we heard a variety of traditional Turkish music from the computer and danced. Tuva, a beautiful Turkish woman on holiday from Istanbul performed some belly dancing for us and then with us. Then, laughing and cheering, I accepted an offered pinky and learned a traditional group dance, consisting of stepping and kicking in unison around the room. It was great fun! I learn over and over that to successfully navigate a foreign country one has to laugh a lot, be friendly, and let inhibitions go.
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