Changing two buses, we got to the tiny single-lane town of Ihlara to track that 14km worth of churches, monasteries (don't they end?) and Star Wars inspired rock formations. The trout was sweet, the salad as fresh as the ground could spring, and the vast spread of melon orchards mingled with the laughter of village children wondering about two out-of-towners while the wind rustled the origami vine leaves as life moved on as it had in hundreds of years when the great river split this valley into two.
It's a place not hard to hitch a ride. A place where they insisted you take the newly baked loaf of sweet oregano bread that was probably meant for their breaking of fast. An hour when the warm fiery globe cuts down the horizon of egg-shell yellow bleeding into the cooling blue wall topped by a greenish dark gray when the hour of the little bats coming out to feed on little airplanes of bugs escaping the flight of survival. Whereas there is absolutely none of the modern nonsense, you get a healthy dose of incessant sparrow chirping as they bathed in the dusty pond of sand outside where the plough is parked.
Friendly faces poked through shielded windows as quick fingers peeped open fragile gentle lace curtains to smile at you. As we walked down one of the many wavy streets across a concave formation that dotted with newer dwellings amidst abandoned rocky sites that looked less inhabitable, an senior lady carrying a bucket of water and a bag of vegetable leftovers beckoned to us. Her wispy locks of silver hair lapped out of her black scarf, making her looked like a kind stranger that had eyes as deep as a whirlpool. Speaking next to none of the local dialect, we offered to help her carry her load down the steep slope and with that, we got to another new valley, greeting her little donkey that was waiting for the evening feed. Here they may not quite understand your language easily but they always make it a point to help you to the best that they could.
It's a place that you will be hard-pressed to even have to wave down anyone. Even in the early touches of dawn, we could not even make a few steps towards the Ihlara Valley hike when a car stopped to insist that we get in. No money, no request to give anything back. They just waved you on. You didn't book anything beforehand (not that any of these pensions were advertising on the Web), not to worry - the dolmus driver will fix it. The bus was packed with old chirpy ladies and giggling ladies lugging their bags of food and grocery with their contingent of children. All ensured you weren't left in a lurch. I sat next to one old women whom kept holding my hand while she smiled that Old Laughing Buddha smile while simultaneously handing each of the ride's fee from the other passengers from back to the driver in front. As she was nearing her home, she fumbled in the hidden pockets of her giant billowy pants. Somehow out of that dizzy patterned pants her wrinkled old stubby fingers fished out a single key tied to a colourful braid of strings. Her wink shared a naughty secret with me that it's the one to unlock an entire lifetime of stories behind that house's door. Suddenly her insistent hand broke free from my hand and began digging on my seat. Nothing to be alarmed about - it's just that I was sitting on her walking stick.
As we parted, we enthusiastically bade the whole bus goodbye. It was a lovely few hours that made the entire journey felt like I was singled out to enjoy a precious moment shared with another person completely unknown to me before this morning. Even when I infamously twisted my left ankle badly - I've twisted both my ankles many times in Judo , silly dances (usually it's because I had one too many glasses of fantastic wine from New Zealand), not looking at where I was walking but this was perhaps the mother of all bad twists that I had experienced - another hiker from Germany came down to ensure we weren't short of help (Whoever you are, thank you for offering to wait with your camper van. We're sorry that we couldn't get a better introduction).
Between cooling down the now black and blue swollen joint, I was quite a sight with my mud-soiled pants and sticky face stripped with strands of hair poking out of my sun hat. Soldiering on the final 2km, we were finally so lost that I thought this was my undoing of my short fabulous life. A corn farmer emerged out of simply nowhere. Like an angel put on the spot, for the briefest of moment we met and he guided us out of the maze and then he was just gone.
Meandering uphills and down powdered lanes that made you wondered if all the sand in the world had collected in this one large valley, two pipe contractors taking a respite from the beating heat invited us to partake in Turkish tea prepared by a single old woman that chatted happily in a pocket of old homes that were hardly peppered by ten people in between a family here and there. Although my ankle was really getting all tight by now, it was not a moment to lose sleep on.
After all, by the time we got back, Yunus and Cengiz literally didn't leave us alone until we were driven to the next town, Guzelyurt, to see a doctor that was dressed in a tight singlet and torn jeans. Confidently she proclaimed that my foot was not broken. Nothing any anti-inflammatory and painkillers plus a giant bandage to support the healing couldn't wave off.
It feels good to be able to get by knowing that you are never really alone. No matter where you are. God bless you all angels out there.
ps: Honey, of all, I love you for always standing by me and believing in me... and thank you for not leaving me to the wolves in the valley!
It's a place not hard to hitch a ride. A place where they insisted you take the newly baked loaf of sweet oregano bread that was probably meant for their breaking of fast. An hour when the warm fiery globe cuts down the horizon of egg-shell yellow bleeding into the cooling blue wall topped by a greenish dark gray when the hour of the little bats coming out to feed on little airplanes of bugs escaping the flight of survival. Whereas there is absolutely none of the modern nonsense, you get a healthy dose of incessant sparrow chirping as they bathed in the dusty pond of sand outside where the plough is parked.
Friendly faces poked through shielded windows as quick fingers peeped open fragile gentle lace curtains to smile at you. As we walked down one of the many wavy streets across a concave formation that dotted with newer dwellings amidst abandoned rocky sites that looked less inhabitable, an senior lady carrying a bucket of water and a bag of vegetable leftovers beckoned to us. Her wispy locks of silver hair lapped out of her black scarf, making her looked like a kind stranger that had eyes as deep as a whirlpool. Speaking next to none of the local dialect, we offered to help her carry her load down the steep slope and with that, we got to another new valley, greeting her little donkey that was waiting for the evening feed. Here they may not quite understand your language easily but they always make it a point to help you to the best that they could.
It's a place that you will be hard-pressed to even have to wave down anyone. Even in the early touches of dawn, we could not even make a few steps towards the Ihlara Valley hike when a car stopped to insist that we get in. No money, no request to give anything back. They just waved you on. You didn't book anything beforehand (not that any of these pensions were advertising on the Web), not to worry - the dolmus driver will fix it. The bus was packed with old chirpy ladies and giggling ladies lugging their bags of food and grocery with their contingent of children. All ensured you weren't left in a lurch. I sat next to one old women whom kept holding my hand while she smiled that Old Laughing Buddha smile while simultaneously handing each of the ride's fee from the other passengers from back to the driver in front. As she was nearing her home, she fumbled in the hidden pockets of her giant billowy pants. Somehow out of that dizzy patterned pants her wrinkled old stubby fingers fished out a single key tied to a colourful braid of strings. Her wink shared a naughty secret with me that it's the one to unlock an entire lifetime of stories behind that house's door. Suddenly her insistent hand broke free from my hand and began digging on my seat. Nothing to be alarmed about - it's just that I was sitting on her walking stick.
As we parted, we enthusiastically bade the whole bus goodbye. It was a lovely few hours that made the entire journey felt like I was singled out to enjoy a precious moment shared with another person completely unknown to me before this morning. Even when I infamously twisted my left ankle badly - I've twisted both my ankles many times in Judo , silly dances (usually it's because I had one too many glasses of fantastic wine from New Zealand), not looking at where I was walking but this was perhaps the mother of all bad twists that I had experienced - another hiker from Germany came down to ensure we weren't short of help (Whoever you are, thank you for offering to wait with your camper van. We're sorry that we couldn't get a better introduction).
Between cooling down the now black and blue swollen joint, I was quite a sight with my mud-soiled pants and sticky face stripped with strands of hair poking out of my sun hat. Soldiering on the final 2km, we were finally so lost that I thought this was my undoing of my short fabulous life. A corn farmer emerged out of simply nowhere. Like an angel put on the spot, for the briefest of moment we met and he guided us out of the maze and then he was just gone.
Meandering uphills and down powdered lanes that made you wondered if all the sand in the world had collected in this one large valley, two pipe contractors taking a respite from the beating heat invited us to partake in Turkish tea prepared by a single old woman that chatted happily in a pocket of old homes that were hardly peppered by ten people in between a family here and there. Although my ankle was really getting all tight by now, it was not a moment to lose sleep on.
After all, by the time we got back, Yunus and Cengiz literally didn't leave us alone until we were driven to the next town, Guzelyurt, to see a doctor that was dressed in a tight singlet and torn jeans. Confidently she proclaimed that my foot was not broken. Nothing any anti-inflammatory and painkillers plus a giant bandage to support the healing couldn't wave off.
It feels good to be able to get by knowing that you are never really alone. No matter where you are. God bless you all angels out there.
ps: Honey, of all, I love you for always standing by me and believing in me... and thank you for not leaving me to the wolves in the valley!
