An American backpacker had arrived in the morning via an overnight bus from Istanbul. His arrival brought short-lived joy and sunshine to the cave where I was the only inhabitant. He came from Grand Rapids, Michigan and taught English in Dresden, a city two hours away from Prague, where I lived. Most native English speaking expats I’ve met in this part of Europe have one thing in common: doing one thing they naturally know best, their mastery of the English language. We had a quick chat over tea. I gave him some tips about teaching English and English language schools in Prague as he thought about moving there in the future.
Sold a tourist package
I told him the Green and Red tours I did two days ago. Yasin, the hostel owner, quickly showed him the program before calling his buddy who ran a tour agency, the same agency I found online which referred me to Yasin. The deal was done right then and there. Yasin called his friend to come over and pick up the backpacker for the tour that would start in 15 minutes. While the American backpacker flipped through the tour pamphlet, I realized I had unexpectedly learned a valuable selling lesson. The easiest way to sell to someone is knowing his need, better yet knowing it better than he does. What does a solo backpacker want to do if he has only one day in this town? How many choices does he have when the public transportation was random and less frequent during the non-season? I guessed that a half-day tour that shows him everything is probably a good bet. I had finished my breakfast by the time the mini-van tour arrived to pick up the last-minute tourist.
Where have all my agenda-free days gone?
In the good old days, I used to be an agenda-free kind of person. I planned from little to none and let my feet, senses, and gut guided me. This sort of planless voyage dented my budget more than necessary. A one-way flight from Bratislava to London with the low-cost airline SkyEurope could have cost as low as 25 euros ended up to be 200 pounds. The reason? I could not decide on a final connection destination to London. It was my first trip to Europe, and I could not make up my mind about which one out of hundreds exciting European cities to visit from Poland and then catch a flight from there to London. So I booked my flight three days before my scheduled flight back to the US from London. It wasn’t done yet. I showed up unannounced in London, a big city thinking that affordable accommodation would just line up from the airport to the train stations. I walked around London with 20-kg of luggage on my back, my entire summer belonging, and searched for a place to rest. London is Europe’s Mecca for tourists and backpackers. Cheap accommodation can be found everywhere, but first, you need a bit of a brain and look up their addresses or contact numbers. I spent an hour in an Internet cafe and searched for available accommodation. When I found one, I didn’t know how to get there because I didn’t have a map. By then I had no energy left to navigate in this city.
Welcome to Europe for the first time! I walked around the streets around Victoria train station and knocked on a few pensions. They were either full or cost the kind of money a student like me couldn’t afford.
I used to travel like that, knowing nothing and planning nothing which suited me just fine but irritated a lot of other people. Once, I visited a friend in New York. While he was working, I roamed the city without a guidebook and a city map except for the metro route plan. Every day I hopped on the subway to Soho, Queen, Brooklyn or Stansted Island. I walked and looked around even though I didn’t know exactly what I was looking at. One evening I returned home and reported what I had been doing the whole day. “I walked and just looked.” I casually said. “But you have to know what you’re looking at,” my friend frowned. I shrugged my shoulder. I didn’t get it then because why should we plan the things we wanted to look at? I further infuriated my friend when I told him I walked to Harlem. “You can’t just walk like that in New York, especially in Harlem.” Maybe he was right. But I wasn’t careless. I think there was another style of traveling.
I didn’t learn my New York and London lessons until much later when I frequently traveled with a detailed-oriented, scientific travel companion, aka my ex, who was the stereotype of an engineer. Also, I started a string of beautiful relationships with online and offline organizer and time-management tools like TODO lists and planners. It was as hopeless as Tommy the Turtle sharing a track with Timmy the Rabbit. Then I discovered the Mindmapping concept and re-acquainted myself with Microsoft Excel. From then on, my plans, tasks, hobbies, what clothes to buy are reduced to a series of categorized Excel sheets: categories 1, categories 2, items, descriptions, contact, notes. I detailed my travel itinerary down to each Excel cell with the when, where, what and how and faithfully carried out the plans (or more what I wrote down on the spreadsheet) during my trips. But I forgot to sheet (yup this is a word) down a backup plan in Cappadocia for my last two days. I had seen more than I wanted to see. Now having too much time on my hand, I reverted to my aimless wandering days, which instead of feeling liberated and happy, I went nut.
But now in Cappadocia, I forgot to sheet (yup this is a word from Cindy’s vocabulary) down a backup plan for my last two days. I had seen more than I wanted to see. Now having too much time on my hand, I reverted to my aimless wandering days, which should make me fee liberated and happy; instead, I went nut with a plan.
Aimlessly taking snapshots of empty streets and friendly Turks got bored very fast, I stopped at a scooter rental to ask for direction to nearby villages of Urgup, Avanos or Cavusin. The friendly owner was about to give me a map when a group of noisy Japanese tourists stormed into the shop to rent scooters and do the Red Tour on their own. The owner excused himself to help his bigger fish. The man who brought the Japanese tourists here saw me sit idly on the sofa. Being a typical Turkish male, he asked if he could help and offered to be my free guide by driving and showing me around the area. I had done the Red and Green tours in addition to an ATV tour with Yasin yesterday, the only option left was to follow the Blue tour route to Sognanli valley. At first, I declined because I wanted to spend some time by myself. “You need to take in the beauty. You need to soak in the experience,” I told myself. It was my second last day in Turkey, and for once I wanted a full man-proof day, a day without sticky men hovering around me. My Zing was thinking one thing, but my Zang was interrupted by another stream of thoughts. First, I had not driven a motorcycle for over ten years and would not know what to do if the scooter stalled in the middle of nowhere. Second, the day became dark quickly in the winter. Getting lost is one thing. Getting lost in a middle of nowhere in the cold weather is another matter. I reluctantly took up on his offer.
Tour agencies don’t operate the Blue tour during winter because tourists who come to Cappadocia for only one or two days want to see the region’s highlights, already covered by the Red and Green tours. I saw amazing landscape and many cool things on the Red and Green routes that the Blue route became pale in comparison.
We drove past Goreme Open Air Museum toward Urgup, a village where I had a wine tasting on my Red tour, then en route to the ancient Greek village of Mustafapasa, renowned for its Ottoman and Greek architecture. We continued to Taskinpasa Caravanserai, a smaller Cappadocian village and a mosque, both dating back to the Seljuk period, and Sahnefendi where people discovered an ancient site two years ago. The story reminded me of an Italian digging in his backyard and finding objects dated back to hundreds or thousands of years. Finding something that has been around for millennia is a difficult concept for people to grasp especially if you comes from the New World when the oldest thing is only around hundreds of years.
The threatening clouds loomed ahead of us. We had to return and could not continue to the remote village of Guzeloz that had many Byzantine rock tombs; ruins of Armenian style churches and monasteries; and Keslik Monastery, one of the biggest monastic areas in Cappadocia. Keslik Monastery has several churches carved into rocks and the largest refectory of the region. Certainly, we could not drive all the way to the end of the route where lied the Soganli Valley and the Valley of Dolls.
Looking back now, I should have spent the last two days exploring surrounding cities on foot as I usually did by sitting in a cafe shop and observing sheep and women in baggy silk pants. But the slowness of Turkish life compounded by the extra slowness induced by the winter season would drive me over one of these cliffs. Speed usually boosted my brain cells with endorphin, and in this particular situation, ATV and scooters did the deed. I gradually understood why many people got addicted to driving very fast, engaged in all sorts of sports that involved speed. Holding on for dear life on the back of a speeding ATV and a scooter along narrow and rocky passages through the valleys was the perfect remedy for the increasing boredom I felt in the past few days.
The tour ended in Sahnefendi when we spotted a menacing cluster of dark cloud in front of us. We bought a pack of cigarette and cookies from a small convenient store and drove back to Goreme to escape the rain, not before squirming on top of a public Turkish toilet behind the store. A Turkish toilet is probably something spoiled Westerners won’t ever dream trying. I’m saying these things just to pretend how Westerners I have become. I grew up in Vietnam; Turkish toilets were a memorable part of my lovely childhood. But still, yuck!
We were the only people on the street. I was glad I didn’t make this trip on my own. My voluntary guide stopped in Otarhisar, in front of a building I first thought a tea house. We entered the shop. The first thing I saw greeting me was a wet, half-naked Japanese or Korean wrapped in towels with a toiletry basket in her hand. I didn’t figure that I had just walked into a hammam, the same place I’d been dying to visit. My late discovery about Safranbolu, a previous stop before Cappadocia, having a hammam listed in Turkey’s top 10 made me regret for not take a bath there. Showering in Turkish style in touristy Cappadocia would put a dent in my travel budget.
Not sure what to do, I suggested to my guide that we played Backgammon over hot Turkish tea. The guide happily obliged and taught me some of his strategies. Mister nice guy rescued a damsel in distress, showed her Turkish hospitality and guided her to see his amazing country. Do you really believe in this fairy tale? Would a man take you to a Hammam just to play backgammon with you? What planet did you come from? No. What planet did I come from?
“So what are we playing for? We take a bath if I win?” This Turkish gentleman finally revealed his ultimate agenda.
I feigned deaf and contemplated my next backgammon move. The next thing I knew, I beat him double in the last game and brought the final score to 2-1. “I won and I say we don’t take a bath.” I grinned. (Translation: I might if you keep asking.)
“This is Turkey. You should try Turkish bath.” The Turkish gentleman reasoned. (Translation: I am a Turkish male. You should try to take a bath with me.)
“I know. But I’m sick and don’t feel comfortable.” (Translation: I might if you keep asking. It’s true though that I was sick.)
“Turkish bath is exactly what you need. It’s hot, and it will clear your nose.” (Translation: I’ve been driving you around for free the entire day, I’d like you to take the Turkish bath.) His clearing-my-nose argument got more and more weights as the debate continued and my nose kept running non-stop.
I sat there and thought.
“Between you and me, you only pay 15 lire to the owner. It’s because I know the owner. Sometimes I gave her massages.” (Translation: You have to pay something, or it looks like I’m paying for you.)
The Turkish deal-cutting made me chuckle a little.
“But don’t tell the Japanese. She pays 50 lire.” (Translation: And she’ll tell the other luxurious Japanese tourists never to come here again.)
I was still hesitant.
Swinging back and forth between conservative and liberal environments every few years has installed an automatic switch on my cognition and behavior. Depend on where I am, what acceptable to me just last month might be outrageous the next. I don’t involuntarily conform to the value upheld in the new environment; I simply take on the new mindset of the environment. If not, then how can I explain that just two months ago I comfortably attended (though inadvertently) a nude swimming party in Prague, walking beside naked men, women and kids and dropped it all off before entering the jacuzzi and now was too ashamed to share the same bath with a man. For some reason, it was an innocent experience at that “bare-all” swimming party seeing ultra-liberal atheist Czechs’ boobs of all kinds bobbing up and down artificial waves in a mini Disney-themed pool under the non-matching music and lyrics of “In the dark desert highway. Cool wind in my hairs…Welcome to the Hotel California! Such a lovely place.”
But here, deep in the heart of Turkey where the muezzin rang five times a day, the quizzing look from the old hammam owner brought me back to a period of a long time ago. I saw in her the conservative gossiping neighbors from my childhood gossiping about some girl going into a bath with a man.
Do I or do I not? Should I or should I not?
With a brain loaded with inputs from the media, thoughts of being shoved into bushes or hidden under rocks by a stranger in a middle of nowhere did flash through my mind on the back of the rental scooter going back from Ortahisa to Goreme. It was cold and pitch-dark. I kept assuring myself that people saw me go with him in the morning. His cousin owned the rental shop in Goreme. Moreover, two weeks traveling in Turkey had reassured me that the men in this country were harmless. I calmed down, closed my eyes, and concentrated on getting back to the town.
We arrived in Goreme safe and sound, and my guide gave me a long goodbye hug before riding away. Well, only the first part of the sentence was correct.
There was no shuttle from Goreme to Kayseri airport leaving tonight or early morning. I was left with two expensive choices: (1) take a bus to Kayseri and hail a taxi to the airport where I would sleep overnight. The overnight sleeping didn’t bother me but the taxi might rack up to 40 lire just because they saw that I am a lone tourist in the middle of the night. (2) Stay in Goreme and pay 70 life for a private transfer to the airport in the morning. Hell no! An overnight bus to Istanbul cost only 50 life. Now I knew why all those tourists took the overnight buses. No hassles and flexibility.
What would I do? I hated asking for help from people, especially men who wanted something else in return. I returned to the scooter rental to ask the cousin to ring the guide. He returned and promptly arranged for me to take the same taxi booked for a couple who stayed at the hotel he was working. I would pay 30 life, and the couple 50. Fair enough! At least I could get a good warm night sleep instead of sitting in the airport and had to fan out other Turkish men. I’d had enough of their charm.
One shouldn’t ask for help, get what they want and then run away. I stayed with him in the rental shop for another two hours for tea and cookies while lying through my teeth that my precious body stopped functioning because I didn’t have enough sleep and that I needed to get rest for my early departure in the morning. Do tea, cookies and conversation are all men want in return? Yeah, only if they drive you to a hammam and want to only discuss backgammon strategy.
“You can sleep at my place. It’s free.” The Turkish gentleman once again showed how hospitable he could be.
“Thanks! But I prefer to stay in a hotel.” I declined and used an imaginary boyfriend to strike the moral knighthood in him. “Think about it. Will you let your girlfriend do this sort of thing?”
He thought for second, disappointed but drove me to my new pension.
It was another dead pension with only one Japanese girl and I as the occupants. The owner’s father was watching TV in the living room. The 8-bed dormitory was located on the first floor right at the entrance. It was absolutely basic but you got what you paid for 8 lire. I tried to write for two hours on a computer manufactured probably in the 70s with a blinking CRT monitor next to a snoring old man. Tick tick tick snore snore snore
Too lazy to take a shower, I jumped on the bed with my clothes on ready to get up for my 6 o’clock taxi. My sleep was disrupted by occasional worry about the taxi which might not come after I refused to spend the night with the guy who arranged it. Fortunately, taxi driver honked in front of the pension in the morning.
Another of my rendezvous in Cappadocia ended here.
12/2/2009
My name is Cindy, also rhymes with travel junkie. A friend said I was probably a gipsy in my previous life. One of my many secret missions in life is to convert you to run off every once in awhile.
