A visit to Cappadocia

I've been to Cappadocia before. It's otherwise known as Galatia in the Bible. An amazing, eerie, other worldly kind of place. A place you could hide in if someone were looking for you.

Several years ago we were there with a bunch of colleagues and all our kids. We hiked through a less traveled valley and crossed a small ravine to climb into a hole in the side of the mountain wall. Had we not had a resident guiding us none of us would have known that there was a hidden church through that hole. Lit only via a small opening in the "roof," light streamed down to reveal 4 columns, a vaulted ceiling, an altar up front... Together with our Turkish and Korean brothers and sisters, we took communion and sang hymns. It was a holy moment.

Last week I was again in Cappadocia. This time with my Mom who had never been. I was eager to see a few things I hadn't yet seen and was happy to explore a caravanseray, a different underground city, and a small dying village perched on the edge of the famous Ilhara Valley.

It was in this village that broken streets and brokenness again came alive to me. We had joined a Korean tour group as a means of travel. I had slipped on some ice and had fallen well behind the rest of the group and the tour guide (the worst tour company I've ever experienced in Turkey mind you... RockTomb Tours.) As we slowly meandered down the slope of this village any questions we had had of inhabitants soon became apparent. Though it looked inhabitable, people filled the little houses lining the cobblestone road. Soon, a pair of curious boys joined us in our walking and we took part in a lively banter of whose village was best. I finally got up the nerve to take their picture when I noticed a group of older women on the wall above us. I wanted their picture too!




So I began to explain that I had a boy their age and the woman accompanying me was my Mother. Soon the oldest of the women had come down from the wall and had sidled up next to me. She too was a mother, but not of a son. She had been widowed 23 years ago and had nothing much to do but tend her garden. As we walked and talked I noticed her brightly colored pants that Turkish village women are accustomed to wearing. I was acutely aware of being in an ancient village talking in Turkish to a weathered woman of a hard life. It was thrilling.

As we rounded a corner the facade of another church carved out of the mountain appeared. She and the boys excitedly gave us a tour, explaining the frescoes and unabashedly laying blame to their own people for defacing Jesus' and the disciples' faces. Through an alcove that had been carved out, we entered another chamber and came upon an enormous old wooden oil press. They passionately explained how it had worked as I intently tried to follow the conversation of all them talking at once.

The Koreans had long since made it down the hill to the bottom of the village, but my Mom and I knew we had experienced the true treasure of this little place on the map. I was reminded of the heart of Turkey and the real nature of exotic living. It was a recapturing for me of the original vision and adventure that led me here.