May 10, 2008: Ilhara Gorge, Turkey

After the sightseeing in Goreme, we were excited at the prospect of possibly setting new routes in the Ilhara Gorge. Actually, we were just tired of the cold (Goreme got a tad chilly at night) and were looking to go somewhere, anywhere in fact, that was within the 75-77 degree temperature range we craved. Yes, at this point anything outside that narrow range is too hot or too cold. Ilhara Gorge unfortunately did not meet our requirements.

Except for maybe this place which looked like a cozy place to curl up and sleep:

The gorge was beautiful and had a lovely little river running through it, but it was neither warm nor really an option for putting up new routes -- primarily because it was impossible to walk more than 20 feet without seeing another church carved into the cliffs.

Apparently, early Christians built secret churches in the Ilhara Gorge in an effort to avoid persecution for their faith. With so many of the churches practically built on top of each other, though, I couldn't help but wonder how many of them were contemporaneous with one another at any one time.

Carved hand and footholds to get to the second level of one church:

Obviously some were built later than others, but it seems possible that some were fully operational at the same time and not really so secret. Was it like competing congregations? Regardless, some of the frescos were pretty well preserved.

With no prospect of climbing -- especially with the apparent daily rainstorm -- we voted to head to Olympos and the beach (!) a day early.

May 7, 2008: Goreme, Turkey

Tired of the cold in Ala Dag, we headed down a 1,000 meters or so in elevation to Goreme, located in the heart of the Cappadoccia region famous for its fairy chimneys.


I will never understand why all guidebooks and tourists insist on calling sandstone pillars into which people had carved dwellings "fairy chimneys." For crying out loud people, give the monks and folks that lived there some credit -- I'm sure their existence wasn't exactly fairy-like and magical. Nobody carves a home out of rock with the entrance a couple stories above ground level unless their existence is decidedly unfairy-like.

But I digress. Before entering the land of revisionist history packaged for tour group vacations, we stopped at an underground city carved from bedrock. Yes, that would be a city with room to hold 10,000 people, some of their animals, and food for extended periods of time. Like a year (at least that is what I overheard from a guide talking to his two clients). Unbelievable. Although I would have gone mad after a day in there from constantly bumping my head on the Lilliputian sized passageways, it was surreal to see the end result. The part of the city available for viewing extends seven levels down and contains a warren of rooms that lead to a church, a monastery, a wine cellar, a massive well, etc. The only thing that was missing was a town square, although that may be located somewhere not yet open to the public for all I know. One thing is clear: the situation must have been pretty bad to cause a group of people to spend God knows how long carving a city from bedrock as an escape shelter. The only problem is that it is just not photo friendly. Why were they not considering tourists during construction?

Nathan displays some flair in his tunnel bridging technique:

Anyway, back to Goreme. I was bored by the cute and extremely overpriced town after a day and was forced to search farther afield for entertainment.

Although reminiscent of the Shoe Tree on Highway 50 in Nevada, there were only so many times I could visit this Clay Pot Tree in Goreme:

Tempting offer this is, yes! David opted for a motorized ride instead:

Diana and David wanted to rent dirtbikes for a day to go sightseeing in the area and convinced me it would be a good idea to join them. Never mind that I haven't ever operated a motorcycle. Or any type of motorized two wheel contraption, for that matter. David claimed to have a foolproof method for teaching anyone how to operate a motorcycle, but that didn't take into account the manager of the rental office watching us as we tried to drive off. Needless to say, it was blatantly obvious that I had not a clue about what I was doing and, after much cursing and shouting and pleading and pouting between me and the manager (guess which verbs applied to me), I found myself on a scooter. Not only was I now a bona fide tourist dork, I was with two people on awesome dirtbikes which only amplified my dorkiness.

Despite my geeky helmet and two-stroke engine whine, I had an incredible blast on that silly scooter. Probably because I almost had a bad accident about 1 minute after driving off the rental lot when a fellow opened up his car door right in front of me as I was whizzing by. I turned sharply and I'll be damned if that scooter didn't respond like a dream in a balanced manner. Right then and there I knew we would get along just fine. It was love at first near death experience.

The scooter had decals proclaiming "Off Road" on its sides and I took that to heart. I'm not sure it was really designed for crossing rivers, barrelling up and down outrageously sandy dirt roads (hello fishtailing), and going completely cross country down hillock-y slopes (not recommended), but I put that sucker through its paces. I had that baby going 85 kilometers per hour on the freeway (downhill, but still...), though it was difficult to get above 20 kph on the uphill. I almost -- almost, mind you -- felt like I was in a motorcycle gang. Yes, I felt cool and I was on a scooter. Delusions of grandeur, I know, but it really was on of the more fun days I've had in ages. We rode through cities, tiny towns, on crappy roads that were little more than glorified goat trails, past loads of ridiculous chimneys, dodging chickens and cattle and sheep and goats, and even picking up a shepherd who wanted a lift.

Pics during the ride:

Hobbit House!:Rock village worthy of The Flinstones:More, uh, chimneys:Funky river chasm:It was such a blast I think I might embrace my inner geek and buy myself a scooter when I get back to the U.S.

As if the scooter ride wasn't fun enough, I also made it a point to visit the International UFO Museum. It was a bit of an experience. Carved out of the rock (of course) at the base of a chimney, the museum is definitely worth the 3 Lira admission fee, if for no other reason than the chances are quite good that you will have the entire place to yourself. In fact, I had to track down the woman who was working there to get her to open the door for me.

Entering the museum is quite the production. First the woman cued up the sound system with some New Age-y type music while I stood in front of the large, locked, vault-like entrance door. Then she pressed a button on the sound system console and, with a loud, echoing unlocking click, the door slowly swung open revealing an unlit tunnel. I stood there wondering if perhaps I should have brought a flashlight when a series of lights successively blinked on, illuminating the tunnel like something out of a movie. They definitely had the effect down. I tentatively crossed the threshold and had only taken a couple of bemused steps when I felt a slight rush of air and heard the entrance door shut behind me with an ominous thud. After a brief moment of panic (it's not every day one gets locked in a museum, after all) I decided I might as well explore. I could always tunnel my way out with my fingernails if necessary, I figured.

The museum is pretty much just covered in a confetti of newspaper clippings and colored, photocopied paper describing various incidents and sightings. It is thoughtfully laid out into sections like "Types of UFOs" (photos of UFOs), "International Sightings" and "Turkish Sightings" (first account descriptions), and "History of UFOs" (alleged evidence of aliens and UFOs in cave paintings, etc). It was a little eerie to have the motion detector lights click on and off as I passed from one room to the next all by my lonesome, but it added a bit of ambience.

Until, that is, I found myself facing the "Alien Abduction" room. Which was pitch black. And waving my arms around did not seem to trigger the lights. I'm not a UFO believer, but I must admit it was rather disconcerting to be alone in a cave standing in front of a completely dark room marked "Alien Abductions." I took a deep breath and forced myself to walk into the room, hoping the lights would come on. They didn't. I took a couple more steps and did a slow turn. Still no lights. Creepy. Just as I was about to succomb to my time-to-get-the-hell-out-of-here response, the lights flickered on around a shriveled alien on its back in the corner of the room. Whoa, freaky. Then the rest of the lights came on and I couldn't help but wonder if the lighting was on purpose to maximize effect. If so, kudos to the design team.

Other than the lighting, my other favorite part of the museum was a life-size scene of aliens about to operate on a human.

I'm not sure why the museum creators couldn't have come up with something more, well, benevolent, than four aliens holding various ominous tools standing around a dummy sporting a long, curly wig. Maybe they were concentrating on the lighting effects. Whatever the reason, the museum was amusing and worth the visit.

The only true otherworldy experience I had in Goreme was listening to musicians playing traditional Turkish music in a small, 1,000 year old church carved into the rock. We had been told that there would be some music in a cave near our hostel and it sounded like something worth checking out. Turns out the music was absolutely stunning Turkish folk music, and the "cave" was a fantastic (though freezing) small church built into the rock. It is a yearly event put on by a group of folks from San Francisco and Berkeley, and three of them "opened" for the local musicians with some classic Bay Area style poetry and music. The Turkish musicians, though, were incredible. The last guy to play had an instrument similar to a guitar (can't remember how to spell it) and he was amazing. To me he sounded on par with guitar greats like Segovia, not only for his precise, yet effortless musicianship, but also for the depth of feeling with which he played. Another fellow was like the Turkish version of Boubucar Traore with a raggedly beautiful voice and was a true wandering troubador (the guy has spent his life just wandering around playing music). The third man played a simple Irish type drum with his hands in a soft, nearly caressing manner I have never witnessed. It was almost lush. The three musicians were truly gifted, yet none of them had any recordings. They simply played for the love of music which was a refreshing change from the typical commercial bombardment.

May 4, 2008: Ala Dag, Turkey

"Ooooh, the Ala Dag is, eh, um, ah, er, uh... mystical," said the beaming man, pleased with himself that he had managed to come up with a word in English that expressed exactly how he felt about the region. I had fallen into conversation with yet another kind Adana denizen, and he had become quite excited when I told him that my next destination was the Ala Dag. I simply smiled in response, not entirely convinced by his word choice. It was a stretch for me to imagine a place that was truly "mystical" after everything I've seen. Definitely a bit of travel snobbery on my part, but I have a pretty high standard these days after 10 months on the road. The other thing I should know by now is that the world has a limitless capacity to impress me. Let it be written here and now that I, too, find the Ala Dag to be mystical.

Last evening light on some peaks:Fantastic evening clouds:
A stunning stretch of rugged 3,000+ meter peaks that are part of the Taurus Mountains in west central Turkey, the Ala Dag is just the kind of region that should be crawling with outdoor enthusiasts, yet it is freakishly empty. It is pretty small -- roughly 25 kilometers wide and 35 kilometers long -- so it is reasonable to think that one might see a few fleece clad folks skipping about. Yet other than two Bulgarian climbers and a handful of Ukrainian mountaineers, the only other people we saw in our week there were a shepherd and the single ranger responsible for patrolling all of the Ala Dag.

Oh, and this guy on horseback (lower left):

Perhaps that was because we were on the early side of the tourist season. It was early Spring and we did get snowed on a couple of times, but there certainly was no tourist infrastructure to indicate heavy use of the area.

How's this for a campsite?:
It was, in a word, refreshing -- especially because the Ala Dag is the kind of place that inspires a person to take off and explore. Several people packed their gear and headed off into the mountains for two or three day treks, while others chose to tackle the nearby peaks as a dayhike or, in Nathan's case, a dayrun. All returned to camp completely pumped from their experiences.

Evening tall tales around the fire. Back L to R: George, Hannah, Juliet; Front: Henry, Theresa, Ruth, Rich, Danny:
Those of us that were lazy and stayed in camp could look forward to two things: the flock of sheep that ambled through our campsite daily and excellent sport climbing.

Ordinarily, a flock of sheep are not that interesting. They just mosey along grazing making everything look ridiculously pastoral while taking taste test nibbles of my tent. This flock, however, was protected by sheepdogs the likes of which I've never see before. Imagine if the offspring from the unlikely union of a polar bear and a rotweiller was outfitted with a homemade metal spike collar straight out of Mad Max.

Do not touch!:

The end result is rather intimidating -- even more so when combined with a booming bark, the speed of a greyhound, and the intelligence of a wolf (the dogs supposedly have some wolf blood in them). They are the most perfect sheep guards I've ever seen, and apparently need to be for occasional tangles with local wolves. Hot Rock being Hot Rock, however, we immediately befriended the semi-wild canines and ruined them from ever being effective work dogs again. Although one had to be careful of the spike collar when petting the beasts -- especially when they tried to thrust their head into one's lap -- they clearly loved the attention (something they likely rarely, if ever, experienced as a work dog) and often hung around camp long after the sheep flock had moved through.

Awww, can I keep him? He was even shaking my hand after a single petting session. It is unfortunate, though, that my hair makes this look like a bad photo from a cheesy 70's album:
It was tempting to sit around and dodge spiked collars all day, but the sport climbing called. Located in Kizikli Canyon just outside the boundaries of the Ala Dag, the limestone routes have all been put up by a local married couple who are in the process of developing the area.

Sector Five of the canyon where many routes are located:

The great thing is that they know what they are doing. The 100+ routes that are currently open are well bolted, cover a variety of grades from French 5c to 8a, and, most importantly, are interesting. They intend to publish a guidebook soon and I expect this area will become a must for sport climbers in Turkey.

Theresa flexes her forearms (she's nearly 40): Tazzy (aka Anna) crimping her way up a climb (she's nearly 50): And, of course, George still stretching for holds at 60: David, Ruth, and Diana topping out: Sam sporting retro neon orange shades. Will the 80's never die?:

April 28, 2008: Aleppo, Syria to Adana, Turkey

We almost didn't make it into Turkey from Syria. Turkey recently passed a law that no trucks older than 20 years old could enter the country, and, of course, BiRT's registration says 1988. It was unclear from several sources (including various governments) if 1988 was or was not an acceptable year. For several weeks we weren't sure if we would be able to cross the border and there were at least 47 different contingency plans floating around should we get stopped, all of them a complete pain in the ass.

Tensions were high so there was only one thing to do: watch Rambo 4 at the movie theater in Aleppo, Syria the night before we were going to attempt to cross the border. Yes, Rambo 4 was playing in a movie theater in Syria and we figured that few things could match watching a gratuitously violent American film in an Axis of Evil country. The bonus was that it was a double feature. I can't even remember the last time I saw a double feature. I think it might have been some sort of cheesy ABBA movie lead in paired with Return from Witch Mountain. But I date myself. Granted, the first movie was a Chinese martial arts flick filmed in Australia dubbed over in English with Arabic subtitles, but it was still a double feature. Although mostly empty, the theater was quite splendid and even had a balcony where management seated our group. Yes, not only was there an usher, but a fellow walked around selling sodas. How cool is that? That's service we just don't have stateside any more.

The movie was, well, rather ridiculous. I watched it highly amused, yet acutely aware of how movies color people's perception of America, and Rambo 4 is not something I would choose to use as a point of reference for America. One thing I found most surprising was that nothing had been censored out of the movie. I was expecting some of the language and perhaps some of the women's bare shoulders to be edited out, but nothing had been altered.

The whole experience made me realize that going to the movies could very well be a bit of an erotic thrill for Syrian men. Not a single woman was in sight that night -- not in the theater, not down in the lobby, not entering or exiting the restroom -- and it appeared to be a men only type experience. All the movie posters were, um, enhanced. Although not especially erotic by Western standards, the posters had been altered so that even Nicole Kidman had prominent cleavage. That may not seem like a big thing, but in a country where exposed elbows are practically viewed as another pair of breasts by the older generation, exposed cleavage is huge. In fact, as we were leaving the theater, which had turned out the lights in the lobby exit, men were looking at the movie posters featuring prominently exposed cleavage with flashlights. Flashlights! That's not exactly something a person carries around with them, especially when they are not an usher.

So, with the terse dialogue of Sylvester Stallone in our ears and the non-existent yet somehow still extraordinarily large cleavage of Nicole Kidman in our minds, we trotted back to our hostel (with a falafel stop, of course) and said a prayer that BiRT would make it across the border to Turkey.

And, what do you know, our prayers were answered! BiRT was on the bubble but ok, and we were so excited that we stopped at a duty free shop on the border between Syria and Turkey. It was, hands down, the best duty free shop I've ever seen. Everybody went crazy and bought outrageous amounts of chocolate and alcohol which must have been quite a sight. Imagine 12 homeless looking people running up and down brightly lit aisles throwing booze, chocolate, and snacks excitedly into their overflowing carts with abandon. The duty free shop had no idea what hit them. But, come on, when Laphroig scotch is $30 for a liter, how can one not stock up for the next year? I got so caught up in the buying frenzy that I even bought another point and shoot camera. I believe it was at that point that the manager appeared, pledging his eternal gratitude to me. He did actually come talk to me and asked me if I would fill out a customer satisfaction card. I gladly and heartily endorsed his shop as the best duty free shop I've ever had the pleasure of spending an obscene amount of money in.

Fresh from duty free and literally bouncing up and down with excitement that we were allowed to go through the border, it was inevitable that we should break into our new purchases in celebration. Here's the result.

The beer that started it all. And from Danny's home country to boot:Nathan in repose: When nature calls we all piled into a toilet in a random town. Counterclockwise: Mav, Aidan, Hannah, Diana, Me. In a rare moment, I'm the only person smiling semi normally:

Bathroom photo #2. Nathan, Gail, and me: Aidan needs to fix the split in his trousers. Might I suggest industrial tape?: George takes Paul out for a spin in a supermarket parking lot. Apparently the staff ran to the windows to view the antics: Group photo on BiRT. L to R: Diana, Mav, Hannah, Danny, George, George's dirty foot, Aidan, Gail, Nathan, and Paul: The return of the pirate flag!:Everyone spots Hannah as she attempts to boulder into BiRT after a toilet stop:
Nathan and Hannah get caught in BiRT's windstream: Danny plows into the lake at our bushcamp. Note his Crocs floating in the foreground. George made a raft and sailed them out into the middle of the lake later:
Gail and Hannah struggle to tango:
Danny and Mav after a post lake dip pose with...sheep. Nice farmer's tan by the way, Mav:
Henry enjoys a well-deserved rest:
The anti-family portrait. Hannah, George, and Henry:
Sunset at our bushcamp:
Aidan gets buzzed by George The Barber:
Is George trying to feel up my girlfriend?:
Kids following BiRT on bikes as we drive through a random neighborhood:
Hannah forgot to wash...15 days ago:

Ruth beats Mav at arm wrestling?: After our beautiful bushcamp, we pushed on to Adana. Adana was great because, although it is a large city, there didn't seem to be many tourists around so everyone was super friendly and nice. One morning Diana and I were looking for a coffee shop when a fellow stopped us and asked if he could help. We explained we were looking for somewhere to sit down, have some coffee, and chill for awhile, and he personally walked us to this fantastic place 15 minutes away in an area we never would have found on our own (note to those looking for business opportunities: comfy coffee shops in Adana would definitely be a hit). Although Adana was great, it was bittersweet because we were dropping off a couple of members. Paul, another Yank studying in London, had to go take a final, and Maverick (aka Mark the walking jukebox) had to go back to work for the RAF. Aidan gives Mav a goodbye hug: