Cappadocia: Sunrise, Fairies and the Gods Of The Underworld

Anatolia, the Asian part of Turkey, owes its name to the Old Greek word for Sunrise: the country where the sun rises, at least from a Hellenistic view point. Yet, its central region, a white limestone landscape named Cappadocia, has more of a lunar feeling: wind and rain have sculptured the powdery volcanic soil into bizarre rock formations, so called fairy chimneys. The Cappadocians themselves have through-out their history displayed a certain affinity to the Underworld.

The ancient people of the Hittites, who reigned in Cappadocia from the 17th to the 12th century BC, carved their dwellings into theses fairy chimneys and hillsides. They also dug deep into the soft earth and built a network of underground tunnels for their trickery warfare, and caves multiple stories deep for the storage of perishable produce. The underground offered favorably cool thirteen degrees Celsius through the hot summers and the freezing winters.

The Hittites venerated twelve Gods of the Underworld, gods they depicted with curly hair and conical hats. Much later, under the Persian Empire, these conical hats reappeared on the heads of Sufis, the mystics of Islam, although they were meant to symbolize the Islamic tombstones then.

conical stones

In medieval times, and after the Hittites had long vanished, Cappadocia served as a refuge for the early Christians. Byzantine Christian monks took over the old underground dwellings, and refurbished them into colorful orthodox churches. The remains of these beautiful frescos are still vibrant today – owing to the conserving climate of the caves – even though the depicted saints’ faces have been erased, hundreds of years ago, by hostile attackers.

While the Byzantine Christians lived in the caves, they mirrored their cave-cities in the underworld by building underground cities, up to 60 meters deep, fully equipped with apartments, kitchens, baths, storage rooms and even prisons. When under threat, the Byzantines retreated into the Underworld and thanks to their sophisticated ventilation and intricate system of hallways, remained there for months on end – undetected by their attackers. The Byzantines disappeared from the Earth’s surface – and resurrected.

hot balloons rise with the sun

Tourism discovered Cappadocia only recently. Despite its underground history, most visitors like to see Cappadocia from far above. Hot balloons rise every sunrise – and shower the poor Anatolian region with foreign money.

The caves have turned into luxury hotels – but Cappadocia remains poor.

A couple of years ago, the Turkish have re-discovered the wisdom of the Hittites. The vast underground cities are used as storage space again. Produce is transported from all over Anatolia into Cappadocia.

Mashalla for the Gods of the Underworld.

Crossing the Bosphorus

Istanbul straddles two continents. The city is divided by the Strait of Bosphorus, which connects the Mediterranean with the Black Sea, but separates Europe from Asia. The Istanbulites have built three bridges from stone, and many more through their music and poetry.

I woke up one morning.
The sun came up in me.
I turned into birds and leaves
which glittered in the springtime breeze.
I turned into birds and leaves.
My arms and legs were rioting.
I turned into birds and leaves,
birds
and leaves.

For migratory birds, the Bosphorus is the most important route on their way to their Northern breeding grounds. An estimated million of birds cross the Bosphorus annually. Big-winged soaring birds, like storks and predatory birds, depending on thermal convection and therefore avoiding sea crossings, have turned the city into a birding hot spot, benefiting from Turkey’s scenery of high mountains, marshlands and and humid forests. Camlika Hill, a favorite birding view point on the Anatolian side of Istanbul, was during the Ottoman empire a training ground for birds of prey, like falcons and hawks.

I listen to Istanbul, my eyes closed:
Now the birds are passing
In high clamoring flocks,
Nets are pulled in at the fisheries,
A woman’s feet graze the water;
I listen to Istanbul, my eyes closed.


Migration starts with a promise to return. Yet, many birds do not survive the trip to the distant shores. Feeding grounds are dwindling. And many more dangers lurk on their way: The stork was deemed holy by the Ancient Greeks – who punished the killing of a stork with death penalty – and the followers of Islam – they likened its migration to their pilgrimage to Mecca. It is considered a delicacy in Egypt, where it is trapped with nets and limesticks, and killed by the thousands. Little migratory songbirds, who feature on Mediterranean menus as pulenta a osei (Polenta with little birds) in Italy or ambelopoulia in Malta, are illegally trapped and hunted all over the Mediterranean.
  Formerly common birds are on the verge of extinction.

When you’re travelling,
the stars speak to you.
What they say
is often sad.

The Wander Warbler in Istanbul – photo by Karen Smit; poems by Orhan Veli Kanik

Istanbul: Lesson in Sufism

He serves tea. As he balances the tray with the bulbous tea glasses, he spills the tea. His left leg is shorter, arched like a sickle, so when he walks he sways like a boat on choppy sea. I notice his crooked left leg only now. His grey suit is a few sizes too big, crumpled, and wrinkles around his ankles. It looks even older than himself. Threadbare at the elbows and knees, it shrouds his body rather than dresses it. It blurs the details of his physique. As he sets the tray on the table in front of me, I smell tobacco and terpentine, and the dusty scent of old age. His hair is grey, his face wrinkled, his moustache white. But his lopsided smile is boyish, his blue eyes are fresh, sparkling almost. I cannot remember how to say “Thank you” in Turkish. So I bow and mumble “Moteshakkaram”.  I speak a little Persian and hope that people in Istanbul, or at least he, Avni, will understand me.

He takes a seat next to me on a shaky chair. It’s a jumbled ensemble of a table and three chairs. Maybe these are valuable antiques, were they restored. But they are splintered and skew like Avni’s leg, and spotted with colors from his atelier, his painter’s workshop in steep, cobbled Siraselviler Street. The sun is baking the city, but here, in front of Avni’s open workshop door, it’s shady and cool. A soft breeze tousles his hair as I feel strands of my hair lift off my head and dance in the air.

I gaze through the open door inside at the painting I want to buy. It’s just a tiny canvas, hardly bigger than a the tray he had carried the tea with, suspended high up on the wall. It is dwarfed by the big frames hanging next to it, or leaning against the wall below. The little painting could be just a coral white stain on an ocean-blue backdrop. Or it could be the shape of a dancing Dervish.

Mavlana. “ Avni says.

Mavlana!” I repeat and put my hand on my chest. Mavlana, the whirling Sufi poet. “I love.” Avni must have understood the word “love”, for he nods his head enthusiastically and starts reciting. I don’t understand Turkish, but it must be a poem by Rumi, the Master, Mavlana, as the Turkish call him.

It’s a rhythmic singsong that reflects the mountainous streets of Istanbul, this dizzying web of narrow lanes, uphill, downhill, jammed with cars and buses, crowded with bearded men, high heeled women, and children, with cats and dogs, and filled with laughter and calls for prayer, and with the scents of cumin, of Shisha, and of cat piss. I do not understand the words as Avni proclaims the poem, lifting his arms as if dancing in trance, as if painting on an imaginary canvas, but my heart is filled with peace, enriched. I don’t understand the words, but I understand Avni.  And as I look into his wild blue eyes, strangely, I know he understands me.