Notes From The Underground (and above)

When I was going to Mexico often, I learned of the popularity of overly dramatic Mexican TV soap opera. Was poor Ximena going to find a way to pay for the mysterious operation so desperately needed by her mother knowing that she really wanted to use her limited savings to move to that nicer flat on the other side of town so her kids could get a better education? (She did. To the rescue came Senior Gomez who quietly took care of everything, but did that cost too much?) Move over TeleMex. I can report Turkish TV has many choices of heroines in similar pickles pressing on. And, of course, this is very early in the morning. I can only wonder of the offerings at prime time. The Turkish versions seem to have a bit more humor in them.

Cappadocia is in the middle of nowhere. However, it flourishes as one of Turkey’s favorite spots to visit. This stems from a few draws: the cave like churches and homes carved into its small hills, the ghost like profiles of eroded hills caused only by decades of natures’ firm hand on the soils varying levels of density, and the flourishing hot air balloon industry.

Our exploring these venues started at 4 AM yesterday, as we rose to get to the balloons about 40 minutes away. We arrived at a plateau and saw two flat balloons, connected to large rectangular cages. Getting the money straight was simple, as Sultan Air had the ubiquitous credit card readers at the ready. For US type prices (charged in Euros) we were going for an aerial tour of the valley. The owner/captain of this enterprise, Ishmael, is quite a character. He was wearing an aviator jacket and official looking sweater. This was earned, as he was: a) a former commercial pilot, b) teaches gliding, and most importantly to us c) had captained 5,000 hot air balloon trips. He used large fans to blow air into the balloons, periodically shooting jets of propane heated air which came in flames of 4 feet or so. Five burly guys had the job of stabilizing the “cage” which weighed half a ton. Soon we were making the awkward climb over the mid chest high edge. With a couple of long propane fire blasts, 20 guests were suddenly starting to float. First a foot or two off the ground, then keeping that elevation we seemed to rise as the plateau dropped off. Houston, we have lift off. It was very quiet, interrupted by the periodic blasts of hot air to make the balloon rise. We followed the winds, with some fine tuning by guide wires. I would guess we were moving a few miles an hour, in calm winds. It was so quiet. I was told our peak altitude was 4,000 feet, but most of the time I would say we were closer to 1,000 feet up. Ishmael’s skill was quickly demonstrated as we effortlessly sailed around peaks with their carved housing. The views were incredible, but it really got beautiful when the air was filled by others. Unfortunately, those other balloons will just be dots in our pictures because we were so spread out. I would guess there were at least 50 balloons up by the 5AM sunrise. Time once again for back of the envelope math. Each balloon carried 20 paying passengers, each of whom paid about $200. I admit the biscuits and hot drinks (powdered coffee?) offered before takeoff was nice, and we did get a personalized, printed certificate when we landed. However, that seems like strong cash flow to cover insurance, a jeep, and few other expenses. (Most days Ishmael takes his two balloons up once, some days twice. This is for 8 months a year or so). As he said as he executed a perfect soft landing at 6:30 or so, “I am done for the day”. Find a need and fill it. Life is good.

Back for breakfast, then a day of solid touring. Carved out churches and homes most nearly 800 years old, seemed small but well preserved. Some had rich wall treatments of brilliant colors. Interesting to imagine those days.

Lunch was in a small town which featured a beautiful restaurant / cultural museum. The proprietors were Turks from the big city who fell in love with Cappadocia. After repeated visits, they pulled the plug: quite their high tech jobs, bought two aging buildings, re-modeled, hired a cook, and now they have several thousand visitors a year. This small town had the usual assortment of trinket shops, a few working at their trade (barbers, quick food stands, pharmacies, and the like), and the clusters of “lazy old men”. I love these guys! Most sit in the shade to avoid the heat of the afternoon. The most effort they make is moving their knurly fingers through their rosary type worry beads, periodically making some emphatic point in what I am sure is guttural Turkish, and yes, sometimes calling for intercession before they roll the dice in backgammon. Had I not been in a group, I would still be on those streets hoping for just the right roll. After looking at many street games over these days, most times with the participants hardly noticing I was there, I was asked “Do you play?” I admitted my interest. My questioner was a man who had been to Madison, Wisconsin, where he had visited a friend many years ago. (I assumed it wasn’t Leslie Bond, but guessed this was after the Second World War.) Soon the never used checker board was opened to reveal those beautiful 24 points of a backgammon board. Plain wood pips, mismatched dice, and a faded patina, the result of many, many games. But what else is needed? I thought of my dear friend Ray Saatjian as I won the opening roll with 5/1. Let the games began. I remember thinking these guys are just waiting for me to make some bone head move, to demonstrate the new world’s lack of history with this game. Allah was kind to me, and I had built a significant lead by the time I was summoned “for the last time”. (Kind of like mom calling my brothers and me from the park to get home for dinner.) I will always appreciate their willingness to let me see the world for a few minutes from their eyes.

Remember Rumi? He was that crazy 12^th century mystic who had some incredible religious insights and lived with a small group of devoted followers. Our day ended with one of the trips most controversial experiences. Our bus pulled up to a large stone building, like the caravansary we saw as we were headed here. In their day merchants stopped here for rest, a meal, and probably a game or two of backgammon. We walked through a large courtyard, to enter a large, dark room. At its heart, there was a wooden floor perhaps 20 feet square. Surrounding that was bleacher type seating, which might accommodate a few hundred. Today’s guests were closer to 25. Solemnly, 11 men in dark floor length robes and non pointed cone head hats entered. Five sat on one side, and turned out to be the musicians. The other 6 were lead by one man and circled the stage, then lined up on another edge, and knelt. A long quiet pause, and then the brief call of a drum. Then a single voice chanted for 5 minutes. He had wonderful range and the ability to chat for long, breathless periods. Very haunting to me. The rest of the musicians joined with 2 flutes (one played by the Cantor, Rob), stringed instruments, and the drum. The other men then rose, and started their circling of the platform, periodically interrupted by slow bows to one another or to one spot, presumably where a leader sits when present. Gradually the walking counter clockwise morphed into spinning, first in place, then spinning while moving. Like the planets, other than the fact there was on unmoving sun. These were the whirling dervishes who sect started when Rumi found religious bliss in this movement. The conclusion of the ceremony was the gradual retracing of its progress. After 45 minutes, the square was empty, just as it had started.

God Bless Hasan, who had some prior contact with one of the participants, who consented to sit with us after the ceremony. He patiently answered our questions as we tried to better understand what we had seen. Yes, he had a job, he was a designer of some sort. This was a very important part of his life, but not his full time avocation. He thought there were 2,000 cells or so around the world, not all of which perform in public. (I bet one is in Berkeley.) I made the faux pas of asking what he experienced when he whirled. He explained that was very hard to answer, but subsequently explained that twice since 1986 (when he started) he experienced a fraction of one second sense that he was ready to meet God. I am sure Hasan got most of what he said, and I only got part of what Hasan said. However, I had an intense sense of what that might be like.

Was this religious or commercial? Do the musings of a mystic who live nearly 1,000 years ago make sense today? Did you really need to understand each word or movement to get the essence of this experience? Each of us considered these and other questions as we rode home.