Rose Valley T(r)ale

When I was in Cappadoccia, I decided to trek from Goreme to another town, about 7 km away.  Good thing I got lost, cause 7 km over and around and under stone bluffs, hills and valleys was a bitch.  I only got to around 5 km before turning back, but that was cause I spent a good two hours on top of a salmon-pink hill in a cave talking with a bored church guardian...

I was sweaty and out of water.  The Killers was on the pod and a little pebble was squeezed between my toes. Left sneaker.  The sun – fierce at 3 pm.

"You want some water?" he asked, in kitchen English.

"Can I see the church? I'll come back after I see the church." I said.

He tossed a set of knobby keys down and disappeared inside the cave.

The church was a hole that could fit maybe 15 people.  The dark ceiling held mosaics, still alive with livid reds and serene blues – Jesus' face stared at me, wide eyed and uncomprehending, and a couple of saints strange to me (this was probably an Assyrian Christian church) surrounded the Son of Man.  I spent a good whole five minutes in there before clambering down the ledges and nooks that guarded the sacred hangout.

Edan waited with agua.  "You're the only visitor today," he stated. I nodded.  We stared at each other, than out the cave entrance, down the valleys and out to the Gaudi-esque rock towers that stretched out like distended thumbs forever hitch-hiking across the desert.

But then, we talked, out of bored neccessity. It trickled, then flowed, then swelled. "America?" Edan asked.  "How many women are there in American? I hear there are many."  Then moments later, "No tell me, forget the Mexicans and others, how many Americans?"

"You mean, only Caucasians? White Americans?" I wanted to confirm.

"Yes," he answered. "Americans!"

He thought that 300 million was a lot of people – enough to take over the world if we wanted to.  How many were soldiers, how many guns, how many in navy army air force?  Doesn't matter, I said, if countries like Korea or Iran had nuclear capabilities.  Somehow, the geo-political ramifications of nuclear potential among the various power-states of the world were juggled between stilted English and affirmative and negative nods.

"Does Turkey have atomic bom? We should have a big bom."

"No I don't think so."

"It's OK -- if America attacks Turkey, I can just go into my tunnel!"

Come again?  Edan barreled on.  He had a stash of weapons (everyone in Turkey owns a gun, he enthused) hidden in a cave about 2 km from where we were.  "Can't go in very far before you run out of breath."  He figures if anything happens, he can hole out there. "Easy to live," he said. "In the winter, many rabbits!"  The way he described it, winter-wonderland was just a couple of weeks away, when the snows would blanket the valleys and every able-bodied man would go hunt their wascally wabbits.  "Grill over fire, have with bread, some salat! Oomf!" He smacked his lips. It was a veritable party, where uncles and aunties and nephews gathered round the fires and shared stories, unburdened from the tourist racket.

We swerved from culinary recipes to stories (mostly by him) of wolf attacks and massive mafia-styled family feuds where guns blaze and heroes were remembered.  We jumped over shooting techniques to life among the ruins of the ancients to the Kurdish ("Kurds? Where?!" he jumped. "No Kurds around here!" he pooh-poohed.) instability and the difficulties of finding their weapons.  We lingered over life in America and its diversity ("There are Chinese in America? Living there!" his eyes a-buggered.) and found ourselves laughing about Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan.  I showed him the two tae-kwon-do and judo moves that I knew and he feinted with a lowered boxing stance.

I lost track of time until he jumped again, this time not because of Kurds but instead for tourists.  "Shhhh!" he whispered.  He crawled to the cave's entrance and bent his ears.  "There, can you see!" I followed his outstretched finger and saw, about a kilometer in the distance atop another hill, a group of tourists in their be-deckered glory (hats and bandannas and tripods) heaving themselves out of jeeps.  Ah. A tour group.

Edan cocked his head, silent still. "Germans," he whispered, judging their accents with solemn finality.

"Germans! Strong people." I motioned.

He laughed. "Not so much! Very tall, but they have fat bellies! Good for me!" He chortled. "Wait here, OK? I go sell them some peanuts."

I headed back on the trail.  Edan bid farewell, and we shook hands. Come back in the winter, he called as he raced down the valley.  We go for rabbits! Bang bang!