This morning was much hotter, with the walk to the Open Air Museum being fairly trying for me. The challenges of yesterday were having some repercussions too. The museum is one area where the rock churches are in particularly good order and very close together. Some are small but many are larger than the remote ones in the valleys. A monastery complex had rooms with long stone tables and benches – no getting sick of the furniture positions and making a change. All the churches incorporate sections for tombs, which are now coffin shaped empty carved holes. Presumably to bring their original purpose more to mind, two glass covered tombs contained skeletons.
The frescoes in many of the churches were superb, and even though in most cases the eyes and faces had been scratched out, whole scenes remained intact. One of the churches was called ‘the dark church’ and the frescoes had been protected from light and were magnificent. We were lucky enough to be in one of the churches at the same time as a French family – a brother and sister of our age, their spouses and their mother. The mother was explaining the pictures, using her strong Catholic religious background to help her pick out the saints. I was eavesdropping and relaying some information to Keith but sometimes the French was too fast or complex for me. The son stayed back to talk to us, and in the next church, urged his mother to speak slowly for me. The men could read Ancient Greek so they could interpret the words as well. The mother and I had a chat in which she explained the importance of having pictures in churches for religious education when the main populace could not read. Old churches in France contain pictures but tend to feature statues for this purpose also. They gave us their addresses, coincidentally in Toulouse and Massif Central, and invited us to come and visit when we are in France.
This was the first time that we had had to modify our activities to avoid large tour groups. There is something compulsive about being in a tour group, in that the time is limited and if the guide enters, so must everyone. It even applied to small churches. which were impossible to appreciate when fully packed and the light blocked. It even applied to climbing a ladder to a church, with no sensible pause for those inside to come out first.
Our next plan was to walk in the Rose Valley and the Red Valley, on our way to the village of Cavusin. The rose valley appears to be inhabited by monks in pale rose habits all looking in the one direction; really eroded cones with some iron in them. We walked down the road for a distance, and then cut across to an enormous rock with caves in it to have lunch. This was definitely the richer area, with the chambers generous in size and links between rooms across three levels. Sitting in here, using someone’s bench and fireside to prepare our lunch, we wondered at what point a large section of the front wall had dropped off. Did someone come out one morning to find it gone?
We continued on up tracks that led into Rose Valley. I was fairly hot and tired with a bothersome left knee, so at every option that might include scrambling, Keith scouted around first. We passed people pruning grapes and their horse tethered across the track. Occasionally we would see people far up on the heights, no doubt looking down as we had done and wondering how to reach the valley floor. The path followed a water course which sometimes dipped inside the rocks. A couple of churches were sign posted and another partial one hid its frescoes beyond an orchard. One had been virtually privatised with a sign saying ‘Cold Drinks’ and tacky plastic bunting with a Efes Beer logos spread across in front, announcing the presence of a seasonal café. The church had a wooden door which was padlocked and the name of a person to contact for entry. The menu list, plastic chairs, a cave with carpets and cushions in it and black plastic bags of unknown items all produced a jarring note. Two other walkers approached from the other direction, observed it all and just as suddenly disappeared.We virtually retraced our steps and decided to abandon going to Red Valley, which we could see as deeper rose coloured cliffs in the distance.
We walked into Cavusin, which was a quiet village with several amazing rocks in it. The one facing us as we had a drink in a café, was a couple of hundred metres long and at least forty metres high. It was riddled with rooms, like a modern block of flats with the front wall removed, only bigger. People were at work near the top – maybe archaeologists or maybe property speculators with an eye for business. This village specialised in pottery and had several large workshops and shops. It is difficult for me to go into such shops with no intention to buy because, when we are the only people present, we rouse the hopes of the shop keepers who then give us attention. It is easiest if other tourists are present, in fact it’s the one time when I long for a tour group to arrive.
We waited for the bus to Goreme on the bitumen road, as instructed by a villager. We were keen not to be too late because we had booked in to go to a Turkish Night dinner and show. This would be our only chance to see the Whirling Dervishes and combined with that, some belly dancing and folk dancing.The Turkish night was held up the hill at the next village of Uchisar. When we arrived, driven by the man from our hotel, a band was playing in the car park to set the atmosphere. We were ushered in to a modern stone cave of enormous dimensions, with a round stage area and dining alcoves off it at all angles. Some people were already seated and eating. We were led to the end of a table, too far away from the next couple to make any contact with them. Before us lay about nine plates, each with a small amount of a tasty dish, which, along with a basket of bread, was our entrée. Gradually more people arrived, with a couple of tour groups boosting the numbers. The lights were suddenly dimmed and the Dervishes arrived.
Although in the context of a show, the Dervishes were performing a religious ceremony and so it was serious and ritualistic. They performed the different bows and whirling sequences with one hand raised to God and the other turned to the earth. I didn’t know the ‘no photo’ rule, took one, and was rushed by a waiter who made the situation clear. At the end of the ritual, there was a photo opportunity when they posed. It was all very dignified and not, as Keith had conjectured, embarrassing with drunken yobbos yelling out.
The band played and out came the folk dancers. Over the evening they performed about five times, each time apparently with a different regional dance. but with no announcements to that effect. The dances all told stories, and had sequences when either the men or the women would perform. The men were incredible with top speed footwork and great synchronisation. In a dance about soldiers, they made a pyramid and produced a Turkish flag, kissing it many times. The girls seemed to have lesser roles so the main interest there was the costumes which looked sometimes gipsy like, sometimes quite eastern and for one dance, like medieval ladies.A belly dancer with great skill performed and then picked some members of the audience for a comedy interactive session. She must have trained for years to have been able to activate muscles in the way she did. Her costume was quite modest and very tasteful to my western eyes.
A hot course and fruit platter were served and the audience could dance. By then the man from our hotel had arrived with his friend, who we had met, so the friend and Keith and I joined the dancers. It was a light and enjoyable evening with an excellent meal. 
Like most hotels in Göreme, most of the rooms are dug into the rocks. The rooms are very cool on hot days.
This view of Çavuşin has today's houses in the foreground and the ancient houses in the cliffs in the background.
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