A Few Days and Forever in Cappadocia

by Antara Mandal (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Turkey

To understand the mysticism of the Ottomans that spread to most parts of the world is to understand the model of the human psyche where the secular and the sacred are always mingling, where mystic and the ordinary, dream vision and street life exist as one. Rumi's magnanimous words - “you are not a drop in the ocean, you are the entire ocean in a drop” or “stop acting so small, you are the universe in ecstatic motion,” stem from small acts of loving yourself, of asserting independence, of knowing that your voice, however tiny and insignificant it may seem, is brought into the extravagant world for a reason - that if you indeed muster the confidence to do so, your voice is going to change the whole world. It is hard to really define poetry, or my entire travelogue in Turkey as just a travelogue - Turkey as a country has too much that can barely be put down in simple words. Feelings of love, contentment and a sense of belonging is what poetry, very simply, translates itself to and I think Turkey for me was the same. In between pink skylines and deep blue oceans, something turned and something slowed down. It is hard to describe what being alone does to you, being “alone” is a kind of liberation that leads forth to experience like no other. Travelling and getting to know a place are two very different connotations. In order to really know a place, you need to get lost and come back thinking this was where you belonged the whole time. You meet strangers that kiss your hand and offer you tea and a Camel cigarette alongside a love story only you (and Cappadocia) shall know in your heart was real. You visit mud villages and make friends with ponies and wild cats along the way only to stand by the side of the highway and suddenly turn around to see views you could feast your eyes on for days. Fleeting moments that somehow seem permanent and are here to stay forever only happen to you when you travel and get stuck somewhere in between seeing more than you remember and remember more than you’ve seen. Little things tend to take your breath away like a good kanafeh in Sevinc or the fruit wines around Sirince village and you forget to mention them when held face to face with the bigger experiences that last the rest of your trip. Me, however, I hate to overshadow the small things because they show me a very personal face of the country I visit, intrinsic to the way I travel. I like to be thankful for the bright blue skies and the music of the violin, cacophony of laughter that linger on in the crevices of my memory. It is always the little things that show up after years of having left a place when all the others are done and dusted, ticked off of your list. I wonder if Gengiz did wait for me like he said he would, because if he did, I would feel a little melancholy. I will never be able to explain accurately the romanticism in leaving, it has a kind of shrouded selfish mysticism around it that only few would understand. I am thankful for meeting people I have touched in some way or another, I am lucky to have been a part of their lives - an untainted, innocent presence that exudes warmth and fond memories alongside the mystery of what could have been but never will. It is a magnificent world out there with more billions of people than you could ever hope to account for, but even the few that make me believe that it is possible to tie this immensity into a single thread of the heart, I am thankful for having met you. Maybe some day, someone will be reading this in another part of the world and realise that I am talking about them. Only they will know, and they will smile, a little coyly near the corner of their mouth. How I wish I could witness that and wonder if you still remember me the way I’ll always remember you.