Asian Invasion

After weeks of feeling like the solitary Asian traveler in the Middle East, I find myself lost in a sea of Asians in Goreme. My people are not represented, but the Japanese and Koreans have arrived in droves. My Korean-American friend tells me that when she visited Goreme in 2001, there was only one other Korean tourist. It seems the secret is out.

It's weird being in a minority so large. I feel comforted on one hand, but I also don't want to be lumped in with the crowd.

I'm used to touts knowing "hello" and basic sales-related words in many languages, but here the hotel owners, the kitchen staff, the tour guides and bus drivers all know a few words of Japanese and Korean. Shoestring even employs a Japanese girl, a former backpacker who decided to stop and make some money. Chinese is still a mystery to everyone.

The huge influx has been beneficial for the town, especially for the hotels and restaurants not listed in Lonely Planet but featured in Korean and Japanese guidebooks. A few locals mention it can be annoying as well, especially the behavior of Koreans on group tours. For a town used to independent travelers, the herd mentality of the Asian tourists can be baffling.

I spot people bargaining for things that I wouldn't expect, like the price of a meal in a restaurant. When one waiter agrees to a lower price, I question him. He says normally prices are not negotiable, but the attitude of the Japanese is so amusing he figured it wouldn't hurt.

Japanese tourists are the new French tourists. They seem to have endless time on their hands. The ones at my hotel wake up late every day. They eat leisurely breakfasts, and sometimes go back down for a nap. Afternoons are spent wandering around the tiny town, then back to the hotel for some reading. There's no need to see the sights today when they can be seen tomorrow or next week.

Yes, I'm totally jealous.

The Upside of Tourism

People are extremely friendly in Goreme. Foreign tourists are the norm here, but the impact seems far from negative so far. Everyone seems pleased to see me, and not in that "walking-ATM" way. I'm so torn—it's weird being somewhere chock-full of tourists, a feeling I've rarely experienced in the Middle East—but I can't help loving the warm welcome.

Due to Goreme's distance from Istanbul, very few tourists entertain serious thoughts of purchasing bulky souvenirs here. The rug emporiums generally remain empty. The salesmen are bored but friendly, and often pull me over for a chat. Fully aware I'm not lugging a rug on the long-distance buses, they exert no pressure and just want to talk about my home life and travels, and of course my availability.

On my way to the Open Air Museum, I am stopped twice by men asking if I need a ride. I get nothing but genuinely hospitable vibes off them, nothing skeevy. I only refuse because I am turned off by motorbikes and am enjoying the walk.

Goreme is so small that after a day everyone seems to recognize me. Shopkeepers grin and say "welcome back!" when I stop by for a bottle of water. The waiters at Pide House wave every time I pass. The older gentleman who lives next door to Shoestring enthusiastically invites me meet his family. Unfortunately his wife and kids don't come home until late and I sadly tell him I have a bus to catch.

The town clearly caters toward backpackers. Despite the crush of tourism, prices are kept low by competition. Breakfasts are served late, water pipes are cheap, and almost everyone speaks English. I feel a bit guilty for enjoying that last part, but after a few days of gesturing my way through the Southeast, it's nice to be understood.

"We not sell rugs today"

After a long, wine-soaked dinner at Pide House, I return to an empty Shoestring. Simon tries to tell me where all the guests and Isam have gone drinking. Pathetically, despite the postage-stamp size of Goreme, I cannot find them.

I try Flintstone's, but recognize no one. As I pass the carpet store next door, the seller calls out, "Please! Come inside!" I say no, I don't want any rugs. He says, "Not for rugs! We not sell rugs today!" I notice a group of travelers seated around the low table on the porch with bottles of Efes beer. They cheerfully invite me to join in.

Drinking on the carpet store's porch? Why not? The seller is friendly enough, and true to his word is only interested in meeting travelers. A wide range of European countries is represented—the Asian and American contingents consist of me and Phoenix.

Half-Chinese Phoenix is an archetypal American hippie—at just 20 years old, I can't help finding her enthusiasm amusing. She lives with Brian, a man in his late 30s, in a commune in Holland. Brian is a Holland native and seems stoned even when he's clearly not. They made their way down toward Turkey so slowly, mostly by hitching, that by the time they arrived they had just 10 days to see the country. They are so vastly different from myself, and I find myself laughing the whole night. There isn't even anyone at Shoestring like this couple, because they couldn't afford the cave hotels and ended up staying in a real cave.

The carpet store is more comfortable than a bar, sitting on the cushioned floor without having to raise our voices to be heard. The eager rug seller dashes over to Flintstone's to keep everyone supplied with alcohol. We openly discuss the merits and downfalls of our respective countries, mixed with travel talk. Most people I meet in Turkey are either doing only Turkey, or have been traveling in Europe with Turkey as a final stop. These people are entranced by my stories of Syria and Jordan.

The second night I return for more randomness—Goreme's vibe in my eyes is now represented by the impromptu bar at the carpet store—but it's not as comfortable. Phoenix and Brian don't want to join in the second night, and when the carpet seller starts to flirt with me, it's time to go home.

Lazy last day

Selfish and ignorant though it may sound, some of the more relaxing moments while traveling involve being with people who share your native language. It's nice to stop struggling to be understood for a little while. On my last day in Goreme, a day marked for lazy, slow meandering, I hook up with an American girl, an English boy and two Irish girls for a quick trip to Uchisar.

We take a dolmus out of Goreme for 1YTL, and jump off at an approximate point. The purpose for the visit is to climb the kale, the carved-rock castle providing spectacular views of the peaks below. It's roughly 20 minutes to the top, nothing major to spoil our lazy day. At the top I run into fellow tea-drinkers from the gardener's cave at the Open Air Museum.

I ingest my daily dose of sticky ice cream as we browse the odd shops on the way back toward the road. This is absolutely a "backpacker" day, which I try not to have too often—we really learned nothing about the castle, were only there a short while, chatting and laughing with each other as we would in the hotel but with a different view.

On return to Goreme we plop down in One and One, a cafe with giant beanbags on the front lawn, for food and endless glasses of apple tea. Next up is drinks at Utopia, an elevated bar with a gorgeous view of the town. Later, we scarf a couple lahmacuns. Lazy day complete, with plans to meet up with the UK contingent in Istanbul, I'm ready to leave. I love Cappadocia and its weird landscape, but I've gotten too deep into touristville and need a break.

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