Usually we wind up in a wonderful house inside what was once a rock-cut monastery complete with a refectory dining table carved from stone, and a chapel so cunningly concealed that a French priest is said to have become wedged in the entrance when he tried to explore it.We wind up here not just because the setting is glorious, but also because the owner is happy to answer questions over a glass of tea and a piece of home-baked cake. Depending on the dynamics of the group, the questions can cover all sorts of topics from how long it took her to weave the carpets that decorate the walls to how she managed to learn her English. Sometimes, though, they are addressed to me, and sometimes they shoot off at a complete tangent.
Thus it was that last week I found myself having to field a sharp, “So when is Turkey going to do something about its rubbish problem?” posed by an Australian. Putting to one side the fact that I don't particularly see it as my role to explain what Turkey is going to do about anything, and the fact that here in Göreme we actually have quite a good record on the litter front, I was actually a bit surprised that no one had raised the question before. Because, let's face it, folks, there really is a problem here.
To take just one instance. Last week I was traveling by bus to Ankara, a long journey in a virtually empty bus presided over by the sort of petty tyrant of a yardımcı (conductor) who thought I should nonetheless continue to sit in my pre-assigned corridor seat beside another passenger rather than spread myself out comfortably over a double seat in the rear. Still, I'd just read a book, which had impressed on me the need to try and stay focused on the here and now, and not let myself get sidetracked with petty irritations, and out of the window there was a wonderful view - - green, green countryside and grass verges, which, at this time of year, are a joy to behold, knee-deep in poppies, cornflowers, thistles and daisies.
Then the yardımcı threw open the door and hurled out an assortment of empty plastic water bottles and a rubbish bag. To add insult to injury, he also lobbed out a copy of The Guardian newspaper that I had had the audacity to place in the rubbish bin when we stopped for tea. Had we not already fallen out over the seating arrangements, I might have collared him and asked, “Who do you think is going to clear that up?” As it was, I sat there and seethed with rage, wishing that the government would launch an anti-litter campaign with just a fraction of the same fervor it has put into stopping smoking before we wake up to find ourselves buried under a blanket of empty plastic water bottles and rubbish bags.
Pat Yale lives in a restored cave-house in Göreme in Cappadocia.
