For months on end nobody comes near us, then suddenly there are two musical events on offer, and both are scheduled for the same night!Sometimes this presents some tough dilemmas. Which will be easiest to get to? Which is more likely to live up to its billed promise? Which is the least likely to turn out to be arty, nouveau something that wouldn’t have been given stage space in Ealing?
Then sometimes there’s no competition at all, which is how it was last Saturday when a touring band went head to head with a couple of our local musicians. All day the bus station had been hosting Göreme’s annual food festival, an event that would be much better if only it was ever publicized more than a week ahead of time. As it was, I woke to the sound of the local branch of the Mehter band running through their noisy paces in front of the ticket offices. Afterwards our tourists were treated to a helping of rice and stew with a bunch of local grapes to follow. And just in case anyone was still hungry a handful of my neighbors set up camp behind their breadboards and began turning out mountains of gözleme (pancakes).
But when the band struck up on the satin-draped podium I knew I’d made the right choice in throwing in my lot with the locals. Out in the valleys a barbecue was already being fired up and the corks were already popping ready for a dinner to celebrate the visit of a San Francisco DJ who always comes with a small group of music-lovers in tow. The venue could hardly have been bettered. At the top of a flight of steps running up between the fairy chimneys we gathered in a rock-cut room decorated in simple village style, with carpets on the floor and cushions to rest our backs against the walls.
We’d come to listen to Ali, a wonderful local singer and percussionist, and Yunus, a magical saz player, who between them can bring a smile to the most unbending of faces. Tonight was no exception, and soon we were singing along with them, while a local guide rolled out his party tricks -- balancing his rakı glass on his forehead, then tucking it perilously down the front of his trousers.
There were just two snags. The first was the presence in the room of a caged partridge whose pacing back and forth suggested it didn’t much appreciate this invasion of its erstwhile peaceful space. The second was the “toilet” that turned out to be nothing but a patch of ground on which an overly friendly dog was tethered by a long chain.
But as the stars shone down from the velvet-black sky above us, I was in seventh heaven. A week later I’m still purring at the memory of a perfect evening.
Pat Yale lives in a restored cave-house in Göreme in Cappadocia.
