It was a good question. I was, after all, a Londoner by birth who had grown up in big British cities with access to the best of cinema and theater (and, contrary to popular belief, many excellent restaurants). Then in my forties I had moved to a village of just 2,000 souls with none of the trappings of urban life. So what do we find to do with our time here?
Well, one thing we do is sit around and drink lots of tea. Traditionally, Cappadocian women have always socialized in their homes, dropping in on friends and settling down for the evening on their sedirs (bench seats) with a glass or two of çay. It’s an unvarying routine. Out come the bowls of nibbles -- sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, chickpeas and popcorn. Then out come the little bags containing the knitting and crocheting, and everyone oohs and aahs over everyone else’s work and exchanges tips on how to improve their own. Everyone, that is, except me who sits and twiddles her thumbs.
Occasionally more formal tea parties have also been held to raise funds for repairs to the school roof. These parties take place at the Turist Hotel, a grimly utilitarian building recently granted a much-needed facelift. Given the lack of organized entertainment in the village, much excitement attaches to these events. My friend Fatma and I even arrived late for the first one because her sister was in floods of tears, having mislaid her precious ticket.
As it happened she needn’t have bothered crying because the party turned out to be a damp squib. To start with, there were barely enough chairs for all the assembled bottoms. Then, after an interminable delay, we received our party fare which consisted of plates of dry biscuits to soak up the tea. The event was scheduled to last until five o’clock but by four the band was already packing up its instruments and we were on our way home.
The next time round the party planners had learnt their lesson. This time they organized a raffle, and for the equivalent of YTL 1 we each received a ticket for the draw which guaranteed us a prize. This being Göreme, the prizes included such mouth-wateringly desirable tourist luxuries as kilims, jewellery and inlaid wooden picture frames.
Fatma’s ticket was first out of the hat and she went very quiet when handed her prize -- a table lamp featuring a plastic doll with its thumb stuck in its mouth. I landed a pair of pajama bottoms big enough for a two-year-old.
But best of all was Hatice’s prize. As we wandered back up the hill she was still jabbing me in the ribs and cackling: “A dustpan, Pat! A dustpan!”
Pat Yale lives in a restored cave-house in Göreme in Cappadocia.
