Story: Taking the bus straight off Turkey's tourist trail

Turkey is big. Deceptively big. Bigger than Texas big, stretching nearly 1000 miles from the Aegean coast to the Iranian border. Yet most travelers cling to the 5,000 miles of coastline, spurning the dusty roads that lead east. When I arrived in Turkey via the Greek Islands, I passed quickly through the party town of Bodrum and boarded a traditional wooden gulet to sail along the Mediterranean coast to Olympus. From there my adventure got interesting.

I was headed deep into southeast Turkey, but to get there I had to pack my patience and hop on a bus. If visions of dodgy, overstuffed, livestock-laden buses spring to mind, you'll be relieved to know that most of the buses I rode on (emphasis on ‘most’) were thoroughly modern motor coaches. An attendant offered to squirt each passenger with lemon cologne which lent the journey a refreshing scent. They used to use rose water, but a more economical alternative has taken its place.

First stop was Goerme, amidst the psychedelic moonscape of Cappadocia - part of inland Turkey where the Hittites of biblical fame ruled until the Persians and later the Romans came along. I felt like I was joining Alice down the rabbit hole. Sinuous canyons filled with volcanic tufts form giant mushrooms, minarets, or phalli (depending on your perspective) that stand in stark contrast against the deep blue skies. To defend themselves from conquering hordes in the 8th century BC, the Hittites hollowed out elaborate underground cities in these canyons, with homes and frescoed churches dug deep into the landscape. Such has been the tourist growth in recent years, you now have the option of sleeping, eating and drinking in these subterranean dwellings, or hot air ballooning high above them. The Hittites must have been a small people, however, as after a few days' exploration, I was stooped and my back ached.

Further East, there was nothing small about the vision, or the ego, of King Antiochus I (70-38 BC), however. Hoping to be worshipped as a god after his death, Antiochus had a massive funerary mound built atop Nemrut Dağı featuring gargantuan statues of himself alongside Zeus, Hercules, Apollo and others. It took a Herculean effort on our part to reach the peak, but it was worth it for the panoramic sunset.

Atop the summit we met Azziz, an engaging Kurd, who offered transport to our next stop in Turkey's far southeastern corner, Şanliurfa. Also known as Urfa, or the Prophets' City, Islamic tradition teaches that it’s the birthplace of the man Muslims call Ibrahim, but whom Christians and Jews know as Abraham. As Muslims tell the story, the prophet İbrahim grew up in Urfa, but when spoken to by God, he took an ax to the city's pagan statues. Predictably enough for an establishment figure, King Nimrod took offence. Legend has it that Nimrod built a giant catapult to toss Ibrahim onto a funeral pyre, but Allah turned the fire into water and the burning coals into carp. To this day the city has ponds full of portly, pampered fish that are revered as holy descendants.

Şanliurfa was unbearably hot (118 F in the shade!), but what I really loved about this town and the region as a whole, were the friendly people. My travel companion, James, and I went for a directionless ramble through town one day, sticking out like sore thumbs. Western tourists are non-existent in this corner of Turkey; most visitors are pilgrims from Syria, Iran, or elsewhere in the Middle East. Yet everywhere we walked we were welcomed with smiles — and not just in that hey-buy-something-from-me kind of way. The children were magical. They giggled uncontrollably as they practiced what little English they knew. As we walked past, they would shout “hell-looow”, followed with “what is your name?” and “where are you from?” We went from one gaggle to the next, sharing with them their images on our digital cameras, chasing, tickling and high-fiving them all. They never wanted handouts, but were merely thrilled with the attention from these strange outsiders.

Another "cosy" bus took us further east, to the gorgeous honey-coloured village of Hasenkeyf, which clings precariously to a gorge above the Tigris River. From there we moved on to the dusty frontier town of Dogubayzit, backed by a jagged range of mountains and the famous Mt. Ararat, where legend claims Noah's ark came to rest. The highlight here is Ishak Pasa Palace, built over a 99-year period, beginning in the late 17th century by Colak Abdi Pasa, and completed by his son. The palace is a superb amalgam of Seljuk, Ottoman, Georgian, Persian and Armenian styles. At least that's what the guidebook said. To my untrained eye, it was a way-cool 1,001 Arabian Nights-style palace with a stunning vista that overlooks the dusty town below. But here too, the best experiences were the random exchanges with locals; children bringing us treats; old men a simple smile and welcoming nod; an offer to share some melon.

If we went any further east we’d end up in Iran, so we started back west, taking the northern route to the Ottoman village of Amasya, set in the deep Yesilirmak River gorge. It was there I experienced my first Turkish bath, in an ancient hamman, built in the early 1400's. The dappled light streamed through the windows in the thick, domed ceilings. Sound echoed off the marble as I began my bath in the steaming sauna. Afterwards, an attendant scrubbed me down with an exfoliating glove, and then lathered me up like a baby. A masseuse took over to work free the knots in my muscles — all those long hours spent on cramped buses. For a finishing touch my ears were cleaned a bit too thoroughly. When it was finally all over I was swaddled in thick towels, and handed a hot cup of tea. It was pure bliss, but it wouldn’t last. Another overnight bus beckoned — ten hours to Istanbul.