So! This is life on a different planet! The volcanoes of Cappadocia did their job so well 40,000 years ago that the region today is 1000 square kilometres of sand stone beanie hats, huge erect penises and ridges and valleys of such strange shapes and contours that Star Wars was filmed here.
The population is like Star Wars as well. Three bits of tube and they'll build you a rocket, judging by the job they did on the Range!
A thousand years ago and more, Christians fleeing Roman and later Moslem persecution came into these strange places and cut churches and houses into the soft stone. Pigeon holes line the valley, since their shit (the French word 'fiente' is so evocative!) was Turkey's main export to Europe for hundreds of years.
Today the land lives on tourism and getting by. The French couple in who's hotel we stay swim in these strange waters like pioneers, screeching over bumpy roads and thinking in Turkish.
In the evening as the sun sets over the strange valley and its snowed under volcano, forbidden smoke rises above the villages. The garage we went to for the Range used our oil change for heat! In the evening, the colours of the valley grow resplendent as the land takes on a mantle of gold and rose and green.
In the evening the temperature drops and the little bit of arid water freezes on the ground, leaving this place dry and barren and yet somehow fertile and promising.
In the evening as people shut into their homes, tea is served and women serve it.

An invitation the other day took us from the empty mosque at prayer time to the home of Ismael who's family of 5 live in one lime-whitened room. His woman serves tea with her eyes lowered, obeying his barked orders. We take our shoes off in the kitchen which is lacking half a roof and scurry into the warmth of the salon. Tea is served. She is handkerchiefed and he gives his commands like a general. The tea is delicious and I give the eldest boy and English lesson.
The time we spend with them is warm and light-hearted, we are treated with great generosity and respect. When it's time to go, we go; out into the night at -15°C, the snow (kar, in Turkish) a bright white heart in the night. We ourselves live in Les Terraces Pension.

The French couple, Suzy and Marko and their daughter Solène left the straight jacket of France to live in this tempoed anarchy. Our room is partly in the ground, like a hobbit hole. The vaulted ceiling high and grey and beautifully curved.
During the days we walk with Marko and Oc (Arrow in Turkish) the dog in this bizarre landscape. Long treks into a land so mysterious it feels forbidden. A sculptor would have to be a madman to create such visual deformations. Up-side-down funnels. Immense erections. Emmanthal facades with rooms leading off into the open air as half a house has eroded into forgetfulness.
Erosion! There is a sadness covering this land since we know and feel and see that year after year it is receding back to a plain. Every springtime little bits of the ancient carved houses, castles and churches break off and slip into the ravine at the base of the buildings.
For all it's strangeness it is transitory. Fleeting. Not here tomorrow. Close your eyes and it will be gone.