How Do They Do That?

The wind and rain thumped against the window last night, and sleep was a little hard to come by. The room was a little warmer last night, but not enough to prevent me having to warm my hands on the way to the bathroom last night. The panoramic view of the lakeside from the breakfast room is quite something to behold, even on a grey day like today. A solitary boat attempts to harvest the waters, before making it's way back to an idle looking pier. I munch on my cornflakes, and ponder. The weather today is enough to convince me to leave Egadir behind.

The rain begins to beat down, as I wait for my bus to Konya. It's a steady pour as we hug the shores of the lake, heading towards the snow capped mountains I observed yesterday. We're served our customary tea and biscuit, and then it's the "squirty experience". After every drink or snack, the steward makes his way down the bus offering you some of his zesty antiseptic hand wash. if you express any interest (careful if you have a twitch), he fires his squeezy fairy liquid bottle towards your lap, and you have to catch it in your hands, or faces the consequences. It's definitely part of the experience and probably highly unacceptable in polite society to refuse. I deftly field my dollop.

We gradually climb through the mountains, passing a generally rocky, but not an infertile landscape. We pass several small, undeveloped villages, but everyone has a relatively prominent mosque. Toward the very end of our journey, we make one more climb. This takes us to the end of the range, and we get a sweeping view of a very expansive Konya City. Konya is the home of the world famous "Whirling Dervishes"- a religious sect of Islam dating back to the 13th century, famous for spiritual enlightenment through connecting with God by dancing and spinning around for insane periods of time. It's worth seeing what the practitioners are capable of, particularly if you've ever played that party game with the Broom and a can. I digress. It's possible to see this show all over Turkey. You just have to pay at least 35 Euros for the pleasure, and this will probably include all soft drinks, but it's here that the whole thing began. I attempt to get back to it's roots a little bit by visiting the original site of the order's founder, a place now known as the Mevlani Museum.

I have enough time to take in the museum and still hop on the last bus out of town later this afternoon. I leave my bag at the bus company's offices and venture out onto the city streets. I hop on a bus that supposedly will take me to the museum. I have my doubts, as, for the next 40 minutes, we embark on tour of a host of Konya's residential neighbourhoods. However, we eventually get there, and the bus driver kindly informs me I have arrived by pointing at the building and shouting "Mevlani!".

The Mevlani commands your interest as a Museum, but, for me, it is more interesting as a place for informal worship. Although it's not officially used for religion in the orthodox sense, this still does not prevent followers making their visitations or even pilgrimages to the hallowed grounds. There are several people overcome with emotion- one lady sits in tears, looking all lost at the outer doors as I enter, and another woman gets a younger relative to read from the Koran as she stares at the religious relics on display, weeping inconsolably. It's very hard not to gawp at these moments of humanity and spirituality.

There certainly is a fine display of clothing, rugs, Korans, and religious realia on display. There are even a number of coffins inside, replete with the distinctive and synonymous hats of the Mawlawi faith positioned on top. I take it all in. One of the official guides offers me help, and I assume he's just trying to make a wage, but he's happy enough to talk, even after I say I don't really need any help. It's a thin line between being too defensive and being gullible in these situations, and easy enough to misinterpret what's required. We quietly share a joke before I commence my journey back to the bus station.

Mission complete, I optimistically flag down a bus that, does indeed, end up carrying me back to the station on the outskirts of the city. I collect my bag from the ever so helpful office staff and board the coach, where I'm met by the best bow tie so far- a sparkly number that reminds me of a noodle advert from years ago. We have a winner. This bus tonight is bound for Goreme, in the region more commonly known as Cappadocia. I arrive in a very small town bathed in darkness a little after 9pm. The place looks more than half deserted, with only a handful of shops and restaurants still open. Making my way through the cool streets, and the vapour of my own breath, I ultimately locate my hostel, and head for my bed in a warm and inviting room.