Running Hierapolis

It’s been too long since I’ve run. With that in mind, the morning after my arrival at Pammukale, I lace up my under used running shoes, throw a few Turkish lyre in my pocket, and set off down the highway towards Hierapolis.

Hierapolis is an ancient Roman town set up on a hill above the modern town of Pammukale. Hierapolis’s largest selling point is a series of geothermal springs that flow out of the ground at the top of the hill. These waters, or more specifically, the minerals they contain, have created a strange calcite formation that has earned the name “cotton castle” from the locals.

Having explored the cotton castle yesterday, I set my sights on the actual roman town.

I took the long way round, running up a set of slow rolling hills to the north entrance of the archeological park. Lungs burning, sweat dripping into the cold air, and footsore, I ran up to what I thought was the entrance gate. A guard came out to meet me.

“Did you run from town?” Pammukale is only about three miles away, but he seems impressed.

“Yeah!” sweat is getting into my eyes. “Do you have any water?”

He ducks inside the guard shack and grabs me a disposable cup. I down it, still jogging in place.

“Where are you from?” his English is all right. I wish my Arabic was better. Just like I’ve wished my Hindi, Japanese, Thai, Khmer and Chinese was better. I really need to actually become fluent in a language, and not just know bits and pieces.

“USA.” I say. “Can I get into the park?”

“Here is not entrance.” He points down the road another six hundred meters. “There.”

“Okay! Thanks for the water, you have a nice day!” I take off.

The ticket counter lets me pass and I continue my run through the ancient city, stopping every once in a while to job in place and read the signs. Halfway through I decide this is the best way to see any ancient city. Other tourists, up as early as I am, give me strange looks. I smile back and wave.

I’ve been running for about 45 minutes when I see the ancient stadium. “Hmm… run stadium stairs at a two thousand year old arena?” I mutter to myself. “OF COURSE!”

Hierapolis is awesome.

-Doug

Istanbul

Istanbul, formerly Constantinople, sits at the crossroads between Europe and Asia and has been traded between at least four empires over the past two thousand years. It has served as the capitol of three. Istanbul is venerable, and ancient, and it knows it. Mosques erupt from the seas of buildings on the banks of the Bosporus. Huge, graceful, and beautiful in a strange and exotic way, their domes and minarets serve as reminders of the dominance of Islam in what is nominally a secular nation.

As I make my way between the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque, the haunting call of the noon prayer fills every nook and cranny of me. The sound is at once intoxicating, comforting, and utterly alien to everything I know.

I have to wait a few minutes to get into the Blue Mosque. No non-muslims are welcome during prayer time, which is fair. I console myself by buying shaksalef(?) a hot, porridge-like drink that has been heavily spiced with cinnamon. It is blustery, cold, and the shaksaelf is both delicious and mouth burning.

I’d spent the morning in the Aya Sofia, which was a mildly disturbing experience. If you don’t know anything about the Aya Sofia, it was one of the largest churches in the east until the Byzantine Empire, the last true ancestor of Ceasar’s Rome, was conquered by the Muslim Caliphates. It is one of the largest domed structures in the world, and is so glorious that the Blue Mosque was built in direct response to its grandeur. When captured by the Caliphate the Aya Sofia was converted into a mosque. Its Byzantine mosaics were plastered over and or destroyed, the walls were repainted, and massive discs containing verses from the Qur’an were put up. Minarets were added, and prayer rugs were put down over the marble floors.

It stayed that way until after the First World War. Kamal Attaturk, brutal dictator or visionary, depending on who you ask, took over the ashes of the Ottoman Empire and built modern, secular Turkey. He turned the Aya Sofia into a museum, and allowed archeologists to remove some of the Islamic imagery on the walls, revealing the Byzantine mosaics beneath. The prayer rugs were removed, revealing the marble floors.

Fun fact: the archeologists also found some graffiti on the marble columns that could be traced back to a Viking trade expedition to Constantinople sometime between 1000 and 1200 AD.

The Aya Sofia gives me chills. It’s cold, but that’s not what puts a chill down my spine. It’s the feel of the place. The Aya Sofia feels like a corpse.

It’s hollow, and strange echoes float around the ever-present crowd of tourists. The lighting is muted, putting many things in dark shadow. The windows are small and despite the open space, I feel closed in. The walls peel, revealing the bones of the first religion beneath. The pulpit, used in both religions, is empty and bare, like a grinning skull. The plates with the names of Allah hang in strange juxtaposition with the Byzantine Cross architecture of the structure. Everything about it feels discordant and wrong, somehow. Like a dead madman wearing the skin of his equally mad enemy, both frozen in their last agonies.

I stay as long as I can, but eventually leave because it creeps me out too much.

After noon prayer ends, I fall in line behind the other tourists at the Blue Mosque. Since it was built both directly opposite and in direct reflection of the Aya Sofia, I prepare myself for another surreal experience, but am pleasantly surprised.

The Blue Mosque is busy with believers. I slip my shoes off at the entrance and instantly feel more at ease. Barefoot is better.

The lighting is better here. Mosques have ground floor windows, large ones, that allow light from the outside to spill in and illuminate supplicants. The domes are decorated with strange, symmetrical mosaics. They are beautiful, and oftentimes resemble flowers and other plant life, though if you asked an Islamic scholar he would insist they are just shapes, in order to be sure they avoid the Islamic proscription against depicting anything made by God. Idolatry in this religion is loathed even more than in Christianity.

More than being well lit and beautiful, the mosque feels clean. After the dead stench of the Aya Sofia, it’s like a breath of fresh air in my nostrils. I wander in the strange middle area reserved for tourists, watching the men pray in the front portion and the women in the rear. There is a small room located near the exit where an imam sits surrounded by texts. He is old, bespectacled, and has a magnificent salt and pepper beard. A sign on the door says in four languages “Interested in Islam? Step inside.” I resist the urge to walk in and start a lively discussion.

As beautiful as the Blue Mosque is, I might just be convinced.

I stay a long time, leaning up against a pillar, staring at the roof or the people praying around me. I’ve never been a particularly religious person, but at the same time I’ve always been fascinated by people who are and the things they build and do in the ninety-nine names of God. I’ve been to major holy sites on five continents. I’ve prayed in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, climbed one of the five sacred Daoist Mountains, stood beneath the dome of the Blue Mosque, made offerings at Shinto shrines, meditated where Buddha gave his first sermon, watched Hindus offer their dead to Shiva, and whispered an orison at the Wailing Wall. I’ve seen two thousand year old Confucian scrolls and a sword worn by Muhammed’s generals. I’ve been to the hilltop where Revelations was written and walked the path of Christ’s crucifixion. I’ve rowed war canoes with Native Americans and sang songs asking our ancestors for strength and courage. I’ve seen more tombs, graves, churches, mosques, temples, monuments, relics and trophies than I can count.

All these objects, all these places, all these stories. I’ve been a lot of places and come to one conclusion regarding religion: There is no good or evil, but people make it so. 

-Doug

The Rest

The sun sets behind the mountain range to the west of Queenstown. It paints the sky with fire, reflecting off the perfectly clear water of the bay. Above me the sky darkens into deep blue velvet that is not quite dark enough for stars. The soft strains of piano drift over the murmur of the crowd gathered at the harbor.

Piano has always been one of my favorite instruments. Drums are for fighting. Guitars are for loving. Violins are for crying. Piano is something else. Piano is for hope. Desperate, wordless, hope. Hope against all odds, all reason, and all logic. This hope is perhaps the best thing there is.

I love piano. And the kid playing it is a master. His sign says he’s self taught, that he’s traveling around with his buddy in a van playing in various places, and that he doesn’t know how old the piano is. I’d believe it. Look up mathiaspianoman.bandcamp.com to find his stuff.

The rest is almost over.

New Zealand was supposed to be some well deserved R&R. A vacation from the vacation. It was, in it’s own way. I’d managed to skydive, bungee jump, see the Franz Joseph Glacier, get destroyed in a dodge ball game, and hike up multiple mountains. Despite all that it was still restful. New Zealand is quiet, laid back.

Tomorrow I take a roughly twenty-hour flight to Istanbul, where I arrive at five in the morning.

I sit on the wall separating the bay from Queenstown boardwalk, balanced precariously on a high concrete wall. This affords me a view of the sunset and the boardwalk, the piano man and the people juxtaposing with the fading light and brilliant colors. As the piano sings the sun to sleep, I muse that this is what other people go their entire lives without seeing: a perfect moment.

Too soon the sun fades and the piano packs up. The wind blows and I shake myself out of the dream.

The rest is almost over. 

-Doug

Falling

There’s something frenetic and exciting about being in a hangar or on the flight line. A strange and intoxicating energy that’s hard to replicate. Airplanes buzz around in the background, men and women rush around with great purpose and sure steps. Everything has a place, everyone has a job, and problems are solved with urgency and ruthless efficiency. Everything on a flight line has to work, otherwise the planes don’t fly.

Nervous, fidgety, and flight suited, I stand to the side of the organized melee of the hangar. I’d gotten into Queenstown, New Zealand, the night before, and had made the snap decision to jump out of an airplane the next day. Today.

Today is the day I fall from fifteen thousand feet and survive.

A short, flight suited man approaches me. “Are you Doug?” His heavy Eastern European accent changes my name to “Daugh”.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Yuri! Nice to meet you. You’re jumping solo today right?”

“Uhhhh…”

Yuri puts his hand out and stops me. “Just kidding. I’m your jumpmaster! Let’s get you checked out!” He starts fiddling with the harness strapped over my flight suit. “Hmm… this is bad…” he looks up with a grin.

I shake my head, smile breaking past my nerves. I am scared out of my mind, and I’m sure Yuri can tell.

“It’s okay. I do this a lot.”

“How many jumps do you have?” I’m just curious. I knew that the company Yuri worked for required people to have three thousand jumps before they could even apply for a job. Yuri is without a doubt one of the best jumpers in the world.

“I have jumped over ten thousand times.”

“Wow. That’s insane.”

Yuri laughs. “You must be insane or brave to jump out of airplane. You are insane yes?”

“I’m certainly not brave.” We laugh some more.

“Okay. Now to serious stuff.” Yuri runs down the different positions he wants me to assume before we jump out of the plane, once we’re in the air, and as we’re approaching the ground. I take this very seriously. Next he checks all my equipment again. While he’s doing that, I’m introduced to another guy who’s going to be jumping with us, Chris.

Chris is the camera guy. All NZONE skydivers go up in teams of three: the Jumpmaster, the cameraman, and the new guy. This is so you can get awesome photos to show your friends, and is also another way for NZONE to make more money. Chris shows me how all his equipment works, and then describes the jump process to me.

“So we’re punching out at fifteen thousand feet. That gives you roughly sixty seconds of free fall. I’ll be taking pictures and video with these,” he indicates a head mounted setup. “Be sure to tuck your head up and look around, not only does it make for the best pictures, but it also will help you breathe better and it’ll help you enjoy the view.”

“Okay.” I try to ignore ‘breathe better’ and focus on the ‘view’ portion of that statement.

After the brief we join a group of other teams headed for a small aircraft on the grass runway. As we climb aboard and find places, literally sitting in each other’s laps, I realize that this is my last chance to get out without falling out. Once we were in the air the only way down would be out the rear hatch and into empty space.

I stuff my fear deep inside me and get settled as Yuri straps me to him using a system of clips and carabineers. The pilot taxies and suddenly we are airborne.

It is not a silent flight up. The jumpmasters crack jokes with each other. Trade gossip. I observe it all, hearing without understanding. Occasionally I glance out the window at the ground getting further and further away. Fear gnaws its way into my bones and settles in the marrow, keeping my breathing light and my head dizzy. I want to take a hit off one of the oxygen tubes that are hanging from the roof of the aircraft, but resist. I recite the prayer against fear in my head.

I must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will let it pass over and through me. When the fear has passed I will turn my inner eye to see the path that it has taken. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

Two teams punch out at nine thousand feet. I watch, shoving my fear back inside me, as they disappear out the roll top door at the rear of the aircraft and are just GONE.

That’s me in two minutes.

Yuri taps me on the shoulder. I lean my head back and he yells in my ear above the roar of the Cessna’s engine: “You ok?” His Hungarian accent makes it sound like “Yoo ovay?”

I can’t talk. I make a thumbs up and nod. Yuri pats me on the shoulder again.

The Cessna climbs higher. Suddenly, shockingly, it’s time. “Scoot forward!” Yuri yells. I comply, despite the fact that we’re mutually scooting towards empty space. My mind is screaming at me, demanding a return to the sane world where we don’t jump out of an airplane at fifteen thousand feet, but the lizard brain knows what to do. The deepest darkest place in me wants to jump, and so we will.

Chris is waiting for us at the edge of the plane. I barely register that he’s hanging on with one hand and one foot, trying to get the best photos he can. My waking brain sees the ground below, the air around, and it simply cannot handle it. Rational thought shuts down. It’s still there, screaming in incoherent terror, but the lizard has taken over. We’re jumping.

I’m down to my base emotions. Mindless, paralyzing terror fills every nook and cranny in the sane portion of my brain. I’m shocked I didn’t freeze, call out or demand to be returned to safety. But I didn’t. I remained.

 

I didn’t hear Yuri count down. We were in the aircraft and then suddenly we weren’t.

The air is sucked out of my body. We spin wildly, the ground, the sky, the ground. The lizard reminds the muscles that there’s a position we’re supposed to be in, and my hands and feet move of their own accord. Rational thought has stopped screaming, shocked into silence at the fact that we’re actually falling.

Yuri stabilizes us and I’m looking at ground again. “My God!”

It seems as if the whole of New Zealand is stretched out beneath me. We are higher than the tallest mountain in the area. The view is incredible, I can see for hundreds of kilometers. There is a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains, the tiny village of Queenstown surrounded by farms, sky above, earth below.

We fall.

Chris zooms up, somehow controlling his fall. He starts snapping photos. This brings reality crashing in. Fear surges back into my senses and I fight to keep control of my body. I manage a weak smile for the cameras. The wind rushes in my face and ears. It buffets me, slips underneath the goggles and forces me to narrow my eyes. Pressure thumps in my ears and my nose starts to run. I try to breathe, but the air is coming too fast.

As I look at the view, I realize it’s not the falling that I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of not being in control. Yuri, confident, competent, Yuri, with all ten thousand of his jumps, cannot assuage my nervousness about not being in charge of my own fate.

We become level with the tallest peaks, and then move below. Chris nods to Yuri and I and closes his arms and legs, dropping like a stone. He’s got to get down much faster than we do, because he’s supposed to take pictures at the bottom. I try to watch him, but he’s gone.

Yuri lets us fall for five seconds more before pulling the chute.

Gravity kicks back in. With a sudden, horrifying jerk, we rapidly decelerate and I am hanging from Yuri by the harness. This is all according to plan, but doesn’t make it any better. Yuri fiddles with the chute for a second then checks with me. “You okay?”

“Yeah!” I am okay. I’m dangling hundreds of feet in the air from a large piece of silk and a man smaller than I am. But I’m okay. In fact. I’m fantastic. “This is amazing!” It is. I’ve never been more afraid, excited, and awestruck. It’s a completely indescribable rush.

“Welcome to my office!” Yuri laughs, as we bank over Queenstown.

After perhaps thirty seconds, he offers me the control toggles. I gingerly take them, and try to turn. We turn too fast and I overcompensate in the other direction. Yuri, calm, utterly collected, mutters instructions in my ear. We level out.

Yuri asks for the controls back as the ground gets uncomfortably closer. The fear is back, but I’m ready for it this time, finally. We approach at what seems like unreasonable speed, but Yuri is in total command, flaring us out at the last second so that we slide to a gentle stop on the green, beautiful grass.

My nose runs, my ears pop and my adrenal glands have shorted out. I want to cry and laugh and breathe and everything feels so real. I lie on my back for a second and stare into the ice blue sky with only on thought in my head.

“When can I do this again?”

-Doug