Pastoral Vadi

Before we start, we just heard the news about the bombings in Istanbul and Marmaris. We are not there, and are fine.

We are currently in the middle of a weeklong stay at the most isolated place we've been so far, a 10 acre eco-tourism site in a valley (vadi) off the Mediterranean Coast. It is the brainchild of an architect who has been envisioning the project for 25 years, bought land 7 years ago, and this summer opened for business for the first time. On entering the Pastoral from a rutted, rock-strewn dirt path of a road, we were greeted by a grove of orange trees, a greenhouse, pomegranate and pear trees, a sheep shed, and a mule. There are several buildings near the entrance made of traditional mud brick, and more underway of stone. Rounding the grove, we reached the kitchen, the center of the Pastoral; here, Feride and Nurgun cook Mediterranean flavored food (mostly vegetarian) in anchor-weight iron pots over an open wood flame, scented with sage leaves. Two pools, one for swimming, are fed by mountain water which, from the pools, continues to the sea, and which flows in through a trough carved from a tree trunk and wedged into the Y of another tree. Eating tables overlook the pool. Near the kitchen are several pavilions lined with cushions where one can sit, shoeless, and drink tea. Our house is one of 8 wooden cabins further along from the kitchen, with adobe tile floors, a chapel ceiling, and a large porch overlooking a duck pond.

We are here through the Turkish organic farming program 'Tatuta' as volunteers, staying for free in exchange for work. There turns out to be basically nothing to do in the outdoors, but we have become expert dishwashers (and Erik is probably the first man to hold that position in the whole village!) So when it's not dish time, we do a lot of reading, strolling, and tea drinking. The highlight of our very relaxing time here, though, was our first walk, when we were followed by an insistent, persistent, teeny tiny, nearly starving baby kitty. She followed us into every building we were being shown, forcing us to (willingly) to carry her and our host, a little less willingly, to introduce her to the architect's elderly mother; the cat-loving older woman fed her some milk and said she should be taken to the restaurant; and so, the kitty we lovingly call Scruffy made it out of the woods and into a well-fed home. (Unfortunately for us, Scruffy was not to stay at the restaurant, where we could pet her all day, but instead to go home to live with Feride, the cook; but we're consoled by knowing that she's happy).