Hidden away in the hills skirting the province of Antalya, Kaş lies quietly across the beautiful Turquoise Coast. It neither boasts the luxurious pull of Bodrum nor the Michelin-approved restaurants of Antalya, but the town offers a respite from having to rush from one tourist spot to another. With few tourists, the quaint, bougainvillea-lined alleys and the pristine shores mirror the beauty of towns dotting the Amalfi coast. But unlike them, Kaş is simpler. The locals have no frills, and nothing is too fancy to make you feel out of place. And it's okay if you are visiting without a plan or a list of things to do.
Worn out from two weeks of a whirlwind trip across Istanbul and Cappadocia, trying to squeeze in as much as possible, I dropped the idea of planning my four days in Kaş. I left my itinerary empty, to be filled with the surprises of serendipity. In return, I discovered Kaş in a way I would not otherwise: through the perspectives of a foreigner who came searching for his love, a nomad who carries his home within, and a man who has always lived by the sea.
After a long journey to Kaş—six hours spent on a flight and on the road—I decided against my enthusiasm to explore the neighbourhood on foot. One look at the ocean that spread like a deep blue tarp from my hostel's rooftop bar put the pin on the idea, and I grabbed a spot by the counter.
The evening was beginning to set in. The sun was becoming milder, losing its strength by every minute. The birds sliced across the sky, their calls piercing through the soft rhythm of the waves. "So, what brings you here?" a gentleman working the bar asks me. I point to my right, to the view, which looked like a watercolour painting hung up to dry. It was unreal. Something that could only be imagined, so vivid were the colours. He smiles and nods in agreement as he places a beer before me.
"Your turn," I remind him. He leaves space for silence, and I wait. A silence between two strangers from countries as far apart on the map as ours can be tricky—but this felt strangely familiar. A few minutes later, looking out at the ocean, he revealed, each word heavy and weighted— "I came here six years ago. There was a girl I loved. A lot has changed since then. We're not together anymore. But I fell in love with the place, so I stayed." And then I thought to myself about how often the places where we choose to stay are the places as we remember them.
The four of us had met just the evening before at our hostel. After briefly chatting about our time in Kaş and the things we had yet to see, we decided to meet the following day and head out of town. And just like that, despite having known each other for only two hours, we stuffed ourselves in a dusty Renault hatchback and were headed to the Oludeniz Beach in Fethiye.
"This reminds me so much of Dahab," said the one in charge of the wheels. As a young medical student raised in Egypt but studying in the US, he admitted to being more homesick for his life in the West. Dahab, he said, was the only place where he felt easy. "As long as I am near the sea, I am good," he said while trying to negotiate the hairpin bends swirling around the hills.
As we leave Kaş behind, the scenery gradually shifts from urban to rural. The roads begin to taper, houses look smaller, and people stop to wave and smile as you drive by. The sea remains constant on the two-hour drive. We sing along to Britney Spears in our distinct accents, share stories of growing up in our hometowns, and wonder aloud how surreal it is to be driving across the Turquoise Coast with somebody from Haiti, someone from Egypt, one from France and another from India.
And then I thought to myself about how Often the places where we choose to stay are the places as we remember them
I, meanwhile, grab a beer and sit by the shore, joined by the friend I had made a little less than 24 hours ago. Born in Haiti, he now is a nomad who has been on the road with just a sixteen-kilo backpack. Home, he tells me, "Is what I have learned to carry with me. Home is this moment. It is the present."
I hold on to that as I observe a father trying to calm his two-year-old as the cold, salty ocean water hits his face. I have always wondered if I can live that life, but truth be told, having a home to return to is half the reason why I travel.
Curious, I ask him if being a nomad makes leaving a place and people difficult. He thinks for a minute, then says, "It is. But the feeling, like everything else, even people, comes and goes."
It is time to return to the hostel before the night sets in. We are back on the road. This time, we take a shorter route that cuts through the countryside. We whizz past meadows and some abandoned houses, silently listening to the melancholic tunes of Tezeta, a genre of Ethiopian jazz that literally translates to "nostalgia."
Suddenly, the car stops at the edge of a cliff overlooking the famous Kaputas Beach. There's a lone house against the backdrop of an orange-tinted sky, with a banner hanging in front that reads "Fresh Fish Calamari Fried." I could see a few people inside. Two women and a man are working in the kitchen. A vintage, teal-coloured car is parked in the front by a tree. The man comes out with a big smile, waving at us. He asked if we needed something in his broken English. We're here to watch the sunset, we tell him. He nods and points us to a better spot. And it is indeed better. "This place has been here since 1973. My father used to be the chef then. And there were hardly any tourists," he tells us. His wife smiles at us from the dimly-lit kitchen, stopping whatever she is doing to admire the view.
We tell him where we are from one by one. Upon hearing about Egypt, he fondly remembers his youth, and when I mention India, he smiles and remembers his father's love for Raj Kapoor. The sun has disappeared now, and it is time to leave. We tell him goodbye. He replies, “Allah'a ısmarladık.” Back in the hostel, I looked up what it means—"Hope to God we shall meet again."