Nemrut Dağı: A 20 year journey in the making
On the road to Nemrut Dağı, Eastern Turkiye: May 2025
I always thought that getting to Nemrut Dağı was going to be one of the hardest parts of our one month Eastern Turkiye journey. After all, it had taken me more than twenty years to get here.
I first came to Turkey in 2000 and it began a love affair with the people, the food, and their hospitality. I returned for my thirtieth birthday and spent a week in the Cappadocian village of Uçhisar on a solo backpacking trip before smart phones and travel apps. Back then I approached the trip with a rough itinerary but no fear. Now, at fifty, I wanted to recreate that feeling: no advance bookings, no third-party platforms, public transport wherever possible. My “travel brain” has softened, too used to the certainty of Google.
This journey to Nemrut began with a cab and we cheated by ordering it via an app to keep the cost fair. But the driver showed old fashioned hospitality and insisted on walking us to the correct platform. After a bus to earthquake-devastated Adıyaman, it was a minibus to Kahta, where we leapt off near the car-hire office. Inside the office men gathered around a low tea table while one sat behind a desk. Before names were exchanged he disappeared, returning with glasses of tea. In Turkey it is always tea first, business later.
Among the men was the owner of the Kommagene Hotel aka“Guido the Turk” of a specific travel-blog infamy, notorious for persuading tourists into overpriced tours. Jon had forgotten his driving licence, though I’d grabbed his international one on a whim. That seemed to be acceptable, but the government website rejected his passport and without it the car couldn’t be registered. Guido offered that we stay at his hotel instead and he’d “arrange everything,” so we wouldn’t even need the car. But we stood firm. We tried our three passports and fixed our patient smiles over the tulip tea cups. The owner phoned the responsible government office . There was waiting, more tea, and at last the problem was resolved.
Our prize was a dented diesel Fiat with an empty fuel tank. At the petrol station we were offered tea while still sitting in the car. We declined the tea but had to get out anyway, the petrol door required levering with the keys and it took three of us to work that out. In the supermarket next door we stocked up on fruit, snacks and were offered yet more tea.
Finally leaving Kahta, the landscape turned stunning, rolling cream-beige hills gave way to the fresh green of spring. It was breathtaking and even Jon, concentrating on the road, could enjoy it. We took the turn off for our village, and the road quality deteriorated significantly. The Fiat struggled up the hills; second gear was too much for it. Fortunately, we were soon back on paved roads, though the car never really managed to accelerate uphill. We drove through fields, past almond blossoms, rhododendrons, and mulberry trees until we reached our modest pension, set in a village with only a small store and a few houses.
My Turkish stretched just far enough to introduce us before the young man serving us switched effortlessly to perfect English. He was soft-spoken but communicated firmly: you must go up the mountain, now. It was exactly what I wanted to hear. I had hoped we could drive up the mountain in the evening but I didn’t want to push Jon as the only driver. The quiet persistence of our host inspired us, and so we left to catch the golden afternoon light on the western terrace, and sunset on the way down.
The path to Nemrut’s summit was steep. Many Turkish visitors carried excess weight and rested with shallow struggling breath as we climbed steadily ahead to over 2100m. At the top, the famous heads of Nemrut greeted us: massive stone faces detached from their seated bodies by earthquakes. The summit itself was curious - it looked smooth and perfectly shaped. But the rocks that make up the peak are small, like kitty litter. Was it natural? Was it broken by hand? Turns out the top of the mountain is man-made - essentially a huge cone of loose, small limestone rocks - fist-sized stones - piled up in antiquity. Archaeologists believe King Antiochus I ordered the summit to be reshaped into this artificial mound covering what’s thought to be his burial chamber. We arrived at the summit perfectly timed - the last coach tourists were packing away their tripods so they could lumber back down the mountains.
I was amazed by the fusion of Persian and Greek elements in the sculptures. Zeus looked more like Papa Smurf; I am not sure what the Greeks would have thought about these composite Greek and Iranian gods, such as Heracles-Artagnes-Ares, Zeus-Oromasdes, and Apollo-Mithras-Helios-Hermes. I was thrilled to finally reach this stunning sight, and a bonus to do it with the man I love. So many tourists visit this location on a quick and crowded tour, cramped with selfie-seekers at sunrise. We’d used the internet to our advantage to avoid this and thanks to local knowledge from our hotelier, we enjoyed the summit to ourselves in the perfect light.
Back at the pension, dinner was simple bulgur and salad. Jon could have eaten two plates but survived on one. Our room was warm, with hot water, duvets and carpet. A treat as the cold rolled down from the mountain. In the morning we slept deeply and quietly - no calls to prayer, no noise but birdsong. Breakfast was served outside. A cat rubbed against my feet, then tapped Jon up for cheese. The sky was impossible blue, around us rolled green, and the views were stunning. I was excited for the day ahead.
We had been given instructions the night before on which road to take to visit a number of ruins we had not read about that were in the area and suggested by our young hotelier. But I wasn’t entirely clear which road to take now that we drove it. We made an educated guess, which turned out to be the wrong but adventurous choice. The tarmac ended quickly, and Jon decided to test the Fiat on the rocky surface. If it became too bad, we would turn around. But soon it was too steep to turn back.
In the middle of nowhere, women clad in black veils were foraging in the grass. Where had they come from? Where had they walked to? Could they help us push the car if we got stuck? Another car came towards us, no sturdier than ours, so we felt relieved that there was clearly a way through. We kept descending until we reached a sign for coffee. These places are so remote, so as soon as they heard the car parking up, the owners ran towards us, offering coffee and breakfast. They were probably disappointed we only ordered coffee. But as it was only Kurdish coffee, Jon was more disappointed! It was a beautiful setting despite the lack of espresso!
We drove on stopping at huge stone tablets carved in ancient Greek - the largest surviving anywhere, taller than me - the chiselled words fusing Persian and Greek cultures. We passed a few castles, it was hotter than we anticipated and we didn’t feel like too much hiking but stopped to admire the scenery. Local guardians of the castles were disappointed we didn’t choose to hike up. We stopped at a small bridge across beautiful water - the Devil’s Bridge - another castle at the top, and a stunning surrounding of wildflowers and mulberry trees.
Driving on, we were waved down at a junction. A man came out of a café, with a relative who seemed to have a learning disability who spent some time trying to communicate with me. Meanwhile Jon was passed a phone and urged to speak. It was the brother of the cafe owner (who was the only one who spoke English) telling us his mother had apparently just made Kurdish coffee and they were imploring us to stay. Jon returned the cafe owner’s phone and I extricated myself from the friendly sibling at my window, as we politely made excuses, thinking that such dramatic tactics shouldn’t be encouraged.
At Cendere Bridge: an absolutely beautiful Roman structure sat in a natural canyon that enticed Jon to walk along the landscape of rock tumbling into the gorge. Moving on, we were flagged down again - this time by a woman with a giant stick. Her body language didn’t suggest she wanted a lift, so we left her to her stick waving, only to be stopped by a man asking for a lift back to the coffee shop brothers. Apart from these mysterious characters we saw nobody else at these sites. We loved their quietness. Too often, Turks set up Instagram points, tea houses and loud music for the sake of both domestic and foreign tourism. Here, it was enough simply to enjoy the places as they were, in beautiful nature and serenity.