kas.
date. 2025
locations: kas, turkey
Like you, I’d never heard of Kas (pronounced: Kash). That is until I had a conversation with ChatGPT about my upcoming vacation plans.
I’d been living in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan since January and had a 10-day vacation coming up. Not enough time to fly home to NYC, but too long to lounge around Bishkek. Bishkek’s airport only offers a few international flights, none of which immediately drew my interest. There were the usual Gulf destinations: Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Bahrain. Then a scattering of Turkish cities: Istanbul, Ankara, Antalya. And a few Chinese cities and Central Asian capitals (Astana, Tashkent..) rounded out the list.
So, here’s what I asked ChatGPT:
You’ve read my website Daniel-Rhodes.com, so you know what kind of travel I’m into. I want to go on a 10-day trip in early May by myself. I need wifi access but otherwise I’m open to suggestions. The flight from Bishkek should be less than $500. I’d like something near the sea, within a few hours of an international airport, off the beaten track, and warm. Where should I go?
And right there, at #1, was Kas “one of those magical coastal towns where you can do as much—or as little—as you like. Whether you're into diving, hiking, beaching, or just wandering with a camera and a strong coffee, it's an ideal solo travel spot.”
Yes, please.
Just to make sure, I asked ChatGPT about some other options – I wasn’t 100% sold yet – but our AI overlord was pretty adamant that Kas was the way to go. So, two weeks later, here I am.
May 5, 2025
After a 12-hour delay in Istanbul (I’m not complaining though, I got to spend a spontaneous day wandering through the cobble-stone alleys of Kadikoy, drinking strong Turkish teas, and taking the ferry through this ancient cosmopolitan city seemingly at the center of global history. Am I in Europe, the Balkans, or the Near East? Am I in the Ottoman Empire, a Roman capital, or a modern metropolis? No one knows.)
After a 12-hour delay in Istanbul, I finally landed at Dalaman airport on the southern Mediterranean shore of Turkey at 10pm.
The guy at the car rental place couldn’t find the entry stamp in the passport, so I spent another breathless 30 minutes imagining that my entire trip was about to end before it started. He said there was nothing to be done and that it would be illegal for me to rent a car in Turkey. Finally, after flipping through my passport for the tenth time, I found a few trace ink blots which I convinced the car rental guy was from the stamp. He bought it, took a scan (of what, I’m not sure), and off I went on my 3 hour drive through the pitch-black mountains.
I had planned on having a leisurely early afternoon drive through gorgeous valleys and along the coast, but instead I arrived at the hotel in Kas at 1am (4am in Bishkek), completely dark, and exhausted from a day of flying and exploring Istanbul.
But it was all worth it when the sun rose the next morning.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.
May 6:
There’s a trick to traveling. I said that I’m on vacation, but that’s not entirely true.
Actually, I’m still juggling my (remote) day job. I just don’t have to teach my in-person classes at the college in Bishkek. In Turkey, then, my plan is to get an early start (the jet lag helps me wake up at like 6am), finish my work by 11am, and then have the entirety of the afternoon and evening to enjoy the Lycian coast.
I know almost nothing about Turkey, so the first thing I did was to stop by the local bookshop and pick up a copy of Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafik, a popular Turkish novelist.
Next, I head to the dive center to book a dive for the next day. I really want to visit that downed WW2 cargo plane I’d heard about online. I haven’t been diving for 18 months, since my unfortunate trip to Siargao (Philippines) where I got so violently seasick that I basically had to be carried home. (And the time before that in Greece in which I nearly passed out under water.) I’m a bit nervous to say the least. But yolo. I put on a confident face and pay the deposit.
Then, I popped over to the Antiphellos – a restored Greek amphitheater overlooking the sea (it’s really cool). Mind you, this was all done on foot. Kas is small enough to be explored without a car and has enough to offer to keep you coming back.
Antiphellos is free to enter and quite spectacular. Unfortunately, I arrived at midday and the sun chased me away after just 5 minutes. Instead, I hopped into the car and drove over to Kaputas beach, ranked as one of the most beautiful beaches in Turkey. It boasts a gorgeous expanse of sand nestled between towering green-grey cliffs. The water is pristine, if only a bit too chilly.
I laid in the sand and opened my new book.
Late, by myself, in the boat of myself,
no light and no land anywhere,
cloudcover thick. I try to stay
just above the surface,
yet I'm already under
and living with the ocean
May 7
Ever since my yeshiva days in Jerusalem, I’ve had a deep love for diving. It all began with some teenage depression. I’d spent far too many hours tucked away in dusty cramped libraries. I’d spent far too few hours in the sunshine, among the trees, or against the breeze.
I’d fallen into a dark melancholia. I was desperate for a way out.
I no longer remember how it happened, but somehow, I heard about a scuba diving course in Eilat that would let me take a day off for Shabbat. I also don’t remember how I convinced my parents to pay for it.
But I definitely remember every minute of those magical days spent deep beneath the waves. The colorful fish darting through Red Sea corals. The bright sun that glistened extra bright as we’d re-surface from who knows where. The countless hours spent assembling equipment, practicing drills underwater (like having our goggles snatched away by the instructor and our air tanks screwed shut), and the late afternoons splayed across the white beaches of Eilat.
I remember one particular morning when I’d woken up with a terrible headache. Since adolescence, I’d been prone to migraines. I must have missed about half of the 4th grade. They never went away, even as I visited half a dozen neurologists. No one understood where they came from, or how to make them go away.
But on that particular spring morning, with that particular migraine, I dragged myself to the sea, gingerly put together my scuba gear, and – as my head sunk beneath the surface — the pain simply washed away. Washed away by the tide, dissolved into the sea.
I felt instant relief. A kind of purification that I’d never forget.
But back to Turkey! I met the dive boat captain at the marina, right in the center of town. I boarded the boat at the last minute, to try to limit any seasickness. And then we were off.
Kas seen from the sea is especially pretty. The boat ride was only 15 or 20 minutes, over to a little peninsula with a little lighthouse.
I’d be diving with a German guy, a Turkish girl, and a French garcon who literally just stepped off the plane. He seemed kind of confused by how he ended up there.
We dove down maybe 80 or 90 feet and made our way over to the cargo plane. The water was incredibly clear, but without much life. Perhaps it was too cold? Perhaps we’d scared them away? When we reached the plane, we got to enter through the backdoor, swim around the hold (there was an old computer on a desk), and peek into the cockpit.
It was pretty cool. I was just happy to be floating around again.
A story is like water
that you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire
and your skin. It lets them meet,
and it cleans you!
The body itself is a screen
to shield and partially reveal
the light that’s blazing
inside your presence.
Water, stories, the body,
all the things we do, are mediums
that hide and show what’s hidden.
Study them,
and enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know,
and then not.
May 8
It’s a 2-hour drive from Kas to Oludeniz, Turkey’s paragliding capital. Since I had such a great time under water yesterday, I thought I’d try the sky this time. There’s nowhere to go skydiving, so paragliding was the next best option.
There’s a tall cliff outside Oludeniz called Mount Babadag (Turkish for Father Mountain) that towers 6500 feet over the small resort town. It’s pretty epic.
Our little van sped up the windy road so quickly that I wasn’t sure if the pit forming in my stomach was from the careening jeep or the plunge we were about to take. Probably both, if I’m honest.
We finally reached the peak and piled out into the sharp air, giddy with the impending awareness of what was about to happen. I knew I’d be jumping off a cliff, I just didn’t realize that I’d be jumping off a cliff!!
One by one, we each decided, you know what, maybe we should pause to use the bathroom once more. No need to rush. The cliff wasn’t going anywhere.
Then, my ‘guide’ strapped me into a harness, clipped me to a big old sail and said ‘run!’. I ran. And then I couldn’t anymore.
The ground leapt away from me, and the sea rushed forward. I was flying!
The flight lasted around 25 minutes. We whooshed around, exploring the pristine Aegean beaches, emerald green cliffs, and endless bright sky.
When it came time to land, I looked around for a landing zone, but no, my guide had other ideas. He swung us low over Oludeniz, my feet nearly brushing the rooftops (might I point out that I was in the front, ready to cushion him from any crash). He deftly avoided killing us both and plopped us down right in the center of the town! Right in between the crowded cafes and the beach.
I’ve never seen anything like it. Wave after wave of paragliders took turns landing in the middle of this small town. You can lay at the beach or drink a beer at the many bars, and watch gliders land just feet away. It’s pretty cool.
If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our desire
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.
When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the night sky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this?
If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God's fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face close.
Like this.
When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this?
If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don't try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.
When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.
The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn't believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.
When lovers moan,
they're telling our story.
Like this.
I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.
When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.
Like this.
How did Joseph's scent come to Jacob?
Huuuu.
How did Jacob's sight return?
Huuuuu.
A little wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he'll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us.
Like this.
May 9
The night I checked into the Luna Kas hotel, the front desk guy sat me down for a good 15 minutes and walked me through everything worth doing within a 2-hour drive of the town.
At one point, he leaned in close and almost whispered, “Go to Demre. But on the way, there is an ancient, preserved city called Kyaneai Oren Yeti. There are no signs. Google it. Then, once you reach Demre, take a dip at the beach, and when you’re done swimming, walk 10 minutes north along the shore. I won’t tell you what’s there. It’s a secret. On the way back, don’t drive on the main highway. Head to the river and follow the river road back toward Kas. You’ll see why.” And then he winked at me.
Creepy, yeah.
But that’s exactly what I did.
Kyaneai Oren Yeti was literally impossible to find. In my first attempt, I ended up in the middle of a farm. I was stopped by an old lady who very kindly explained to me how to find the ancient ruins. Except she only spoke Turkish, so I had no idea what she said. I drove in the direction she pointed, though, which seemed promising. That is, until I ended up some creepy field filled with crushed soda cans and animal bones (yes, animal bones).
I very quickly went back to the road and then looked on google for some alternative directions. I chose the most promising version and set at for the third time.
I left my car at the end of some village road and set out on foot. It was hot and approaching midday, but how long could the walk be? Well, after 3 minutes I passed an old man and when I said “Kyaneai Oren Yeti” to him, he pointed in the direction I was headed (phew) but kept waving his arm like it was super far away. Well, at this point I was committed. I picked up the pace, thinking I could outpace the sun.
Silly me.
After a while, I came across a shepherd minding his flock. Again, I told him “Kyaneai Oren Yeti” and again he waved his arm vigorously in the direction I was walking.
Okay, clearly, I’ve made a mistake.
He pointed at my half empty water bottle. I shook it so he could hear the sound. He looked at me and laughed. I took off at double speed up the path.
After another 20 minutes I finally made it. I was exhausted, dehydrated, and almost certainly sunburned. But I made it. And I was alone. And there was a breeze. And the most magnificent Greek ruins.
A small coliseum stood proudly at the center of the ruined town, with a view out over the valley. About a dozen or so structures still stood. I sat beneath a tree and smoked a cigarette. I read a bit from the Forty Rules of Love. I imagined the villagers who had lived here thousands of years ago. What were they like? They must have been proud of their beautiful town. I could see the children playing in the square.
But all that is ancient history. Now it’s overgrown, and there’s no one here but me, smoking my cigarette and dreaming about ghosts.
The road that leads
to the City is endless;
Go without head and feet
and you'll already be there.
I had never been more thankful to rush into the sea. I lay myself out in the cool embrace of Sülüklü Beach. The waves came out to greet me. (Sülüklü means leech, but it’s better not to think about it.)
Ever the obedient one, I made my way along the shore, as I’d been instructed. I climbed up the steep dunes, picked my way gingerly through the underbrush, and leapt over gaping crags.
And then I saw it.
O you who’ve gone on pilgrimage –
where are you, where, oh where?
Here, here is the Beloved!
Oh come now, come, oh come!
Your friend, he is your neighbor,
he is next to your wall –
You, erring in the desert –
what air of love is this?
If you’d see the Beloved’s
form without any form –
You are the house, the master,
You are the Kaaba, you! . . .
Where, one soul’s pearly essence
when you’re the Sea of God?
On the drive home, I took the river road. In my journal, I’ve written all too often about mountains and cliffs. I’ve used up all the words I can think of in the countless descriptions of peaks, slopes, and hills from Alaska to Nepal. But nature has far more in store. Nature shows us more than we can ever imagine.
The river road from Demre to Kas displays a new kind of beauty. A beauty scarcely imaginable. A beauty that asks not for more descriptions, but for silence.
And then tears. Deep gashes appear in the limestone bluffs. First, they are small. Just a few dozen meters of white limestone carved out. But then large commercial operators appear. The extant of the mining unfolds itself across miles and miles of carved-out terrain. Entire sections of mountain torn up to adorn kitchen counters thousands of miles away.
I can’t help but gasp at the enormity of the crime. Crimes against who? Nature? Beauty? Ourselves?
To see something so beautiful, so precious, simply chopped up into pieces for no reason – to feed only our own over-indulgence – is shocking.
The solution? Only use wood? Plastic? Brick? With every material, we engage in systemic desecration. This is not a polemic. It’s a recognition.
I’ve always known where stone comes from, of course, but until today I didn’t really understand.
I recognize my own double-standards. My own complicity. My own casual indifference. A level of wilful stupidity I can only begin to fathom. I cannot count the flights I’ve flown, the animals I’ve eaten, the plastic I’ve tossed away.
Nonetheless, to refuse to acknowledge the crime – to experience the crime — is one step too far. Even for me.
As I drive through these beautiful heartbreaking hills, the sun setting against their tortured torsos, as it’s done every evening for a million years, but perhaps not for much longer, I am torn by what I encounter.
May 10
It’s my final day in Turkey. My final day in Kas. Tomorrow, I return to Kyrgyzstan. Tomorrow, I return home.
Kas has been far more beautiful that I’d hoped. Far more beautiful than I deserved. Equal parts beauty and history, adventure and culture, Kas finds a home for us all.
I spend my last day exploring a few more beaches. Soaking in the sun. Breathing in the air. Observing the crowds.
I take a last dip in the impossibly blue waters. I finish the last few chapters of the Forty Rules of Love.
I eat a big dinner and get to bed early before the long day of travel that awaits me.
Oh, if a tree could wander
and move with foot and wings!
It would not suffer the axe blows
and not the pain of saws!
For would the sun not wander
away in every night,
How could at every morning
the world be lighted up?
And if the oceans water
would not rise to the sky,
How would the plants be quickened
by streams and gentle rain?
The drop that left its homeland,
the sea, and then returned?
It found an oyster waiting
and grew into a pearl.
Did Yusaf not leave his father,
in grief and tears and despair?
Did he not, by such a journey,
gain kingdom and fortune wide?
Did not the Prophet travel
to far Medina, friend?
And there he found a new kingdom
and ruled a hundred lands.
You lack a foot to travel?
Then journey into yourself!
And like a mine of rubies
receive the sunbeam’s print!
Out of yourself such a journey,
will lead you to yourself.
- All poems are by Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī,
who lived and died in Konya (present day Turkey)