The white view of Pamukkale's cotton castle

I see a white hill of absurd size. In the distance it looks like a mountain covered in snow, maybe ice. Maybe it's a white rock, maybe it's salt or a huge stash of cotton wool.

As I approach it on the Pamukkale Express - the train that travels between Eskişehir and Denizli - I can see it between the wagons stopped on the track, but the trees block my view for a moment. The powerful light it radiates, even at the end of the day, is almost surreal.

“C’est magnifique,” said the hotel owner where I stayed in Eskişehir. In French, because that was our way to communicate during my stay in this city in Turkey. I didn’t speak Turkish, she didn’t understand English. My rusty French was enough for a few minutes of daily conversation.

I had already seen countless photos of Pamukkale at sunrise, sunset, and every other time of day. And, of course, many other pictures that almost cause nausea from so much repetition and lack of creativity. Tourists dressed in loud colors—red, green, blue—striking poses just to post on Instagram.

It's a mountain of people. From a distance or seen from hot air balloons (with the sound of which I woke up that morning in Pamukkale) they might look like ants on a mountain of salt.

With one leg outstretched, one arm under her head, her hair over her shoulders, her dress open and one leg in front of the other to reinforce the lines of the female body. I know all this from my work as a photographer, but what used to be reserved for professional photographers, artists and models is now used (and abused) in any tourist location.

For 10 or 11 hours, I watch, re-watch and get tired of seeing young and not so young people making these movements in the limestone thermal pools of Pamukkale. A young woman of small stature is giving directions to her boyfriend, who is photographing her from the front, in profile and from the back.

First in a bikini, then wearing a long colourful dress. She dives into Pamukkale's pools, while her boyfriend, out of the water, with his face and skin reddened, responds to his partner's demands - despite the temperature of over 30 degrees in Pamukkale.

I access these fantastic pools via the entrance closest to the town, as it's the place opposite the busloads of tourists arrive: invariably of Asian or Russian origin, but also Americans.

The night before, I had gone to the gate to find out the opening hours of Pamukkale, but I was quickly dispatched by the security guard on duty.

I was (too) busy talking on the phone to pay attention, so I didn't realise - until the next day - that the north gate had a different timetable - it opened at 6.30am, while the gate I was at didn't open until 8.00am. And so, when I entered Pamukkale, hundreds of people had already arrived at around 8.30am.

I climbed, step by step, over rough terrain, hard and bumpy, even tortuous. And, as the rules of access dictate, you can only get to Pamukkale with the shoes you came into the world with - the skin of your feet. I discover that the meaning of Pamukkale is "Cotton Castle". This prohibition has a good reason behind it: shoes have been banned to prevent damage to this World Heritage Site (inscribed in 1988).

I did the research, but the schedules change regularly and everything, sometimes in Turkey, seems to open when it opens and close when it closes.

On one of the following days, not even the security guards knew that on public holidays in Turkey — during Eid al-Fitr, the Muslim celebration marking the end of Ramadan fasting — the site would be closed until 1:00 PM. Faced with this, I comfort myself with my ignorance about Pamukkale’s opening hours.

Pamukkale stretches for several kilometres. On one side, cultivated plains, some already dried out by the hot mid-season sun. On the other side, high mountains where the peaks still preserve pieces of more resistant snow. In between, medium-sized hills, like overlapping mushrooms, before the view reaches the buildings of the city of Denizli, the provincial capital of the Aegean region, at the foot of the mountain.

I hide from the suffocating sun in the shade of a sculpted, giant limestone wall, while hundreds or even thousands parade along the white walkway of Pamukkale.

Around 5,000 people visit this magnificent place, repeating this ritual: going down to the first pools, concentrating for a few minutes until they have satisfied all the poses and false smiles and then leaving 15 minutes later for any other place that the tour guides point out to them.

It's a mountain of people. From a distance or seen from hot air balloons (with the sound of which I woke up that morning in Pamukkale) they might look like ants on a mountain of salt.

This self-centred, "instagrammatic" generation even seems to ignore the unique beauty of where it is. One of the visitors expresses his displeasure at this generational individualism. His T-shirt reads "FCUK your selfie" across his chest. In the early days of social media, travellers took pictures of the places they passed through to show their friends.

Now they photograph themselves to show their friends, perhaps at family gatherings, swiping photo after photo with their finger on their mobile phone. Perhaps with these images you could play the game that was popular in cafés all over the country years ago, "Spot the differences". It's easy to get blinded by Pamukkale's white colour and ignore everything that surrounds this magnificent place.

"Pamukkale is sunset, Cappadocia is sunrise," says the man who manages the hotel where I stayed on this trip from Portugal to Macau. A former tour guide himself, he gave me these tips. I know it's true, but that's the only, or almost the only, way to get peace and quiet in Pamukkale, to appreciate what nature has created and man has transformed.

My thoughts and vision oscillate between the white of Pamukkale, the gold of the hills and flat fields and the brown of the mountains. I move away from the crowds and travel kilometres to see every corner of this very special place.

I also visit the archaeological sites of the ancient city of Hierapolis. The beauty of Pamukkale is disputed from every angle. In locoin the distance, from the air.

Sharing this awe-inspiring beauty with thousands of other visitors is the only drawback, so I'm the last to leave Pamukkale, 12 hours later, with sore feet from all the walking. I leave with my soul full, in the light of the stars, the huge spotlights and a mobile lantern.

Slowly, I'm leaving behind this so-called cotton castle. Although I missed the sunrise, I was treated to one of the best sunsets I've ever seen. I felt the peace that Pamukkale radiates, accompanied by some light, the constant sound of water running over the limestone as it slowly creates new shapes.

I say goodbye to security. I'm the last to leave the Pamukkale site, but next time I'd like to be the first... to arrive.

From Portugal to Macau - chronicle #8

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