Who needs Sir Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic when you can fly to the Middle-earthly moonscape of Cappadocia at a fraction of the cost? During one frostbitten week in February, Paolo R. Reyes got a close encounter . . . of the Turkish kind

It was a scene straight out of Star Wars, or the sweeping pages of a Tolkien novel—whichever image manages to kindle your imagination.

But for a minute or so, as our bus wearily navigated through the icy, lunar plains of Cappadocia, my tourist-friendly window suddenly became a moving canvas, deftly framing the surreal, Salvador Dalí-like tableau in front of me.

It was hard to put a finger on this place—deep in the dusty, historical heartland of central Turkey—which has lured everyone from Alexander the Great to archeology-minded backpackers to roam its Middle-earthly moonscape: sensuous folds in the soft volcanic rock that have been sculpted by centuries of wind and water.

Maybe it was the fist of snow-clad mountains in the far distance, where one would expect a blond elf—bow slung over his shoulders and gung-ho for battle—to nimbly wade through the wet snow with a hairy-footed hobbit by his side; or it could have been the area’s eerie likeness to Luke Skywalker’s twin-sunned planet, Tatooine, with its sun-baked cliffs, rose-tinted gorges, and ominous cave dwellings.

Whatever it was, on that frostbitten morning in mid-February, Cappadocia’s bizarre terrain of craggy boulders and conical formations made me feel like I had just landed in Mars. That is, if the fourth planet from the sun was inhabited by Muslim mosques, muscular Bactrian camels, and mustached Martians with an appetite for apple tea and shawarma kebabs.

Signs of the troglodyte lifestyle were visible everywhere: cramped living quarters, complex ventilation systems, and kitchens blackened by soot. It was shocking to discover how tenacious these civilizations were in their desire to survive.

Biblical treasure hunters, be warned: anyone caught carrying a 10-foot bullwhip while wearing a fedora and scruffy leather jacket could be easily mistaken for Indiana Jones in this region.

In the height of summer, when sweltering temperatures turn the ancient Anatolian plains arid, it’s easy to imagine yourself riding off into the sunset as John Williams’s rousing score wafts in the background. (You can also trail off in a hot-air balloon, easily arranged by one of Cappadocia’s many ballooning companies, if that better suits your cinematic taste.)

But don’t get carried away. Although there are no sacred tablets or holy grails to speak of, you’ll never run out of honeycombed caves, rock-hewn churches, crumbling castles, and subterranean cities to explore.

Bleary-eyed after an early breakfast—which, in Turkey, usually consists of ekmek (white bread), cucumber, tomatoes, and a block of white cheese—we made our way to the Smurf-like valley of Pasabagi. It was here where we first caught sight of Cappadocia’s famous “fairy chimneys”—phallic, cone-like formations jutting out of the red earth, which owe their existence to volcanic eruptions during the Cenozoic era.

After eons of erosion, they now look like giant mushrooms wearing caps that seem to mock the force of gravity. (Depending on your perspective, they can also resemble oversized chessboard pawns or, more perversely, erect tributes to male virility.)

Many of these fairy chimneys contain man-made caves that were used as homes and hiding places by early Christians who fled from the crimson-stained hands of marauding Romans.

But this peculiar geological freak show—which has drawn huge, gaping crowds from the four corners of the earth—was only a prelude to more otherworldly adventures in store for us.

In the height of summer, when sweltering temperatures turn the ancient Anatolian plains arid, it’s easy to imagine yourself riding off into the sunset as John Williams’ rousing score wafts in the background. 

In the open-air museum of Göreme, a thousand-year-old complex of churches and chapels all carved out of solid volcanic rock, we shuffled through knee-high snow and negotiated the slippery inclines that led to the clammy monastic caves.

The fading Byzantine frescoes within made me momentarily forget it was minus 5 degrees outside, even if my fingers were about to fall off from the stinging draft.

Elaborate and astonishing, these Iconoclastic cave paintings from the 10th and 13th centuries are every religious pilgrim’s wet dream—or Robert Langdon’s, for that matter.

The fictitious professor from The Da Vinci Code would probably go AWOL from Harvard just to scrutinize the cryptic red etchings and symbological murals splattered all over the sand-colored walls.

The yawn-inducing guidebook descriptions I brought along did not do them justice, I thought—you definitely have to see them for yourself and be surprisingly awestruck.

After a filling lunch in Avanos (the former Roman city of Venasa)—where we were served traditional beef stew, stuffed aubergines, and baklava (a sweet phyllo pastry made with chopped nuts and honey) at a space-agey fortress called Uranos—we boarded the bus bound for the underground city of Kaymakli.

With its rolling keystone doors, labyrinthine passageways, and prehistoric booby traps, all your wild Fortress of Doom fantasies can finally be put to rest. Just make sure you don’t suffer from claustrophobia.

It was known as the Grand Canyon of the continent formerly known as Asia Minor, where the forgotten ashes of a million failed invaders have blended into the sun-bleached earth.

This vast subterranean town, which once served as a defensive sanctuary from the conquering Arab tribes that swept across Anatolia, descends eight stories deep.

As we wended our way through its maze-like tunnels, it felt as if I was wandering through a porous sponge, or a very complex Swiss cheese.

Dating back to the 7th century BC, Kaymakli was sufficiently large enough to house a community of thousands. Villagers each had their own access tunnels from their topside properties.

In the most tumultuous times, they sought refuge in this sunless world for several months.

Signs of the troglodyte (cave dweller) lifestyle were visible everywhere: cramped living quarters, complex ventilation systems, communal kitchens blackened by soot, deep water wells, stables, and storage spaces.

It was shocking to discover how tenacious these civilizations were in their desire to survive.

Cappadocia is widely considered to be the Grand Canyon of the continent formerly known as Asia Minor, where the forgotten ashes of a million failed invaders have blended into the sun-bleached earth.

Keen-eyed travelers with a soft spot for the strangeness of nature and the secrets of antiquity will find a tantalizing historical crime scene within its dusty steppes; an alien prairie at the end of the world where they can abandon the realities of the workaday life, pick up their wide-brimmed fedora and bullwhip, and play the dual role of detective and treasure hunter.

It’s the next best thing to intergalactic space travel, some say.

But until a British billionaire by the name of Richard Branson can fly us to the moon, you’ll just have to settle for a $240 balloon ride over the fairy chimneys as you chase the sunrise.