harika

lush

2012-01-24T21:45:00.000+02:00

the mighty mekong

2012-01-24T21:31:00.000+02:00

From the Tibetan plateau to the South China Sea, the mighty Mekong snakes its way through China, Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. It happens to be the world's 10th largest river— and my goodness...
it is beautiful.

toward the mekong

2012-01-23T21:54:00.003+02:00

As I only had four days to myself in Vietnam, and being that the country is over 3,000 kilometres long— oh, and add to the mix my very thin wallet, opportunities to explore were rather limited. I had long held wild fantasies in my mind of the Mekong Delta— lush greens, snaking tributaries, long-legged birds— it seemed like an obvious place to set myself towards, being that it was only a few hours from Saigon. I and S suggested I spend two days and a night in the Delta, and satisfy my wandering urge with some boat tours. A marvellous idea, I thought, so I threw my sketchbook, drawing utensils, toothbrushing supplies and underwear into my pack, hopped on an early morning bus towards the mighty river.

colours of saigon

2012-01-22T10:53:00.000+02:00

bến thành market

2012-01-21T19:16:00.000+02:00

compassion + contrast

2012-01-20T21:04:00.002+02:00

While still in Nha Trang, the planets seemed to align— I found myself sharing a dinner table one night with I and S, who live in Ho Chi Minh City. After some chatting and heaps of laughter, they offered to house me in the city when I came through. I was stunned— who was I, after all? Their kindness and generosity are a reminder that there are open-hearted, thoughtful people in the world. I mention this, because I feel that people can so easily slide into cynicism and suspicion, and while there are plenty of reasons to justify those feelings, we must not forget that the world is full of wonderful, caring people.

I left the quiet, green sea for a mayhem of motorbikes— green hills, for grey asphalt.
Family, for new friends.

Wild birds in the jungle, for hens in flowerpots and scooters...

quiet white

2012-01-18T20:06:00.000+02:00

A 79 foot Buddha watches over Nha Trang from atop a hill at the Long Sơn Pagoda, which is dedicated to the monks and nuns who lost their lives protesting the Diem regime. It is a sombre place— the quiet filled me with unease.

earth, and the palest of blues

2012-01-16T07:31:00.001+02:00

thank you, the kathmandu post!

2012-01-15T21:07:00.003+02:00

My dear friend Pema sent me a scan of my page in the The Kathmandu Post this weekend— and wow, I am speechless. It's so beautiful! Thank you so much, The Kathmandu Post! I am truly honoured.

ladies of the market

2012-01-15T10:15:00.001+02:00

nha trang

2012-01-14T22:29:00.000+02:00

I just love the blue fishing boats.

the invasion

2012-01-14T18:04:00.000+02:00

On my parents' deck at their house this autumn, a plan was concocted between my dad and his friend. Both men would take their families to Vietnam for the holidays, and it would be incredible. When this plan was hatched, I was in disbelief, as my parents often discuss flying to some far-off land as a family for the holidays, and until I found myself riding a bus to the airport, I hadn't actually taken them seriously. Suddenly, there we were: aboard a 12 hour flight to Ho Chi Minh City, my parents and sister at the front of the plane, and me in the back, with a German woman's feet dangerously close to my tray table. My other sister Natasha was flying in from Dubai with her boyfriend to join us in the next few days, and my dad's friend and his family were arriving about the same time we were. In total, we were ten, and it seemed like our loud, jovial group took over the beach, jungle, and restaurant of the resort where we stayed.

It was quite fun!

dhanyabad!

2012-01-14T12:04:00.000+02:00

Thank you to the The Kathmandu Post for publishing a selection of my sketches this weekend! I am so deeply honoured. To my Kathmandu friends, please pick up a copy of the weekend edition— and once more, thank you Ayushma for brightening my week!

I'll be posting a scan of the paper once I receive copies— I'm thrilled!

green water, grey sky

2012-01-08T08:57:00.001+02:00

my new friend

2012-01-08T08:38:00.000+02:00

the sound of the sea

2012-01-07T14:19:00.001+02:00

After rescuing my bag from a near solo-trip to Finland, I came home to Istanbul this frigid morning to discover my apartment had transformed itself into an icebox. No electricity, no heat, no hot water. I decided to visit my mum— she's got coffee and a hot shower, which I so desperately need. Having travelled for thirteen or fourteen hours, and after fiercely negotiating with an apathetic man muttering into a walkie-talkie, to please just have one more look for my missing bag, I am ready to crawl into a bed. My body is sore and my mind is dull, but I have these lovely pictures to remind me of pretty days in the warmth, when the sound of the sea washed away worry, and the act of getting from Ho Chi Minh City to Istanbul was a very distant thought.

I'll write more when I locate my brain, which I suspect is somewhere over Pakistan.

greetings from the south china sea

2011-12-31T06:11:00.000+02:00

Have a Harika New Year, my friends!
See you in 2012

xin chao!

2011-12-24T12:39:00.002+02:00

Xin Chao from Vietnam! I'm wrapped tightly in my blue scarf, hiding from the fierce winds tearing at the trees in Nha Trang. I wish you all a very happy holiday and hope you are enjoying time with your loved ones. If I can manage to upload photos from my sister's iPad, I may be able to post some pictures at some point during the trip, but we'll see. Happy Holidays!

taking a turkish bath

2011-12-22T16:03:00.003+02:00

Before I hop on a plane to Vietnam, I thought I'd leave you with a little story— a story of a crisp Istanbul night, a night of bizarre luck and nudity.

After a busy couple of weeks which knotted my muscles into burls, my friend Gabby and I decided we were desperately in need of a very Turkish cure for many woes— the hamam. The hamam is the famed Turkish bath, which strikes fear into many a foreign heart, and conjures up images of bizarre rituals involving pain and sweaty, moustachioed men named Mustafa.

Gabby and I met for a pre-hamam kahve and debated which hamam we should go to. There are Turkish baths hidden all over Istanbul, the most famous being the old Çemberlitaş Hamamı and Cağaloğlu Hamamı in Sultanahmet. Since Çemberlitaş has a hot pool, and the thought of soaking to our necks in hot water made our cold toes wiggle with delight in our boots, we settled on the extra tram stop to Çemberlitaş. As we got off the tram, we noticed the front of the hamam was unusually brightly lit, with people hovering about— apparently something was being filmed, and the bath was closed for two days. Of all the nights!

Shrugging our shoulders, we headed to the smaller and quieter Cağaloğlu. The last hamam built in the Ottoman Empire, Cağaloğlu is far more intimate than Çemberlitaş, which can be overrun with tourists, and feel a little impersonal. We were greeted with kindness, handed our own exfoliating kese mitt, and shown to the women's camegah, an entrance room with small changing rooms on its perimeter. We came armed with little sketchbooks and a supply of tools (as Gabby is also a sketcher), with the intent to sketch this cherished of Turkish culture. After stripping down and wrapping ourselves with thin, cotton peştemal towels, we slid our aching feet into wooden sandals and sheepishly asked one of the hamam attendants if we could draw inside the hamam. I tried to explain we were artists, and merely wanted to draw the architecture, but no, we could not, as it was very private. So we returned our sketching gear to our changing rooms, locked them up, and click-clacked into the sıcaklık, or hot room. The sıcaklık is where all the action happens; this is where your muscles get pummelled into submission, and you sweat out everything your poor body has absorbed over the past few weeks or so.

In the centre of the steamy room stands a large, heated marble slab called a göbek taşı, where fellow bathers are stretched out in the nude upon their unwrapped peştemals, being worked into putty by their attendants. Ladies, please note that your attendant must always, always be female— and you should double check to ensure that there is a women's section of the hamam or a 'ladies only' day. This is a different culture; men and women do not bathe together here— in public, at least.

While you wait for your attendant to prepare her fingers for the delicious torture she is about to inflict upon you, you have a seat in one of the little alcoves with a marble sink to sweat a little. Here you can relax, and pour some hot or cold water on yourself before you hear the inevitable "Lady! COME." Your attendant beckons to an empty spot on the slab, and then either gently or violently, pulls the peştemal off you, spreading it out on the hot marble. She motions for you to lie down, demands the kese mitt from you, and goes to fill up a silver bowl with warm water. Once soaked, the scrubbing begins. This can either be exquisite or your worst nightmare, if you have sensitive skin, and within minutes, grey ribbons of dead skin come rubbing off your body. Gülistan, my attendant, took pleasure in taking my hand and rubbing it on my belly to show me all the dead skin she successfully sloughed off. We chatted about where I was from, how long I've been in Turkey, and how my Turkish wasn't so bad (she was being kind), while she scrubbed and rinsed, then reached for the soap.

This is my favourite part of the whole experience— the earthy, citrusy soap foam that is lathered from chin to toe and massaged into every muscle— even between your toes! I looked for Gabby, to see how she was doing, but couldn't see her past the bubbles. Gülistan had the most magical fingers and thumbs, and worked out all the stress from parts of my body I didn't even know were tight. After the soapy massage, she led me to a marble sink, where she splashed cold, then hot water on me, and commanded me to sit down for a hair wash. I felt like a doll. Head rubbed, hair scented with coconut shampoo. Heavenly!

Gabby and I reconvened in the nude by the sinks, to gush over our experiences. After a little while, we exited the sıcaklık, wrapped our happy bodies in some fresh towels, and grabbed our sketching gear from our rooms in the camegah. We sat on red velvet stools and began to draw— if we couldn't draw inside the hamam, we'd at least draw each other.

behind istanbul

2011-12-21T13:30:00.000+02:00

I had accidentally deleted these photographs off my camera a couple of weeks ago, and was irritated with myself for not having downloaded them to my computer. As it turns out, I had downloaded them after all— and I'm happy to share with you some impressions of a dark, winter afternoon on the roads behind Istanbul— something you are not likely to see on your visit to this wonderful city.

hüzün

2011-12-19T02:47:00.000+02:00

Hüzün is one of those delightfully untranslatable words— a Turkish word which is closest to its English sister, melancholy. But it's more than melancholy; in Sufi philosophy, hüzün is a spiritual anguish from the distance felt between oneself and god. It's a sense of longing, perhaps for something we are not exactly sure of. This collective yearning can mostly be felt during the winter, when the skies turn dark over Istanbul, the colour vanishes from people's clothes and faces, and everything sort of moans onward. People are quieter, and seem to breathe at a much slower, greyer pace. It's a poetic suffering, permission to feel deeper, to ache.

naturhistorisches museum wien

2011-12-18T20:56:00.001+02:00

I could have easily spent every hour of every day of my trip to Vienna sketching in the Naturhistorisches Museum. Oh what a marvellous place! If you need photographic proof of its wondrousness, click here.

a barely planned adventure

2011-12-18T15:21:00.001+02:00

Well my friends, next week I'm off to Vietnam, where I'll be welcoming 2012 with a steaming bowl of phở. I can hardly believe it— Vietnam has been on my list for years, and I must admit that though I've long wanted to visit, I've barely planned what I'm going to do once I get there! I really have no idea. I just want to eat, eat, eat, take a train and draw. That's it. So we'll see. I'm starting to build my art supply kit...

...and here come the sketches!

2011-12-17T13:57:00.001+02:00

here comes the food

2011-12-16T20:03:00.000+02:00

Living in a relatively pork-free country makes one do funny things when travelling abroad. You find yourself sniffing out bacon like a bloodhound and salivating salaciously over sausages. In Vienna, where sausages lurk in stands around every fourth corner, I was pulled like a helpless puppet toward the scent of smoky pork and grease. I somehow ended up ordering myself a tasty beer and a snack in excellent German to a woman with a grill of wursts (apparently my languages resurrect themselves under the hypnotic groans of my belly), and sat down at a picnic table in front of a church to dine. At the end of my table sat an old sailor of a man with a fantastic nose, and a younger fellow with wild, cavernous eyes and tattooed fingers. We briefly glared at each other, then went about the business of devouring our wursts. That hot kiss of mustard... the grainy bread... the beer... It seemed a sin to be so fiercely enjoying myself in front of a church.

But let's travel to Bratislava, where I was confronted by a delicious delight— pickled herring with gherkins and onions, served in a jar. I haven't the foggiest what this wondrousness is called, but oh my goodness... sit me in front of a pickled herring, and I'll be the happiest girl on the planet. My Danish roots come joyously springing out through my tastebuds, and I'm instantly grinning from ear to ear, drumming my feet.

After such an immense pleasure, I decided to indulge in a more traditional fare which frankly was, a bit too much for me. I introduce you to Bryndzové Halušky, dainty little potato dumplings swimming in a sheep cheese. I love potato dumplings and I love sheep cheese, so in theory, I should have been as happy as a clam— but this was overkill. Had the serving been a fourth of the size of what was set down in front of me, I think my stomach would not have protested. I'm just not built to handle that much lactose.

Apparently my stomach forgave me somewhere over the Austrian border, because later that same night, I wandered into the Viennese tavern Zu den 2 Lieserln, on Burgasse. Greeted by a dense cloud of cigarette smoke and an ornery, moustachioed older gentleman, I peeked at the dated wood panelling and omnipresence of green, and sensed I was in for something tasty. Sometimes you just know. What I couldn't predict however, was the mastadonic proportions of the tavern's famed wienerschnitzel— which forced an "Oh mein Gott!" from my lips, and a slight chuckle from the man.

The pounded and breaded pork was roughly the size of my head, if it had been flattened. And because I was still under the pork-craze, I got my schnitzel stuffed with ham— oh, and peppers. The crispness of the breading was a wonderful contrast to the tender meat, and the sour, pickled peppers seemed to cut the well, for lack of a better word, porkiness. I took my time, even pausing to sketch my dinner plate, and did my very best to make it through as much of the schnitzel as possible. When I got to that elusive point just before being full, I put the fork and knife aside, and glanced up at the white moustache in the corner. He knew. He was ready with a container for me to carry the rest of my dinner home.

"I really thought I was going to do it!" I grinned.
A short laugh, and a shake of a head was his reponse.

jeg savner dig, morfar

2011-12-15T09:52:00.000+02:00

Jeg elsker dig.

auf wiedersehen, wien!

2011-12-14T14:37:00.000+02:00

three

2011-12-13T10:25:00.000+02:00

Three years ago yesterday, I wrote my first post on Harika. I was sitting on the floor of my empty apartment in San Francisco, hours away from a flight to Istanbul, two bags packed and waiting. Today marks my third year here, and it's hard to believe all the experiences I've had, and all the wonderful people I've met.

So here's to bold decisions.
Here's to accepting the possibility of failure and disaster, and pushing through the fear.
Here's to taking a risk and going after everything you've dreamed of.

Thank you, my friends, for your continued support and kindness over these three years!

oh the many marvellous things

2011-12-12T08:53:00.001+02:00

What a delight to find this sketch of a future exhibit taped up in a vitrine!
Reminds me of someone...

hello, venus

2011-12-11T11:00:00.001+02:00

The auditorium was dark, and the white-headed professor was droning on and on about something my sleep deprived brain struggled to retain. I hung my head back to stare at the ceiling, trying to recall the bizarre dream I started to have last night, when my thought, like the dream, was interrupted. The slide had clicked to reveal a wonderfully rounded form— the very definition of round. A woman, head bowed, with enormous, pendulous breasts resting on a pillow of belly and hip. I was mesmerised.

The Venus of Willendorf.

I was obsessed. I drew her thighs and rolls in the corners of my art history and philosophy papers. I memorised her curves. This 25,000 year old Paleolithic statuette enchanted me. I daydreamed of the moment she was discovered in the earth, of her voluptuous little body being carved by ancient hands and gazed upon by ancient eyes... and I dreamt of tracing the shapes of her shadows with my own eyes.

Fifteen years later, I found myself standing before her, breath stilled in my body.
I pulled out my sketchbook and pen, and drew by the light which bounced off her breasts.

I am so lucky, indeed.

oh my thunderous heart!

2011-12-10T21:47:00.001+02:00

Why on earth I did not spend every single day wandering through the ornate halls of Vienna's Naturhistorisches Museum is beyond me. It stands alongside The de Young in San Francisco, the Isabella Stewart Gardner in Boston, and the Nationalmuseet in Copenhagen, as one of my favourite museums. Oh wait— there is the Van Gogh Museum and...

But let's get back to Vienna. My goodness... this gem has everything a girl could want in a museum! Light! Elegant, gilded moulding! Fossils! Meteorites! Dinosaurs!

And then, there was the bird room...

Just look at all those corvids!

Can you believe such beings exist? I spent over two and a half hours sketching and gawking wide-eyed at everything within my sight. I was in love with the birds— to see elegant, feathered creatures I've only dreamed of (though stuffed), was such a thrill— to be able now, to better understand their size, colour and shapes...

But there was one thing— one little thing, which made my heart roar with excitement...
She deserves a post of her own.

der zustand liebe

2011-12-09T22:02:00.001+02:00

gorgeous grotesque

2011-12-05T23:57:00.001+02:00

beautiful bratislava

2011-12-05T22:09:00.001+02:00

what can you do with an hour?

2011-12-05T16:46:00.001+02:00

Why, you can take a train to Slovakia and begin to explore its marvellous capital, Bratislava!

flesh into stone

2011-12-04T16:38:00.001+02:00

Muscles, flesh, and ribs, conquering heroes and goddesses...
One imagines their chests expand with inhalations at night.

anatomicalesque

2011-12-03T23:00:00.001+02:00

Down in the belly of the Leopold Museum in Vienna, I discovered an artist I had never heard of— Hermann Nitsch. Nitsch is an Austrian artist best known for his controversial and often gorey multimedia and performance pieces, which explore ritual, religion and violence. Playing on screens in the gallery space, these bloody pieces were quite compelling (and a little nauseating), but what really caught my attention were his enormous, layered, anatomical drawings, which reminded me of the Lubos Plny exhibit I came across last year in Istanbul, with the layers of organs, lines and red. As you know, I go weak in the knees for a beautiful line, and my heart flutters for anatomical drawings and sculpture (once upon a time, I nearly entered the world of science and medicine), so Hermann Nitsch really spoke to me.

Just look at those layers of lines!

an untold story

2011-12-03T08:00:00.000+02:00

I seem to have misplaced the envelope upon which I scrawled the artists' names... I remember it was in brown ink (the last image is Sleepless, by Paul Nestlang). Unimpressed by much of the work in The Excitement Continues exhibit at the Leopold Museum, these beautiful three really stood out and grabbed me— and don't you think they tell a story when placed together like this?

schiele's hands

2011-12-02T20:58:00.000+02:00

There's a feeling you get inside when you stand in front of the work of an admired artist, and are finally able to examine the brushstrokes and smudges, the weight of a line, and the changes in direction in a bleed of colour. I have long been pulled toward the often grotesque, distorted figures of Egon Schiele, and as I stood in front of the Leopold Museum in Vienna, the cold reddening my nose, I felt a tremor in my chest, knowing that what I had studied in awe from books, would at last be a breath's distance away.

I felt submerged in a dark sea, muddy-coloured fish surrounding me, with piercing eyes— their elongated skeletal forms, twisting and coiling, erotic and disturbing. What captured me most were their hands— stretched, knobby-knuckled fingers like tree branches, so expressive, so real. The entire painting, held in these hands.

...now, where was i?

2011-11-26T12:14:00.001+02:00

...and I'm back! Apologies for the absence, but things just got way too busy here in Istanbul, and the cherry on top was a nasty flu. I flew back from Vienna into a maelstrom of work, and somehow, as usual, made it through to the other side. So this week, my friends, we shall travel back in time to Vienna, as I have some lovely photos and sketches to share with you. Right now I have to do some much-needed errand running (it always seems when you are sick, that the world moves double-speed past you while you are in bed, and you have to run twice as fast to catch up to it). Off to the post office, the market, and a coffeeshop!

absence

2011-11-21T21:30:00.000+02:00

My friends, I promise I will soon return— life has suddenly gotten very, very busy.
I have so much to share.
Until then...

and the winner is...

2011-11-10T23:22:00.001+02:00

Congratulations, Susan McCurry! You have won an original sketch from my trip to Vienna— which I will post as soon as I can get it scanned... I just wanted to let you know that your name was selected from the fancy hat.
Stay tuned!

And you were all right, Austria is bordered by eight countries, not seven— Liechtenstein!
Gets me every time.

the mumok

2011-11-10T09:43:00.000+02:00

Often what I define as art does not coincide with what is hung on the walls of galleries and museums.
That being said, there were some pieces I enjoyed at Vienna's modern art museum, the MUMOK.
I found myself more drawn to the stark contrast of the gallery attendants' black against the whiteness of the space. Little drops of ink...

the pretty type

2011-11-09T13:17:00.000+02:00

Beautiful typography can be found wherever you turn your head in Vienna. Among the twisted statues of bare-breasted nymphs and muscled heroes, lie the most delightful serifs and swashes. The pretty ornaments in the last sign caused such a distraction, that I actually fell off a step, contorting my ankle beyond its limit, which resulted in a terrible insult to an old injury. A previously torn ligament (nearly two years ago) screamed at me, making for a very painful limp around old Vienna. Ah, typography!

guten abend!

2011-11-08T23:28:00.000+02:00

I've just returned from exploring the lovely, pristine streets of Vienna! Many of you have correctly guessed my mystery destination for the Win a Sketch competition, which means there will be a lot of names to toss into my fancy hat to draw from. I'll be selecting the winner Thursday evening, so stay tuned! Naturally, there will be plenty of photos, stories and sketches to follow— oh! and a surprise destination...

hallo, wie gehts?

2011-11-05T20:39:00.000+02:00

I have arrived...

sketches with sketchers

2011-11-04T11:05:00.000+02:00

Now that the Italian Sketchers have returned home, life in Istanbul has returned to its October grey. I was delighted to be around fellow sketchers again, as it can be quite isolating and demotivating in Istanbul, having failed at finding other sketchers who will actually show up when you invite them to draw with you. We visited my favourite tea garden, the Firuzağa Çaybahçesi, we wandered around the colourful, crumbling streets of Balat, and we sketched the B. Arda, much to the bafflement of the boat's owner, Bülent, who was working intensely on something metallic aboard the boat. We gathered a crowd of curious fishermen and passerbys, who praised us with many a "Vaaayyy!" and "Çok güzel!" and "Harika," some trying to snap pictures of us with their phones. After some time, Bülent came ashore to offer us grapes, on a small porcelain platter.

Sketching the B. Arda.

I think I need to look into airfare to Rome!

art and laughter

2011-11-01T23:07:00.001+02:00

Wandering around Istanbul with nine Italian sketchers for a weekend results in abdomens sore from laughter, tired feet, icicle fingers which struggle to hold pens and brushes, and one big, happiness. There is so much to say, so much I want to share about the last few days, but I am struggling to find the words. We feasted, we clinked glasses, we explored, we invented jokes, and we drew.

I am eternally grateful to Urban Sketchers for connecting me with so many wonderful people over the past three years. Grazie, Italian Sketchers— I'll see you in Rome one day!

Art and laughter.
You couldn't ask for much more.

Stay tuned for the sketches!

colour among the grey

2011-10-30T01:42:00.000+03:00

October brings grey. Grey skies, grey water, grey faces.
It is essential to find the colour among the grey— if you want to make it through what's to come.

happy republic day!

2011-10-29T22:41:00.000+03:00

Eighty-eight years ago today, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk declared Turkey a Republic, officially dissolving the Ottoman Empire. Happy Cumhuriyet Bayramı, Turkey!

hello, scanner

2011-10-26T22:14:00.000+03:00

Here are the first three spreads of my entry for The Sketchbook Project 2012, brought to you by my new scanner! The excitement I feel to have my very own scanner again is beyond words— just look at that colour and resolution! It's like looking at the actual drawings! I can't stop using exclamation points!

The theme I selected for this year is Travel with Me, which I have taken a less direct interpretation of. In this book, you will travel into the recesses of my heart— into my memories, thoughts, and emotions. I do hope you enjoy it.

While I get cracking on the next spreads, feel free to check out my entry for last year's project, Boys and Girl.

earthquake in van

2011-10-24T18:14:00.001+03:00

I am deeply saddened by the news of yesterday's earthquake in Van, in Eastern Turkey.
My thoughts are with the people of Van, and all those affected by the devastation.
Geçmis olsun herkese.

marmara's mouth

2011-10-23T22:09:00.000+03:00

Running some errands in Asia today.

look on the bright side

2011-10-22T20:36:00.000+03:00

Yesterday, as I was walking into my cold little apartment (winter has wrapped her long fingers around our greying city, and I have yet to figure out how my heating system works), I was thinking to myself while switching on the hallway light, "I'm so thankful to have electricity."

Not 10 minutes later, as if on cue, I found myself in pitch black. Yes, the electricity had gone out. I fumbled for a lighter and a fat candle, and had a good laugh. This was reminiscent of the time when in the shower, I thought to myself how grateful I was to have good water pressure, only to find the very next day that my shower hose had busted. If there ever were a divine force of mischief, I do believe he or she would live in Istanbul.

Istanbul, Istanbul. I know that on Harika, I focus on the bright side of living in Istanbul, frankly because I feel that the positives far outweigh any negatives— and who the hell needs or wants to hear anyone else's whining? My life has been a series of international moves, of learning to adapt, and to appreciate different cultures and ways of living. I love this; I love all the differences that exist in everything between the concept of personal space, to how bank tellers behave. The differences make this world a fascinating and colourful place. I am not trying to paint a rosier picture of life here, I truly love living in this city— even when the power goes out, or I am stuck in two hours of traffic. Ok, maybe I don't love the traffic so much.

This brings me to something that has been irking me for some time. Every once and I while, I stumble upon an expat blog which starts a boiling inside me. I will never consider myself an expat— I actually despise the term if used in reference to me (I have nothing against actual expats). I am a patriot of no nation; I am a nomad. Every land is my land, and I both belong to and am foreign to every soil I step on.

Often, these expat blogs will share the wonders of discovery and differences, and offer insight into such a challenging and wonderful lifestyle. Leaving your home and attempting to make a new home in a new culture is not easy— there isn't an experience quite like it. To do it successfully, you have to have an open mind, and an open heart. Many expat blogs are wonderful examples of open people celebrating adaptation and lessons learned, and these are the ones I enjoy reading. However, I have come across quite a few blogs which are nothing but tirades of endless complaints. I understand that not everyone is going to like it here, but is it necessary to rip apart something that is just different? So people bump into you on the street— the concept of personal space on the street does not exist here. So people stare— staring is not considered rude here. So your bakkal doesn't sell artichokes out of season, or the peanut butter sucks— get creative and try making your own. So you got a little ripped off today at the market— perhaps you should have learned a little more Turkish in order to get a better bargain. I grew up around expats. Some fully embraced the local culture, and others isolated themselves from the country they lived in, only interacting with people from their homeland, only looking for products they were familiar with, and shying away from anything "foreign", when in fact, they were foreign.

So to those expats I say: please dive fearlessly into the culture you are in, and stop complaining. Negativity only creates more negativity. Istanbul will never be Dallas, Toronto, Sydney or anywhere else. Istanbul is, and will always be Istanbul, and there is a reason why people have flocked here for centuries. There is nowhere on this planet like Istanbul, nowhere like Turkey— just look at that Bosphorus!

When I peeked out the window this morning, I found a big hole in the street, which no doubt has a connection to the darkness in my apartment. As I turned to look at the other windows across the way, some veiled with lace, some crammed with plants, I met the eyes of a young woman behind one of those curtains, who I had never seen before. She pulled the curtain aside to show her face, and smiled.

Wherever you live in the world, you will encounter a degree of hardship, and there will always be challenges.
If you focus on the big, ugly hole in the street, you'll never see that smile.

from asia to europe

2011-10-19T08:51:00.000+03:00

Crossing the Bosphorus Bridge during the 33rd Intercontinental Eurasian Marathon.

the 33rd intercontinental eurasian marathon

2011-10-16T19:27:00.000+03:00

Twelve degrees and wet— not optimal for the 33rd Intercontinental Eurasian Marathon, in which runners and walkers have the unique opportunity to cross the Bosphorus bridge, from Asia to Europe. Buses on the European side picked excited participants up in Europe at around 7:10, and drove us to Asia, where we huddled together to wait for the start. Not being a runner (only if my life depends on it!), I took part in the 8k Fun Run, which began at 9:30.

I was lucky to come across this lovely scene on the bridge— fortunately, she said yes.
Proposing on a bridge may not be the wisest decision if you are rejected!

A European welcome.

I sketched while I walked, until the rain got so bad that I had to put away my sketchbook and pens. Red-nosed, with numb fingers, I walked the rest of the way home from the finish line. Walking and sketching from Asia to Europe only took me about an hour and a half; which surprised me. When I got home, I immediately peeled off my soaked clothes, ate a baked potato and crawled into my nice, warm bed for a nap.

Stay tuned for more pictures and the sketches.
Speaking of sketches, don't forget to enter the Win a Sketch competition!

win a sketch!

2011-10-15T22:35:00.001+03:00

With a massive sigh of some sort of sadness but no regret, I'm going with my gut and passing on Cairo. But! Being the travel-hungry girl that I am, I've already booked a ticket and room elsewhere. This city could not be further from Cairo in culture, climate, and cuisine.

I've decided to try something new here. I'm going to have a contest. Guess where I'm off to next, and you could win an original sketch from my little adventure. When I think of this city, I inevitably see images of violins, harpsichords, and powdered wigs in my mind. I've somehow never been to this fine nation, though I've been to five of the seven countries which surround it— two of which I have blogged about on Harika. I'll be needing a very warm coat, a hat, a scarf and gloves, as November there is quite cold. Thankfully, the plane ride is merely a hop from Istanbul.

If you can correctly guess the city where I am headed to in about two weeks, comment on this post with your answer and I'll put your name in one of my stylish hats, along with the names of other correct guessers. On November 9th, I'll draw the winner's name.

Good luck!

summer in sketches, part three

2011-10-14T11:52:00.000+03:00

plan b

2011-10-11T20:03:00.001+03:00

Hello, friends.

Well it looks as though my plans to zip off to Cairo in early November will not come to fruition. I am wary of what seems to be an escalating violence in Cairo, and though I have a ticket bought and paid for, I am seriously considering flying off to a calmer city, elsewhere. I was really excited to return to one of my former homes, to smell the Sahara and see the tips of those pyramids rising above the curved blue spine of the Nile. I spent the last three years of high school in Egypt and have not been back since I left, a skinny, awkward seventeen year old girl. Memories hang in the acacia, the jacaranda, and blow in the dust, which finely coats the city. Cairo has long held a piece of my heart, and I have ached to revisit it.

Another time.

Meanwhile, I've got to think of another place to discover.

summer in sketches, part two

2011-10-08T15:56:00.001+03:00

Part two of my summer sketchbook:
Namo Buddha, Kathmandu, Changu Narayan, Bhaktapur, Boudha

summer in sketches, part one

2011-10-07T15:50:00.000+03:00

Part one of my summer sketchbook:
Brussels, Kathmandu and Dhulikhel.

tea and ruin

2011-10-06T21:34:00.001+03:00

...in Fethiye.

mediterranean flowers

2011-10-04T09:06:00.000+03:00

In the blistering, Mediterranean sun, these ladies were shucking and drying corn for chicken feed.
I love the combination of floral patterns in their clothing— when I think of traditionally-dressed Nepali women, I remember their wild, adventurous exploration of colour. Turkish villagers may not wear flowing scarves of cerulean and magenta, but they do have an appreciation for everything floral. I have noticed a shift in my wardrobe since moving overseas— there are flowers growing in my closet, and I find myself more often in chartreuse, electric pink and turquoise.

The cheerfulness with which these ladies were working was inspiring.
The warmth with which they greeted me was beautiful.

abandoned

2011-10-03T13:23:00.001+03:00

In 1923 the Turkish and Greek governments agreed to a mutual population exchange— Christian Turks of Greek origin living in Turkey were forced to relocate to Greece, and Muslim Greeks of Turkish descent were expelled to Turkey. Families and communities were divided as people were driven out of their homes by their governments to countries they had no ties or connections to, other than ancestry and a common religion. Languages had to be learned, and lives dismantled, had to be reconstructed.

Kayaköy, a village about eight kilometres south of Fethiye, crumbles into the soil; the ruins of a Greek community forced to abandon their homes for a foreign land. Hundreds of stone houses and two churches haunt the hillside, remnants of a massive trauma. Most of the houses remained uninhabited once their owners left— Muslim Turkish neighbours would not move into the empty homes, and an earthquake in 1957 damaged many of the structures.

I am deeply touched by the evidence of human hands, the evidence of lives lived and uprooted. The blue paint on so many interiors, the smooth stones arranged in patterns, the blackened wall from where a stove once provided warmth. It aches to imagine their suffering.

still

2011-10-01T20:47:00.002+03:00

on the farm

2011-10-01T11:08:00.000+03:00

I just returned from four days on an organic farm in Fethiye, acting the chaperone to 45 twelve year-olds. It was great fun, and such a beautiful place. Just before evening, the valley turned golden, deepening the intensity of the red earth. Pomegranate trees, chillies curling in the sun, wailing roosters and Mediterranean warmth— it was lovely. The kids seemed to have a good time, gathering algae in a nearby river, weeding an orchard, and shucking corn. Silly little creatures who make me smile.

breakfast with lama

2011-09-25T13:04:00.001+03:00

Somehow I had missed posting these two images from the summer.
They are among my favourites.

the sketchbook project 2012

2011-09-22T15:32:00.000+03:00

The first rain has fallen since the monsoon of my summer, and I feel comforted, nostalgic. In the chaos of the past three weeks, I have managed carve a little time for myself to draw again. I've rejoined The Sketchbook Project, selected the theme Travel with Me, and have begun working feverishly on my first pages. I was not very pleased with my book last year, so I joined the project a few months earlier in order to spend more time making this book do what I hope it will.

Wish me luck!

inexplicable things

2011-09-19T21:17:00.004+03:00

august twenty-ninth

2011-09-19T07:41:00.000+03:00

I'm glad I spent it with you.

a little update

2011-09-19T07:21:00.002+03:00

Thankfully, everyone at both Shree Mangal Dvip and the monastery have not been affected by the 6.9 magnitude earthquake in Sikkim.

So I've been back in Istanbul for a little over a month now, busy as a bee with oh so many things (as I am sure you've noticed by the long silence on this end). I managed to get into the rhythm of life here a little better, though I miss Nepal. I finally got a cooker and a fridge for my apartment, and I've been cooking dal bhat and burning the Tibetan incense that Lama S.T. and Lama P. gave me, to take me back to summer.

I've even started drawing again.

ways you can help

2011-09-18T16:51:00.002+03:00

If you would like to support Shree Mangal Dvip School for Himalayan Children, please visit their website to learn more about the school, and to find ways you can help. SMD fully depends on their overseas donations, and there are many things the school needs, from running shoes to vitamins, from art supplies to books.

"Our students come from the high mountains of Nepal, from villages that have no electricity, no toilets, no sanitation, no telecommunications, no hospitals, no roads and no schools. Our kids come from villages that are 6 to 14 days' trek from the nearest road, villages that lie above 10,000 feet (3000 m). Getting word to and from the villages sometimes takes months,depending on weather conditions."
—http://www.himalayanchildren.org/

You can help promote literacy by purchasing a book for the library from SMD's Amazon wishlist, or you can make a safe donation to the Himalayan Children Fund through Network for Good, specifying how you would like your money spent, in the "designation" box before check out. Here are just some ideas of what the school needs currently:

Sanitary Products for the girls: $140/month, $1690/year
Running shoes: $100 helps 16 kids, $4000/year (kids play in their bare feet or sometimes share shoes, putting one shoe on their kicking foot for soccer)
Warm winter clothes: $100 helps 15 kids, $3000/year (there is no heating at the school)
Art Supplies and drawing paper: whatever amount you can donate will be of help.

A little goes a long way in Nepal. Please consider making a donation or buying a book for the kids at SMD through Amazon. It's remarkably easy to make someone's life a little better, and my goodness, how compassion and generosity are appreciated.

Thank you, my friends.

belonging

2011-09-17T21:53:00.003+03:00

When I was a little girl, I had dreamed of seeing the Himalaya. I imagined the faces of mountains, sharp and eternal, blues and greys. I planned that one day I would look upon these faces, I would learn their landscape, and meet the people who lived in their shadow.

In 2010, I bought a ticket to Kathmandu with adventure on my mind, and the desire to volunteer at a school, offering whatever I could as far as skills and support to people who might need them. When I arrived at the little brick building that is Tribhuvan International Airport, I had that odd feeling inside that my life was never going to be the same.

The Universe aligned in a most peculiar way to place me at Shree Mangal Dvip School for Himalayan Children (SMD) in Boudha, on the edge of Kathmandu. I was to teach art, as there were no art classes, and there was a group of talented young students hungering to draw. I still remember walking into the dim little classroom for the first time, where I was met with wide eyes and shy smiles, feeling nervous, wondering if I could give them what they needed.

By the time the summer was over, the shy smiles were wide, happy grins and the growth of confidence was tangible in all of us. We talked, we laughed, we drew. Somewhere in the grey, thick monsoon, these kids became my kids, and I felt a pull in my soul to return. I left with a heavy heart, and it took me two weeks to readjust to living in Istanbul again. I scanned the horizon for mountains, I searched for the smiles I missed. I saved every kuruş for seven months to buy my plane ticket back to what I can only call home.

SMD had virtually no art supplies when I arrived in the summer of 2010— we did everything with pencils and A4 copier paper. This year, with the generous help of a 10th grade class at Istanbul International Community School and Güven Sanat art supply store in Kadıköy (who kindly offered me a massive discount, enabling me to purchase even more supplies), I returned to Nepal armed with two suitcases bursting with paints, colour pencils, charcoal and other fun materials.

The smiles that greeted me this June were larger than the ones I remembered from the previous summer— I had come back. So often, volunteers do wonderful work and are never seen again, and though the kids at SMD are accustomed to this, I must believe there is some sense of loss felt. Every single student I had taught in 2010 was waiting for me on the balcony of the cafeteria, where we had determined had the most light, bursting with enthusiasm and anxious to get started. I pulled out a box of charcoal.

"Have you ever used charcoal before?" I asked.

As the summer rolled on with the giant, heavy clouds, we studied proportion, expression, and the figure. With blackened fingers and dark smears of charcoal stretched across damp foreheads, laughter and jokes filled the space we had claimed, and the windows to the cafeteria began to fog with the breath of curious onlookers.

"Samantha, kasto cha?"
"Mo san chai chu." I would pronounce clumsily back.
They taught me Nepali, and I showed them perspective.

We planned an exhibition.

We filled the library with our art, something that had never been done at the school before, and all the children were brought up in groups by their teachers, and they stood on benches and stared, marvelling at their classmates' work.

"Our kids really did all this?" One teacher asked me, as he studied the drawings in awe.

I realised that day in the library, that I belong. I belong to something larger than myself. My life is entwined with the lives of these gorgeous faces, and I have a place that will welcome me as family each time I return. The love I feel is mightier than any mountain.

Thank you, my artists. Thank you, Shirley. Thank you Lama S.T. Thank you Karma Tsering.
We were lucky to have with us this summer the very talented and big-hearted Toby, a young volunteer from Portugal whose artistic skills are beyond measure. Thank you, Toby.

Thank you SMD.

until we meet again

2011-09-04T21:41:00.000+03:00

a last look

2011-09-04T15:05:00.000+03:00

lama dance

2011-08-28T11:26:00.001+03:00

While walking through Boudha one morning, Lama S.T. turned to me and asked, "Have you ever seen a Lama Dance?" With a raised eyebrow and a grin, I declared that I had not.

"Come. We go." He flipped his crimson robe over his shoulder, and quickly dashed off. I struggled to keep up with him, trying to shade us both from the unforgiving sun with my tacky red floral umbrella. We wove through the rush of people and motorbikes to a small alleyway with a modest gompa at the end of it.

"Come."

The dance hadn't started yet, so Lama led me to the shrine room. We kicked off our shoes at the door, and went inside— the coolness on my arms was immediate. Rice had been thrown on the floor and stuck to my bare feet, a wonderful sensation as Lama explained who the golden statues were behind the glass. The fierce eyes of Guru Rinpoche, with his curved moustache followed us from behind that immaculate glass as we moved on to watch the other lamas prepare their costumes for the dance.

Then, it was time.

Whirling colours, crashing cymbals and low, guttural chants washed over me. I studied the faces of the people around me, watching intently as the masked monks swayed and leapt. The overall seriousness was broken by the occasional smile from the young monks and nuns in the audience, who shuffled this way and that, trying to film the dance on their phones and cameras.

"People believe when they watch this dance, their obstacles go away for one year." Lama explained quietly.

"I hope so."

sacred

2011-08-28T03:50:00.001+03:00

saying hello

2011-08-26T18:43:00.000+03:00

Learn how to say hello in the language of the land you are in, and never underestimate the power and infectiousness of a whole-hearted smile.

mysterious

2011-08-24T19:40:00.002+03:00

I was wolfishly devouring a plate of momos at Saturday Café when a jaunty tune wafted up to the terrace and seized my curiosity. I just had to follow the drumming and horns to their source.

I asked everyone I know what this mini-parade was all about, and no one could tell me.
It remains a fantastic mystery.

The mystery has now been solved! Harika reader Kancha, kindly explained in the comments that this is a "Lakhe (Demon's) dance. General belief is that the spirit of Lakhe... reside in that Demonic mask. When the dancer put that mask on, the spirit take over dancer's body and dictate the movement."

colour hunting

2011-08-23T20:47:00.000+03:00

back streets

2011-08-22T20:30:00.001+03:00

the colours of pashupati

2011-08-21T21:17:00.002+03:00

Lying on either side of the sacred Bagmati River, Pashupati is one of Kathmandu's holiest Hindu temple complexes. Cremations are performed on the river banks daily, and I must say, witnessing one certainly makes you ponder impermanence, and the fragility of life. Pashupati is a beautiful but strange place— I'm not sure why, but I felt a distinct unease whilst walking around the complex— a sort of pressure on my nerves. Perhaps it was the closeness of death, or the heavy history of grief that seems to have soaked into the soil, and moves with the trees. When I later mentioned this to Lama S.T. , he merely grinned and nodded his head.

a walk down phulbari road

2011-08-21T17:50:00.001+03:00

bhaktapur

2011-08-20T22:09:00.001+03:00

It was a quiet, clear blue afternoon in Bhaktapur. My skin was slowly changing shades, as I had forgotten my sunscreen, having gotten used to the grey, billowy blanket clouds of Boudha. From around a corner reached a beat and a cacophony of voices, both growing louder and louder until suddenly, I was swept away in a flood of colour and song.

I found an island to watch the crowd from, and was tossed a marigold. I put it in my hair.

And just like that, it was quiet again.

all the pretty details

2011-08-18T22:34:00.000+03:00

changu narayan

2011-08-13T20:07:00.004+03:00

High atop a lush, green hill stands the humble and stunning Changu Narayan Temple. One of the oldest Hindu temples in the Kathmandu Valley, it is believed that Changu Narayan was built in the 4th century to honour the god Vishnu. Any attempt to describe my impressions of this holy, ancient place would fall short of how special it feels. Sheltered by bending, brick buildings, it is near silent, except for the chatter of myna birds and the occasional ringing of a bell— which I was told is meant to alert the gods to the presence of a devotee, wishing to offer a prayer. Curved eyes watch from figures frozen in carved wood, stone and embossed metal, the heavy scent of incense hangs in the air, and offerings of fiery red and magenta pigment mark the foreheads of gods. There is a feeling of a slow, deep pulse that beats from the soil upward, and the world you know, seems ages away.

boudha by night

2011-08-11T16:12:00.000+03:00

Blue sky bleeds into inky black as the faces of buildings turn orange by the light of a hundred butter candles. Sleepy dogs awaken in packs, hoping the butcher will be generous before he closes shop. Cricket and frog melodies compete for air perfumed by night-blooming jasmine and incense. Dark coolness soothes mosquito-bitten skin, which will be feasted upon once more.

swayambhunath

2011-08-11T10:20:00.001+03:00

While I recover from a bit of culture shock and get used to sleeping in my own bed, I thought I'd continue sharing with you some more photos and stories of my trip to Nepal.

These funny little boys were impressed by my sketches and decided to perform a series of Michael Jackson inspired dances for me.

my own monsoon

2011-08-08T12:36:00.000+03:00

I'm sitting in Doha International Airport moping over a cup of coffee, kata around my neck, waiting for my flight to Istanbul. I miss my friends, I miss my kids. I have a family in Kathmandu, I have a home. Saying goodbye to the students was the hardest part of the last three days, and I've been bawling like a baby— having a monsoon of my own. Watching those impossible mountains fade off into the distance ached.

It's going to take me a while to settle back into my life in Istanbul. This parting has been a hard one. Perhaps over the next few days I'll feel up to telling you about it, but right now I feel pretty damn sad. Knowing I'll be returning is an enormous comfort, and really, all I have to do is think of my kids' smiles and I feel instantly better.

I miss you already, my artists— I love you.

laundry

2011-08-05T06:42:00.001+03:00

the microbus to kathmandu

2011-08-04T19:01:00.000+03:00

You bump, shudder and twist your way down the crumbling road at a suicidal speed, staring wide-eyed into the rushing river below, tonguing a prayer that you avoid the sensation of plummeting. To wrestle down your fears, you distract yourself with the lush, emerald beauty of the hills, the swallowing grey clouds, and the wild combinations of colours your fellow passengers chose to wear. You feel like a drab wren among peacocks and parrots.

High-pitched and nasal, a woman's voice uncoils from the staticky radio in a wail, singing something about pyaar and zindagi. Dust, exhaust and sweat blend into a thin coat of sticky brown on your skin, exhausted from the rigorous scratching of mosquito bites. The window offers some relief from the heat, though you often have to cover your face with your faded scarf to avoid breathing in the dark clouds of passing trucks and buses— vehicles adorned with eyes and serpents, Buddhas and Shivas, cryptic messages about having no time for love and claims to being the "Road King."

You shift your legs to get the blood back into them, and scratch another blushing bite.
Four more hours. Could be six.
You smile.

blinding white

2011-08-03T05:51:00.002+03:00

Wandering through the jungle grass, with the constellation of red welts on my legs in a maddening itch, we navigated our way past nonchalant water buffaloes toward the golden spire in the trees. Passang's crimson robe gathering barbed grass seed, our foreheads running, the sweat stinging our eyes. We followed the flash of gold, which appeared then disappeared, like a sun behind passing clouds. It seemed so sudden and unexpected, this blinding white dome, its mathematical perfection contrasting with the wild, twisting trees.
The Japanese Peace Stupa.

We hid in the shade of a nearby café, sipping on cool mango juice and soda, Passang meticulously pulling at the grass seed, which studded his robe. A crane flew silently above, and every so often, the sweet, heady fragrance of gardenias wafted by.

Too hot to eat, I left Passang with the ramen noodles he ordered, to circumambulate the stupa. The silence was thick, the heat of the ground burning its way through the soles of my shoes. A young boy in white called me over to a tamed bush, pointing to an unfortunate frog being swallowed by a snake. His excitement melted into great seriousness.

images of lumbini

2011-08-02T06:19:00.002+03:00

the birthplace of buddha

2011-08-01T20:53:00.002+03:00

It was here in Lumbini, somewhere around the sixth and seventh century BCE, that Queen Maya gave birth to Siddhartha Gautama under a sal tree while grasping a bough for support. The young prince would later be known to the world as The Buddha. Ancient ruins and a stone marker of the very spot where Buddha was born are safely housed within the stoic, white walls of the Maya Devi Temple, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Passang and I followed Acharya K.S. in silent wonder as he recounted the story, explaining the holiness of this site.

I am still at a loss for words.
There's a peace that vibrates in the soil, in the air and in the light here.

the terai in july

2011-08-01T08:53:00.001+03:00

Whenever I travel, I feel a great widening, or inner expansion occurs. The more I experience and grow to understand, the more I realise there is so much more to experience and understand. I feel like I'm unfolding, layer by layer, spreading out, extending little green vines. I believe travelling alone opens you up to deeper personal experiences and allows you to meet people you otherwise never would have met, had you been with a group or travelling partner. You have all the time in the world to have those great, rushing rivers of conversation, to reflect, and turn strangers into friends. You learn to see through different lenses, you learn that there are as many colours in the spectrum as there are thoughts and perspectives in the universe.

I was lucky, so very lucky indeed that Acharya K.S. offered me a ride to Lumbini. He, a young monk named Passang and I climbed into his comfortable, air-conditioned car and began the seven hour journey to the Terai, the southern flatlands of Nepal. We flew down the Prithvi Highway, swerving and twisting around massive hillsides that dropped off into nauseatingly deep valleys. As we weaved past scars of landslides and ramshackle tea stops, I found my thoughts drifting off to last year's roadtrip to Pokhara. The scenery zipping past my eyes had remained unchanged, but an entire year had past, and though my sense of awe and wonder had not diminished, I was being carried in the arms of familiarity.

We arrived in darkness, and though I could not see the landscape, I felt its flatness— as though the heat and humidity had somehow ironed out the hills of the north. The night was heavy and thick, the stillness broken by the whining of mosquitoes. I spent a restless night seized by the heat and a rattling cough, occasionally startling myself awake with a slap to my face in some unconscious attempt to slay the tiny flying terrors who attacked any inch of exposed skin.

The Terai in July.

foggy-headed and gummi-legged

2011-07-27T06:42:00.002+03:00

I just returned from Lumbini yesterday evening, and after the eight or nine hour bumpy, twisty, beautiful microbus ride, I'm still foggy-headed and gummi-legged. I had a great time in Lumbini, and though it was only a few days, it felt like a week. I'm a shade and a half darker and have lost what feels like a kilo from all the sweating— the Terai in July is truly, very hot indeed.

I tell you, the flip of a coin can really point you in wonderful directions.
More stories and pictures to come, once I wake up!

off to lumbini!

2011-07-22T15:16:00.001+03:00

The afternoon burst of rain has soothed the blistering air. I wonder what kind of heat lies in store for me in Lumbini. I have, through the help of my friends at Shree Mangal Dvip, secured a ride down to Lumbini with a very kind and generous monk. I feel quite lucky and grateful. I'll be going unplugged— so I'll see you in a few days time, hopefully with loads of pictures, sketches and stories.

Until then, my friends— namaste!

yellow and pale, pale blue

2011-07-21T15:09:00.002+03:00

"teach us what you know"

2011-07-20T15:46:00.004+03:00

I've been having odd dreams here— it's as if my subconscious is running at a different speed. The night before last I dreamt of a gleaming mountain above the clouds, and that I was walking with a monk in the woods. He told me what my name meant, but as dreams typically tease, I had forgotten what he told me as I awoke.

When Lama S.T. asked if I'd like to go to Namo Buddha with him and some SMD students and staff members, he was barely able to finish the question before my "yes" burst out. My experience at Namo Buddha a few weeks ago had left such a profound impression on me, I was thrilled at the chance to return. I packed my bag full of paper and art supplies with the plan of sketching the exquisite, colourful shrine room which had so deeply moved me.

Heavy, dark clouds threatened a downpour, but graciously kept their rain for our journey. The road to Namo Buddha was as mucky as ever, our jam-packed jeep swerved and spun but proved no match for Lama's cool driving. We bumped and lurched our way through the forest until the familiar golden roofs of the monastery appeared, like a break of sun in the clouds.

Upon arriving, we came across a long line of people in all colours of cloth, waiting for a visit with the free clinic's doctors, whom our own group came to see. While they waited for their check-ups, I was taken by a young monk to the staff room at the monastery school, where I met Lama K.S. After a cup of coffee and a brief chat about where I come from and what I was doing in Nepal, he lead me to his classroom, where a small group of teenage monks were studying Tibetan. As we kicked off our shoes and entered the modest room, Lama pointed to a cushion at the front, indicating my place, and sat down with his students.

"Ok. Teach us what you know." he commanded, with an encouraging smile.

I could feel my face turning red. I was handed a dry-erase marker, which I twisted nervously in my hands, avoiding the blank stare of the white board at my back. Eager eyes and grins surrounded me. I fumbled through an awkward demonstration of one-point linear perspective, realising I wasn't making any sense. I laughed. We laughed. I put down the marker, deciding to show the monks my sketchbooks instead, and sat down on the green cushion, the monks gathering around. As we flipped through every page, I recounted stories of the people and the buildings I had drawn, of what I had been thinking and feeling during each sketch.

"You can draw one of us, then we can learn through watching you." suggested Lama K.S. The monks agreed this was a good idea. After a brief warning about my ability to perform under pressure, I got out my pencil case and displayed my tools, explaining their various uses. I cracked my knuckles, generating laughter.

"Ok. Here we go." More laughter.

I felt surprisingly at ease despite the small crowd around me. I explained my movements, what I was aiming for and my general process. We talked about adding details after mapping out the general shapes. We talked about light and shadow, value and line.

When the 'lesson' was over, Lama K.S. lead me back up the hill to where Lama S.T. and the SMD group were having lunch. A shy breeze rustled through the trees around us. Lama asked my name.

"Samantha, Samantha..." he repeated. "In Sanskrit, it means 'respect'."

the unblinking eyes of buddha

2011-07-19T15:46:00.000+03:00