and now for something completely different

An adventure in southern Turkey, where I spent last weekend sketching with Pedro and a group of Turkish artists— eating the most amazing kebabs, visiting the oldest temple ever found, searching for the Iraqi Babbler on the banks of the Euphrates, and hanging out in a cave.

There are sketches, oh yes, and loads of photos coming your way!

the giant white mule of the sea

Near the edge of a cliff at Cabo Espichel in Sesimbra, stands the stoic Santuário de Nossa Senhora do Cabo, once a sanctuary for pilgrims. A few tourists and a group of geology students were the only other people around, which made the place feel a little less desolate. After wading through clifftop fields of flowers and wild rosemary, this imposing man-made structure made me feel a bit uneasy. There was something in the symmetry and repetition of arches that felt uncomfortable, amid such a natural environment.

Just a stone's throw away, we found a much more charming structure. The onion dome of the Ermida da Memória, or Chapel of Memory, reminded me of a mosque— just add a little minaret and a golden crescent! The chapel's interior tiles illustrate the story of an apparition of the Virgin Mary to two old men in 1410, who both dreamt of the Virgin riding a giant white mule out of the sea, and up the cliff face.



We hopped in the car for a short drive to the next cliff over, where you can see lines of actual footprints across the cliff face. What the men did not realise, was that the impressions in the rock that most likely inspired their dream, were not left by a holy mule, but were the footprints of sauropods from the Upper Jurassic. That's right— dinosaurs!



I had no idea that Portugal is rich with all things dinosaur— tracks and fossils are easily found in the West and the Algarve. This thrilled the eight-year-old within me, and compels me to think a future dinosaur hunting adventure might be in order.

It was at this point, taking the photo above, that my camera started to act a little strange. My trusty Canon G12 would not zoom. I turned it off, then back on. It zoomed, I breathed a sigh of relief, but it refused to let me make any adjustments for light. I clicked it on automatic, which seemed ok, but then it would not focus. Could it be, after only four years? I lamented for the old days, when a camera could be opened up and tinkered with, without having to know anything about all that electronic stuff that cameras are now made of.  I hoped it was a temporary bug, but I suspected my dear camera was preparing to make its exit.

heaven is

The roar of the Atlantic. The smell of wild thyme, rosemary and sea salt. Green hills dotted with violet, blue, magenta, and yellow. Cerulean skies with white wisps of clouds that form elongated fish.



The wind in your hair, the sun on your face. A loved one's laugh.



I'll say it again: Portugal is intoxicating. Now, Spring in Portugal...
My, oh my.

a good omen

A wadi is a dried river bed, which can suddenly transform into a torrential channel of mud and water, flooding villages, and anything in its path. On a good day, wadis are excellent places to explore; to find Desert Wheatears perched on rocks, to chase blue-winged butterflies (whose names I must learn), and to discover the skeletal remains of livestock and their predators.



As I readjusted the found turkey feather I had tucked in my hair, there was a flutter of movement out of the corner of my eye. My heart jumped— could it be? I scanned the rocks ahead of us, and locked eyes with an Arabian red fox. I had secretly hoped to see a fox during this trip, but as soon as I could utter the words to alert Pedro and Gil, it hopped over a small boulder, fluffy tail trailing behind. I'm not superstitious, but this felt like a good omen— a wonderful sight on our last day in Oman.



Ma'a salaama, Oman. Shukran.
I hope we meet again.

camels!

Aren't camels delightful? I just learned an interesting camel fact this week: long before these humped beasts roamed the deserts of Asia and North Africa, their ancestors inhabited the forests of Canada's High Arctic region. Hard to imagine, but you can read more about it on National Geographic's website.

Who knew?

the pearl of nizwa

We had a car with a full tank (you would not believe how inexpensive petrol is in Oman) and a recommendation from Sue to visit the town of Nizwa, known as the Pearl of Islam. Arabic music blasting with the windows rolled down, we rolled past ochre hills of rock and sand, which seemed to burn a slight orange against the blue sky. Date palm plantations and little fortress-shaped shaped houses in pastel colours dotted the valleys, and every so often, a glimpse of a Wheatear or a Brown-necked Raven would incite us to pull out the binoculars.

Nizwa was once the old capital of Oman, and it surrounds a massive fortress which boasts the largest tower in the country, according to the brochure I was given at the entrance. Scholars, poets, and scientists were drawn to Nizwa from as early as the 9th Century— though two of the town's mosques date back to the 7th Century. The smooth sand-coloured walls and graceful scalloped edges of the tower were so beautifully simple, that I wished I had sketched them— but there were still caves to explore and owls to find.



On our way to the tower, we passed a little bookshop with bird calendars, and a proprietor who had a very elegant beard. His eyes were gentle, and once he learned we were keen on discovering the region's feathered beasts, he showed us a variety of guides and books on the subject. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a glittery Omani flag sticker, which I thought the cover of my sketchbook needed. This eventually led to a showing of my book, to which the man repeated a series of mashallahs in appreciation. He took his time leafing through both our sketchbooks, smiling and nodding, then offered us some more stickers, as well as the Omani Bird Calendars from the past three years. I was so touched by his generosity and warmth, that I thought this experience was worth mentioning— it's important to celebrate kindnesses, no matter how big or small.



While Nizwa's historical sites were wonderful to visit, what I'll remember with most fondness is the man in the bookstore. If you ever find yourself in Nizwa, instead of a ridiculously priced souvenir, buy a book on the region from the man within the walls of the citadel— and tell him that the artist from Istanbul says shukran.

searching for omani flavours

From both talking to people and looking around, it seemed as though it would be a challenge to find Omani food in Oman— there were fast food joints, the horrible, ubiquitous American restaurant chains, options from the subcontinent, and lots of shawarma. I theorized that real Omani food was to be found in a real Omani kitchen, and if you can get authenticity at home, why go out for it? Nevertheless, we were determined to find flavours unique to the Arabian peninsula, at the very least.

Consulting the traveller's faithful oracle, Lonely Planet, I had read that beach side vendors in Al Seeb were known to offer squid kebabs. This was all I needed to unfold a map and tell Pedro to head west. We passed through the bustling town centre, and in a minute or two, reached the end of Al Seeb. Nothing seemed to indicate the presence of these squid kebabs— but we passed a dodgy looking restaurant that called to us, promising dubious décor and an unforgettable experience. We hoped it would be the good kind of unforgettable.

Upon entering, it became evident by the stares I received, that a foreign female tourist with her hair uncovered must have been an unusual sight. Nevertheless, we were greeted hospitably by a man in a red, collared t-shirt, from behind a large display of fish on ice. There weren't any squid kebabs, but there was squid in red sauce, and enormous fish and prawns for grilling. We pointed to the smallest fish available, which was a little over half a kilo, and ordered the afore-mentioned prawns and squid.



The dishes arrived with a surprise bowl of mutabbal, bread, and salad— no cutlery in sight. This was going to be a feast truly experienced with all senses. My students in Nepal love to tell me how food tastes better when eaten by hand; that silverware changes the flavours of the food. While I am not sure about that, I definitely prefer eating with my hands— it's certainly more pleasurable. The fish was blackened with mysterious spices— I could only identify the cumin, peppers, and a hint of lime, but it felt like a happy marriage between Arabic and Indian, or Pakistani... Could this be authentic Omani cuisine? The squid was ok, but the hero of the meal for me were those prawns.

Oh my...



Words cannot accurately describe these flavours— oh no. Grilled to perfection, the little bodies were slathered in some kind of curry and lime, with a generous dose of chili. I secretly hoped they did not meet Pedro's fancy, but they surely did. Lucky for me, he is generous, and I got to devour an extra one.

Unforgettable, indeed!

the feeling of being light

I'm not sure what it was about this trip to Oman, but the restlessness and frustration I felt before I stepped off the plane in Muscat, seems to have dissipated. I feel washed clean.

Growing up with a nomadic lifestyle, there's a paradox that becomes apparent during adolescence: you don't belong anywhere, and yet somehow, you belong everywhere. Though this was my first time in Oman, I felt like I had come home. The desert held the same sand I drew pictures in when I was five; it was my sand— and the sea was my sea. Everything was new and yet so familiar, and this wonderful feeling did something to me that I can't quite explain, except to say that I remembered.

I remembered singing ABBA songs with my mother in our little car, on the endless two-lane highway that crossed the desert that was Dubai. I remembered snacking on manaeesh with my father, and taking walks with Uncle Khalil— who would tragically pass away a few years later. I remembered sneaking into my auntie's room with my cousin to secretly sip the holy water contained in a plastic Virgin Mary bottle— and the disappointment that it did not give us superpowers. I remembered bees and bougainvillea, the music of Arabic on my tongue, the smell of salt, and my sister being born. In all of this, I remembered the feeling of being light.



Sometimes, before we know it, we find ourselves digging grooves into the earth with our repetitive movements— commutes and daily chores, paying bills, and other unexciting obligations. I have bored a hole into my living room floor (much like the excavation in Taksim for a new tunnel), where I have been trapped in a pattern that has kept me from making any art. This has been going on for far too long, and the more time that passes, the harder it is to get motivated to do anything about it. I used to call this state of being, The Pea Soup Syndrome. It's essentially stagnation.



And there is something about Oman that is healing.

colours of the fish souq

in the cool blue morning

The air smells of salt and frankincense, and in the cool blue morning, Indian Rollers flash their turquoise and lapis wings, while Rose-ringed Parakeets laugh in a green blur.

the muscat festival

After we indulged in a restorative siesta, Gil came home and suggested we check out the Muscat Festival in Amerat. Since 1998, the Muscat Festival has been celebrating Omani culture in a month-long event which includes both traditional and non-traditional performances, the selling of local handicrafts, as well as demonstrations on how they are made, and of course, food.




We perused the food stalls, which all seemed to offer the same thing: crepe-like pancakes, boiled chickpeas, boiled fava beans, and fried bread— easy fair food. I scanned the row of ladies wrapped in colourful cloths, trying to decide who to buy our chickpeas from. What impressed me was how diverse the ladies looked— all were Omani, but some of their features revealed African roots, while others were clearly Arab. Gil explained that Oman was once a powerful empire which roughly stretched all the way from present day Qatar to Mozambique, a fact that had somehow escaped me. A bit shy to sketch, I found a face with a beautiful smile which I hoped I could at least photograph, and walked over to get our food from her. I greeted her with a timid salaam alaikum, and pulled out the number two in Arabic from my memory, hoping that more words would surface— but they didn't. She grinned, ladled steaming chickpeas into plastic cups, then pointed to some chili powder and looked at me with a raised brow. When I nodded yes, her grin widened and I got an "aywaaaa" of approval.

estuary

In the fading light, one thousand five hundred Glossy Ibis flew to their roost.
It was our best guess, but there was no questioning the magic.