around swayambhunath

past fear, into beauty

Swayambhunath is one of the holiest sites for Tibetan Buddhists, second only to Boudhanath stupa, and is charmingly referred to as "Monkey Temple" for its resident population of rhesus macaques. I have a uh, slight irrational fear of monkeys and apes, and so I must admit I was a little nervous upon entering the ancient religious complex, keeping my eyes peeled for any shifty-looking monkeys. At first I didn't see any, but I knew they were there, hiding in the trees or behind Buddhas... watching.



I suddenly realised I was so busy looking out for monkeys, that I was beginning to miss the beauty around me, so I decided this was going to be the last time I'd be afraid of them. Fear is often so unnecessary, it pulls you out of the present into this bizarre place of your own creation. What was the worst that could happen? The monkey bites me and I have to go get rabies shots? Wondering "what if" was such a distraction, that I made up my mind to stop all the iffing and began to pay attention to my surroundings.



And my oh my, were they gorgeous.

the faces and eyes of patan

shades of brick

After meeting the students at Shree Mangal Dvip School in Boudha, I knew I wanted to stay. As far as Bandipur was concerned, it didn't exist— the light and warmth of the kids at SMD was so powerful, I felt drawn to them and the school. What I believe most people would take for bad luck, I took as a stroke of good fortune; the school in Bandipur I was meant to volunteer at was closed due to the monsoon, which meant I had nowhere to work and live. It was suggested I stay in Boudha and work at SMD for the month, pending the approval of the director, Shirley, who was away on business. While I waited, fingers and toes crossed for the go-ahead, I decided to do a little sight-seeing in Patan.



Patan in Lalitpur is a UNESCO world heritage site, and is most likely the oldest city in Kathmandu Valley, dating back to the second century CE, though legend has it that the city is much older. The architecture is simply stunning— the use of brick gives the ancient city a rich earthy tone, often interrupted by electric blue and deep pink saris, painted window and door frames. Temples curl up into the sky with extraordinary carvings,  flocks of pigeons turn and dive as though one creature through the sandalwood-scented air, while people go about their daily business.

around boudha

awakening into the surreal

Flying into dawn, my head filled with wonder about the month ahead, I was restless in my seat. I was flying into the unknown, with no idea of where I was going and what I'd be doing, who I'd meet and what I'd see. I had no expectations, I just hoped I could be of some help to the school I'd end up at, and that I might be so lucky to see the Himalaya through a break in the monsoon clouds. As the sky turned blue from orange, I peered out the window and there in the distance, I spied what I had dreamt of seeing since I was a little girl— whiter than white peaks, too sharp for clouds, an unfathomable height.

 Red-eyed and wobbly-legged, I made my way through the gauntlet of immigration desks at Kathmandu's Tribhuvan Airport— filling out this paper here, paying that there, getting this stamped with this man, passing it on to the next... I was an hour delayed, and felt bad for the guy who was supposed to be meeting me. The plan was, as far as I knew, that the man who "coordinated" my volunteering, was sending his assistant to take me to a guesthouse for the night in Kathmandu before I headed out to a town called Bandipur, four hours outside of the city. I scanned the tiny crowd of Nepali men outside the airport, and not seeing any signs with my name or anyone with a spark of familiarity in their eyes, I sat down inside the waiting room amongst more men, a handful of whom kept pestering me for a cab ride.

Half an hour later, I texted the coordinator (we'll just call him that), telling him I had arrived and was waiting, asking if everything was all right. After some time, my phone buzzed with a response that someone would be on their way soon. Then my phone refused to send another message— apparently it does not work in Nepal. An hour rolled by, and I chose to sit out the front of the airport to escape the annoying fellows inside it. I made up my mind that I'd hop on one of the vans advertising random guesthouses in the next fifteen minutes, get to wherever they were going, pass out, then upon waking, figure everything out. Suddenly I heard a meek "Samantha?"

Apparently, I had been forgotten, and the assistant sent his cousin to take me to Boudha, on the outskirts of Kathmandu. I think under normal circumstances I'd have been fuming, but I was overtired and numb, and looking forward to crashing in a bed for a few hours. The bumpy ride was full of colour and unfamiliar smells, exciting me for the month ahead— I still couldn't believe I was in Nepal, it felt like a dream... perhaps I was still asleep in Istanbul?

The sky was shockingly blue— as it was monsoon season and I had never been in a monsoon, I had no idea of what kind of weather I'd be getting into. We arrived shortly at Dungkar Guesthouse, right behind one of Kathmandu's most holiest Buddhist sites, the enormous Boudhanath Stupa. I gazed in awe at the glowing white dome, transfixed by the unblinking painted eyes of Buddha. Chanting from a nearby monastery crept into my room, lulling me into a deep sleep.

I awoke to the unfamiliar ringing of my room's phone— the coordinator was stopping in a school nearby, Shree Mangal Dvip, and wondered if I'd like to come along. Naturally, I jumped at the chance. I got dressed and ran to the window just to be sure that I was still where I thought I was— everything had been so surreal, I had to keep checking. There were Buddha's eyes, still staring back at my own, but the colourful webs of prayer flags were now snapping in a new wind, and the sky was boiling with an imposing grey.

This was going to be a month unlike any I have ever experienced.

coming down the mountain

It is wise to come down a mountain slowly, and with such a monumental experience, I feel I need to acclimatise to different emotional altitudes. I feel like a stranger in my own life; my bedroom, my bookshelves and the various objects upon them feel like they belong to some other girl— I stare at them in wonder. I look at my comfortable cloud of a bed and feel my body desire the wooden plank it slept on for a month. After my nice hot shower with real shampoo and scented soap, I don't recognise my smell. The thought of a laptop and a television fills me with unease.

So while I come down my mountain, I hope you will forgive my sparse writing.
I fully intend to post the best of the trip's six hundred photos during the next few days, but words... well they fall short of what I feel inside. This trip has been enormous. I have been moved, touched, unfolded.

a little update

My shoes are finally dry, clothes washed in metallic water are hanging in the bathroom, and my nose is desperately trying to expel the dust hidden inside my head. Life in Kathmandu is slow, rolling on much like the massive, silent monsoon clouds above— though with much more noise. I am heading northwest for a bit of adventure on Tuesday, chasing the white peaks that have so far eluded me. Annapurna and Machhapuchhare, I hope to see you soon.

mirrors

Plans have changed, as they often do in Nepal— the monsoon has prevented me from going to Bandipur, and fortuitously kept me in Kathmandu, where I am volunteering at the Shree Mangal Dvip School for Himalayan Children. The students at SMD are bright, energetic and inspiring, in fact I find it difficult to find an adjective that is adequate for describing how wonderful they are. When the opportunity to volunteer at SMD was presented, I jumped at the chance.

Nights in Kathmandu are a symphony of dog barks, staticky radios, the clinking and tapping from metal workshops, and frogs. Nepali and Tibetan escape unseen lips hidden in the darkness of the city's frequent blackouts. With load-shedding comes the warm flickering of candles, the hum of generators and cries of excitement when the power is restored. Battleship clouds silently creep in and change into a myriad of shapes, threatening to pour and flood, while veiling the mountains that surround us. Mysterious mountains, the Himalaya, home of snow.

I have never had a mirror so clear held to my life, never seen such colour, never seen so much grey. What seemed essential, what seemed enormous, now holds so little weight. What thoughts that floated through my mind like seeds, have landed and begun to root, with the honesty of an open wound, the frankness of a blank page.

Red-robed monks toying with wooden rosaries while circling the stupa, Tibetan ancients prostrating on their bellies in the rain, children playing those same games that transcend geography and culture. The dust in my eyes, on my skin, in my mouth and in my lungs, the smell of chillies, garlic and incense, the sound of a young boy singing something incomprehensible to my foreign ears.

If we carry within us pieces of what we've seen, heard, tasted, smelled and touched, I don't know how I'll walk again. I imagine stacks of suitcases of all sizes, shapes and colours inside me— bursting at the seams and latches with life, and I don't know how I can possibly walk with all this gratitude and joy that I feel.

adventuregirl

I thought I'd leave you with this before I go...
I found it in an old book of photos at my mum's house.

into the monsoon

Well my friends, I'm off to Kathmandu. I'll have limited access to the internet for a month, but if I happen to find myself around a computer with some spare time, I'll be sure to let you know how I'm doing and what I'm up to. I've packed my camera, sketchbook and drawing tools to document the trip— hopefully there will be some breaks in the monsoon rain so I can get a range of images— I suspect I'll have a lot of tea house drawings. I still can't quite believe that I'm actually going to be standing on soil I only dreamt of, breathing in mountains and valleys that seemed so far out of my reach. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'll be volunteering at a school in a town between Kathmandu and Pokhara. I can't wait to meet the students, and I'm looking forward to meeting my host family. I have little idea of what to expect, but I'm really excited. I'll be back in Istanbul sometime in August, so until then dear friends, I'm signing off.

Have a harika summer!

flavours of the day

I needed a few things before heading off to Kathmandu, like some pants (I only have one suitable pair), a bag (mine has worn down into holes), and one more delicious lunch at Çiya. Tilly had yet to experience the wonders of Çiya, so we took the 11:45 ferry to Kadıköy for a small feast and a wander about town.


Immediately upon entering the restaurant (as I have the past three Çiya visits), I sashayed up to the hot dish counter and enquired about the availability of their heavenly sour cherry kebap, which I've been repeatedly told is out of season until summertime. When does "summertime" begin, according to the chefs? Apparently, July! To my absolute joy, to my "vişne kebap var mı?", came the words I've been waiting to hear for a year: "Evet, var."

Sour, slightly sweet and dark, bits of sauce-soaked spongy bread, melting meat and bursting cherries...


Oh how patiently I had waited! There was only one thing to do after such an experience, and since I don't smoke, a good strong Turkish coffee would have to do.


After a tiny cup of silty coffee, a lokum and lively conversation, we moved on. This lovely lady offered us some fresh fruit juice, and with such a thick summer heat hanging in the air, how could we resist? Grapefruit was added to the flavours of the day.


I eventually found what I was looking for.

the burger and the martini

I am not a huge burger eater. In fact I probably have one or two a year if at all, and I never, ever eat at fast food chains. Decent burgers in Istanbul are as unusual as snow in July— they just never taste right. After spotting a fairly new burger joint off Istiklal called Mano Burger, whilst in the midst of an odd craving for a patty, Tilly and I decided to try our luck. The place was packed with trendy young Turks, and the décor had an element of garage-chic. The menu was simple, about six choices of burgers, all with a Turkish twist to them— in place of American cheese melted a salty hellim from Cyprus, instead of ketchup or a mustard was smeared a smoky baba ghanoush. Intriguing.

We both ordered the "Ototoman": two patties, caramelised onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and the afore mentioned baba ghanoush and hellim cheese, nestled between the halves of a sesame seed bun. Wow. If only they had a root beer to wash it all down with! The fries were a bit lacking, but who cares when the burger is that good.

Feeling satisfied and desiring a cocktail after an uneven day— I had been running around like a madwoman trying to prepare for my Kathmandu trip in the midst of some strange dramas— we peeled ourselves off our chairs and wandered across the street to Tünel, in search of a nice place to unwind. To our delight, passing in front of us was a modified tram car pulled by the usual one, that had been converted into a stage for a rock band! This is what I love about Istanbul— this passion for invention.


In the sardine-crammed alleys of Tünel, we managed to find an outdoor table at a café which surprisingly offered a martini on the menu. Finding a martini (and a good one, at that) is as rare as finding a good burger, but since we were feeling lucky, we decided to order one. We were soon disappointed to discover that "martini" meant Martini & Rossi, the brand of vermouth— something neither of us wanted. We had found a burger, so perhaps we could tell the bartender how to craft us a lovely cocktail.

Though I patiently explained the contents of a gin martini, I was presented with something yellowish in a tumbler that reeked of Southern Comfort. How Southern Comfort ended up in there is beyond me, so I explained with a series of diagrams to a nodding waiter and bartender, what goes into a martini and how it should be prepared and served.


The diagrams seemed to have helped somewhat— while the cocktails were mixed decently, there were ice cubes in the martinis, which were served in margarita glasses with lime wedges. We eventually got our olives, which though were not pitted, were absolutely delicious. While certain things aren't readily available in Istanbul, there's always someone willing to help you get what you want or need.

Mano Burger
Şahkulu mah. Galip dede cd. No: 5 Tünel / Beyoğlu / İSTANBUL
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