a reunion of sketchers in muscat

Last September, I was lucky to meet and sketch with fellow Urban Sketcher Sue Pownall, who just happens to live in Muscat. She was passing through Istanbul at the time, on a ten hour layover. It was wonderful to catch up with her again, this time on her turf. We wandered the Mutrah Souq, visited an art gallery, and snacked on various goodies.



Not only did Sue share her knowledge about Oman, its art scene, and charismatic leader, Sultan Qaboos bin Sa‘id (who I am fascinated by, and want to learn more about), she introduced me to "honey" pancakes. Crêpe-like and slightly crispy, the pancakes are filled with a honey made from dates— the perfect companion to milky çay. I love dates, and anything containing the sweet gems starts me salivating in seconds. I simply must learn to make this "honey".



Thank you, Sue!

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.

accents of white

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.

salaam, oman

I've just returned this morning from six days in stunning, sunny Oman, where I delighted in summery weather and plenty of its perfect complement, minted lemonade. The blue skies, pinkish ochres of the desert, gleaming white dishdashas, and brilliant splashes of crimson, fuchsia and emerald on the scarves and dresses of some women (others were head to toe in inky black)— was nearly too much to bear for a colour-starved girl coming from a dismal, wintry Istanbul.

We arrived in Muscat around six in the morning on a Saturday. It was already warm, and my wool coat was beginning to itch. Blinking in the sun, a bit dizzy from our red-eye flight, we waited for our friend Gil, who generously offered us a home during our stay. Once we dropped off our bags and changed into something more appropriate for the increasing heat, Pedro and I headed down to a little nearby beach in search of Sooty Gulls and whatever else we might find.



Sooties we found, casually strolling in the sun, competing with House Crows for dismembered crabs. I kicked off my shoes and dreamily followed them to the shore, where the Arabian Sea spit out shells of all colours mixed with chunks of sanded green glass. I was six again, brown-skinned and curious, my toes coated in fine pebbles and glittering with nacre— my mother collecting shards of coral and cowries nearby. This little beach was so much like the beaches from my early childhood in Dubai, before it was Dubai. A desert sweeping into the sea— the waves and laughter of gulls, its only sounds.



Salaam means peace in Arabic.
Oman was beginning to feel so very good.

prints for sale!

I was 16 when I took this photo, wandering around the dusty streets of Cairo with my old 35mm in my hands. I was lucky that my school had a darkroom, where I learned to develop my own film— remember that? Before the instant gratification of digital cameras, there were rolls of film and chemicals— fumbling around in the dark, watching images appear like magic, on submerged paper. I loved it. Nearly two decades later, I'm still wandering around, but with a Canon G12 and a memory card— and rather than pinning my photos to my bedroom wall, I now post them on this blog, and share them with you.

So my curiosity got the better of me and I set up an account with Society6 to sell prints of my photographs. What is Society6? It's a place for artists and designers to sell high quality prints of their work online— I submit an image, and the lovely people at Society6 handle the rest. My work comes to you at an affordable price.

I've already put a few photos up in my shop, which you can visit by clicking on this link, or by clicking on the thumbnail on the sidebar under "Own some of my work." I'm also open to suggestions— if there is a particular photo you would like to see up in my shop, please leave a comment here with a link to the photograph, and I'll consider it for sale. Sketches will come one day, but for now, it's just photos— have a look and let me know what you think!

sketching by the galata bridge

While I huddle beneath my yak wool blanket and sip masala chai in an attempt to cure the nasty cough I've acquired, I thought I'd show you the last sketch I drew. Ten days ago, when I felt peachy keen, the sun was making a thrilling appearance. In celebration, I took a stroll down to the Galata Bridge for a fish sandwich and a little drawing. The light shifted between blue and a cool yellow, giving the Golden Horn a metallic sheen. Gulls competed for scraps of food, while silver headed cormorants slipped silently into water in search of fish.



As soon as I put down my pencil, the inevitable happened. A huge splat of green and white landed on my left arm— thankfully nowhere near my sketchbook or çay. I'm not sure why people consider it lucky to be mistaken for an avian feces receptacle, but hey. It's better than getting upset over the nastiness on your sleeve, isn't it? 

beyoğlu on a dry, february day

a tale of two feasts

The sea is so generous with her seemingly infinite offerings of tasty morsels— something that the Portuguese and the Turks take full advantage of. I recently enjoyed a pleasant lunch with the family at our favourite fish restaurant, where over a dollop of salty tarama, I found myself lolling around in the memory of a feast Pedro and I treated ourselves to while in Portugal over the holidays. We dined on gooseneck barnacles and sea snails, prying soft flesh out of intricately twisted and spired structures— and there was crab. Sweet, tender crab. That alien, orange speckled exoskeleton with threatening thorns that beg the question, who was that first person who decided to crack this thing open for a snack?



While the Portuguese feast relied on the natural flavours of the meats and sea, the Turkish feast pictured below, made use of spices and buttery sauces. Stuffed mussels, tarama, aubergine purée, a sliver of raw lakerda fish as pink as a rose petal...



Cornbread, spicy shrimp, and the most exquisite grilled kalamari. I swear I was a sea bird in a former life.
A Black-browed albatross, perhaps.

grey, grey, grey

To say that winter is bleak in Istanbul, is an understatement. It is downright depressing. The sky is grey, the city is grey, the people are grey. I used to find a poetry in the mournfulness, in the huzun, but currently, I am in a terrible state of unrest. My toes can't seem to warm, there's a rattle in my chest, and the grumpiness of the people on the street is souring my mood. A few days ago, it was nearly spring weather— so warm in fact, that crocuses popped up their heads towards the pale sun. We have since descended back into that wet, bone-chilling gloom, and there is an inexplicable amount of mud.



What else can you do but wait?
Wait, and have another çay.

on cormorants, and turning thirty-four

So far, thirty-four feels no different than thirty-three. But the cormorants are starting to show their breeding plumage, and flying in giant arrows across the sky.