bells, horns and footsteps

into the clouds

Two of the seniors offered to take Melissa and me on a much needed hike in the woods. After two weeks of city dust and mayhem, we were thrilled to get out our hiking boots and get into some nature. We were brought to Shivapuri National Park, a world of quiet, lush green hills, white waterfalls and red dirt trails shimmering with mica. We climbed what felt like a thousand stone steps before we reached the trail, drenched in sweat and rain.



The peace was enormous— it felt tangible; there was a weight to it, and it filled my lungs, belly and head. As we climbed into the clouds, I felt like I would disappear— evaporate into those clouds and be carried away somewhere far and foreign. I felt the valley and I felt the hill, the distinction between my flesh and the soil became less clear.



I was returned to the red glittering trail, now muddy with intensifying rain, by the voices and footsteps of travellers. Sure feet, in flimsy shoes, carrying wiry bodies laden with all manner of bag, basket and container, filled to capacity. I was in awe, standing there in my cushioned hiking boots, with my little bag that contained a camera, sketchbook, pens and a water bottle— how could I ever complain again? How could I ever moan about my feet or the weight of a bag when people who could be my grandparents are hiking for days— sometimes weeks— in flip-flops, with massive, overflowing baskets strapped to their foreheads?

As I stopped to make way for the women in the photograph to pass, my eyes met another deep brown pair, and I sensed a familiarity in those eyes— I don't know why. But it made me smile.
I received one in return.
"Namaste."

circle the stupa

Old monk, old woman
Clockwise, circle the Stupa
The flicking of beads.

the turk in kathmandu

You never know when you'll bump into a familiar face. That handsome fellow in the centre of the above picture, is none other than Mr. Kemal Atatürk, founder of the Turkish Republic. Why he was so far from home is a mystery— the shop owner had no idea who he was and how he got there, he just thought the mask was lovely and could fetch some cash. I have this uncanny knack for stumbling upon the Turkish embassies or neighbourhoods of the cities I visit, but this time, in Kathmandu's Durbar Square, I found Turkey's founder. What an odd and pleasant surprise— it had me chuckling to myself all day long.

colour bursts

momo magic

The first word I learned in Nepali was namaste— the second was momo.
You know I love to eat, but what you probably aren't aware of is my passion for potstickers, my devotion to dumplings. I came to the conclusion in art school, during a severe bout of insomnia that I battled by gluing myself to a pottery wheel, desperately trying to centre an infuriating ball of clay— that the dumpling was food perfected. Neat little packages of goodness served in an endless variety of ways, and every cuisine I could think of featured some type of dumpling. I remember running to the Stop & Shop at three a.m. with clay spatter all over me, to gather ingredients for my first attempt at fried mushroom dumplings. Sleep deprivation can do some strange things to you.

The Nepali momo is made with a flour and water dough that's filled with a mixture of veggies, buffalo meat, yak meat or chicken, and is either steamed or fried. Since I was warned to avoid meat during the monsoon season when the chance of contracting something unwanted is higher than normal, I went vegetarian during my time in Nepal, and I really didn't miss meat at all—not that I'm a big carnivore. Veggie momos became my staple, along with the most delicious school lunches of dal bhat, lentils and rice.



Strolling around Kathmandu's touristy and busy Thamel, I ducked into Pilgrim's Bookstore to escape the sudden rain, and delightfully discovered a café hidden in the back of the store. Unsure of when my next opportunity in life to taste one would be, I decided to try a Tibetan noodle soup called thukpa, despite the summer heat. All of my favourites were featured in that soup— garlic, ginger, chillies and cilantro. I imagine it must be amazing in winter, with woollen socks and a cold nose... And speaking of garlic, ginger, chilli and cilantro—



The Dumplings to End All Dumplings: Garden Kitchen's chilli momos.
A word of caution: these babies are so hot you'll cry— seriously, they are not for the heat-intolerant. A spiced, lightly fried veggie momo tossed in a sweet chilli sauce with onions, garlic and peppers. Does it get any better than that?

Garden Kitchen is hands-down my favourite place to eat in Kathmandu—the staff is the friendliest around, the food is delicious and affordable, and it's clean. Food in Nepal can be quite dodgy with poor the sanitation, the creepy crawlies and er, whatnot. Travellers to Nepal often fall ill to nasty gastro-intestinal bugs, and while I have a pretty tough stomach and immune system, I decided not to put either to the test and follow the boil, cook or peel it rule. I also ate at places recommended by the school and Lonely Planet, and thus averted spending what little time I had in Nepal on the toilet or in bed. A month is incredibly short.

Garden Kitchen
Next to Thrangu Monastery / Boudha / KATHMANDU
0 977 1 447 07 60

on the pages of my sketchbook

1. My first Tibetan butter tea at Double Dorjee Restaurant in Boudha—yum!
2. Hiding from the rain with delicious veggie momos on Freak Street, off Durbar Square.
3. Contemplating impermanence and Tsering's right foot, with its bright green nail polish.
4. Sketching while dining on chilli momos at Garden Kitchen in Boudha.
5. Sketching foreigners at Saturday Café, over a dinner of beetroot noodles with garlic and yak cheese.

Don't forget to click on the images to see them larger!

a hundred tiny flames

Damp, black night of muttering voices and howling dogs, the whisper of a monk's robe gliding past like a shadow, deep grey fabric returning to crimson in the flickering light of a hundred butter candles. Faces appear in the warm glow, then fall into black— moving, simplified shapes. The unwelcome drone of a motorbike, the piercing whine of a mosquito, a gritty, painful cough. The generators' hum harmonises with a distant om mani padme hum unfolding from a pair of unknown lips.

My thoughts drift to loved ones, to people newly met, to questions about my life and its travelled paths. A flicker grows inside my chest until I'm wholly alight with gratitude.

the people we meet

Sometimes two people cross paths in an unlikely and fortuitous way, that you can't help but feel the universe purposefully collides people into one another. I met Melissa on that first night at Shree Mangal Dvip, when it still wasn't certain I'd be able to volunteer there. Melissa is a primary teacher who was also volunteering for the month, and once we got to chatting over bowls of chilli momos— delicious spicy dumplings and my new obsession— we found we had much in common and became fast friends. When travelling alone, you feel lucky to meet someone who you can enjoy a coffee or a walk with, and imagine how delighted I was when she pulled out a sketchbook. Sketching with another person is a real joy— many of my friends are not sketchers, and I tend to feel a little awkward when I get the urge to draw something in the middle of a conversation. It's not that I'm not paying attention, I can carry on a discussion while sketching, but when you're trying to talk to someone who isn't looking you in the eye, it can feel kind of weird. Luckily my friends appreciate me in all my me-ness, and I love them for it, but it sure is wonderful to sit silently with another person who's scratching away at a paper with a pen too.



After a day at the school, we went on a little walk into the hills behind Boudha discussing theta states, meditation and time, while clicking away at our cameras. With a smile and a namaste— the Nepali greeting that translates to
"I bow to you"— we were met with warmth by the people we passed, and were able to snap some lovely photographs. As we wandered, we came across a low wall by a small field where we decided to sit down and open up our sketchbooks. Three curious little girls crept over in giggles and peered over our shoulders singing namaste and various pronunciations of our names after flurries of "what is your naaaame?" "where are you froooom?" and "what are you doiiing?"



We were soon surrounded by singing, cartwheeling and giggly little bodies.

namaste!

...and i drew

1. Waiting in Istanbul's Atatürk airport, caffeinated excitement and nerves, finger-painting with the deep browns of my Turkish coffee.

2. Enjoying a Tibetan omelette and black tea at Flavours Café, in a state of marvel and disbelief— am I really here?



3. Fixated on the unblinking eyes of Buddha on Boudhanath stupa, wondering if I'll be so lucky to see the Himalaya with such heavy monsoon clouds.

4. Gazing out the window of my new home, Ngudrup Guesthouse, over a steaming bowl of grey porridge and a black coffee in Ngudrup's restaurant.



5. The rain comes down as I fumble with a rubbing of an ancient plaque on a temple in Patan Durbar Square, amidst the curious stares of passer-bys.

6. Squeezing out a three minute sketch in between rain bursts.

the streets of kathmandu

The thick, brown air weighs heavily in your lungs as the smell of incense, exhaust and decay crawls into the back of your throat.  Your sweat mixes with the dust, the sun bakes it on your already dry skin which smells metallic, from the weak-tea coloured water you showered with in the morning. The taxi driver tried to rip you off, but you stood firm by your price and now he's grinning at you in the rearview mirror— funny foreigner. You bump and shudder at top speed, swerving past mounds of rubbish, leather-faced ancients roasting ears of corn over mysterious-smelling fires, children playing, women laughing.

The colours, the colours! Colours so bright they have no name, but are best described by what they resemble: marigold, mango, blood, sky, sprout, amethyst. Cows and motorbikes negotiating road space, people packing themselves into and onto cars, trucks and vans, bumping and shuddering in the same jerky rhythm as your own. Through the grime and the chaos, your heart soars. Your chapped lips curl into smile, you are happy.