beneath

pergamon

The remains of what was once one of the most powerful Ancient Greek city-states in Anatolia lie scattered across a hilltop in what is now Bergama. Pergamon is breathtaking even in ruin, and it's easy to imagine the city's past splendour when weaving in and out between the columns of the Temple of Trajan, and simply looking up— marble faces frozen among the intricate patterns carved with great care and skill.

the many layers of troy

The morning sky was pale and edged with a heavy blue that promised rain. Though we knew it was inevitable, we continued to explore the layered ruins of Troy, hoping that those first drops we felt on our faces would be the last. What followed would send us running for cover, taking refuge under an awning built to protect one of the outer walls of the ancient city. It must have been about half an hour or so before the rain stopped, just enough time for a splotchy sketch.

worn stone

lest we forget

We passed through Gallipoli only days before the centennial, and the peninsula was full of visitors from Australia, New Zealand, and the UK. As I watched the people who were so obviously not from around here, with their sunburned skin and khaki shorts, so far away from home, I felt a knot in my gut. I don't really know what it means to them, this history; how this piece of land and its blood-soaked soil can pull so many back to it, all the way from the far ends of the Earth— and all regions of Turkey. It is terrible and heart-breaking, and yet so wonderful— wonderful that the names carved into stone monuments and tomb markers will not be forgotten, that those whose names were lost to time, will be thought of.



I do not have much of a national identity nor a tie to specific histories, and there were many times throughout my life that I envied my friends who knew they were from somewhere— they knew what they belonged to. I can only imagine what it must feel like to buy that ticket and plan the trip to Gallipoli, to arrive under a clear blue sky and walk between the immaculate white stones, gazing at the bay...

It must be overwhelming.



Though I am not a Turk, an Australian, a New Zealander, or from anywhere connected to the history of this peninsula, I am always deeply moved when I visit Gallipoli.

sometimes i have to pinch myself

because it's just so beautiful, it can't be real...

we begin the journey with an old mosque

Our plan was to drive up through Edirne, down to Gallipoli, and cross the Dardanelles by ferry to Anatolia.

the pea soup syndrome

When I was a teenager, I vowed that my life would be in constant motion. I would be a river, or better yet, an ocean, and I would never, ever stagnate. I would never turn green and thick and slow, I would never succumb to what I called the "Pea Soup Syndrome". As I entered adulthood, I soon realised that it's quite easy to get stuck in a routine that becomes a rut, that inspiration becomes more and more evasive. What's great about blogs and diaries is that you can peer through a little window at yourself in various points in time, and one of the things I noticed when looking back is that somewhere along the way, I had come down with the dreaded Soup. Although I've been travelling a lot, I haven't been drawing much (as several of you have kindly pointed out), and for someone who took immense pleasure in drawing, someone who needed to draw— things were looking a little green. It was somewhere along The Great Anatolian Road Trip last summer, that Pedro and I decided we were going to move. In a very, very short amount of time, I will be leaving Turkey for a new home, a new adventure.

I won't tell you where we are heading yet— and if you already know, let's please keep it a secret for a little while longer... I'll be saying a slow farewell to Turkey over the next few weeks with posts from an Aegean road trip, and tales of the last ditch attempt to see those Caucasian Black Grouse in the Kaçkars. Yes, we returned to Sivrikaya.

Stay tuned for ancient ruins, fabulous kebabs, and fat birds!

dots of ink

a light in the dark

from one of my nepali sketchbooks

sketching ram prasad

On a pleasant February afternoon, Pedro and I were having coffee in Thamel when I spied a magnificent moustache out of the corner of my eye. This was a moustache I needed to draw. I tried my best to sketch the owner of the fine facial hair, a security guard for a nearby hotel, as he moved about quickly between guests and friends, but eventually realised this was a ridiculous tactic if I wanted to draw a portrait. Fuelled by caffeine and Pedro's encouragement, I gathered the guts to approach the man for a sit-down. Lucky for me, Ram Prasad was more than happy to oblige.



I think I drew him a little chubbier than he is, but still, his is one of my favourite portraits that I've drawn. When I finished pencilling him in, I ran off to a photocopier and made a copy to give him. Upon receiving it, his pale green eyes sparkled, and his moustache rose with the big smile beneath it. I thanked him, and shook his hand. I wonder how he is now, after the earthquake... how his family is... I hope they are all safe.