after the sky lifted

Ophelia had sucked the breath out of the Sahara and cast our skies a yellow-grey, coating everything in a fine dust. Just as I surrendered to the beads of sweat running down my skin, the clothing sticking to my body, the heavy nights, the trees began to softly move in a different direction. The sky lifted, and I could breathe again.

The sleep deprivation that comes with parenthood seems to have dulled the edges of my mind of late— I find my tongue stumbling over words, my thoughts dissipating in little bubbles. I feel like I am constantly running, but never getting anywhere. Still, Baby grows strong and proudly learns new tricks, and I am a mother completely enchanted— all the exhaustion and frustration is blown away with the tiniest of smiles or a giggle.

Throughout my pregnancy I was told that my life would soon be over, that Pedro and I would have to kiss our adventures goodbye— apparently having children is like having your wings clipped, or something less poetic. We were of the opinion back then that everything is a choice, and felt that becoming parents would be a beginning rather than an end. Despite the sleepless nights and occasional tantrums, we still maintain those beliefs, and so we took our teething five month old on a six-and-a-half hour roadtrip to Chefchaouen this weekend. After all, wouldn't our baby want parents who are still curious about the world?

So it took a few extra stops along the road and some gymnastic maneuvering while changing a diaper on the lid of a toilet in a dodgy restaurant bathroom— and I had to master the art of clandestine breastfeeding in public places. All fascinating learning experiences and adventures in their own right! I finally got to see the blue I had been waiting for, and though Baby won't remember it, we all had a wonderful time.

suddenly, camels

the red earth

The drive from Rabat to the nearest Saharan dunes in Merzouga is about eight and a half hours— if there aren't any slow trucks, accidents, or anything else that can pop up unexpectedly. Moroccan highways are smooth and quick, but the winding roads through the Middle Atlas can take quite some time, and it's always best to expect to add a minimum of two extra hours to your roadtrip.

Last October, Pedro and I were lucky to have one of our dear students from Nepal visit us. Tsewang was studying abroad on a scholarship to finish up high school and his hosts kindly offered to send him our way for a holiday. We had a week to show him his first glimpse of an ocean, a desert, and of course, as much of Morocco as possible. We plotted our route to the Sahara through the mountains of Ifrane, the high plateau of Zaïda and the oasis of Tafilalt.

The rain fell on the red earth of Zaïda, forming pools of pale blue sky. We spied our first houbara hiding among the clumps of thirsty vegetation, an ancient-looking bird that seemed just as surprised to see us as we were to see her.

leaving figuig

Dust and smoke layered beneath a bluing sky as we made our way out of Figuig. Preparations for the day's Fantasia— a fabulous, macho horse riding and rifle show— were underway, with horses awaiting their turbaned riders. I have yet to attend a Fantasia, but hope to see the one near Rabat this year.



We headed towards Oujda, a city on the closed border between Morocco and Algeria, the road generally smooth and marked with camel crossing signs. Mirages lined the horizon as the temperature climbed, and clouds began to move further and further away from us.

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 road

It was time for bumps, shudders, and squealing brakes— for roadside tea, and those itty-bitty bananas that I'm so fond of. Time to be squished into a hot bus, and time to feast on the colours that fly by the rattling, dusty window. I must admit that though a roadtrip in Nepal is often a frustrating, sticky experience, I find it quite fun, and miss the mayhem when on a more orderly bus in Turkey.

monsoon

a nepali road trip

At seven in the morning, we settled into lumpy seats 15 and 16 on a rickety old bus, and waited with heavy eyelids to leave Kantipur. We felt relaxed and adequately prepared for the six to twelve hour ride to Pokhara— our backpacks crammed with clothes, sketching gear, water, bananas, cookies, and various first aid supplies. I couldn't resist pestering a sleepy Pedro with all my knowledge of the road and terrain, of where we might catch our first glimpse of the Himalaya, and where I ate roadside ramen with Acharya K.S. and Passang last summer. Pedro would nod politely with a mm-hm, his eyes becoming slits.

The Prithvi Highway, which links Kathmandu to Pokhara is notoriously narrow, bumpy, and scarred by landslides and floods. Monsoon season only serves to complicate travel on the highway, and as we witnessed along the way, buses do careen off the road into pits and valleys, and meet with trucks in head-on collisions, backing up the highway for hours.



Though the road is gnarled, and its travellers may seem to have a death wish, what you get to see outside your foggy, smeared window will take the breath you've been holding for the last few kilometres, away.

another u-turn

After leaving Sivrikaya with a heavy sigh, we rerouted ourselves towards Anzer, hoping to get there before we were immersed in the blackness of unlit rural roads. The pockmarked one we were travelling on became dirt somewhere in the darkness, and we were soon bumping along in rocky muck— giggling about the look on the faces of the car rental agency if they knew where we had taken their poor vehicle.

The road was little more than a scratch in the surface of the Earth, serpentine, with shoulders that plunged into hidden rivers. At some point we doubted the map— there was nothing about our environment which promised a charming village of bees and honey at the end of it. Eventually we came across another human being, casually strolling in the darkness, hands folded behind his back. We asked him with all the naïveté and hope of lost tourists, if we were on the right track to Anzer.

Anzer? He repeated with a chuckle, and dramatically lifted his hand in the direction we were already set on, and let out another soft laugh. The gleam of amusement in his eye concerned me, and as we followed his fingers, we began to worry about that chuckle. Just where was this place?

At some point, thoughts of dealing with popped tires in the middle of nowhere, with no cell reception, hungry, in the cold, began to weigh heavily against the possibility of dining on honey and resuming our search for the Caucasian Black Grouse. After some debate and a few more sighs, I got out of the car to help direct a dangerous U-turn, delighted with morbid fantasies of wolves circling me. We would not see the grouse on this trip, but sometimes the journey and the search are what we remember and carry with the most fondness.

That night, we drove all the way back to Trabzon.

facing the myth

After countless head shakes and many a tss!, we had given up on ever finding the mythical Sivrikaya, deciding to head toward Anzer, otherwise known as Ballıköy, famous for its honey with alleged healing powers. Having most likely been a bee in my former life, Anzer seemed like paradise— images of beehives and wildflowers dotting the green hillsides filled my head, and I was already salivating at the thought of slathering some warm bread with butter and Anzer's legendary honey. While playing the navigator and plotting our course on doubtful roads through the valleys, I randomly followed a yellow line on the map that lead toward the town of Ispir, and let out a shout— Sivrikaya!

We immediately changed our course (birds trumped the bees) and began to excitedly discuss the possibilities of meeting this Mustafa, and hiking through the snowy plains to catch a glimpse of the Caucasian Black Grouse.

As the narrowing road led us uphill, the temperature dropped in the car—our ears gently popped, and our curiosity grew. Would we make it before sundown? Would we find lodging? Would we finally see the bird we were hoping for? Then, to our dismay, a red sign with a lot of exclamation marks declared that the road to Ispir was closed to traffic.  We decided to ignore it.



We pulled over to the side of the road and stepped out of the car, just in front of another massive sign that threatened us in blinking lights, to go no further. The air was crisp and sweet, lightly biting my cheeks. There, on the hillside, the humblest homes clung desperately to the earth, and a vast scooping plain opened up before us. Fog obscured mountains, falling toward us, and a small, squarish man passed us with suspicious eyes.

Merhaba, we chimed, and smiled.
We were offered a grunt and a respectful nod of the head. Could he be Mustafa?

I was convinced I would spot the black dots of the grouse on the plain any minute, but as the looming clouds behind us turned orange and the fog grew denser, we looked at Sivrikaya and knew. We had to turn back. The road was shut, and the few lean houses looked unable to host two wanderers. We hadn't eaten since breakfast, and the thought of asking someone to share their food, which seemed hard to come by in this desolation, made me uneasy.

It would have to be another day.

uphill

road trip

I've just returned from wandering around northeastern Turkey for the past week, from spotting seabirds on the shores of the Black Sea, to hiking in the snow, watching for bears and wolves. I took little more than a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, some sketching gear and my camera. Stay tuned!

heading south

schist, and lines of blue

to the centre

One fine Sunday, bags were packed and thrown into the back of a car, coffee was drunk, and we headed east.