Ask the Author: Atulya K. Bingham
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Atulya K. Bingham
Back in 2008, I was working as a yoga teacher in the Olympos valley, Turkey. At the end of a class, my friend Ayse, an elegant Istanbul woman, was kneeling on the yoga platform folding her cloth yoga mat into a square. She raised her head. 'I've decided to trek the Lycian Way tomorrow,' she said. 'Can I borrow your tent?'
And she did. It was a poor excuse for a tent; a hole-ridden scrap of aging canvas that clung to a couple of poles. When she set off the next day, it was mid-July, 40 degrees in the shade at times, and she was carrying 20 kilograms of baggage. Ayse didn't look up to the task.
Two weeks later, however, she staggered back into the valley; thinner, browner and a lot more dishevelled. But her eyes. They told a different story. It was a story she relayed to me the next day, and one that I decided there and then to write.
And she did. It was a poor excuse for a tent; a hole-ridden scrap of aging canvas that clung to a couple of poles. When she set off the next day, it was mid-July, 40 degrees in the shade at times, and she was carrying 20 kilograms of baggage. Ayse didn't look up to the task.
Two weeks later, however, she staggered back into the valley; thinner, browner and a lot more dishevelled. But her eyes. They told a different story. It was a story she relayed to me the next day, and one that I decided there and then to write.
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