Atulya K Bingham - Mud Mountain--Five Years in a Mud House Lost in the Turkish Hills.

Atulya K Bingham www.themudhome.com

Mud MOUNTAIN

A MUDHOUSE BOOK

First edition published in the UK in 2017.

Copyright Atulya K Bingham 2017.

The right of Atulya K Bingham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Cover photograph by Melissa Maples.

Dedicated to the readers of The Mud. Because if you werent reading, I wouldnt be writing.

Acknowledgements

First, I thank my parents for bringing me up with a healthy love of the outdoors and an open-minded attitude toward spirituality.

Much appreciation as usual to Dudu and the late Celal for being the best neighbours an eccentric witch like me could ask for. Also, gratitude is due to all the folk who have got their hands dirty on my spot of land over the past four years. There are so many of you. A particularly earthy hug goes out to my Mud brother Kieran for rock shifting, teaching me the art of pre-nailing, dragging his friends over to work and generally being a helpful soul. Much love to Yvonne Bartfeld for holding the doors of the spirit world open over the years, and to Birgit Sabinsky for her unwavering belief in me, and the nurturing of my creative spirit. And as always a big thank you to Dad for his ongoing support. A special mention goes to Jo Vaisey for the best Yorkshire puddings this side of Doncaster.

Regards The Mud Mountain Blog, Id like to thank the gifted Melissa Maples once again for her generosity in sharing her stunning photographs. Brian Crocker has also shared many of his bright ideas with me.

Thank you once again to Helen Baggott for her careful edit of the text.

Due to a lack of funds and an inability to graft within the system, in May 2011 Atulya K Bingham found herself camping alone on a remote Turkish hill. There was no power or water on the land. She knew almost nothing about outdoor survival either. It was the start of an adventure that profoundly changed her beliefs about what is enjoyable, or possible. In 2012 Atulya began to document her experiences in The Mud Mountain Blog . This is an edited collection of those articles posted between 2012 and late 2016.

The Beginning

S eptember 2012

Why would anyone move into a tent and live on a mountain for eight months? A mountain with no power, no water, and no permanent shelter to speak of.

Something has to have gone wrong.

The trouble all began with a dream, and in many ways it ended with one too. Only it was a dream I had never planned. One I hadnt expected at all.

Im lucky enough to own a small plot of land. It sits snug within the pomegranate-laden folds of Turkeys Mediterranean. I stare out at great hulks of mountain pitching themselves into the sea. The surrounding pine thickets whir in the balmy breeze, while buzzards loop through the blue overhead. My nearest neighbour is four hundred metres away. Its so quiet, when she speaks on the phone I hear her every word.

It could have been very different, though. For not so long ago, I harboured a few grandiose plans for this spot of land. Back in the beginning of 2011, this 2500 square metres of the planet was to be transformed into a living, breathing vision; a meditation centre. It was a fantasy I had cherished for years, and Id already had one bash at manifesting it further along the coast in the Kabak valley. I had failed spectacularly. But Im a headstrong sort, and not much prone to heeding advice. Its the kind of personality that either does very well or very badly, depending on the circumstances.

I wasn't the only one set on this vision either. Seth and Claire, two friends from South Africa, had recently flown in to join me in the venture. They were fellow teachers and yogis, and as such we seemed to be a dream-team; a fantastic, three-pronged super-group. We had been planning our centre for months, right down to the size of the gong at the entrance.

Spring was damp and cool that year, summer late in coming. The winter grass that adorns the steep hills of Turkeys Mediterranean rolled in thick, green waves. There was still quite a bite to the gusts of sea air blowing in too, and they slapped the cobalt water whipping it into unpredictable shapes. Seth, Claire and I set up a temporary base in the nearby seaside village of Alakr and looked forward to attacking our project. Sometimes, however, life has other plans.

From the beginning, it seemed nothing would work out for us. The first setback was that we couldnt manage to lay our hands on a car. Or motorcycle. Or licences. So for all intents and purposes, we were grounded, stuck twiddling our thumbs a good half an hour drive from the land. It gave us plenty of time to think. And talk. For reasons no one could quite put their finger on, doubts seeped in between the cracks of our plans. As the weeks groaned by, a vague but unsettling cloud of unease began to spread through our close-knit triangle. I wondered what to do.

Then, without warning a guide appeared. He trotted out from the aphotic depths of the Lycian forests one cold evening in late March. Brian was a hiker. He had the wild look all those who spend too long in the Lycian mountains finally acquire a look I myself would soon absorb. He could often be found a thousand-odd metres above sea level, cooking rogan josh over a campfire with a copy of Heideggers Basic Writings in his back pocket. With his shock of white hair, caustic laugh, and sawing Australian vowels, he was what you might call a character.

I perched on a beanbag next to the fire. Brian pulled himself closer to the wood-burner. He took sporadic sips out of his mug of tea and held it neatly on his lap when he was done. He narrowed his eyes before imparting his portentous message.

Well, Doll, looks like you need to get yourself a tent and spend a night alone on that land. Let the Earth speak to you, he said.

I rubbed my hands over the stove and nodded. Of course, let Mother Nature talk to me. Listen to Gaia and all of that.

Yet inwardly I baulked. Really? Did I have to listen? Couldnt I just have a fabulous plan, make colourful scribbles in my notebook and get on with it? It seemed so uncomfortable, inconvenient, time consuming; trekking all the way up to the land and freezing my butt off for a night. There was no toilet, no running water. And there were all the possibilities of trouble, too. Wild boar were common in the forests, lascivious locals even more widespread. It would be a night fraught with fear and insomnia, no doubt. Nonetheless, something in me must have seen merit in the idea, because a few days later I was scouring the house for a tent. All that I could lay my hands on was a Wendy House, the type small children use for den-making in the back garden.