The Last Week

It is my last week in Amman and I have been revisiting a few of my favourite spots, wandering down Rainbow Street, filling up on felafel and revisiting the local hammam. Al Pasha Hammam is a new purpose built bath house that, while lacking in the historical characteristics of the Hammams in Turkey and Syria, stays true to the traditional architecture and manages to facilitate communal bathing without engendering the weird feeling of constant observation.

I was here about two months ago, so I know the drill. Bikinis are the attire of choice here, there are no over zealous bath attendants trying to rip them off you, and although there is the odd exposed chest, most opt for more modesty. First comes the sauna, where you sip a sweet hibiscus slushie as the steam surrounds you and you try to avoid the harsh droplets of boiling water plummeting from the dome shaped ceiling. Then, you wait in the hot hot spa until it is your turn to be laid out on a raised marble slab and scrubbed until every inch of dead skin comes peeling off in the sudsy lather. Then, you hop back in the spa to wait some more for your turn to be poked and prodded in a comprehensive massage session. I know how this will play out, so I'm calm and relaxed, enjoying my final hammam experience, for a while at least.

I step in to the sauna, armed with my cup of frozen Hibiscus. The heat that was unbearable during my last visit is now presents a challenge that I am willing to face. The steam stings and smells of something familiar, lemon grass perhaps?

As I sit in the dark steamy chamber I reflect on my time in the Middle East. Like the sauna, so many things about this trip were unbearable in the beginning, but these were things that I became accustomed to, that I gradually grew to stand, and even embrace. Just as the sauna's steam can feel torturous as it cleanses your sinuses and softens your rough skin, so too can another culture feel abrasive, as you rub up against it, as it blocks your path, but ultimately envelops you, and you become a part of it.

I emerge in to the summer heat refreshed and ready for Downtown, ready for the stares and the felafel sellers and taxi drivers intent on taking advantage of yet another white tourist incapable of counting her change.

But, I face it as the heat of the sauna, and hope to be cleansed in some way by these experiences. Cleansed of prejudices and pre-conceived ideas. It won't be long before none of these obstacles will exist, back in my own country, speaking my own language.

You take the good with the bad, the pain with the joy. And you are thankful for the little things, forgiving of the frustrating things and you move on, ready for the next adventure.

Thrilled to be back.

It's been a week since anyone has looked at me in that way, and I'm wondering if its the new hair cut, or perhaps the toll that the Israeli border experiences have taken on my previously relaxed holiday demeanour. Then, of course, it twigs. I've been in Europe, where blonde hair and exposed shoulders cause no commotion, my caucasian face is unremarkable and in the crowd I become plain Jane again. I walk the streets unnoticed, unharrassed.

In fact, London is cold and wintery and my haram shoulders stay wrapped up in layers of clothes. When the sun finally shows its face I'm so used to modesty clothing I carry my scarf and cardigan everywhere, sweating under my dark blue jeans. And no one cares.

I miss it, that feeling that I have complained so bitterly about- the stares and sideways glances. I have grown accustomed to my difference, and the reaction it provokes. This cool indifference is what I will return to when the time runs out and the plane takes off and I'm home again.

When I arrive in Amman the wind blows pleasantly warm and the temperature is a summery 33 degrees.

Against my better judgement I leave the apartment in jeans and a singlet. The sensation of the sun on my skin feels like paradise, although it's not too warm for a shirt with sleeves. A taxi stops for me, more than 100 meters away, without me even hailing it.

Screeching recklessly through the streets of Amman, unrestrained in the back of the cab, with the wind in my hair I feel the familiar adrenilin rush that comes with the joy of being back here. I can't tell if it's the perfect weather washing over me or the undeniable fact of my obvious difference- in looks, in attitude.

Either way, the blood courses through my veins as the cityscape flashes past in brilliant white.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem

I wake up in the middle of the night and in spite of the deathly silence and the comfy bed I'm tucked into, I can't get back to sleep. I'm in Jerusalem, and, having ditched my already paid for dorm bed in the Old City for something with a little more comfort and privacy (that also happens to be much closer to the place I down my last drink) my mind is a jumble of the previous days events.

I had been up early to cross from Jordan to Israel at the King Hussein/Allenby bridge which I managed to do without any probing questions regarding my visas from Syria and Lebanon. I did, however, cop the exit stamp without even realising it- and when I notice it there later in the day I'm a little upset, as it will render any return to those particular countries (at least on this passport) an impossibility.

I tumbled out of the Sherut at Damascus Gate, waved good bye to the friendly old Muslim man who had tried in vain to foist his sons phone number off on me and step out into the chaos of Shabbat in Jerusalem. Saturday, the Holy day for the Jews, is market day for the Muslims, and the streets outside the Old City are packed with food and clothing being spruiked in loud voices for low prices.

I enter through the old stone gates and immediately I know I couldn't be anywhere else in the world. A bespectacled Jewish man, curls hat and all brushes past me, while up ahead a couple of Ethiopian Coptics glide along in shiny black robes.

'As Salam Aleikum', says one street seller, the ubiquitous Islamic greeting.

Peace be upon you.

And Peace is what is occupying my mind, lying in bed awake at 3:30 am.

This beautiful city, so full of history, so imbued with meaning for the worlds dominating faiths is covered in barbed wire and bullet holes. Wherever a flag flies, a challenge is issued, a challenge to Peace.

An olive branch offered outside a church causes moral outrage. The simple act of taking a city tour is seen as taking sides.

The footprint of Christ, set in stone on the Mount of Olives is believed to mark the place where Jesus left this earth to join his heavenly father.

And what did he leave? Two thousand years of conflict, bloodshed and hatred.

Those who come to kiss this slab of stone do nothing more than justify a mythology that grants sanctity to mere objects, giving validity to superstition. And failing miserably to bring about Peace, in any way.

I eventually drift back to sleep and awake to the sound of birdsong.

It is peaceful.

Another day in the Holiest of cities. Over my cereal I hope for Peace- not Peace bestowed by some unknowable Deity, but Peace practiced by men and women, through rationality, compassion and a sincere desire for harmony amongst human beings.

Regrowth

I'm laid out on the table again, baring all for Alia's scrutinising eyes.

She takes one look at the patchy hairs on my legs and exclaims,

'Oh God! You are kidding me.'

She throws her hands up in the air and rolls her brown eyes.

'I'm sorry!' I apologise, and she shoots me a withering glance.

'I'll see what I can do, but this,' she gestures at my legs, 'is not good hair'.

I explain that I've been away, in Egypt, and that attacking them myself was my only option.

'Egypt?' she says, 'OK then, you have an excuse'.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

'If it's not clean, it's not good', she says, and I laugh.

'Well, nothing was clean in Egypt. A lot was interesting, but nothing was clean'.

Alia gets to work, doing her best with all the ingrowns and uneven regrowth.

When she's finished I give her a look at the twin forests growing under my arms, flinching in anticipation of her response.

'This is OK,' she says. 'This good hair'.

The 'good hair' is gone quickly, and again Alia asks me about my period, and, again, I lie, telling her it just finished, just like I always do.

'Good', she says.

'Come back in one month, and DON'T TOUCH IT!'.

I'm leaving for good in one month, so I have just enough time to squeeze in one last appointment with Alia, her scowl and her expert technique.

I'll miss her when I'm back in Australia, where the costs of extensive epilation are prohibitive and I'll most likely be back to my bad habits.

But, for now, I'll exfoliate and anticipate my very last session at Essentials and return to Melbourne's winter with silky smooth legs beneath my stockings and jeans.

Then, I'll mutilate the regrowth and by summer I'll be spotted with inflamed ingrowns and I'll remember ruthless Alia, with her quick hands and wise words of advice.

Feels Like Home

I step out onto the tarmac and the familliar firey breath that envelops me tells me I'm home. It's jut like arriving in one of my other hot weather homes half way accoss the world, except the immediate assault of cigarette smoke and the shrill sounds of head scarfed women shouting animatedly at each other puts me in only one place. Amman. Jordan. Back in the Levant.

In the taxi home I converse clumsily with the driver, but even with my limited vocabulary I feel like a poet laureate- the ease with which my well practiced sentances slip out earns me praise. They're easily impressed, the Arabs- so few visitors learn more than Hello, Goodbye and Thank you, if that, so a simple comment on the weather can amaze. I am returning for the third time and there's something more than the warm wind that welcomes me to reassure me that somehow, at least in this moment, I belong here.

Summer, too, has arrived. The snow and sleet that greeted me months ago is a distant memory, and the long grass growing alongside the highway is the color of my sun bleached split ends, the color of a camels coat, bright glinting caramel, swaying in the sun.

I had planned to stay only briefly, to wash my filthy crumpled clothes, repack and make for yet another border in less than 48 hours time, but I decide then and there that I need more time to reacquaint myself with this city, so maligned by the international community ('disappointingly gray and modern', thanks Lonely Planet) and yet, to me, so bright and comforting.

It feels like a betrayal to be spending my precious hours here concocting an exit strategy, which is less than straight forward and likely to be lengthy and frustrating, thanks to the stamps in my passport. But I have to do it, to leave again, resisting the magnetic pull of all that is comforting to search for the unknown.

You will lure me back and we will snap into place again until wrenched apart, for the final time.

I will tell you things.

What should I tell you about Turkey? Should I paint you a picture of sweeping pebble beaches, of turquoise seas and lush green forest? Of cavernous churches cut into rock and of moonscape valleys viewed on horseback? Should I reconstruct two weeks with eloquent words in flowing sentences, take you back there with me to see, smell and touch?

Should I tell you of the open road, winding and dipping, our constant companion? Or of muscles aching from the descent, the ascent and of the breeze through my hair?

I will tell you of all these things, without keyboard or careful construction. I will swear too much, mispronounce and mix up. I'll be clumsy as I recount adventures of day and night.


So many seas, so many beds, such a journey.


I will tell you of all these things. If you let me.

Underground

As we are driving through the Cappadoccian steppe from Ilhara Village to Derinkuyu's underground village we see something flash across the asphalt in flurry. I dismiss it as a coke can, or perhaps a small plastic bag, which seems odd, given the relative cleanliness of the roads throughout Turkey. The blur happens again, and again, only the third time we have slowed right down in order to solve the mystery of the blur to find that the supposed item of rubbish picks itself up on the other side of the road, and stands upright, sniffing the cool air vigorously whilst making squeaking noises. This is no discarded item, but some kind of rodent, meercat-like surveying the surrounding fields and and the long empty road ahead. I whip out my brand new digital camera in order to capture the little fellow but he turns into a blur again, swiftly running through he sparse roadside vegetation and disappearing down into the earth. When we look closely, we can see that these holes are everywhere, they must be providing refuge for hundreds of the tiny creatures.

We crawl along down the highway, keeping eyes peeled for movement, and once we know what we're looking for the become easy to spot, bathing in the dust, squeaking and running, then disappearing down their holes when we get to close or stare too long. When I feel like I have sufficient proof of this rodents existence we speed off towards our destination.

The underground city at derinkuku was once home to some 10 000 early Christians hiding from Persian and Arab invaders who came on a rampage to pillage and destroy. They took their families and their valuables into these dug out caves and cooked, ate, abluted and hid down there whenever it seemed their safety was in jeopardy. Air holes were disguised as wells, and large stones were rolled over entries to confuse the Muslim marauders.

We buy our tickets and line up at the Giris (entrance), preparing to drop 8 stories down into the earth. The passage way is narrow and small, forcing us to bend over in the position of the women working in the fields. The descent is musty and dark.

I pass a group of American tourists, contemplating an early return to the surface, and plow past a tour group who are getting extensive explanations about the dug out rooms and their original purposes. Usually I might linger in order to catch some commentary,but in this cool subterranean tunnel I am keen to keep on keeping on, see what there is to see and return to the sunlight as quickly as possible.

I am almost on my hands an knees negotiating another tunnel when I hear voices, screams almost, coming from below. It sounds like the screaming souls of the Byzantines trapped in here long after their bodies have disintegrated and their valuable possessions distributed elsewhere. the sound echoes eerily and my hear is thumping loudly in my chest.

Suddenly the tunnel opens out into a small room, and the source of the screams is revealed; a bunch of noisy Turkish school children, screaming and laughing, the sound waves bouncing off the earthy walls.

I need to get out. I need to inhale fresh air. I plow through the kids, searching for the blue exit arrow, but all I find is a musty wall, a dead end.

The kids, unaware of my panic, are chatting and screaming and blocking my way. I'm not even trying to be polite as I push past them.

I find the way out, only to be stuck behind a young American couple, the female of the pair intent on photographing every nook and cranny, preventing my much needed swift exit. The wait is excruciating.

Finally the path becomes wide enough for me to overtake and I'm nearly, I'm almost, I'm pushing out into the sunlight.

What a relief, to be above ground, recovering my breath and my sanity. I don't want to imagine what life might have been like hiding under there for days and weeks on end.

Did they feel safe, protected by the layers of earth on top of them? Or was it as torturous for them as it was for me?

As we leave Derinkuyu and its human rabbit warren behind us I keep my eyes peeled for my rodent friends, but the seem to be hiding, below ground, away from my searching eyes.

They can have their burrows, the rodents, I have no desire to exist below ground. Whatever malevolent forces exist up here in the sunlight, whatever conflict- I'll
happily face them if it means fresh air, the sun's yellow rays, and easy escape routes from large groups of noisy school children!

Cats and Dogs and Turkey

Turkey is for cats. And dogs. And people who love cats and dogs. Down every alley way in every city and town there is a furry four legged friend (or six) to greet. They may be scavanging in rubbish bins or lying lazily in the sun, licking their lustrous coats. Whether they have collars denoting some type of ownership arrangement or run wild and free they all take pride in their feline or canine appearances, even those that limp or squint do so proudly.

If you are a cat lover, or a dog lover, you will love turkey. You will love seeing
these tabbys and marmalades trotting about the streets, the cheeky kitties on the sea
front demanding the fish from your sandwich. THey don't go hungry, these animals. For the Turks are are as welcoming to these furry guests as they are to tourists like us. 'Come in', they say to us, 'make yourself at home', while out their back doors their leftovers are bequeathed to their four legged neighbors.

Every now and then you see a playful pup launch at an pussy cat who isn't in the mood for games, and dives under a parked car. Sometimes from your bed at night you can her loud feline conversations that don't sound entirely amicable. But, for the most part, the Turks, be they four legged or two legged, are a happy bunch, putting differences asice and sharing what they have with a smile and a purr.

El Alamain

In the lingering shadow of ANZAC day we set off on yet another long journey, this time from the tranquility of the lush Siwa Oasis with its salty lakes and dense date palm plantations to the Mediterranean Coastline, which we will follow until we reach our destination: Alexandria. It is a 10 hour Odyssey through the desert, with very little to see except for military check points and the occasional sand coloured wild dog, waiting around for scraps of food and spilled water. Our only deliberate stop will be in El Alamain to spend some time in the Military museum and to visit the graves of the fallen WW2 commonwealth forces.

As we emerge from the bleak outstretched yellow of the western desert and arrive at the coastline we can barely believe out eyes. Hundreds of multi story apartment buildings in varying stages of completion are towering over the azure sea that laps at the pale sand, seeming as incongruous here as the oases seem in the desert. The manicured lawns of beach resorts with names like 'Santa Monica' and 'Costa del Sol' seem wildly inappropriate.

These gated communities are reserved for the uber wealthy minority of the Egyptian population, government officials and pop stars. The billboards feature pale skinned, bikini clad women and handsome young men baring impossibly white teeth. Each apartment is said to fetch around 4 Million EP, plenty more than most Australians would consider paying for their principle residence, let alone their beach-side getaway; yet they must be in high demand, given the volume of dwellings stacked on top of each other, looking not unlike the suburbs of Cairo, except with the occasional sea view. Most of blocks aren't even walking distance from the water's edge.

And in amongst all these obscene structures is the blink-or-you'll-miss-it El Alamain City, where our little white minibus pulls up and releases us, to the sea breeze and the jumbled and confusing Mubarak initiated Military Museum. As usual, the dates and diagrams are just shapes and numbers to me, and I can't process the information they are laying out in English, French, German and Arabic. I stifle giggles as I peruse the uniforms that include what looks like a dead chicken spread eagled on a bullet proof helmet, some boy scout like khaki shorts, and some high waisted pants that are unbecoming even to the lifeless (and hipless) plaster model.

I'm drawn to a flag bearing what looks like a bright red wallaby, but on closer inspection turns out to be a rat, the symbol of those fighting in Libya that became known as The Rats Of Tobruk. I remember a poem learnt long ago, and try to reconcile the fact that those men were crouching in caves in the desert not far from the places I have just visited. Somehow I've always pictured the action WW2 in the damp and muddy trenches of Europe, and not in the dusty desert of North Africa. I marvel in the holes in my knowledge, and hope that someday, someone makes a film about those fighting in the Western Desert, as all the Wikipedia-ing and brochure reading in the world won't educate me as much as a well made movie.

We are back in the van by 3pm, and a few hundred meters later are again out in the elements, being buffeted by the breeze, faced with the massive white cross that towers over the Commonwealth Cemetery. And here, it all makes sense. The arrows and the maps in the museum told me that something happened here, some battle, some political struggle, but here I can see it plainly: people died here, in a part of the war that high school history classes have neglected to teach.

British, Australian, South African and New Zealanders rest here, between the well kept bougainvillea bushes, under the same sun that beat down on them during their horror in the desert. Their names are chiseled into the headstones that bare heart wrenching messages from wives and mothers. 'He made a woman happy' is cut into one. Age 23. Much worse than those that bear names and messages are the ones that declare the fallen soldier interred there 'Known Only To God'. It is an eerie thing, to consider those anonymous men, lying in the ground, their souls commandeered by religion: motivation for so much of the killing in this war, and so many in the past.

I leave the white cross and the graves and the bougainvillea and walk back up the hill to the minivan, considering that in a weeks time I will be visiting the battle fields of Gallipoli- a site that thanks to Mel and many ANZAC services I can locate in my shallow knowledge of military history.

Just as I did in the desert, at our makeshift ANZAC service, I pause to think about the greed and ignorance that motivates humans to kill each other,in places as remote as North Africa, or as urban as New York City. Every time we remember those lost to senseless war we must remind ourselves that wars are not just fought with tanks and ammunition. They are spawned in the mouths of the ignorant, and in the minds of the desperate. War begins with words, and peace begins with us. Lest we forget.

A Thousand Words

Travelling down the Nile beneath the magnificent white sails of a graceful wooden fellucca, I discovered my camera was broken. It refuesed to turn on, to oblige me by illuminating it's viewfinder to reveal the magic before me, to snatch it and stash it away for later use.

Since that awful moment, it has become painfully clear how pathological I have become about capturing every moment of my trip digitally, and storing the countless images on memory sticks as a back up for my inadequate long term memory, that has a tendancy to forget the specifics, the choronology and the details that seem mundane at the time, but that make the moments of these adventure so unique, so perfect.

The blueness of the sky, the ripples in the water, the colours of the Egyptian spices, the deep red hibiscus flowers; how can I hold on to them? How can I take them with me, to comfort me in the grey Melbourne winter, to aid rememberances of hot dusty days spent haggling in souks, spent in hiking shoes, dressed for modesty, not coolness, beads of sweat forming all over, eyes sqinting in the sun.

I do not trust myself to hold onto these sensations. I crave the lense, the tripod. I want to pose, and smile, and remember that I was happy.

'A picture is worth a thousand words', the saying goes. So I must write and write and counjour up images as I type, so as never to forget, never to loose what I have found here in the desert, on the Nile, under the ground where pharoahs began their journies to immortality.

Come with me, share my journey as I tell it the only way I know how. It may take a million words to replaces the pictures I never took, but when I am old I will have no album to flick through, there will be no slideshow, nothing framed on my wall. But I will have my words, and may I share them then, as I do now, with you.

Population: You

We are 20km from Farafra, our intended lunch destination, when the minibus that has driven us from Luxor pulls up on the side of the road in a small dusty town and our driver unexpectedly jumps out, slamming the door behind him. As we look around at each other, confused, our tour leader explains that as it is Friday, the most important day for Muslims to attend the Mosque, our devout driver would like to attend midday prayers. Luckily, we have a backup driver (we're in for a long day) who diverts our attention from our growling stomachs by driving us down a gravelly back street to take a look at one of this country's numerous pigeon houses. They look much the same up close as they do whizzing past at 140km per hour, and our interest in avian abodes does not match our driver's enthusiasm for prayer, so we must kill some more time in this one horse (or, more appropriately, one pigeon house) town.

We take another back street and pull up out the front of an ahwah (coffee house). Shisha and chai are distributed, and we discuss the ins and outs of Muslim prayer, as dictated by the Holy Qoran to the background noise of a harsh sounding Egyptian Immam delivering his weekly sermon.

I feel a twinge of homesickness for Amman, and our mellow mouthed local muezzin, whose dulcet tones, echoing off the limestone apartment buildings of the Seventh Circle have come to symbolise my place in the Middle East. His voice keeps me company throughout the day,as I sit up on the ninth floor, and I've grown so accustomed to his chant that it no longer wakes me up as he calls out to the Muslims of our suburb well before dawn.

We're getting a little restless, waiting for our driver to satisfy his religious duty and we look around at the sleepy town, all shut up and silent, but for the sound emanating from the loudspeakers on the nearby minaret.

'Where exactly are we?' Someone asks, and our tour guide has to think for a second before replying.

He tells us the town's Arabic name with a cheek smile, then adds, 'Which in English means, Struggle'.

When we get the joke, we laugh.

'So this is what it's like to have tea in Struggle Town', I say, thinking of all those (mostly alcohol related) times where borrowed this little village's name to describe my state.

We do eventually get out of Struggle Town, leaving the long gallabiaed men streaming out of the mosque, and the solitary pigeon house behind us.

The desert sun blazes red hot above us in the bright blue sky, and I wonder what struggles the people of the village have endured, and what more might be to come.

Dhakla Oasis

Another hotel room, another balcony, with the breeze blowing gently, and the afternoon sun gilding the simple surrounds. But this view is unlike the desert that has flanked the bitumen road we have driven along all day, the lush green vegetation Dhakla Oasis in Egypt's Western desert, where it never rains, yet date palms and olive trees thrive, taking their sustenance from underground water supplies. It is a cool afternoon, by Egyptian standards, yet the sprawling city is dead quiet- shop fronts closed up, the streets all but empty. A herd of goats and a lonely donkey graze silently on a grassy soccer pitch nearby.

On the horizon is Abu Tartur Plateau, the flat topped mountain range towering over the oasis in shades of white and beige, reminding those in it's shadow of the desert that surrounds them. Barren and lifeless.

In the township, houses are left unfinished or empty and there is a stillness in the air. This is a ghost town, we are told, forsaken for bigger, smoggier cities with industry and opportunity.

We are a long way from Cairo, from Luxor and from the overwhelming clamour of the souks and archaeological sites to which the tourists flock. No cruise ships dock in Dhakla.

I want to walk barefoot in the dense green fields and feel the fertile earth between my toes. This is our escape, from the traffic and the touts and from our lives, waiting for us across oceans. Yet how many who call this place their home would trade with us?

Tomorrow, we set off again, through the rocky hostile desert in search of other oases with bubbling springs and acres of sand.

And when we are gone, the donkey will still be pulling a loaded cart across the town, and the tractor will continue to plow. What will these people dream of, between the concrete slabs, behind mud brick walls? Of far away oceans, of snow and rainfall? Or of a thriving city rising up out of the desert like a mirage through the heat haze?

Down on the street below me they squat in the dust and chatter amongst themselves in words I can't understand, with dreams I'll never know.

Peeing In The Desert

Here's the thing about the desert: there's a lot of it. Seriously. It stretches out as far as the eye can see- in fact it keeps going till it turns into Libya then Tunisia, Algeria and then into Morocco before it is stopped in it's sandy tracks by the Atlantic Ocean. You see what I'm saying; it's big.

You can drive for hours in the desert, along straight black bitumen roads struggling to peek out from under the swiftly moving sands, and that's what we're doing today. Driving. For eight hours.

There's not a lot to see in this part of the desert. Sand, rocks and the occasional oasis, appearing like a mirage on the horizon, then disappearing as you speed through dusty deserted towns.

It's tiring, sitting in a car all day, and we've all had hearty breakfasts and filled ourselves up with chai (tea) and ahway (coffee) to stay alert and discuss favourite films and books and gasp in horror when our beloved narratives are unknown by our travel companions. We're jacked up on caffeine. And that's where our problem starts.

Roadhouses are few and far between on the desert roads, and if nature calls, the chances of being anywhere near anything that even vaguely (and let me tell you, it can be pretty vague) resembles a toilet, are pretty slim.

That's no big deal, I hear you say. We've been out bush before. Just pull up on the side of the road, get behind a bush and do your business. End of story.

Well, my friends, the story doesn't end like that in this kind of desert. Because there are no bushes. None. Not even spinifex that one could, theoretically, pile up and use for modest cover.

So when the need arises, and the driver has been warned, you keep your eyes peeled for any undulation in the sandscape that could provide some barrier between minibus and squat space.

You pile out and duck behind the slight rise in said sandscape and hope like hell that no cars are arriving in either direction to witness the line of ladies squatting in the sand with their pants around their ankles, buttocks bared to the blazing sun.

I'm not going to pretend that there isn't something exhilarating about getting down to business out in the elements. Something primal. Because there is- and its a little bit thrilling.

But as we pile back in and pass the hand sanitiser I'm hoping I can hold out until
we reach the hotel, and I can sit back behind closed doors without my heart racing. And when the time comes, it's a relief to have four walls around me.

Tomorrow brings another long drive. Might skip the coffee!

Gods Of The Nile

The brightly coloured motor boat picks us up from Aswan's East bank and chugs with
determination against the current, leaving the deep blue waters rippling behind us. The Nile is lined with palm trees, boganvillia and water buffalo, grazing serenly at the waters edge. The heat of the day has passed, and the feeling of rushing along through the afternoon breeze is like a divine gift that has been bestowed upon us from some kind of deity- perhaps it is the Pharoh's Goddes Isis, fanning us with her collosal wings.

We approach our destination, and the motor cuts out, leaving us in silence, savouring the every last moment of our journey. We jump out onto the sands of the Sahara, that have carted from the a nearby sand dune to create a small artificial beach. Here, where the current is strong it is safe to swim, and we cannot wait to strip off and be immeresed in the immortal waters of this continant's most important river.

The river bed is a dark and mystical, covered in a soft furry mud that keeps the water above it crisp and cool and I gingerly wade in, with shivers up my spine.

Within a few paces I am up to my neck, and if I take my feet off the bottom I begin to feel myself being carried along with the water at quite a pace. Luckily I am able to replace my feet and wade back to the shore.

When we are sufficiently cooled we take a short trip up river to where there are camels waiting, ready to carry us off into the sunset. As we set off into the dunes we see the Sun God Ra illuminating the monsetary on the hill, his glowing orange disk preparing for his nightly journey into the stomach of the sky goddess.

Darkness envelops us as we farewell our camels and are taken into a Nubian home for a hearty meal and when it is finished, the motor boat takes us back to the East side, to the Land of the Living, where we will close our eyes and wait for the sky goddess to give birth to the sun disk, and allow the industrious Scarab beetle to roll Ra back up into the pale blue sky to light up the earth and show what the Gods have in store for us today.

Covering Up In Cairo

As a single white female travelling through the Middle East, you accept the fact that you are going to get looked at. Stared at. Pointed at. You accept this fact, and you move on. You smile, laugh it off, maybe even make a new friend or two. It's all good, right?

And in during my experiences in the Levant, it was all good. People are naturally
curious when they see a face that isn't like the ones they see every day, especially
when that face is attached to a head of light coloured hair. And if you walk around
in a T-shirt, cars will probably slow down so that the drivers can take a look. They can't believe what they are seeing. And although it's not the way they would like their wives and daughters to dress, they accept that this isn't everyone's values, and that we crazy westerners are entitled to do what we like, such is the liberalism of the laid back Levantine Muslims.

In Egypt, however, they wear their religion (quite literally) more severely. Full face coverings abound, and although there must be more than a million non Muslims in the city of Cairo, it's rare to see an uncovered female head. And walking the streets of Cairo, I can understand why.

You see, I had always been prepared to wear a headscarf, out of respect for my host countries culture and religion, but never found that it was expected of me, my modest dress seemed sufficiently courteous. And here in Cairo, when I wrap my hair and neck up in a brightly coloured scarf, respect doesn't even enter into it.

I cover up out because I can't handle the lingering stares that are accompanied by lolling tongues and parted lips. Stares that make me feel like my physical presence is for men's sexual gratification. Stares that often come accompanied with muttered Arabic I can't understand, or clumsy English pick up lines; 'Sleep with me!', 'I want to marry you','Oh my God!'.

If you are visiting Cairo and stick only to the tourist routes, to the Pyramids, the Museum, the main street of the Coptic Christian area you will likely not cause any commotion.

If you travel with a bus load of other tourists, you'll be accepted as a group of tourists, and dismissed by passers by.

If you stick only to the tourist routes, you will miss the intricate details of this
thriving city- the swarms of cats in piles of trash, the kids playing in the street,
the woman on the 7th floor hauling up a bucket filled with vegetables by the donkey cart driver.

And if you cover your arms and legs and neck and hair and sweat it out in the summer sun, you may still encounter the harassment, the awkwardness, the cringing moments.

You may still find yourself being mobbed by school girls in front of the mosque, queuing for a photo with a smiling westerner- one who has tried her hardest to be inconspicuous, to blend in.

In the embrace of these teenage school girls you will forget the leers and jeers of the men whose only experience of white females is from gigantic billboards and MTV and, lets face it (I've seen the cable channels) degrading pornography.

Cairo wins you over in the end, and leaves you pondering the values and attitudes of
it's inhabitants, so visibly juxtaposed with the bronzed and exposed Egyptians of ancient times depicted on so many relics prized by their modern descendants.

Cover up in Cairo. But keep your heart and mind open.

The Sublime and The Ridiculous (Via The Corrupt, The Cons and The Curious)

They say that in Egypt, nothing happens quickly, and it seems that in the land of the Pharoahs, you can't get from A to B without first visiting X, Y and Z. A land of such of such wild contrasts and steeped in ancient history is sure to lead us on many adventures.

Our ferry from Aqaba is scheduled to leave at 1pm. We arrive at the termainal two hours early, as advised, and rightly so, as it is a lengthy business figuring out where to get a ticket from, and where to then get the shuttle bus that takes you to the boat. We are given the Westerner VIP treatmet when boarding, being ushered in front of the snaking line of Arab faces and then pushed upstairs into first class, even though we only have 2nd class tickets. We wait and wait for the ferry to depart, and when we finally begin to move, we realise it's only to turn the ship around in order for the Haj busses and campervans to drive in the back. When we leave the shores of Jordan, it is 1:45...Egyptian time, an hour and forty minutes late. We arrive to to chaos and confusion, a theme that will reoccur throughout our journey in Egypt.


We spend a night in the pleasantly surreal seaside Dahab with it's waterfront bedouin style restaurants and discheveled looking scuba tourists, and in the morning, we are bound for St Katherine, planning to climb Siniai in the afternoon, after all the dawn pilgrims have departed.

We make the mistake of not booking the bus in the Evening, and when we come to check out
we are told that it's too late. A taxi will cost double the price of the bus, but, still
only ammounting to $20 per person, and, short of hitching, our only option.

The previous evening during our pre dinner stroll we were inundated with offers of taxis willing to drive us off into the night when all we wanted was a waterfront seafood dinner.

Now, at 8am, there is not a taxi to be seen, and the manager of the hotel informs us that Egyptians like to sleep late, and that we could be waiting some time.

When we finally find a driver willing to take us, his two mates squeeze into the front seat, and we pile in the back of his ute. He drives off int he wrong direction, dropping his mates off at the Squba headquarters. We then head out of town, where we are dropped on a street corner where another mate, in a taxi, is waiting. Our bags are swapped over, and again, we pile in.

Again, we head off in the wrong direction, to find we are back outside our hotel. Our new driver jumps out and comes back with not one, but three packets of cigarettes. I wonder how many he will smoke during our two hour journey.

As it turns out, the cigarettes, are not for him, they are bribes to be handed over at the police check point, as our driver isn't technically supposed to be operating out side of the Dahab area.

We miraculously arrive in one piece after driving most of the way on the wrong side of the road- our driver listening to his mp3 player and not paying attention to much going on around him.

In St Katherines, loaded up with all our luggage, we get our first real taste of Egypt.
The hassels of the touts and would be guides are constant, and it takes some negotiating
witht he security guards in order to pass through and make the ten minute walk to our
accomodation.

We are staying in the monastery, set between the towering mountains, that has operated for more than 1000 years and is now home to some wikedly bearded Greek Orthadox Monks who float ghost-like about the place in long grey robes.

The pilgrims swarm around us, vying to get into the ancient chapel and be blessed by an
ashen faced monk. They pose for photographs reaching up to touch the 'burning bush', or
at least a supposed relation of the eponymous plant.

Inside the museum are more than a centuries worth of religious iconography, dating back
to 7th century AD. They depict all sorts of gruseome images of crucifiction, of the descent into hell. A distinctly modern looking Moses smiles benevolantly from a huge etching. He looks a bit like Santa Claus.

Just before sunset, we are standing 2285m above sea level looking out over the desert
contemplating the story of Moses receiving the ten commandments in this very spot. He would have had a rough time making his way up here, without the help of carefully laid out switch backs and stone stair cases and an obligatory bedouin guide.

There is a small crowd setting up for the sunset, likely to be waiting up throught the night or the dawn pilgrims who come armed with hymn books and religious fervour.

We are back in the monastary in time for tea, with a whole lot of Orthadox Christians and a few less devout (and less headscarfed) tourists. We eat a simple dinner of soup, salad, stew and rice, with cool green melon slices for desert. We have swapped the brightly coloured cushions of Dahab's beachside bedouin restaurants for stories of flying corpses and reclusive old men, imported from greece, encased in ancient limestone.

'From the ridiculous to the sublime,' says a voice from our table.

But I can't help wondering if it isn't the other way round.

Down At The Bottom

We pay up at the hotel reception, 2JD each for the bus ride, 7JD resort entry and another 7JD to hire snorkel and flippers. The AU$27 seems like a pretty expensive way to get into the sea, but seeing as taking a dip on the public beach in anything revealing more than ankles and wrists is a no-go here in Aqaba we haven't got much of a choice. We pile on when the shuttle arrives, joining a couple of Germans, a few South Africans, two of Chinese girls and an English family, leaving the centre of Aqaba for Club Murjan, which lies 10 km to the south on the way to the Saudi border.

Club Murjan is separated from the ocean by a stretch of grey pebbly beach. It has stripy sunbeds, shade cloth, and a freshwater pool. We tourists strip off, allowing the morning sun to touch parts of our bodies we have not yet dared to show. I grab mask and flippers, and head off to the water.

It is Saturday, and there are a few local families setting up blankets under the umbrellas outside the resort. A few little kids are wading, knee deep in the pale blue waters. You can see from the shore where the reef starts, around 10 meters from the shore, where a line of orange buoys mark the snorkellers route. I am the first to submerge, and swim out to the glass bottom boats that take those who can't swim far enough out to see the Red Sea's under water wonderland.

I am amazed at how quickely the reef starts to appear, I'd be only waist deep if standing, already there are bright colours and sporadic schools of tiny fish. I see spiky sea urchins,and am greatful for the flippers protecting my feet. My belly nearly grazes the knobbly arms of coral stretching out from the sea floor.

Suddenly, the shelf drops away, and an entire world is revealed, teeming with fish of all shapes, sizes and colours- stripy, shiny, pointy and bloated they dart in and out of the corals crevaces. There is so much life down here.

A Mars Bar wrapper floats past my face, and I grab it and tuck it into my boardshorts. I can't bear to see this wonderland spoilt by human trash.

The current carries me down the beach and I lie as still as I can, stretched out in the cool water, trying not to disturb the fish swimming beneath me. Every so often I dive down as far as my eardrums will let me to get a closer look at the fish and their underwater world.

I emerge at the pier and clumsily flipper-walk my way to the shore. Looking around me, I can hardly believe that these worlds coexist, the gaudy beach resort, the drab polluted beach dotted with fully clothed beach goers who stare openly as I pass them, dripping wet in my one piece, and the oblivious ecosystem thriving in technicolour beneath the waves in silent splendour.

Lizard-like, I lay on a sun lounge, luxuriating in the rays of light reflecting off the empty pool, the other tourists stretched out around me, their lycra suits still bone dry.

We pay for the priveledge of privacy and look upon the world outside the metal bars as we look upon the life under the sea; with wide eyed bewilderment. In our enclosure we are free to disrobe, lie hand in hand sipping cocktails. On the beach the covered women are free from lacivious stares of passing men.

In the ocean the fish swim, and swim. They judge no one.

Aqaba

It's early Saturday morning, and I'm standing on the balcony of our hotel room in Aqaba, emptying buckets fine red desert sand out of the pockets of my cargo pants. It pours out of every crevace, every fold in the fabric, tumbling onto the tiled floor in a cascade of burnt crimson. I feel the calm of the desert slip away with the tumbling grains of sand, I'm no longer basking forever blue sky in the magical Wadi Rum NAtional park, now hemmed in between barren ugly mountains and the Gulf of Aqaba, where Israels trashy Eilat winks cheekily from across the bay, the mountains of Egypt towering over the water a short distance further south. Somehow, the promise of 'seaside' aqaba had me looking forward my beloved ocean- and the deep blue nothingness in which to drown out the noise of city life. Instead, this narrow stretch of murkey water is packed with ocean liners full of fanny packed cruise passengers from europe and live export tankers from Australia whose inmates await the slaughter houses in the desert set just a few hundred meters back from the highway that stretches north through the desert to Amman.

A cool breeze wafts through the tree outside our room, and instead of the roar of the ocean I hear the chug chug of tour busses and taxis carreering through the streets.

There must be more to Aqaba than trash laden sea frontage where local kids kick soccerballs at tourists while their hijabed mothers and sisters immerse themselves, fully clothed in the shallow waters. There must be more than the whinging tones of
Engilsh families squabbling at their Table for 8 in the Ali Baba restaurant. There must be more than the opulent 5 star resorts that dominate the sea frontage, leaving the saggy bedded budget options cowering in their shaddows.

Whatever the day brings, I hope it brings more than this.

The Desert: A Love Affair

We Long To Leave, We Long to Return

Preparing to leave is bitter-sweet. The anticipation of the journey to come quickens the heart, adventures ahead so tantalisingly close you can almost taste the excitement, the fear, the exhilaration of discovery. Packing is a treacherous task, which items are scrunched and shoved down into the bottom of your pack, which are betrayed and left in cupboards, on shelves, in showers. Economy is the name of the game, yet little luxuries sneak in, a bottle of perfume, a bulky exfoliater. A second pair of jeans. In amongst it all things are forgotten in hurried exits, rushing to make departure times and when you reach your destination the quest for socks, for a mascara or raincoat is no nuisance, rather the catapult that thrusts you into foreign supermarket aisles and pharmacies, grappling with phrase books and friendly shopkeepers.

Of course the things we cannot take are those we miss the most. We cannot choose which friend to stow in the overhead compartment, nor can we forgo a pair of shoes in order to squeeze a lover in at the last minute. We will miss purrs and paws and the sound of the tram passing in the night. We miss our own comfortable corner of the earth as we traverse the globe in search of, of what? Of hard beds and surly bus drivers? Of food that has us retching and heaving? Of rainy days that leave us holed up in hotel rooms that smell of mildew and someone else's feet? Are these the things we crave?

The zips are finally pulled shut and we haul our luggage out the door. Tears are inevitable, here on our doorstep or later, as the plane takes off and we feel the distance unravelling between us and our lives. It is as if we leave ourselves behind, tucked up under a heavy duvet, hibernating in our homes, while another you, the one who hitch hikes, accepts food from strangers and lets body hair grow wild and free takes off into the clouds, up, up and away.

We will not write, nor will we call, lost in the streets of far away cities filling our mouths with foods we cannot pronounce, unable to thank a waiter for attentive service except by leaving spare change and a smile.

But we will think of you, and when we return to wake our hibernating bodies and resume our everyday life there will be a difference in the way we walk, the way we smile, the way we hold you tightly.

For coming back is bitter-sweet. The things we have seen have changed us, the blood in our veins is not the same. In the hallway our coat still hangs where we left it, the champagne glasses gather dust.

Put a bottle in the fridge to cool. I'll be home soon.

Crosses, Barbed Wire and Buoyancy on Easter Sunday

It is Easter Sunday and although it is a complete coincidence, it seems quite fitting that this is the day we have chosen to tick the 'sites of religious significance' box on our Jordan itinerary. Up first is Madaba, home the most dense population of Christians in Jordan, followed by Mt Nebo, where Moses is supposed to have been shown the 'promised land', which we now know as Palestine, then on to a small portion of the River Jordan that for the last century and a half, Christians have believed to be the site of Jesus' baptism. After taking in all the facts, figures and fictions we will end the day floating on our backs in the super salty Dead Sea. Better than an Easter egg hunt? We'll find out.

The town of Madaba lies 35 km south of Amman, and is a quaint little village with narrow winding streets and a hand full of tall crosses jutting out into the sky above. Our point of interest is The Church of St George, named after the supposed dragon slaying knight, which houses a partial Byzantine mosaic map which dates back to the fifth century AD. A Greek Orthodox priest wishes us a , 'Happy Easter', on our way in, and as we exit, we are greeted with a nearby Mosques call to prayer. With the castle ruins of the bloody Crusade era just kilometers away, it's heartening to wittness these two religions existing peacefully side by side, in amongst the colourful souvenieer shops and multi story hotels. We drive off holding onto that thought, trying not to question it's veracity.

Our taxi climbs up the 800 mtrs to the summit of Mt Nebo, where the tourist busses have arrived, spewing out their Nikon strapped, collapsable tripod carrying tour groups, who stream up the pathway to the viewing point, in matching white caps. Under a large tarpaulin are more Byzantine Era mosaics, looking as pristine as those we have seen hanging on the walls of the souvenier shops around Madaba. A monk in earth coloured robes walks serenely amongst the throngs of tourists, some of whom file neatly into an unassuming chapel for an early morning Easter Service. As I marvel at the condition of the ancient mosaic, trampled over for centuries and still virtually intact, I am in awe of the faith of these tour-bus pilgrims, tieing prayers scrawled on toilet paper to branches of the olive trees that grow resolutely on the summit. Their religion is predates the mosaic and it appears, like the mosaic, to show no signs of weakening.

Looking out across the undulating desert into the hazy distance it seems that this 'promised land' is endless, a vast expanse beyond the still blue waters of the Dead Sea; continues for ever. You don't need to hear voices from the sky to feel inspired by the sheer potency of this landscape. It is both revealing and mystical, in parts sprouting forth life from its dusty soil, its barren craggy peaks threating those who would dare to scale them.

We begin the steep desent, bound for Bethany Beyond Jordan, alng with the camera carrying hordes all vying for an eyefull of the sacred spot, the wilderness that surrounds it once inhabited by a camel hair clad John the Baptist.

Bethany Beyond Jordan is to Christians what Disneyland is to cartoon watching kiddies. Buy a ticket, take a seat on the shuttle and jostle your way to the front of the queue at the rivers edge to dip a hand in and fill your water bottle with murkey water. No one's selling hotdogs, so if you've a keen eye for a franchise opportunity, now is your chance. In spite all the frantic water decanting hype, the facts we can be sure of sure are fascinating. From about 500 years (so, we're talking generations) after the death of Christ, locals built churches along the banks of the river, and as quickly as nature would destroy them with floods and earthquakes, they would rebuild them. Why exactly they chose this spot to build is not known, and cannot adequately be explained. But build they did, and continue to do, the most recent church having been built just seven years ago, it's gaudy gold domes glinting in the hot sun. On the Palestinian side of the river the Israeli flag flies defiantly. Both sides sport an abundance of barbed wire, and rifle carrying army patrols remind you that, fact or fabrication, this site represents the tensions that seem so wonderfully absent in nearby Madaba. Our guide hurries us back to the shuttle bus, and I gladly quicken my pace, glad to have seen this historic site, but gladder still to be heading away from the desert cam clad soldiers and their automatic machine guns.

Within ten minutes of jumping back into our yellow cab, we arrive at Amman Beach, a resort style waterfront with aquamarine swimming pools set against the backdrop of the expansive Dead Sea and the hills of Palestine beyond it. Down a steep flight of stairs is a sandy beach that leads to the salty water. The entrance price stings almost as much as a drop of Dead Sea water in your eye, but here there are no plaques or diaramas, no facts to wade through, just cool water that literally lifts you up, nothing metaphysical about this buoyancy. I can't tell you what my soul was up to, but my body was floating, and I've got the pictures to prove it.

The Story of Catherine and the Istanbulu

‘Catherine,’ says Abdulla, my mustachioed new Turkish friend, as we stroll arm in arm down Istanbuls Cankurtaran St, ‘you must have many men tell you that you are beautiful, and that they love you, and for this reason I will tell you that you are very very ugly,’ he pauses with a mischivous smile, ‘and that I hate you’, he concludes.

I laugh, still not quite sure what compelled me to give in to Abdulla’s entreaties to come back to his shop and have tea with him. I was, in fact, quite happy getting lost among the streets of Sultanahmet and had rejected many other other offers of ‘help’ from the smartly dressed men lying in wait on street corners for aimless looking tourists such as myself. But there was something different about Abdulla, something laid back and geunine, and the fact that he just happened to be getting a sandwich on the very street corner that I had paused at and had not been crouched in the shaddows ready to pounce on any old tourist worked in his favour.

When we arrive at the steep, narrow staircase that leads up to his shop I see that the walls are covered in carpets and kilims, and immediately my interest peaks. Not because I’m terribly interested in purchasing a carpet, but because of the book I’ve just finished reading, ‘The Carpet Wars’, by Christopher Kremmer, that details an Australian journalist’s travells throught the Middle East just prior to 9/11. The book is a fascinating account of the people and the political struggles of the time, and is punctuated by the authors encounters with carpet dealers . I’m wondering if I can impress Abdulla with any of the tricks I read about in the book.

Inside the small shop that is packed with coulourful woven items, we sit, and Abdulla gets started on his sandwich. I’m pretty hungry myself, having had minimal food on my 5am flight from Dushanbe, and I’m starting to regret refusing Abdulla’s offer to buy me breakfast. On cue, small cups of tea arrive, accompanied by a couple of surgar cubes that I know will see me through untill I can get some proper sustenance.

I try to make it clear that I’m not in the market to buy today, but that I’d like to take a look at the carpets he’s selling. Abdulla directs his collegue to display the rugs, and he does so, one after the other- rugs from Iran and from Central Turkey. I pick them up, examing the knots on the undersides, not knowing why exactly, but copying the actions that Kremmer details in his book.

Abdulla is enthusiastic about showing me around the Grand Bazar, and taking me to lunch for seafood by the Bosphoros, and I explain that I have a flight to catch this evening, and want to see as much of Istanbul as I can. Abdullah takes my arms and says, ‘My dear, I will show you the real Istanbul’.

We wnder into the Grand Bazarr, with all its shiny wares glinting in the light, and Abdulla explains a few of the do’s and don’ts of market shopping. Never buy from the stalls on the outside, for example, as their rents are the highest, and so must charge the most for their products.

I hover over some metal kebab squeres, that at 2TL each would make useful souvenieers, and I’m in the middle of selecting 6 when I realise that my checked baggage is being transferred from my flight from Dushanbe and that I only have my carry on allowance. Large pointy metal items ? Unfortunately I have to apoplgise to the shopkeeper and keep walking.

We come to another carpet shop, and I tell Abdullah I’d like to take a look. He watches from a few paces away as I interact witht the shopkeeper, asking how much per square meter, and whether the carpet is silk or a wollen blend. He lays out some carpets with a pleasing, although not terribly traditional looking, motif that he says is silk, from Iran. He quotes a price of USD$1200, which to me sounds extrodinarily cheap, for a silk carpet of this size and my suspicion is aroused. After I’ve seen a few carpets, I take the shopkeepers card and tell him I’ll keep him in mind if I intend to purchase.

Abdullah is fuming as we leave the shop.

‘Take this card, and throw it away’, he says angrily. ‘Throw it away!’.

He explains that the carpets in that stall are all imported from China, and worth only $20 or $30 USD, made from synthetic threads and mass to minimal quality.

‘Come with me’, says Abdullah, ‘I will take you to the man who sells the carpets to the whole of the Grand Bazar. There you will see good quality, real silk carpets’.

And we leave the Grand Bazar, with its pushy shopkeepers calling out to us as we exit, entreating us to take a look, to buy, all in English, not recognising Abdullah as one of their own.

Around a corner and down an alley way we find the carpet wholesaler, unfurling a new delivery of carpets. Their colours are so deep and natural looking. ‘Like an earth quake’, Abdullah says, quickly correcting himself to say, ‘earthy colours’, but I prefer his first description.

These carpets are like the ones I was shown from an ancient book by a Persian professor, and although I’m no expert, it certainly looks as if these are the real thing.

‘Look, look at this’, says Abdullah as one by one he throws the small carpets up in the air, flicking the around, so we can observe the colours changing under the light. He pulls me out side so I can see the vibrant display in natural light, throwing them down the stiarwell.

Back in the shop, he asks me which ones I like, and I cannot help myself pointing out a couple of striking carpets, one disconcertingly depicts a lion with a deer in its mouth, the other shines red and blue adorned with peacefull looking birds.

We start talking about price, and although I am wary about entering into this discussion, I guess that a good price for such carpets would be seven or eight hundred USD. Abdullah pulls me aside,

‘I have told this man that you are my girlfriend, and because we are collegues, in the same business, he will give me a good price. I could even get him to take five or six hundred for it’.

Now I know I’m in trouble. In the ethics of bargaining, it is terribly impolite to begin the bargaining process when you don’t intend to buy, and I have to let Abdullah down gently, but emphatically, explaining, that I have only 60 TL on my for the day, and no credit cards, which isn’t a complete lie, since although my mastercard is stowed in my shoulder bag next to my passport, it is close to maxed out from the purchase of flights to Tajikistan and my new notebook computer.

With my hand to my heart I thank the wholesaler (who speaks no english) for his time, and make a hasty exit.

Abdullah shows a flicker of disappointment as we leave, and at that point I’m sure that our meeting was not complete coincidence, and that, had I purchased one of the beautiful carpets, Abdulla would have received more than just pleasure at seeing the piece go to a good home.

I clasp his hand firmly and tell him that I have had a wonderfull morning, but that I intend to cross the river to see the other side of the city, and must do so quickly if I am to make my filght. I take his card, and promise that when I return to Istanbul I will visit his shop, and who knows, maybe even buy a carpet.

When my flight finally takes off that evening, I open the Inflight magazine, which says, ‘ If you want to get to know the real Istanbul, you must listen carefully, for she has stories to tell’.

And I am pleased with the story I have heard today, and pleased to have a story to tell.

Hands, Hands.

Hands, hands,

mauling my food, my arms,

my sleeves as pale grey eyes plead money without words.

Hands to heart, a handshake.

A hand grasps a baton, a sniper rifle. A camera.

Hand s seize my soiled clothing, mime ‘towel’ in a comical dance.
Hands that are graceful, hands that are modest.

Hands that work hard.

Hands reach for unrequired change, hands that beg a bribe.

Hands hold reins, tightly.

Hands that fumble with unfamilliar currency, freeze in the frosty air, finger foreign menus and find taps unforthcoming.

Hands pour tea, pass bread.

Hands are hospitable.

Hands that held this country hostage have let it fall. Hands now dust off a nations pride. Hands will rebuild, refashion, restore.

Hands pull muddy boots over wollen socks, haul heavy baggage and close the hotel door.

Wave goodbye, hands.

And don’t be tired, be health.

Dancing in the New Year

I stride into the club in my brand new heels, complete with leopard print bow and diamantes. My sheer stockings sparkle under the neon lights.

I have several layers to offload a the cloakroom, though it is spring in Dushanbe, the weather has turned visciously cold and the rain has persisted throughout the day and into the night. Finally, my outfit is revealed- little more than a light grey t-shirt with a large floral pattern on one side and more diamantes, held together at the back by a pannel of horizontal threads.

Inside the club are round tables, set with candles. Green and white ballons are strung up around the dance floor, where there are two scantily clad podium dancers gyrating in irredescant blue. The shirtless Russian DJ wears a colourful headdress and a chest full of body paint. He pumps out crowd pleasers that send the revellers into a frenzy on the dance floor, their arms are up high, the women flick their long hair invitingly. Although they are not wearing the white shirts and waistcoats of the waitresses, they too are working, wearing uniforms of their own.

Tight pants that hug hips and thighs, tops that reveal every curve, skirts and shorts that divulge almost too much. These women weave in amongst the men, foreigners from Iran, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan, Russia as well as locals. They allow themselves to be grabbed and fondled without giving any one man too much attention. Their bodies are engaged in the game of seduction, their mascara rimmed eyes remain vague.

We wonder where the nice Tajik girls go to party, concluding that it certainly isn’t here. Each one of these women has a price- a few drinks in exchange for company on the dancefloor, maybe 100 somoni for some private attention elsewhere. Several figures have been offered to the men when I leave them unattended, but I guess we’ll never know all the costs involved. Some of these women make quick cash by bothering those not interested long enough to siphon a few notes as a bribe to leave them alone.

We position ourselves around a table and a waitress arrives to take our order. She eyes me suspiciously- I am hoping that she might mistake me for a Russian prostitute, but in spite of my efforts to blend in, something still screams ‘foreigner’. This time I’m sure it’s not the clothes (my cargo pants left crumpled on the hotel room floor). Perhaps it is my wide eyed curiosity at the scene before me, perhaps I look like I’m enjoying myself too much.

We settle for shots of local Vodka, whilst those on neighboring tables us cut to the chase and order whole bottles. Around us a phenomenal ammount of the stuff is being consumed, yet there are none of the tell tale signs of overindulgence- no one stumbles or slurs or raises their fists. The clear liquid is smooth and delicately flavoured, will set you back only a few Somoni and if you remain faithfull to it all evening, will not bother you with a hangover when the sun rises.

I submerge myself with the sounds on the dance floor. I get a few glares from the working girls, and a few stares from the men fervantly shaking their booty to the beat.

‘Nor Rus Mo Barak!!’

Announces the Dj, in Tajik. ‘Happy New Year!’.

The crowd writhes joyfully, and in that moment it seems we could be anywhere- surrounded by young anonymous bodies pulsating with the beats played live on a shiny red drumkit, centre stage complimenting the DJs wicked sounds.

Up in the mountains, the snow is beginning to melt, the smell of new beginnings as fresh as the scent from the multitude of cherry blossoms that unfold in the valley.

In Search of Buzkashi

It is Nor Rus, the Persian New Year, and we have spent the morning parading about the community celebrations in our very best threads (snappyt suits for the men, a less than flattering multi-coloured traditional pants/dress combination for me) when we decide to enquire about the possibility of taking in a Buzkashi tournament. We are in the middle of asking a couple of idle policemen whether they know if such a game is likely to take place, when Aladdin,a young Tajik who speaks to us in English, tells us that there is a game on today, and that he will meet us at the Hippodrome at 3, where the game is to take take place.

After a quick stop at our hotel to change into more suitable clothing (a light rain has persisted all morning and we are now more than just a bit damp) we flag down a service taxi on Rudaki Avenue. There is a lady already in the front seat, so we take a detour past Sad Barg- the multi story post soviet shopping mall- to drop her off.

As the lady gets out we reiterate our intended destination, and after some confusion, the cab driver gets out of the cab and approaches a group of other taxi drivers, we assume, to ask directions. Not uncommon in Dushanbe, or in fact anywhere else in this region, where GPSs are not widely available, A to Zs just don’t seem to exist.

Seemingly on track, we head off, back the way we came, the three of us still jammed together in the back of the tiny vehicle. Before long, our driver takes a left turn into a cul-de-sac, and again confusion arises. He winds down the passenger window to ask for directions in Russian from passers by. There are hand guestures and knodding of heads, so we figure we can’t be too far off.

The cab begins to U turn, and the cabbie stops a kid by yelling

‘Hippodrome?’

It turns out the kid is headed there to, so he hops in the front, and at last we seem to be heading the right way.

The kid directs the cabbie to take the next left, and we start to negotiate the backstreets of Dushanbe, where the bitchemun stops and there are groups of kids running and jumping through the mud that coveres the cobble stoned alleyways.

Without warning, the cab stops in the middle of the road, and the kid jumps out, and motions for us to follow. We pay the cab driver, and put our faith in this 12 or 13 year old who is forging ahead with obvious enthusiasm.

We reach the top of a staircase, where we can see a large grassy oval where horses and riders are gathered in groups. The spectator stand lies on the far side perhaps a kilometer away. I’m starting to think there might have been a better route for our cab to have taken.

We descend, and are faced with the tall grey brick wall that marks the preimiter of the Hippodrome. It seems we have a long trudge through the mud in order to get to the stands.

We follow our guide, and begin to notice that up ahead the kids are disappearing one by one into the wall, and as we approach we see gaps in the brick work.

Wondering if this is the correct entry point for the stadium we figure there’s nothing else for it but to give it a go.

I go first, and halfway through the gap I come face to face with a flushed police officer, who seems a little surprised to see a western woman squeezing through the gap, but waves me through when he sees my hesitation. Official entrances, rules and entry fees don’t seem to have a place here in Tajikistan, and I wonder what exactly it is that the policemen are responsible for.

All three of us are in, and we continue to follow our leader through the mud around to where a large group has gathered, close in to where the action, we assume, will take place. Old ladies sell nuts and bread from ancient prams, and the men around us deftly spit out the shells of roasted pumpkin seeds. Kids that look no older than 10 wait for the policemen to drop their guard before running cheekily onto the field.

We are waiting for the ‘buz’ of the buzkashi- the headless goat that acts as the ball for this Afghan Polo. It is a notoriously dangerous game that is more like rugby on horseback than the genteel game played in collared shirts, and we are eager to see what plays out .

Without warning, the crowd in the stands goes wild, and a handful of horses start racing round the edge of the stadium, and pass just metres from where we are. The kids in the middle are much closer, having to jump out of the way to avoid being stampeded.

Another race begins as this one ends, and after that another, and although we are hoping these races are just a warm up for the game we are aching to see it seems there has been some kind of miscommunication, and we are, in fact at the races, although further in ideology from Ascot than in miles! No ladies in hats, no betting. No order at all.

A riderless horse makes a run for it and makes it out the gate and into the streets of Dushanbe. Another steed isn’t keen to stop when the race is over and continues as far as it can, rider flailing incompetently atop him. A sore loser tries to knock the victorious jockey of his horse after passing the finish line.

We eventually meet up with Aladdin, who is glad to have found us in amongst the crowd. He shrugs off our disappointment at not finding Buzkashi, and I wonder if he knew all along that there was no game planned. He is keen to practice his English, and, he confides, is hoping one day to go to Australia.

The rain is beginning to ease up, and although we are enjoying the spectacle we decide to leave and seek further Nor Ros celebrations elsewhere.

As we are leaving, a kid in the crowd who speaks to us in carefully constructed English sentances seems to think there will be buzkashi in two days time, and phone numbers are exchanged. Is this perhaps another attempt to secure a rare English speaking opportunity? Or will there be Buzkashi after all?

Said the Tajik to the Tourist

'I had a friend who went to Australia',

said the Tajik to the Tourist.

'Oh yes?' replied the Tourist. 'Did he like it?'

'I don't know,' said the Tajik to the Tourist.

'He never came back!'

Power Shopping

We have come to Sad Barg, the multi story shopping centre just south of Dushanbe’s city centre, in search of a tailor to hem a pair of suit pants, and to seek out a suitably Russian going-out outfit for me. It takes some time to decipher the cerilic on the signs, but we come to the conclusion that we must head to the third floor, and enter the building through it’s heavy doors.

It is dark inside the concrete stairwell, though the Tajiks coming and going seem less bothered by it than I am, quickily passing me on their way up and down the stairs, while I grope at the wall, tentatively taking each step at a time. As we enter the labrynth of stalls selling everything that Myer could provide and more, we realise that the darkness of the stairwell extends throughout the building, the only light straining through the tiny windows of the outer stalls. Those far from windows use mobile phones to illuminate their stock.

The darkness disuades no one. Tajiks love to shop, so it is no surprise that even a city wide powerfailure is no obstacle in their pursuit of fashionable threads. The fact that it is the eve of Nor Rus- the Persian New Year, and the traditional time for buying new clothes adds to the frenzy.

My eyes gradually adjust, but I am overwhelmed. So many racks of clothes and rows of fabrics. Gaudy golden jewelry glinting in the dark.

We resolve to return when the power is back on, and when we do, the centre is no longer dimly surreal, glowing with nokia’s irridescant screen lights. The scene is reduced to the ordinary; bored shop girls sigh, busty ladies jostle in front of cut price stockings and controll undies.

Our errands are achieved under the bright glare of the fluros, though had we the stamina and determination of the Tajiks, we might have fulfilled our tasks hours before and had the afternoon to enjoy the fading sunlight.

Who knows what powers the Tajik through the obstacles imposed upon their daily lives, but powered they are, and shop they will. More power to them.

Are You Russian?

Whilst travelling solo through the Levant I often found myself being asked the question,

‘Are you Russian?’

Which always left me confused, wondering which of my physical attributes could possibly lead these taxi drivers and souk stall holders to believe that I was of Russian herratige.

Those of you who know the sinister undertone to this seemingly innocent question will be laughing at my naievity, as these men were not asking me about my nationality, but rather about my proffession, and whether it involved the exchange of sex for money.

I look back with fury at the times I shrugged off this assumption, good naturedly setting these lecherous men straight, without reprimanding them for their impertinance.

Now, I can confess to have come across a few prostitutes in my time in the Levant- and it seemed that none of them actually were Russian, which had me even more confused about the origins of this ‘secret handshake’ type question.

Until I came to Tajikistan.

Tajikistan, due to its former Soviet ties, is filled with Russian women. And whilst I’m sure not all of them are working girls, they certainly all seem to dress as if they are. Young and old- they are heavily made up and bare plenty of flesh, unlike their modest and graceful Tajik counterparts. The loose traditional dresses sported by the Tajik girls are in complete contrast to the outfits hugging the behinds of the paler skinned , thinner eyebrowed Russian women. These ladies would catch your attention even in cosmoplitan Melbourne, so striking are their outfits and heavily penciled brows.

And yet, for every woman that stops me in my tracks, , there is a Tajik or a Russian or an Uzbeck taking a good long look at my cargo pants and beanie wide eyed and bewildered. Children on the street squint up at me, without the judgemental Levantine recognition of the infidel, but rather with genuine open jawed wonderment at such a foreign creature. It is unnerving, to say the least.

I resolve to make an effort to fit in more, and not pick cultural sides. I will find a traditional outfit for Nor Rus that I will team up wiith the embroidered slippers favoured by the Tajiks, in spite of the wet weather.

And I will scour Sad Barg for my very own buttock hugging, curve exposing possibly sequined outfit.

For a change, I’d LIKE to be mistaken for a Russian.

The Tajik Adventure Begins

As our taxi turns onto Zahran St, we hear a rooster crow, and through our yawns we smile at the thought of chooks cooped up here in Amman’s apartment filled 6th Circle. It is 4 am, and barely twelve hours since our flights to Dushanbe were hurriedly booked online, and the three of us and our backpacks are on our way to Queen Alia Airport clutching booking forms and passports.

Flying from Jordan to Tajikistan is not as straightforward as you might at first imagine. Take a look on a map and you will see that the most direct route would have you fly over Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan- airspace most airline carriers are keen to avoid. So yes, we're leaving the immediate Levantine neighbourhood, but we're not going too far away.

Anyway, it is for this reason that our Kevin Kostner endorsed Turkish Airlines flights have us rerouted to fly via Istanbul, where we will spend 10 hours before a connecting flight will take us back east over Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Uzbeckistan and into Tajikistan.

We arrive at Istanbul Airport having had little sleep, but with a grand plan to bust out of the airport as soon as possible to wander the streets of this gateway city. These plans are foiled by the colour of the boys passports, and though I make it through customs, I am soon heading up the escallators to another queue to have my passoprt stamped again and leave Turkey without ever really having entered it.

International airports are always buzzing with dozens nationalities departing and arriving and chattering away in languages that in concrete corridors blur into an echoey humm, but Istanbul, straddling east and west, has a particular quality that is hard to define. Women at the departure gate for Tehran succumb to the veil, whilst the chador clad arrivals look ominously out of place in passing through the brightly lit aisles of the duty free shops. A group of men wearing large white towels held up by a makeshift belt adjust each other’s outfits before passing through security checks.

We pass the time drinking exorbitantly priced beers at the airport bar, watching the parade of strangely dressed folks come and go until it is time to go to our gate.

On our flight, cabin crew communicate in a mixture of Turkish and English, struggling with the Tajiks on board, whose mixture of Persian and Russian leads to confusion. The westerners on board are a bizarre bunch, including a group of noisy English construction workers, a pair of thrill seeking American Airlines flight attendants, a young fair haired guy carrying a strange looking instrument and what we guess to be a portable amplifier, and us, cargo pant poised for adventure.

When we touchdown in Tajikistan the local time is 4am, close to 24 hours from the time we piled into the taxi in Amman and began this journey. The air is crisp and cold as we exit the airport and the taxi driver who approaches us knows our hotel, and although we know that the fee he is asking is way in excess of local prices, we happily hand over the American dollars and set off into the mist of the Dushanbe morning, bound for warm beds and much needed sleep.

Our Second Day in Petra

On our second day in Petra, despite our very best intentions, we have not managed to beat the crowds, and when we arrive at the gates around 9:30 am, there are bus loads of tourists streaming down the gravel path to the Siq with their bum bags and overstuffed fishing vests, chatting loudly in anticipation of the spectacle of this ancient city.

We decide that rather than walking down through the narrow Siq to the Treasury, bottlenecked in with this eager crowd, we will take an alternate route- a narrow canyon that will lead us straight to the roman amphitheatre in the heart of the city, allowing us to bypass the name badge wearing tour groups.

We descend down past the sign that declares,

'Warning: danger without guide',

and only get a few metres before we hear shouts from above. It is the blue clad Tourist Police, gesturing for us to come up and join the rest of the tourists.

Disappointed, but not yet beaten, we return to the main path to confront the Tourist Police, proffering our maps and pointing firmly to the path we intend to take.

They shake their heads and mutter something about 'danger' and 'winter' and 'too much water'. Even at this early hour the sun has a sharp bite to it and it's hard to conceive that this path might still be flooded from winter rains.

'Where you from?' they ask us suspiciously.

'Min Australia', three of us reply in chorus, the German wisely staying silent.

The Policemen make pretence at tearing up our map whilst considering our nationality, but finally decide that we can have our map back, and attempt this 'dangerous' route. It's hard to tell what they have based this decision on, but, however arbitrary, we waste no time thinking about it, and hurry back to the canyon.

The Siq which yesterday led us to the ancient sandstone tomb inappropriately named The Treasury and made famous by Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade was formed by an earth quake, that split the huge rock face, leaving a narrow corridor that the Nabataens blocked off to deter invaders.

The canyon that we take today has been formed by the flow of water, and we can see as we enter though the tunnel that thousands of winters rainfall has shaped these rocks, carving smooth patterns as it rushed through from the overflowing dam.

Within a few hundred meters we are alone and the steep sandstone is blocking the glare of the morning sun. It is cool and silent, far from the crowds.

We can clearly see our path- a river bed of rocks that winds through the canyon. We scramble up and over and through tight openings.

Around a corner we come face to face with an elderly Bedouin man, who we greet with,

'Salam aleikum'.

He silently watches us as we slide down further into the canyon, passing bags and water and cameras down first in order to jump safely from the rocks.

Our path becomes muddier as descend and eventually we come to deep pools of water collected at the base of the narrow canyon, which we carefully climb around. It is the only thing to remind us that we are at the tail end of winter here in the desert, and that weeks ago, during the nights, that are now a temperate twenty one degrees, could go below zero.

The canyon widens, and we emerge to see another Bedouin man leaning up against the rock face with a teapot and cup of tea. High up in the distance are rows of tombs cut into the sandstone hills. We and the Bedouin man are the only people for as far as the eye can see, alone with the amazing landscape and it's millennia of history.

Around the corner we come across a donkey, unattended, tethered to the ground. He regards us as the Bedouin men did, with mild interest, and nothing else.

Consulting the map we conclude that we must follow the cliff around, which should take us to the Tomb of Sextius Florentinus.

Sure enough, after the remnants of some Roman walls, we see the Tomb cut into the rock, with an old Bedouin woman camped out the front with rows of sliver jewellery. It is an impressive sight- as imposing as the Treasury, but without the crowds that constantly surround it.

We each grab our cameras to capture this image, and as we do, a group of hikers emerge from behind the tomb, their aluminium walking poles glinting in the sun. We recognise them as the group of French walking enthusiasts we encountered the day before up at the High Place of Sacrifice.

Our time alone with the desert has come to an end, and we take a final glance behind us at the empty landscape, before pressing on towards the point where our path less travelled joins the regular tourist route, where we will blend in with the other cargo pant clad adventurers, haggling over the price of donkey and camel rides, standing in awe of these imposing structures and trying to imagine the Nabataens going about their daily lives in this barren beautiful land.

Wisdom in the back seat of a taxi.

A friendly Lebanese man shared his cab with me from the bus station in Damascus this morning. He also shared this piece of wisdom:

'Australia and Syria the same, just, Australia have Skippy.'

Then, as an after thought he added,

'Skippy and democracy.'

This made me smile.

Filth

When you're travelling, things can get pretty filthy.

You pack a four day rotation of clothes, promise yourself you'll do emergency washes in the handbasin whenever the need arises, but somehow, you always end up with a back pack full of BO and you find yourself wearing your undies inside out and donning the souvenier T-shirt you bought as a gift for someone else because nothing is wearable. This much is inevitable.

Your hair gets a thick coating of grease, as that 'nice' hotel you decided to splash out on doesn't have any hot water, and right after your cold shower, the power cuts out and you can't blow dry your hair for an hour, by which time said hair has dried flat and ugly. This is why you pack a selection hats and beanies.

You douse yourself in perfume every morning hoping it will distract from the odour emanating from under your arms, and deoderise over your clothing.

When you can't take it any longer, you try to communicate to the receptionist of your hotel that you'd like some washing done (pointing to the sign on the hotel door that quite clearly states 'laundry service') only to be pointed down the street with a string of directions uttered in an utterly foreign language.

You walk down the street, in the vain hope of finding the supposed laundromat, only to be apprehended by a kind local who delivers you at the door of a nearby tailor, thinking it was his services you were searching for.

You finally find a laundromat. Your stinky clothes finally get a wash, and you realise that all you've seen since arriving in this new city is the hotel, the surrounding streets and the inside of a subterranean laundromat.

You pack up your freshly laundered clothes, breath an omo fresh sigh of relief, and emerge into the sunlight, ready to explore and experience.

You get back to your hotel, only to find socks lurking in the bottom of your pack that are starting to grow their own feet, and that shirt you spilled your dinner on two nights ago.

You concede that travelling is not about looking and smelling good, it's about getting out and immersing yourself in another culture, drowning out the voices in your head with foreign language, getting lost and then finding your way again.

Or maybe that's just me.