Shopping List

'BabounetH', says Mustafa, my driver for the day. 'Ba-bou-net-H'. He aspirates the h loudly and try though I might, I cannot replicate the sound.

'In souk Haleb, babounetH' he says, explaining, ' Flowers. Make tea. Tea good, very good. When have,' he pauses, rubs his chest, coughs loudly then resumes, 'babounetH make good, very good. From here in Syria. Export Germany, expensive. Souk Haleb not expensive.'

'Ba-bou-net-H', I try again, getting a little closer.

I can't say the word, and have no idea what this flower is, but the magical chest clearing bloom goes on my mental shopping list for the famed Souq in Aleppo. After many long hours of shisha indulgence I'm going to need some 'tea babounetH'.

'Also Haleb,' continues Mustafa, 'Sa-boon. Soap. Good, very good.'

'Olive oil', I say. I know that Aleppo is famous for it's olive oil soap, the region surrounding it being covered in olive trees that also produce very high quality oil that I have sampled drizzled over hummus and fuul.

'Yes, olive oil. And zayt zay-tun', he says.

'Zayt zay-tun', I repeat

'Good for hair. Make strong', he guestures, pulling at his own healthy crop.

Saboon zayt-zaytoun joins babounetH on the shopping list.

Within 24 hours I'm right in the middle of the Souk, and it's raining heavily. Luckily, Aleppo's souk is predominantly undercover. No chance of me heading up the hill to the citadel today, so it's time to address the shopping list.

Almost immediately I'm staring at a wall of soap. How fortuitous! I later realise that there are soap stalls on almost every corner of this part of the Souk.

'Ana oureed saboon zeit zeitun', I say proudly, and the soap vendor and the men in the surrounding stalls congratulate me on my good Arabic. Thanks to Mustafa and our trip out from Hama to Crack de Chevalliers I'm almost sounding like I know what I'm doing.

The man in the stall shows off his stock, boasting of it's quality. He points to the corner of the shop where a large branch with dried leaves on it rests on the wall, saying, 'Zayt zay-tun'.

'Bay leaf!' I exclaim. Olive oil soap with bay leaf. I'm wondering if this wonder product will strengthen my my fine weak hair, and figure there's no harm in trying.

I leave the stall with a bag full of saboon zayt-zaytun, and a bar of rose scented olive oil soap- a gift for me.

I soon find a stall with huge canvas sacks of unidentifiable leaves and blooms, and I'm eager to identify the babounetH.

'Wayn babounetH?', I ask, and the man in behind the bags smiles and picks up a handful of small yellow flowers and sticks and says, 'Chamomile'.

Chamomile! Not the exotic magical flower I was imagining, but it's comforting to know that the lauded babounetH will be readily available back home whenever I get a rumble in my chest.

I laugh at the miscommunication and walk away without any babounetH- I'm not keen to cart it through Lebanon and back to Jordan when I know I can buy it at the corner store in Amman.

Back at the hotel I test out the soap. It leaves my hair squeaky clean and as I blow dry it looks like there is a little body in my usually limp locks.

Maybe Mustafa was right after all. Good, very good!

Syria : Bus Station 101

#1. All the books will tell you 'Mahattat al Baas', but use Garage Bullman (not Pullman Garage, as printed in the Lonley Planet) when referring to the bus station. I don't know if this is a Levantine thing, but seems to earn more kudos from cabbies than the Modern Standard version.

#2. Don't expect to be pointed in the direction of the 'Maquatab al Tazakar' (ticket office) if you bust out the standard phrasebook expression. Each station has several different companies operating buses to different locations and there is no central place to purchase tickets. Ask for your destination, and someone will point you towards the right desk.

#3. Make sure you learn how to say your destination in Arabic- which will be especially necessary for names that in English have a 'p' sound. Why we don't just call it Haleb instead of Aleppo to save confusion beats me.

#4. It also helps to be able to identify the name of your destination in written Arabic. That way you'll know you have a ticket to the right place.

#5. Don't be concerned about the lack of timetables. If there is no timetable it simply means buses depart regularly enough that you won't ever have to wait long. This is very frustrating to German tourists, who want exact schedules, but who soon learn to appreciate the efficient method the Syrians have going.

#6. Buses in Syria are exceptionally good value. For example, a bus from Hama to Aleppo costs SP75 (AU$2.35) for a 2 hour trip, which is less than what you'll pay for a 10 minute cab ride from the station to the centre of town.

#7. Women needn't be afraid of being sat next to touchy-feely Arab men, the ticket officers allocate adjacent seats to women only. You are also unlikely to be seated next to a Hijabed woman, (unless you yourself are wearing one) as they are usually concentrated in one area down the front of the bus.

#8. There's no need to worry about getting hungry or thirsty during your trip, as the ticket collector acts as a maitre d', passing out lollies and water at regular intervals.

#9. You may also get lucky and snag a bus that has tv screens, perhaps showing a techni-coloured Egyptian film

#10. Bags go below, but if you can fit your pack between your knees and the seat in front no one makes any complaints, and there's no need to worry about cracked laptop screens!

The Road From Damascus

I leave Al Rabie Hotel bound for the bus station, hoping that with the help of the few Arabic phrases I have scrawled in my exercise book, I will arrive safely at the Riad Hotel in Hama sometime before midday. The sky has clouded over in the night, and the gorgeous light that had bathed the ancient city on my second night in Damascus, is now obscured by the thick cover.

'Mahattat al Baas' I say to the man who brandishes his keys at me when I reach the end of the alley way. He wants 150SP and I say, 'Miyya', firmly, to which he agrees. Its 50SP less than he asked, and probably still 50SP more than it should be, but I am happy to have walked straight into a ride, rather than having to stand by the side of the road with my cumbersome luggage, looking like fresh tourist meat, which wouldn't be too far from the truth.

I throw my gear in the back seat and jump in with it.

'Where you going?' asks my driver, and I reply, 'Hama'.

'Why not take taxi? More comfortable. Radio, talking. Murfi Mushkil. Baas, Mushkil'.'

I'm less concerned about the 'mushkil' (problems) I might encounter on the bus, whose trajectory and destination will be clearly (well, in arabic at any rate) stated on the ticket, and starting to worry about my choice of taxi driver. He's friendly enough, but I'm getting an odd vibe. Concern really sets in when he pulls up on the side of the road and opens the front passenger door saying emphatically, 'Here, you sit here'.

I'm not even thinking when I jump out and relocate up front. He's stopped in the middle of a busy highway and I just want him to keep driving. The sooner I get to the station, the better.

'Attakalim Arabie?' he asks me, and I reply, 'Shway, shway.' A little is generous in describing my proficiency in his language.

The driver proceeds to give me a language lesson, which consists of him pointing at parts of his body (and later mine) and getting me to repeat the words. It's all in good fun, and I'm not too bothered by his poking at my thigh and shoulder but when he starts pointing at his crotch, telling me the arabic word and asking me to say it in English I've had enough.

'Mahattat al Baas'. I repeat, but the driver isn't convinced and tries to bargain with me.

'I drive you to Hama, comfortable, taxi, murfi mushkil, 4000SP'

'La' I reply, over and over as the price lowers and lowers going even below what I will be paying for the bus, but he isn't convincing me. There's no way I want to stay in this cab any longer than is necessary.

'Wayn al Mahattat al Baas?', I say. 'Dimishq, Mahattat al Baas 7 kilometer!'. I want him to know that I'm no fool, and that I can see from his tachometer that we must have passed the station by now.

He continues to argue with me, and I keep repeating my few Arabic sentences.

Eventually, he finds a place to do a U-Turn and I am relieved. We must now be headed for the station.

A few minutes later he pulls up. There are a few buses parked in the dust, but I'm not completely sure this is the right place.

'Wayn il Maqutab Tazakar?' I ask, and he corrects the emphasis on the word for 'ticket, gesturing to the right of the cab.

I figure I'll take my chances so I hand over a 100 pound note, grab my gear and wave good bye to show there are no hard feelings.

Finally, I'm on my way.

Coffee and Shisha

I sit down in the cafe, and suddenly, Damascus feels like home. The covered out door area has
small circular tables jammed up against one another with groups crowding around them, passing
shisha pipes and sipping tea and coffee, some puffing away on cigarettes. I'm waiting to hear the
old cry of 'Coffee Up' and be sent rushing back to do the barristas bidding, but of course, this isn't
Melbourne, and I don't work here. And the coffee that I sit down to order is no Skinny ¾ Latte, but a Turkish coffee, ground with cardamon, brewed with heaped spoons of sugar and served black in a macchiato sized glass.

I'm feeling confident, ordering, 'Ah-wey, min fud-luk' and pointing at the pipes. The waiter replies in perfect English, 'You want Shisha?'. And I nod.

The coffee arrives, the pipe shortly after it and I take a sip of the thick black brew. Delicious. The
waiter comes round with the cast iron tub of coals and lays three small chunks on the perforated
aluminium foil. I fit the disposable mouthpiece and take a long inhale, exhaling sweet smoke into
the air.

The cafe is right in the centre of the walled Old City- I can see from the walls of the Mosque that I have almost come full circle, having spent hours wandering the labyrinthine streets of the Souk Al Hamadiya for at least two hours, gazing in awe at the walls of shimmering fabrics, the sacks of
vibrant coloured spices and windows displays draped with intricate jewellery. This cafe was the
first I had come across, in amongst the shwarma and felafel stalls and the pastry shops.
I pull out my guide book and my scrap book of arabic vocabulary, and the couple next to me turn to me, pointing at my shisha, saying , 'Very good, very good'. They seem surprised to see a single
western woman going solo on the shisha with a cup of middle eastern beverage in hand.

They ask me where I'm working- and tell them that I'm not living in Damascus, just passing
through, and that I arrived only this morning.

Daoud and Ellmar are father and daughter, from the north-east where Syria borders both turkey and Iraq. They live, 'Right on the line'. Ellmar tells me that Daoud is her father, 'But he is also my friend. Very friendly man.' Daoud in turn replies that his daughter's name means,'Whisper', not in Arabic, but in the ancient language of Syria, still spoken in remote parts of the country.

We chat a little about the city, and Ellmar gets up and shows me her sandals. 'Do you like them?'
she says, and, after the tablecloth shenanigans I am cautious, but reply, 'Yes, they are nice.'
'You can buy them' , she says, then tells me the name of the shop which I forget before I have time to scribble it in my book. She points in the direction of the main covered area of the Souk, and I doubt I will find ever the shop, which is a shame, as I realise that these leather sandals are exactly the same as the pair my grandmother bought me in Crete nearly ten years ago, that I wore and wore until the leather straps that cross around the big two broke in two.

Daoud places another order with the waiter, who also replaces the coals on my pipe then disappears in side. He quickly returns and presents Daoud with a glass of opaque greeny yellow liquid.

'You want try?', asks Ellmar, and I dare not refuse the famous Syrian hospitality, taking a sip of the steaming tea. It is at the same time sweet and salty, the liquid thick in my mouth with a familiar yet unplaceable taste. It is called Kamoon, Daoud tells me, made from something ground like pepper, and the taste comes to me.

'Coriander!' I say, and the couple promptly offer to order one for me, their treat- but I politely refuse. I could not have drunk a whole cup!

When the afternoon breeze turns chilly and I have finished my ah-wey I decide to abandon my
shisha, so I pay, and wander back in the direction of the City Centre, turning right at the top of the stairs behind the Mosque compound.

And there I see an old man in a shop window, surrounded by handmade leather sandals. The exact style I want is there, so I enter and point, saying, 'Saba'a wa thalateen', my shoe size.
They are a perfect fit, and I don't even bother to haggle with him. He could have charged me way more than AU$9 and I would have sentimentally outlayed the cash. Even if I see the same pair for half the price in Turkey, I will still be glad to have bought them here in Damascus on the advice of a kind stranger.

It's too cold to wear the sandals back to the hotel, so even though I am keen to wear the leather in I put my sneakers back on and put the sandals in my bag.

I head back the way I came, to Al-Rabie Hotel without looking at the map- the streets outside the old city are much easier to negotiate, and I once again marvel at the men on the street hovering over bowls filled goldfish, who recognise me, the photographer from earlier in the afternoon.

They say 'Ahlan wa sahlen', you're welcome, and I smile at the warmth of the people in this city.

Persian Food and Arabic Proverbs

'In Arabic we have a saying,' says the rotund oldest son of our hosts for the evening. ' “As much as you like us, this much you should eat in our home”', and we laugh at the quaint translation, which sounds odd coming from such a proficient English speaker, but this is not the first time we have been warned about the quantity of food that our generous hosts have planned to lay before us.

This morning our host rang to rearrange our meal from lunch to dinner, owing to car trouble, and I now begin to wonder if it was in fact a cunning ploy to give his wife extra time to prepare for our coming. The aroma wafting down the corridor is amazing, a combination of the smell of succulent meat covered in spice and the steam escaping from the saffron rice. We can't even detect the smoke from our hosts' pre-dinner cigarettes, the smell from the kitchen is so powerful. In the phone call this morning we were warned not to eat lunch, and I am starting to regret that I did not take this advice.

Around the table we are 7, our hosts, their two children, their eldest's fiancee, and us - the two men here for Persian conversation practice, and me, here for the food. I can't wait to try all these dishes, some of which I have attempted to make with no frame of reference, others have been on my 'must try' list for a while.

There are three huge round dishes of rice, one speckled yellow from aromatic saffron and sprinkled with bright red barberries that have been fried in sugar to eliminate their bitter taste. Another plate is green from the dill that has been tossed through. Between these two dishes are the Tah- diks from both, the crusty outer layer of the rice, the ultimate Persian delicacy. One is a vibrant green from the dill, the other comes in rounds of crispy potato with soft steamed rice hanging on underneath. The third rice dish has been left intact, a perfect circle uniformly bright saffron yellow, that has been cooked with chicken and yoghurt between layers of rice. Its crust is impressive, giving it the appearance of a huge yellow cake.

There is more chicken, two large trays of roasted pieces swimming in their own juices, covered in deep fried potato batons. And the third chicken dish is the one I am most eager to try, the walnut and pomegranate Fesenjun, my own Persian party piece. I'm wondering how mine will compare to the authentic version.

It is perhaps a little odd to be in the home of Arab Jordanians feasting on Persian food from a nearby country with whom political relations are so frosty. But this is the nature of our stay in Amman, full of contradictions and unlikely situations. Our host isn't even the boys' teacher, just a friend of friends who eagerly offered to give them some conversation practise, and cultural immersion. He and his family lived in Iran before diplomatic relations between the two countries became hostile.

During the meal, taking a break from the constant flow of food being heaped on my plate, I ask the lady of the house where her table cloth is from. I am hoping she will say it was a local purchase, and that I'll be able to rush out and buy one for my mother, who would love its intricate patterns. She replies that it was from Iran, and asks me if I like it. I hesitate, knowing that in Arabic culture the practise of giving compliments is complicated by convention. I have no choice but to honestly tell her that I think the tablecloth is beautiful, and she immediately jumps up and says, 'I have others! I will give you,' and before I can protest she has rushed off, returning with an armful of beautiful coloured fabrics.

'Which one you like?' She asks, and I protest that I cannot take one. But, she insists, and I choose a circular tassled table cloth. I'm already picturing it on my outdoor terrace table, with my replications of her traditional Persian dishes. Maybe I'll find one similar in the markets of Damascus or Istanbul to buy for my mother. This one has already become too sentimental to consider giving away.

'In Arabic we have a saying: “Today, we have. Tomorrow, we don't know”. That is to say, live in the moment'. And she smiles.

I now know two Arabic proverbs, and I like both of them. Feed your friends, be generous and live in the moment.

I had planned to leave with a full stomach and a few cooking tips, and have walked away with a new table cloth and the perfect philosophy for life. What more could you ask for?

From Our Table For Four

From our table for four we can see out over the ruins to Syria's Golan Heights, and, through the haze, can just make out The Sea of Galilee stretching into Israel on the distant horizon. The peace and tranquility that washes over us with the cool afternoon breeze belies the millennia of conflict these marble and basalt columns have seen.

We are seated in the al freso area of the Um Qais Resthouse, set high on the hill of Ottoman ruins. Down below, the ancient acropolis is alive with the movement of children picking flowers and kicking soccer balls, hijabed women watching closely, the younger ones joining in the games. In the scrub there are families having picnics, and groups of men passing the Narghile, it's fragrant smoke wafting across to the west theatre.

The food arrives promptly, the usual Arabic fare, hummus, eggplant salad, grilled meat and vegetables. We tuck in eagerly, having worked up a hunger during the two hour trip from Amman with all it's hair-raising near misses. Our driver, in typical Jordanian fashion, drives like a teenager in a drag race, overtaking from the left into oncoming traffic, slowing down and hooking his left arm through the seatbelt loop only when traffic police are in evidence.

When we can eat no more, we sit back and take in our surroundings. The group of six French tourists, with their Lonely Planet 'Jordanie' guide have gone, and we are now the only foreigners on site. Or at least the only Western ones. It is Friday, the day of religious rest for Muslims, and many of them have chosen to spend it here, in a place where they can gaze out over the occupied territories at what might have been their former homeland.

After several hours wandering through the ruins we make our way back to the car park where our driver will be waiting. There is a steady flow of oncoming foot traffic into the site, and a hijabed woman mutters something that most of us don't catch, but which the Arabic Speaker translates roughly as, 'Bloody foreigners.' They are a much more conservative crowd than than the veiled women in their fashionable clothes we see on the streets of Amman. A little girl lagging behind her family looks up at us and says, 'Haram'. She is using the Arabic word for 'forbidden' and it is unclear whether she is looking at the large lensed camera being carried, or at the bits of skin that aren't covered by my scarf and jacket, however, to the strict followers of her religion, both camera and flesh fall into that category.

We leave the site, and the trinket stands behind us immediately pack up their wares. There will be no more tourists today. In the evening the locals will light fires and barbeque meat on this significant site without the annoyances of telephoto lenses and uncovered women.

El Toro what now?

We walk through the heavy saloon doors into a long room that is thick with smoke. A see of faces look up, glowing white in the dim light, their dark thick eyebrows bisecting them harshly. And something feels wrong. We take a few paces, and the hostess greets us. She is a slim woman, her long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail- she's wearing a classic black halter dress. 'What would you like?', she asks in a thick accent, and the three men answer simultaneously, 'Beer'. Beer. That's why we're here. We've had a nice dinner on Abdoun circle, where the hip young Jordanian crowd go to socialise, smoke water pipe and drink 'cocktails' (which invariably are just a mixture of sweet juices, and contain no alcohol). Licensed venues are hard to come by here, the main watering holes being located in the major hotels and frequented mostly by tourists and the ex-pat community. So, we took a look around the circle, and down an alley way found “Toro Negro: Pub and Restaurant”.

As we wait for drinks it becomes clear. These three white guys are the only men in the place, save the barman, and a suited Arab gentleman in the back corner. The women are clustered in twos and threes, with a large group seated directly behind us. There are no empty wine glasses or half drunk beers, only the occasional soft drink can and lots of tea cups. The women are all smoking. And have their eyes fixated on the group of men by the bar. Our drinks arrive, and so too does a plastic party plate with crisps, a few sad looking cucumber and carrot sticks and a couple of olives. I'm hoping this is the only unsolicited acquisition the night will provide.

The atmosphere continues to be odd, but it isn't until a group of Arab men arrive that it becomes clear exactly what service this venue is providing. The neatly dressed guys sit down, order a whole bottle of scotch, and the party begins. One by one, coats come off, an the previously unremarkably dressed women begin to reveal midriffs and shoulders, bare legs and fishnet stockings. They drape themselves over the men, who paw at them, and take photos with their mobile phones.

'So, we're definitely in a brothel, then,' I remark and we watch with curiosity as the scene changes, more men appear, the 'bros before hos' policy kicks in, as the women are forced into the corners, unless invited to sit on laps or knees.

I need to go to the bathroom, but am reluctant to leave the men alone, afraid of what I might come back to find. But, nature is calling insistently, so I excuse myself. The women watch me as I make my way to the back of the joint. I try the handle, but the Ladies is locked, so I wait. Suddenly the door is opened by a woman in knee-high boots and hot pants, who is perfecting her make up in the mirror. She gestures for me to come in, then locks the door behind us.

There is only one toilet stall, and it's missing it's door. I wait for the hooker to leave, but she gestures again, toward the open toilet, smiling, and saying, 'Please'. I figure there's only one thing for it, and abandon all modesty. I'm sure she's seen it all before.

When we decide to leave, our eyes smarting from the thick smoke, but they're not the only thing that stings The bill arrives, coming to more than double our dinner bill, for just a couple of drinks. The biggest slap in the face is the 'Mezze' platter, itemised on the bill at JD10. The most expensive crisps I ever ate!

As we leave we cast our eyes over the place, and suddenly, the awkwardness is gone. There is no longer a gender imbalance, and the scene looks much like any pub that we've been to back home. Most of the girls don't even look slutty- they wouldn't look out of place on a beach in Australia, or heading off to a music festival somewhere in the Western World. In fact, the scene here is much more familiar to us than that of our dinner location, where conservatively dressed teens sip tea and juice and pass the water pipe around the table.

A few text messages and short cab ride later and we're right back in our comfort zone, surrounded by ex pats, women in tank tops and pints of beer that don't cost the equivalent of a three course meal. A middle ground between conservative and crass. Or at least that's what it looks like to us. Perhaps to the locals here in Amman, brothel and bar look exactly the same.

But this is no time for cultural comparison, it's Shooter Special night at Amigos, and there are four bemused Aussies still dazed from the Toro Negro experience who could use a drink!

Sugar!

'Full body?', asks the receptionist when I call the beauty salon to arrange a waxing appointment, and I've got to admit, I'm a little taken aback. Can a person sound hairy over the phone? Or is this just standard practise for Arab women? Of that I'm not sure, but I am sure that I'm not game. 'Er, legs and underarm?', I reply, waiting for her to take offence, but instead she says '2:30, OK?', I agree, and we're all set. It may be the middle of winter, but a girls still got to take care of herself, right?

I arrive at Abdoun circle at 2:36pm, thanks to a few too many punches of the snooze button and misunderstanding with the taxi driver. Miraculously, Essentials Beauty Salon is easy to locate, and I make my way up the stairs. The receptionist introduces me to Alia, a short rotund Arab woman whose top lip is red with anger that its friend the 'lady-tache' has (quite recently I'd guess) been cruelly ripped away. Alia will be my beauty therapist, and she motions towards a room down the corridor. There is relaxing music playing, a couple of goldfish swimming round a vase that has two white lilies poking out of it. All in all, I'm right in my comfort zone, and something about that doesn't feel right. Alia has disappeared, so I turn back to the receptionist and say ' Is sugaring OK?' to which she nods vigourously and says, 'Yes, yes, this we can do'. And there it is. The rush of panic. Adrenaline. I've got no idea what this 'sugaring' is. I mean, its a method of epilation, obviously. But apart from the traumatising account I read as a teenager, in Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia, I've had no experience of it what so ever. The unknown beckons, tantalisingly.

I lie down on the table in my ill fitting gown and Alia bursts through the door, squeezing a ball of sticky golden goo in her right hand. 'You want sugaring, yes?'. And I nod, wide eyed. Alia takes a quick look at my bare legs, then sets too, smoothing the goop on, then quickly peeling it back, repeating this action again and again. It's an odd sensation, not unlike waxing, but her motions are short, swift and ruthless. There's no spatula or cotton strips between the two bodies in the room. It's somehow more intimate.

Alia speaks good English. She's observant, and, you could say, pretty blunt. 'You have ingrown hairs' she tells me. I smile and try to shrug it off. 'And a lot of dead skin'. She shoves the ball of goo in my face, 'See? You need Turkish Bath. Steam, scrubbing. Good for you'. I'm getting a lecture. 'Once a month, after period. Turkish bath, sugaring.' Suddenly I wonder if this is an aesthetic value or a religious imposition. Either way I figure it's not a good time to mention that thanks to contraception, monthly periods are a thing of the past.

She takes a look under my arms. ' Different lengths', she says, suspiciously. 'Shaving?' she accuses. 'Sometimes', I admit, and she rolls her eyes. 'Break off the hair. Not good'. She shows no mercy as she attacks them.

It's over so quickly. I have shared nothing other than my nationality and my personal space but this woman and I have taken part in something intimate, a ritual older than both our religions.

I hop off the table, holding up the flimsy gown.

'Next month Turkish bath then sugaring. OK?' says Alia sternly, as I exit the room.

And I dare not disobey.

Why Did The Chicken Cross the Road? And More Importantly, How?

I had been warned that crossing the roads of Amman was not for the faint hearted. Guidebooks and fellow travellers alike cautioned that leaving the footpath is like stepping off a precipice into utter chaos and potential destruction. Which is, at first, how it seems. Multi-lane highways have faded zebra stripes that are largely ignored by the drivers of Amman; the little green man is a scarcity so far seen only in the downtown area, and even when in evidence, by no means provides the pedestrian with a mandate for safe passage.

Your taxi will, inevitably, drop you on the side of the road opposite to your intended destination. He will likely pull up nowhere near a traffic light or even a pedestrian friendly intersection. There will be traffic cops stationed nearby who are dressed for business, but are waving feebly and trying to avoid being run over themselves.

Now here's the secret to negotiating all these perilous roads for both pedestrians and drivers alike. Keep your wits about you, use hand gestures and eye contact where possible, and just have faith that no Arab wants to dirty their windscreen with the blood of the infidel and be denied their virgins when the green bird flies up, up and away. Just put one foot in front of the other, and you'll be fine.

You see, these drivers expect the unexpected. They're not in the least bit surprised see a cab cross three lanes of traffic to turn right in the space of ten meters. It's no big deal if hubby stops dead in the middle lane of a highway to drop his wife off for her eyebrow wax at the salon across the road. They know that even though the sign indicates 'No U-Turn' , there will probably be a three lane formation of cars doing just that. And on top of that, they're probably all puffing away on a Rothmans unfiltered, and having a good old chin-wag on their mobile phones. All the while gesticulating wildly.

This does not make them bad drivers- in fact, they have demonstrated much better spacial awareness than Western drivers, who wouldn't even see you if you stepped out in front of their moving vehicle (come on, we've all seen those ads).

So don't be a chicken. Cross that road. And, if you're feeling a little nervous, I've found it helps to take a deep breath and say loudly, 'Ok Mother-Fuckers, here I come!'.

10 Observations from the 7th Circle

1)Don't bother reaching for a seatbelt. Here in Amman they are seriously optional, and in roughly 10 cab rides so far, only one actually had both parts in working order. And only in one seat.
2)No, that's not Mr Whippy, that's the Gas Man, whose catchy tune lets the whole neighbourhood know that he's available to replace your gas cylinders. No, the Arabs do not share our obsession with BBQs, they just don't have piped gas. Hence the gas delivery man.
3)And no, that's not a bidet. If you put your rear end into it you will probably end up with a fatwa issued against you. It's purpose is for pre-prayer cleansing.
4)For every check out chick in Adelaide refusing to offer a plastic bag, there's an Arab at a Carrefour in Amman triple bagging every item.
5)It's important to build apartment blocks several stories high, so that there can continue to be vacant lots between buildings for rubbish disposal.
6)Contrary to what you may have thought, a great big puddle on the side of the road is the perfect spot to pull over and wash your cab.
6)Just like the cabbies in Melbourne, those in Amman can neither speak English, nor competently locate a street address. Why? Well, firstly, their official language is Arabic so they are not expected converse politely with me in my native tongue. And secondly, up until a few years ago there were no street names in Amman, and Google Earth here is totally rubbish. So no wonder these guys have no idea where Jamel Theeb Asfour St is. Instead you need to ask them to take you to the 7th circle Popeye's chicken, and turn 'yameen'.
7)You'll never forget you're in a Muslim country with Imams across the city reminding you several times a day. Yes, the call to prayer is beautiful, but no, I don't want to hear it at 5am.
8)Not fireworks. Gun shots. It's ok though, they're just happy gun shots. Apparently some type of exam results came out yesterday, so there were lots of teenage Arabs hanging out the top of daddy's Merc screaming something neither I nor the Arab speaker could decipher, then later on firing off just for kicks. Beats the hell out of quokka soccer.
9)Don't assume that just because a woman wears a Hijab she can't dress sexy. Skin tight jeans and stiletto heeled knee high boots are practically the urban uniform around here for veiled and unveiled alike. Honey, this ain't Iran.
10)The weekend here is Friday/ Saturday. The Friday is like Sunday, as it is the day with most religious significance, and most shops are shut until after Midday Prayers. So Saturday is, well, like Saturday, except for the fact that it is the last day of the weekend. Making it a bit like Sunday. Sunday is the day the week recommences, so it's kind of like Monday. Anyone else confused?

Downtown

I set off down Al-Kulliyah Al- Islamiah with no plans in particular, just the vague notion of ending up in the downtown area and from there catching a cab back to 7th Circle. It is my first time alone in the city, and the thought of a solo cab ride has me feeling somewhat anxious, which is why I'm planning to hail one from the exact same spot that we did as a couple yesterday. That way I would at least have a vague idea of the route the cabbie should be taking, and would thus be able to anticipate the spot at which to yell 'Hoon! Hoon!' on Al-Medeena Al-Menouwra.

I start walking in the direction of second circle and pass the shwarma stand, Reem, which has a small crowd balancing on the thin strip of pavement, josteling to get to the front of the queue and get their hands on the renowned pitta wrap. The smell of the roasting meat is tempting, even after my huge meal and I can see why the even King himself has deigned to eat at this grubby stall. Further along, when the street veers off to the right and becomes Abu Bakr as-Siddiq, Rainbow St, is the gelateria where Brangelina took their kids on a recent trip to Amman. Again, I'm tempted, but the Lebanese meal in my stomach is preventing me from getting my mouth around some of that celeb endorsed dairy goodness.

Further along the way I wander into the Jordan River Foundation, a handicrafts centre, which was set up to benefit refugee women and promote their traditional heritage and cultural technique. The gift shop is unattended, except for the handful of cats in the forecourt, sprawling in the sunshine. They are smudged with dirt, but look well fed and content. I have a quick browse and pick out some of the dead sea products to take back to the hotel with me- it's still much too cold for a trip out there, but I'm still keen to experience some of the purported healing properties.

I have to cross over to the other building with my selection in order to make the purchase, where there is a diminutive man behind the desk who thankfully has change for my JD20 note. He reeks of cigarette smoke, and I'm pretty glad to take my change and get back out into the fresh air.

Once back on Rainbow St I decide to negotiate the back streets in order to find Books@Cafe- the famed spot for hip young locals and travellers, who go for the coffee, narghile and the array of spirits that are not served in many other locations in this predominantly Muslim city. I must have taken a wrong turn, and I end up walking past the Episcopalian Girls School at pick up time. The uniformed girls are waiting on the footpath, chatting and bickering and even thought they're speaking in Arabic and I wouldn't have a clue what they're saying, something in the tone of their voices is comforting and it's reassuring to see that schoolgirls across the globe don't differ from each other much- I wouldn't be surprised to see this group girls walking past my house in Melbourne at 3:30pm.

I'm still not too sure where I am when I come to a fork in the road, and I figure I've got to keep heading downhill, whether my intended destination is there or not, as my thighs are still too sore from yesterdays citadel climb to contemplate the ascent. Luckily, I've taken the right route, and I see the lemon tree hanging over the stone wall with the Books@Cafe sign printed in large letters.

I head through the book store to the staircase in the back left hand corner and enter the cafe. Its vinyl lounges and bright colours surprise me, I had been expecting something more low key and less pretentious. I order a coffee, which comes black in a huge cup, with a small jug of milk on the side. I pour it all in at the counter and look for a quiet spot to regroup.

There's an empty table by the window so I cast off my two jackets and my scarf and the bag full of dead sea goodies and plonk myself down. The view is typical of this city- you can see across a small undulation in the landscape to another of the seven hills, piled with identical sandstone buildings. The coffee is lukewarm, and on the table next to me I can hear an american conversing in English with some locals. They're takling about directors and procuders and film crews and the american periodically exclaims 'Well, that's the business' and I try to tune out- this is the type of talk I've come here to escape.

Halfway through the cup of coffee I decide to leave. I gather my things and head off down the hill to the appropriately named, Downtown. The Lonley Planet map, I've decided, is pretty much useless, so it's mostly guesswork that gets me down narrow staircases and winding roads and back to the corner where the pet shop sells tortoises, cruelly caged with pigeons. I know exactly where I am, and make my way to where I plan to hail a cab.

Along the way I'm distracted by the some of the brightly coloured stalls that sell everything from knock of perfume to silver jewelrey, from narghile equipment to mens suits. It seems like a 'touristy' area, like Chinatown in New York City, or London's Camden markets, but encounter only three or four other western faces on my way, and it seems that this is actually the place that the locals do their shopping.

I buy a couple of scarves from a young guy who mistakenly believes, after my price negotiation, that I speak Arabic. I am disappointed to have to set him straight, but he smiles and says, “Where you from?” . I tell him Australia, and he opens his arms and says 'Ahlan wa sahlen'. Welcome.

I am amazed at how smoothly my cab ride goes. The driver doesn't speak a word of English, and I'm elated to find that 'Al- Matam Hardees Al-Medeena Al-Menoura' (the Hardee's restaurant on Al- Medeena Al-Menoura st) is enough direction for him. He probably finds it strange that I want to all the way to 7th circle for a burger, but its too difficult to explain that it's just the closest spot to where I need to go. I'm certainly not going to attempt to direct him to the door of the hotel, as it would involve more direction than my limited language skills will allow.

I'm on the look out for the neon red sign for at least half of the cab ride- I don't want to overshoot, and miss the overpass that will get me on the right side of the freeway to get home. After ten minutes or so I see a street sign that confirms we're on the right street and I sit tensed like a wildcat ready to pounce. I see a flash of red behind the fast approaching overpass and yell 'hoon, hoon!' over the noise of the traffic. It is such a relief to have made it home.

Back at the hotel room I run a hot bath, sprinkling in the bright purple bath salts which sizzle and give off a... unique odour. I cover myself in the dead sea mud (which shares the bath salt's funky smell) and let those minerals do their healing thing. A few hundred meters away the traffic roars down Al-Medeena Al-Menoura and I lay back and pretend that it is the sound of the ocean.

Al Matam Abu Ahmed

We flag down a yellow taxi a couple of hundred metres from the hotel, and when we get in and give our destination, the cabbie turns right up the steep hill instead of taking a sharp left onto the chaotic Al Medeena Al Munouwra. We ascend swiftly, the cabbie giving a quick toot at every corner to alert other cars of his presence. The horn is an integral part of negotiating the roads of Amman where rules, right of way and seatbelts don't seem to exist. We climb higher, into the heart of the 7th Circle, a wealthy suburb of the Jordanian capital where Mercedes Benz's and BMWs abound, where the girls school has armed guards patrolling the perimeter. This is certainly the most direct way to the 3rd Circle, where we have planned to have lunch, and it is a wonder no other cabbie has taken this route on other occasions when we have headed into the heart of the City. Perhaps we have finally become proficient enough in communicating in our rudimentary arabic to be mistaken for locals, or at least ex-pats who know the difference between a direct route and a tourist scam. At any rate, the cost of a taxi ride, whether it takes the 'scenic route' or not, is only likely to cost around JD2, somewhere in the region of AU$3.20.

The cab arrives at the 3rd Circle intersection and pulls over as we motion 'hoon hoon'. The driver gets a sizable tip- we're thrilled to have arrived at the exact spot circled in our guide book, as hitting a specific location can be difficult when communicating with taxi drivers in this city. Street names are not widely used, and it is best to find well known landmarks, such as hotels or the roundabouts that mark many of the city's seven circles.

Al Matam Abu Ahmed is marked just off Al-Kullyih Al-Islamiya however it takes us a few laps of the block to find it's exact location. It is a great relief to finally see the Narghile lined up in the window, and the laminated menu stuck to the door. The maitre d' greets us in perfect English- our pale faces betray us again. There is loud Arabic music playing and a large flat screen shows pop videos of coy and pouty dark haired women lustily gazing at muscular arab men. The flashes of shoulder, leg and cleavage would never be acceptable on the Afghan Music channel that has become one of our favourite to watch in the hotel for its comical blurring of 'risque' body parts.

The maitre d' brings the menu and we take our time picking out hot and cold mezze. We decide on 4 small plates and one main between us. The waiter brings us our sweet drinks ( a pepsi for him and the ubiquitous lemon and mint for me) and we await the spread of food.

When it arrives we realise how much wider our eyes are than our stomachs. Just as a bill is always at least 16% higher than the advertised price (10% service 6% tax) you always seem to receive at least 20% more food than you've ordered- in this case a mountain of olives, a plate of pickles and a basket filled with 3 or more type of bread on top of the dishes we asked for. The maitre d' hovers at the table over the labne that I can't wait to stick my fork in, and proceeds to mash the tomato, raw onion and mint that has been placed around the sides into the crumbly white cheese. He douses it with olive oil, and at last we are allowed to dig in.

After eating far too much, and leaving at least half of each dish uneaten we gesture for the bill, and before it arrives, we are presented with desert. We're not sure why the four small puddings have been put in front of us, but we ready our spoons all the same. We may have been too full to finish the hummus, the Lebanese sausage, the stuffed baby eggplants and the lemon mushroom chicken, but everyone has a desert stomach, right?

The bill is placed on the table, totalling a whole JD27, roughly $AU40. Even in a country where you can fill up on felafel and chips for less than JD1 this is still a wonderfully well priced meal- beautifully presented, good quality food and service that rivals some of the much pricier restaurants in I've dined in in other cities.

It is 1:30pm when we leave the restaurant, time to part ways, him headed to the University of Jordan for class, me headed downtown for more adventures.

To Amman

The itinerary laid it out simply. 24 hours, two airline carriers and three connecting flights till I would be reunited with my beloved at Queen Alia International Airport in Amman, Jordan. I arrived at Tullamarine with plenty of time to spare, my checked luggage weighed in with 500g to spare and, boarding card in hand I truly believed I was on my way. I've not once ever been more than an hour or so late arriving anywhere in my 20+ years of international travel, which includes the chaos of flying from Heathrow in mid September 2001, and the misfortune of trying to board a flight from JFK five years later with scissors in my hand luggage. I've flown Tiger, Air Asia, Ryanair, EasyJet- all budget carriers notorious for leaving passengers stranded- but emerged on time and unscathed. I even make the pilgrimage back to Perth several times a year, and no matter what delays we encounter, we always 'make it up in the air' and arrive on time. So it was with this history of success and a false sense of security that I boarded my flight to Sydney at 6:40pm, EST.

By 7:30, half an hour after scheduled take off, the suited commuters were getting restless, and I began to feel a little anxious. I'd already read the inflight magazine cover to cover, skimmed both my Vogue Entertaining + Travel and Gourmet Traveller (drooling just a little). I'd even made polite conversation with the chatty IT consultant in the window seat. It was to him that I expressed my concern that if we didn't leave soon I'd have serious trouble making my 9:50pm connection onto my Etihad flight bound for Amman.

At 7:45 we were on our way. The buzzing in the rear airconditioner was in fact not a cause for concern and there was no reason to delay any longer. I continued to flick through my magazines, eat my CityFlyer evening meal (which I'd even managed to arrange to be gluten free!) but couldn't shake my concern. How late were we going to be arriving in Sydney? Would an hour be enough time for both bags and I to make from domestic to international? It seemed I would need to consult a flight attendant.

The Qantas lady furrowed her well maintained brow and teetered off down the aisle to do some checking for me. She returned swiftly and told me to gather my things. I was ushered down to business class and given the very first seat, so I could make a quick getaway. The Frequent Flyer seated next to me seemed to think I would make it, and gave me detailed explanations of the international terminal, and how best to get there. With his 'turn left's and 'straight ahead's swimming in my mind I left the plane at a brisk pace. Surely, I'd board and be on my way within the hour.

Wrong. The fifteen minute wait for the shuttle bus really put a spanner in my works, and by the time I had found the Etihad counter, the lady in scarf and had shook her head apologetically. I wasn't going to make it.

Qantas had obviously anticipated this, and she handed me my new itinerary. I would now be flying Thai Airways to Bangkok and Royal Jordanian onto Amman. And I'd be leaving at 4:30...pm, the following day. And arriving at 5:30am, the day after that. I was handed another slip of paper from across the counter- details of the hotel that had been arranged, and coupons for breakfast lunch and dinner. It was nice to know I was being looked after, but still, where I really wanted to be was on my way to Abu Dhabi, and one step closer to Amman.

A couple of lukewarm buffets and expensive on demand movies later I was right back at Kingsford Smith International, having barely left it. I probably could have walked from the Stamford, had I not had an unweildy combination of luggage that I was hoping not to see again until my muscular man was available to haul them for me. Check in proceeded without a hitch and I cleared customs in no time.

If anything good was to come out of this I would have to say it would be the experience of flying Thai Airways. Man, those Thai's sure know how to cheer a girl up. Colourful seats, smily staff and a mean brandy and dry. About as comfortable as flying economy is ever going to be. They had even processed my request for gluten free meal. I was a happy camper.

By the time we reached Bangkok I was less happy. I'd watched four movies back to back and my body clock was on 1am. And I only had an hour to get to the gate to make my Royal Jordanian flight.

I sleepwalked off the plane. The International Transfer desk I took my passport sent me to another International Transfer desk at the other end of the airport and I tried to walk briskly, without drawing attention of the Thai police dudes, who manage to be simultaneously comical and creepy in their blue/grey outfits and stripy helmets.

Finally I was at the gate, boarding pass in hand with time to spare. Phew. By the time I was sitting in 43J I thought that the worst was over.

Wrong. A bunch of massive Israeli dudes surrounded me, siting across the aisle, in front and next to me, trying to shove their oversized cabin baggage anywhere that space was available. Probably not a good time for me to mention that the Australian Army Slouch Hat I had in the overhead locker was actually very fragile and couldn't be squashed. They passed around little white pills then passed out, one on my shoulder, awaking only when the stewardesses arrived with their kosher meals. I was cramped, sleep deprived and later on starved, when it transpired that Qantas hadn't managed to communicate my need for a special meal. What a joyful experience. On top of that, any time I asked the RJ trolley dollies for water they looked at me as if I was asking if I could possibly take over from the pilot in the cockpit.

Refuelling took place in Doha, delaying us by an extra hour, but finally, when we took off, it sunk in. In just three hours I'd touch down in Amman. I'd be home.

We landed smoothly and were told that the outside temperature was 2degrees and that there was a chance of snow later in the day. Somehow, though I knew it would be winter I hadn't anticipated extreme cold or a chance of snow. All I could picture when contemplating the weather in Jordan was the peeling faces in Lawrence of Arabia and a sweating Indiana Jones.

I waited a the baggage claim area for what seemed like an eternity. The same five identical black suitcases were travelling round and round unclaimed, I wondered if they were from our flight at all, or perhaps just decoys to distract us from their tardiness. When more baggage emerged from behind the plastic strips, mine was one of the first and, after hauling it onto a trolley, I was off to negotiate customs.

I smugly lined up in the International lane, where my Israeli friends were being pointed in the direction of the large queue forming at the Visa desk. Suddenly the fee incurred for couriering my passport to the Jordanian Embassy in Canberra seemed well worth while. I sailed through, explaining that my partner (no, husband- I'm having to masquerade as a married woman, since there is no adequate translation for 'living in sin' that doesn't just mean eternally damned) was here studying. I was through the gates, and greeted by a bleary eyed boyfriend, who was yawning, but pleased that I had finally arrived.