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.

Sex in the Levant

When travelling solo through the Levantine countries it's hard to forget what sex you are. No matter how conservatively you dress you always seem to attract sideways glances which often turn in to stares, sometimes culminating a whistle or a few words to get your attention.

Of all the cities I've been to so far, Amman is the most laid back. Even on a street where there are no other single women, let alone Western ones, the local men don't give you a second glance. However, when the weather heats up, and the cardigan comes off, cars slow down alongside you and shop keepers' smiles' linger. There is no judgement in their stares, no disapproval. The Jordanians themselves say they are very accepting of other's customs and that is certainly how it feels. You just can't help feeling out of place.

The Syrian men are smooth. They bring roses out from their shops that take firm refusals. They call out 'Jamilla' and 'Hellouay' from their market stalls. In the small town of Hamma I covered my head in order to walk through the streets on a rainy night without my fair hair acting as a beacon to the street full of only men whose stares made me so uncomfortable I was afraid to leave my hotel alone. And don't even get me started on the taxi drivers (see previous post).

In the north of Lebanon, in Trablos (Tripoli) men grabbed my hands and placed unsolicited kisses on them with their mustachioed lips, pulling my arms around their shoulders. During the day, soldiers clicked their tongues at me. Again, I found myself confined to my hotel room at night.

Less then 50 kilometers away in Beirut women wear sequined minidresses on the flashy Rue Gournoud showing more than your average Melbournite would on a Saturday night. Women in Hijabs ride bycicles along the Corniche, some emulate the Japanese Harajuku style, stilettos and miniskirts and gaudy make up.

And yet, walking along the Rue Banque de Liban in jeans and a t-shirt, a security guard looked me straight in the eye and to my surprise exclaimed,

'Whoah, amazing'.

Still, after more than a month exploring this part of the world, I have never felt seriously threatened, merely mildly uncomfortable, and while I have striven to avoid danger, I haven't ever felt like I was in any.

Hitch-hiking in Becharre, drinking local wine after Souk hours in Aleppo, numerous solo cab rides and train trips and hotel check ins and I'm still in one piece, still wary of strangers, but still open to opportunity.

And I know it's culturally inappropriate and sometimes seen as encouragement, but when these men make their advances, I can't help but smile, and giggle to myself.

And walk just a little bit faster!

Hammam, Ma'am?

I meet a Canadian girl at the Hotel Riad in Hama, and despite our differing schedules, we manage to reconnect here in Haleb (Aleppo) where we discover that both of us want to try out one of the local bath houses. We jump at the chance to do it as a pair, not knowing exactly what will lie behind the doors of the ancient Hammam, where generations of Syrian women have had their skin and self consciousness scrubbed away.

The famous Hammam Yalbourgh an-Nasry in Aleppo has been closed for some time now, so we head south from the Citadel in order to locate the Hammam al-Sallhia, which the hotel receptionist had ascertained will be today open for women until 6pm.

After a few navigational setbacks, thanks to the Lonely Planet's less than accurate city map, we find the sign pointing to the Hammam, and the doors that will lead us in to it.

I'd read about the Hammam experience. The steam, the scrubbing, the prodding . I was ready to be pummelled by a strange Syrian woman whilst lying de-robed and face down on a marble floor.

What I wasn't prepared for was the scrutiny of the several septuagenarians who spent the duration of my Hammam experience pointing and laughing at my uncovered body, while they sat resplendent in their own nudity in the centre of the bath house, covered in henna and olive oil soap and rolls of Jabba the Hutt like flab.

We two foreign women are on a tight schedule, needing to meet our German friend back at the citadel in one hour.

But these women seemed to have all day to sit in the steam and be scrubbed by the younger women fussing about them, making sure they were adequately soaped at all times, scraping the drips of henna from their expansive backs. They were the queen bees of the bath house, giving orders and laughing knowingly to themselves as they surveyed the other participants of this age old tradition.

I've got soap in my eyes and can feel the make up I forgot to remove running down my cheeks.

The dominant female catches my eye and rubs her index fingers together, nodding jerkily in my direction.

I've seen this before, and guess that she's asking if I am married.

'Naam', I reply. 'Ana sowja'.

I continue the charade of being a married woman, which has helped fend off over zealous Syrian men, and it pursuades these women to shift their attentions to my friend, who, after admitting she is not married becomes subject to much umming and arring and lengthy up and down glances. Sussing her out for one of their sons?

The women turn back to me.

'Bebe?', one asks, making huge belly extension gestures.

I am hoping she's not asking whether I am pregnant, but rather whether I have had children.

'Inshallah', I reply, an answer that satisfies them.

The whole procedure takes exactly an hour, and we are out of the Hammam in time for our rendez-vous at the citadel.

Our skin is glowing, our whole bodies relaxed. I feel so clean.

I think about the women at the Hammam, who were there when we trepidatiously arrived and remained in the same spot when we hurried out, and will likely only dry themselves off at 6pm when the Hammam closes it's doors to women and becomes a male only space.

For them, it seems, the steam and the scrub is secondary to the social aspect of the Hammam, the chatting, the laughing, the closeness with their friends and family.

I wonder what their lives are like outside the Hammam, constrained by convention, their hennaed hair and smooth bodies covered.

I prefer to remember them in the freedom of the Hammam where they are rulers of the marble chamber hiding behind nothing, laughing at the inhibited foreigners who bare arms and legs to the world, yet cling to their coverings here in this womb of soap and steam.

Sking The Cedars

The group of local ski addicts I had hitched a lift up the mountain with had been trying all morning to convince me to try the ski jump they had constructed in the middle of the Cedars main ski run.

'Come on Aussie', they would yell at me as I cautiously snaked my way down trying to remember when to 'up' and when to 'down'.

'Aussie, jump!'.

It was going to take more than a few good natured taunts to get me to attempt their makeshift snow ramp. I had no intention of leaving the slopes with any broken bones, sprains or concussions.

I decided to avoid their jibes and instead of taking the Tbar back up the green run I had pretty much mastered, I skied on over to the foot of the more advanced slope.

An hour or so earlier, one of my new Lebanese lift share buddies had convinced me to try this run, and at the top I became overcome with anxiety. Nearly in tears, I almost refused to go down at all. There's nothing scarier than being stationary at the top of a steep incline. As soon as you start moving, it becomes simple- up, down, up down, and as long as you stay in control and remember that the mountain is your friend, nothing disastrous can happen.

But, with a well meaning coach dragging you by your poles and giving you all kinds of contradictory advice in stilted English the steep drop seems impossible.

I did make it down unscathed- but with my new friend right behind me I couldn't concentrate on my own rhythm and was constantly distracted and nervous, not enjoying the smooth powder beneath my skis.

This time, I was all alone. Not a soul on the slope, no one behind or in front of me on the Tbar. In fact, the bottom Tbar station was deserted when I skied in, and it was only after a ineffectual swipes at the Tbars flying past my head that the attendant finally emerged from the cabin and helped me on my way.

At the top of the T-bar, the slope drops away sharply and I realise that I am fast approaching a wall of ice. I let go of the Tbar and don't even have time to attempt to swerve sharp left. I smash straight into the ice, and fall flat on my arse. I'm not wearing any gloves, and the snow burns my hands as I push my self back up to standing. The expression 'cold as ice' has never been more relevant.

I ski cautiously across the slope and look out across the valley. The scenery is stunning, imposing mountains blanketed with sparkling white snow, craggy rocks descending into a green valley. In the distance I see only foreboding clouds, but know that down there somewhere is the Mediterranean sea.

And I'm facing it again. The incline takes my breath away, but without someone trying coax me down, I instantly become fearless. There's no-one to sympathise, to hear my whimpers. There's no one within a kilometer of where I stand, and I doubt even those a the bottom of the mountain would hear me if I yelled out.

I take the plunge, making wide curves, using my poles to help me swivel left and right. Up, down, up, down.

I'm skiing. Really skiing. On my own, without coaching or coaxing. Without fear.

I snatch glances up at the mountains as I make my way down. I can't believe I'm really here.

On the way back to Bcharre, perched on the handbrake between two of my ski buddies, I look out, and see how steep the drop is from the side of the road into the valley. Our driver, a snowboard champion and certified dare devil is swerving to overtake slower vehicles and narrowly avoiding head on collisions, so I'm getting a good look over the edge. I have to admit I'm a little scared, and the picture of Jesus on the dashboard, who is staring down my crotch, isn't providing any reassurance.

But I look up at the snow covered mountains, and remember the wind in my face, and the feeling of absolute freedom. And I'm not scared.