El Alamain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Thousand Words

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

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

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

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

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

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

Population: You

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

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

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

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

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

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

When we get the joke, we laugh.

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

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

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

Dhakla Oasis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peeing In The Desert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow brings another long drive. Might skip the coffee!

Gods Of The Nile

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

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

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

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

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

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

Covering Up In Cairo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Down At The Bottom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aqaba

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

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

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

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

The Desert: A Love Affair

We Long To Leave, We Long to Return

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crosses, Barbed Wire and Buoyancy on Easter Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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