The Last Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thrilled to be back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jerusalem, Jerusalem

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

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

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

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

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

Peace be upon you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is peaceful.

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

Regrowth

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

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

'Oh God! You are kidding me.'

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

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

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

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

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

I breathe a sigh of relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Good', she says.

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

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

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

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

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

Feels Like Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will tell you things.

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

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

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


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


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

Underground

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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