The Last Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thrilled to be back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jerusalem, Jerusalem

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

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

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

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

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

Peace be upon you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is peaceful.

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

Regrowth

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

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

'Oh God! You are kidding me.'

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

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

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

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

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

I breathe a sigh of relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Good', she says.

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

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

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

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

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

Feels Like Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will tell you things.

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

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

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


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


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

Underground

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cats and Dogs and Turkey

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

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

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

El Alamain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Thousand Words

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

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

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

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

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

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

Population: You

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

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

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

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

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

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

When we get the joke, we laugh.

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

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

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

Dhakla Oasis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peeing In The Desert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow brings another long drive. Might skip the coffee!

Gods Of The Nile

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

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

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

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

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

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

Covering Up In Cairo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Down At The Bottom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aqaba

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

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

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

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

The Desert: A Love Affair

We Long To Leave, We Long to Return

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

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

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

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

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

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

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