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.