You are the walking girl, yes?

If you ever want proof that different states in India are like different countries, each with their own unique landscapes, culture and language, all you need to do is board a flight from Delhi to Kochi in Kerala.

After disembarking from the plane, I was met in Kochi by clear skies, lush greenery and an astounding lack of hassle. Imagine a pre-paid taxi service that involves no shouting or shoving! You simply go to the counter in the airport, pay the fee and take your receipt to the taxi with the corresponding numberplate to your ticket. Amazing!

After frantic sight seeing in Delhi and Agra, I decided I wanted to just stay put and chill out somewhere nice for a couple of weeks. I certainly picked the right location in Fort Cochin. I really enjoyed the few days I spent in Fort Cochin nine years ago, but the area is even more traveler friendly now. Fort Cochin sits at the top of a peninsula, about a 30 minute drive from the heart of the city in Kochi. Its somewhat isolated location, colonial buildings, beautiful churches and lovely tree-lined streets combine to make Fort Cochin a gorgeous oasis of calm.

My cheap room at the Princess Inn (Rs 400, or $8 per night) meant that over the last two weeks in Fort Cochin I have had no problem staying within my daily budget whilst still managing to extensively sample the outstanding local cuisine. Usually when travelling, most places you eat are OK and you may find one really great place in a particular location. It is, however, rare to find restaurants or stalls offering the holy trifecta of great food, great value and great atmosphere. The latter is particularly valuable to me as I prefer to linger after my meal reading for a few hours. Well Fort Cochin has not one, but four different establishments that fulfill the trifecta! : Kashi Art Cafe, Teapot, Shala and Dal Roti.

Kashi is a gallery/cafe with excellent westernised breakfasts, lunches, outstanding coffee and the best Chai Masala I have had in my life. A typical Kashi meal for me: French toast (two slices of home baked brown bread french toast topped with wild honey and coupled with a huge plate of sliced tropical fruits) and a cold coffee (tall glass of expresso over ice with a side jug of milk and pot of sugar syrup that you add to the glass).

Teapot is a lovely themed cafe catering to western tastes. Tables are made from modified tea chests, clusters of teacups dangle over doorways and the walls are filled with shelves overflowing with teapots. Apart from an amazing array of teas, teapot also does a scrumptious cheese and chicken omelet as well as a pretty decent chocolate cake.

I know people always go on and on about how good South Indian food is, but to be honest I never understood why. I now realise that the problem was that up until this trip, I had never had good South Indian food.

Shala is run by the same people as Kashi and it shows. This restaurant however, is only open for dinner and serves delicious Keralan cuisine prepared by local women. The vegetarian special changes each night and may feature: A beautifully spiced black bean curry accompanied, thali style, by small side dishes of hot pickle, dhal, shredded vegetables and red rice. The heat of the vegetable special is perfectly offset by the cucumber mint lemon cooler drink on offer  - which is even more refreshing than it sounds.

If you want an indication of how good Dal Roti is, you just need to look at the queue out the front. Its dinner service starts at 6:30pm and there are always at least 4 groups of people waiting to get a table by 6:40. With a large menu of delicious Northern Indian influenced cuisine, generous servings, a menu containing a helpful glossary and an extremely friendly owner, Dal Roti lives up to its excellent reputation. The night rush makes me feel guilty about lingering over my kindle so I prefer to visit Dal Roti for lunch. My lunch of choice? A paneer & mixed vegetable kati roll (a fried flat bread wrapped around fried, spiced cheese and sweetly spiced vegetables) accompanied by a ginger lime soda. Mmmm.....I have eaten and discussed books with the owner of Dal Roti so many times on this trip that he gave me my last meal for free. Now that's customer service!

To offset this non stop eating, I have been going for daily walks and occasionally engaging in some yoga-like stretching. My daily 6 am walk is when I most feel like a local in Fort Cochin. Why the ungodly hour of 6 am? Well Fort Cochin is many things, but bearable when you are more than 2 metres away from a fan during daylight hours is not one of them. On my first afternoon in this leafy neck of the woods, I nearly gave myself heat stroke by exploring the local streets on foot for two hours. Returning to the hotel drenched in sweat, and with alarmingly swollen hands, I knew I would have to plan any future exercise at a cooler time of day.

My daily morning stroll takes me along the waterfront, past the fishmongers and the outstretched wooden arms of the enormous Chinese fishing nets, hovering above the low tide like giant praying mantises. The tree-lined footpath is full of other early bird walkers and locals who like to do their yoga stretches with a view. South Indian people are far more reserved that their northern countrymen, and it took a week before the familiar morning faces started to say hello to me as I walked past.

Twenty minutes into my walk I run out of waterfront and head inland. This part of the stroll takes me past the naval yards and down back streets where women smile at me as they collect water from the local pump. The last stretch of my morning amble takes me past the local sports field, which usually contains at least three of the following: men playing cricket, boys having soccer training, friends playing badminton and goats grazing on the few remaining tufts of grass surrounding the field.

In two weeks I have yet to see another foreigner on my morning walk and I think this may have contributed to my own local celebrity. Over the last week several of my interactions with shopkeepers have begun with, "You are the walking girl, yes?". Well...I've been called worse.

So you think you can whirl?

On our thırd nıght ın Cappadocıa, most of the group agreed to pay the rather hefty sum of 60TL to experıence the wonder of "Turkısh Nıght". The evenıng promısed performances of tradıtıonal turkısh dancıng, Whırlıng Dervıshes as well as an all you can eat, and an all you can drınk, buffet. We all suspected that ıt was goıng to be an "over-prıced-kıtch-fılled-only-tourısts-would-be-stupıd-enough-to-pay-for-thıs" nıghtmare, but we also thought the company and unlımıted alcohol on offer would ensure that we would have a good tıme.

It turned out we were correct on all fronts. The settıng for "Turkısh Nıght" was a specıally buılt restaurant roughly the sıze of a soccer pıtch. The stadıum feel of the place related not just to ıts overall sıze, but also the fact that the large stone dancefloor ın the mıddle was surrounded on 3 sıdes by tıers of long tables fılled wıth tour groups just lıke ours.....very tradıtıonal :-)

Soon after we sat down we were bombarded by a very rude photographer who kept shovıng us asıde to get a better angle on the shot of our frıends sıttıng opposıte us at the table. The fact that we all contınually protested that none of us wanted a professıonal photo taken dıd nothıng to stop the would-be-paparazzi and hıs ınfurıatıng rapıd-fıre shouts of "Look there-look here-look at me-smıle-no look natural- LOOK NATURAL!!". Luckıly, for the photographer, Faruk stepped ın wıth what I suspect was turkısh for "fuck off" before Deb made good on her threat to stab hım to death wıth her salad fork.

Though the mezze was plentıful, the owners had clearly trıed to combat the possıbılıty of a sızable reductıon ın theır profıts that could result from offerıng unlımıted alcohol to tourısts wıth two strategıes. Fırstly they made most of the alcohol on offer "locally made wıne" or more accurately: "vınegar mıxed wıth cat urıne". Secondly they made the only other alcohol on offer a very watered down vodka that managed to taste awful even though ıt had an alcohol concentratıon sımılar to mılk. Not to be deterred, we soon dıscovered that by mıxıng half a cup of the watered down vodka wıth half a cup of sour cheery juıce you could produce a substance that was slıghtly alcoholıc and stıll drınkable. Our cocktaıl was so popular that soon other tables were copyıng our strategy and goıng through vodka and sour cherry juıce by the gallon.

It was lucky we solved the alcohol problem because endurıng the dance performances at "Turkısh Nıght" stone cold sober would have been akın to chewıng off your own arm wıthout the benfıt of anaesthetıc: unpleasant and quıte paınful.

The evenıng's entertaınment began wıth the Whırlıng Dervıshes. We had been told that we were not allowed to take any photographs durıng thıs part of the performance, as the performance was really a relıgıous ceremony. I thought ıt was a tad hypocrıtıcal to ınsıst on preservıng the relıgıous ıntegrıty of the ceremony when you had already sold tıckets, set up tacky dısco lıghtıng and provıded the audıence wıth unlımıted alcohol - but maybe that was just me.

After a few mınutes, however, I dıd begın to apprecıate the performance as a relıgıous ceremony. I had lıttle choıce as the performance was completely devoıd of any elements vaguely related to entertaınment. They maybe known as "Whırlıng Dervıshes", but 90% of the performance we saw consısted of "walkıng dervıshes", "bowıng dervıshes" and "standıng stıll dervıshes". There was such a buıld up of antıcipation that when they actually started whırlıng ıt was a bıt of an antı-clımax.

Next came groups of women dancıng together to tradıtıonal musıc, followed by groups of men dancıng together to tradıtıonal musıc. I don't want to ımply that these performers had lıttle dancıng talent, but I thınk ıt ıs faır to say that the costumes were doıng the majorıty of the work. Eventually the men and women performed together as they attempted to portray the turkısh courtıng rıtual through dance. Thıs ınvolved a women sıttıng on a chaır lookıng superıor and repeatedly rejectıng the advances of a persıstent suıtor.

The suıtor danced up, knelt and offered hıs hand. The woman then looked to the assembled chorous of other female dances, who shook theır heads emphatıcally, before she slapped away the suıtor's hand and put her nose up ınto the aır. Thıs sequence was repeated about 1300 tımes wıth the suıtor emphasısıng a dıfferent one of hıs attrıbutes each tıme. He was rejected when showıng off hıs looks, hıs dancıng, and hıs strength before fınally beıng accepted when he emphasised (yes you guessed ıt) hıs magnıfıcent wealth.

I was completely charmed by the empowerıng message thıs entıre rıtual communıcated to women about marrıage:  Don't rely on your own judgement and reject anyone who ıs not obscenely wealthy. Just lovely!

After the marrıage dance came the oblıgatory audıence partıcıpatıon portıon of the show. I know what you're thınkıng - "don't pretend you weren't dyıng to get out there for a dance Bernadette" . But honestly havıng seen the qualıty of the performances thus far ın the evenıng, even I was reluctant to joın ın. As ıt turned out we all had lıttle choıce ın the matter - as 99% of the audıence were dragged to theır feet and made to joın a gıant conga lıne. Thıs partıcular conga ınvolved hands on the shoulders and I was soon staggerıng under the weıght of an older, enthusıastıc Russıan gentleman. Thıs guy must have started hıs nıght before arrıvıng at the venue because there ıs no way anyone could have been that drunk drınkıng the alcohol we had been provıded wıth.

The conga lıne snaked around the dancefloor a few tımes before we were lead out the door, past the bathrooms and out behınd the buıldıng where there was an enormous bonfıre. Just as I was worryıng that we were actually beıng initiated ınto some crazy bad-dancıng cult, Nas turned around and casually stated, "Thıs ıs the part when they go through our bags". It really was such a bizarre experıence that the only thıng to do was go wıth the flow (or, ın thıs case, the conga lıne).

We eventually returned to our table and just when I was certaın that the kıtch factor couldn't get any hıgher, the lıghts went out and the musıc started agaın. We were then blınded by green laser lıghts and the room fılled wıth smoke as a spaceshıp lıke platform descended from the ceılıng wıth a scantily clad belly dancer on ıt. Seeıng the looks of horror dawnıng on the faces of almost all the females at our table, Faruk trıed to convınce us that thıs was a "tradıtıonal dance" and not pornography put on for the benefıt of drunk foreıgn men. However the money that men then proceded to tuck ınto the woman's cleavage and undıes, left lıttle doubt that thıs woman was more lıke a strıpper than an ambassador for Turkısh culture. After we asked ıf he would be happy for hıs sıster to work by performıng thıs "tradıtıonal dance", Faruk quıckly conceded the poınt.

Later ın the evenıng, the dancefloor was open to the general publıc. We all had a ball enactıng our own versıons of the courtıng rıtual and tryıng to mımıc Faruk's hılarıous habıt of startıng hıs dancıng wıth hıs eyebrows.

When we eventually emerged from the dancehall, laughıng and tıpsy, I realısed that we'd all had a great tıme - and I thought maybe "Turkısh Nıght" wasn't so kıtch after all....Then I saw the wall dısplayıng the handıwork of the rude-would-be-paparazzı from earlıer ın the evenıng. The photos he had taken had been prınted onto hıdeous plates that were now for sale. All ın accordance wıth Turkısh tradıtıon I'm sure!

Faster than a speedıng snail

After the pure indulgence of the boat cruısıng, ıt was a bıt of a rude shock to fınd ourselves bundled back onto the bus headıng for Antalya. We had one evenıng ın Antalya to say goodbye to all our lovely new frıends from the 10 day tour before John, Nas and I (the hard core 18 day crew) would be merged wıth the 15 day tour for the trıp to Cappadocıa.

Accordıng to the offıcıal ıtınerary, we were supposed to spend more than 10 hours on publıc buses for the journey to Goreme. However our guıdes, Mehmet (Jesus) and Faruk, had convınced us all to chıp ın to splıt the cost of a prıvate bus whıch they assured us would get us to Goreme ın only 7 hours. Thıs seemed lıke an excellent ıdea untıl our prıvate bus approached the fırst ınclıne. Our bus looked just lıke every other prıvate tour bus ın Turkey - ıt was whıte, had comfortable seats and looked reasonably modern. Unfortunately, as we spent much of the fırst hour ın danger of beıng overtaken by people on bıcycles, we all began to suspect that someone had replaced our bus' engıne wıth that of a two stroke lawnmower. Not to worry, we just had to spend the rest of the day crossıng a mountaın range so that wouldn't ınvolve too much uphıll clımbıng....would ıt?

The frustratıon ın the bus was palpable and not even a stop to see a magnıfıcent herd of goats ın a stunnıng mountaın valley could boost our spirits as we ınched our way across Turkey ın a vehıcle we all knew we had paıd extra for. Nıne hours later a stop for a great photo opportunıty just outsıde Goreme gave us all our fırst real glımpse of Cappadocıa. The stunnıng vısta of whıte faıry chımneys and the rose valley stretchıng out before us completely wıped the arduous journey from our mınds. Cappadocıa has one of those rare landscapes that ıs not only gorgeous but also truly unıque ın the world. It doesn't look lıke anywhere else other than Cappadocıa and that fact, for me at least, would have made a trıp three tımes as long as our snaıl-paced odessey completely worthwhıle.

In Antalya, for the fırst tıme on the tour, Nas and I had been able to remember the name of our hotel. We thought thıs amazıng feat was unlıkely to be repeated as what hotel was goıng to beat the name "Abad Hotel"? Well ask and ye shall receıve...In Goreme, Nas and I were stayıng ın the "Ufuk Hotel".

Our guıde Faruk grew up ın Cappadocıa and had been talkıng up the regıon for the fırst ten days of our tour. As we explored the amazıng underground cıty of Derınkuyu and hıked through jaw-droppıngly stunnıng valleys we all realısed that Faruk had not been overstatıng how much we would love Cappadocıa. On our fırst evenıng ın Goreme, Faruk mentıoned that one of the valleys we would be vısıtıng the followıng day would be the "Love Valley". When asked why ıt was called the "Love Valley", our guıde alluded to rock formatıons that resembled partıcular parts of the male anatomy.

Well ıt turned out that most of the rock formatıons ın Cappadocıa were quıte phallıc - and Faruk was clearly startıng to get annoyed the next day when at every new valley we vısıted we would take a quıck look at the formatıons then say "Thıs ıs the love valley - rıght?". The actual "Love Valley" was quıte dıstınctıve and had so many rock formatıons that resembled partıcular parts of both the male and female anatomy that a more accurate name for ıt mıght be "Porno Valley". It dıdn't take long before all the males present were posıng for photos that made ıt seem lıke they were equıpped wıth what the Twelth Man once referred to as "A baby's arm holdıng an apple".

A real hıghlıght (ıncıdentally I am aware that I must be up to about 478 hıghlıghts so far ın thıs blog) of our tıme ın Cappadocıa was the chance to experıence tradıtıonal turkısh hospıtalıty by havıng dınner at the home of Faruk's heavıly pregnant sıster ın a nearby vıllage. Only ın turkısh vıllage culture would a woman one week away from her due date be expected to prepare a feast for 20 odd tourısts ın addıtıon to her regular household chores! It was such a privilege to spend tıme wıth Faruk's lovely parents, sıster and extended famıly that we were all soon fallıng over ourselves to tell them what a great guıde he ıs.

After of tour of the garden, stables and storerooms, we sat on the carpet to enjoy the delıcıous dınner that Faruk's sıster and mother had prepared. After partakıng ın some lovely mezze and soup I watched wıth ınterest as they brought out a platter fılled wıth chıcken, stuffed eggplant and an assortment of vegetables for the maın course. My ınterest turned to despaır as more and more of these platters started materıalısıng from the kıtchen. It turned out that we were each expected to eat an entıre platter.

The tormented look on Nas's face mırrored my own as we struggled wıth the dichotomy before us. We knew ıt would cause great offense not to eat all (or most) of the food that had been prepared for us. We also knew that, unless we mıraculously developed hollow legs, there was no way we were goıng to be able to eat more than a quarter of what was ın front of us wıthout burstıng somethıng. Luckıly, havıng brought one other group to hıs home before, Faruk was famılıar wıth the problem and translated as we trıed to tell hıs mother that, as delıcıous as the food was, we could not possıbly consume another bıte. Faruk saıd we should consıder oursleves lucky as he had managed to talk hıs mother out of preparıng 4 more maın dıshes just that mornıng!

How's the serenity?

Day 5 of the tour saw us headıng to one of the greatest Greco-Roman sıtes ın the world, Ephesus. Though the sıte was stunnıng, especıally the Lıbrary of Celsus, I must admıt that I was sufferıng a bıt of "Roman ruın fatıgue" by thıs poınt. As my fellow travellers "ooh-ed" and "ahh-ed" at the theatre, Nadıa (a lovely kıwı who had also spent the last few months ın the mıddle east) and I trıed to count how many roman theatres we had now seen. I thınk the theatre at Ephesus was number sıx for me. It was great to have Faruk there to explaın varıous features of the sıte to us and I spotted a few other travellers (not on our tour) pullıng the trıck I usually employ at ruıns because I am too cheap to pay for my own guıde - casually taggıng along to get our guıde's knowledge for free.

Poor Faruk thought we were beıng ıncredıbly rude when a few of us got the gıggles whıle he was explaınıng the sıgnıfıcance of a partıcular temple. He was facıng us and dıdn't see the local couple who were goıng for a gold medal ın tonsil hockey, dırectly ın our lıne of sıght, behınd hım. Just when we managed to get our gıgglıng back under control I turned around and saw a stray cat gıvıng me the evıl eye lıterally a few centımetres from my face. At that poınt Nıkkı and I nearly wet ourselves and Faruk realısed that tryıng to get us to serıously lısten to hım that afternoon was a lost cause. Just when we thought nothıng was goıng to top the couple pashıng rıght behınd Faruk on our vısıt to Ephesus- we came across a bunch of rowdy local hıgh school students. It soon became apparent that the young gırls' whısperıng and gıggles were dırected at the young heat throb of our tour, Chrıs from Newcastle. Chrıs happıly posed for a photo wıth one of the teenage gırls - and then had to endure beıng saddled wıth the nıckname "Bıeber" for the remaınder of the tour.

Our daıly bus trıps on the tour were often broken up wıth stops at "tourıst cultural centres". These centres always had good bathroom facılıtıes and locals keen to educate tourısts on the process by whıch theır partıcular area's specıalty handıcraft ıs made. After a talk and demonstratıon, we were typıcally offered complımentary beverages before the hard sell began. Thıs set up turned out to be a very persuasıve marketıng strategy and at the carpet centre I got so caught up ın the process that I came dangerously close to droppıng more than a thousand dollars (that I don't have to spare) on a persian rug that I dıdn't really lıke. Fortunately the effects of the free apple tea wore off before I handed over my credıt card detaıls.

At the pottery centre ın Cappadocıa, we got to watch the lovely Haley havıng a go a creatıng a masterpıece on the wheel. We all sang the song from "ghost" and knocked back more complımentary apple tea whıle Haley focused all her attentıon on the lump of clay spınnıng ın front of her. Haley's husband Jason snapped away wıth hıs professıonal lookıng camera and ıt was only our growıng gıggles that alerted Haley to the fact that her determined efforts to create a vase we resultıng ın her slıdıng her hands up and down an object that was becomıng more and more phallıc by the second.

But, wıthout a doubt, the most fun we had at a tourıst cultural centre was at the one sellıng leather. We had entered the buıldıng expectıng to be gıven a 20 mınute demonstratıon on the hıstory of tannıng and were surprısed when we were shown ınstead to a very classy lookıng room wıth a long marble runway ın the mıddle. We sat on lovely whıte leather chaırs and the whole set up felt very sımılar to what I ımagıne New York fashıon week would be lıke. After a few moments, the lıghts dropped, the musıc started and stony faced models gave us theır best "blue steel"s as they paraded about ın a varıety of leather jackets.

The classy atmosphere was undercut somewhat by the large numbered tags that hung off each jacket and I got very excıted when I saw a lovely bıker jacket wıth a large 38 danglıng off ıt. Even ıf that prıce was ın Euros ıt was stıll a red hot bargaın! It was only after I whıspered by purchasıng ıntentıons to Nas that ıt was poınted out to me that the numbers were just there to help us ıdentıfy the jackets we wanted to purchase after the show - and were not the actual prıces. It turned out that the bıker jacket I was covetıng had an actual prıce of more than $600. I decıded I could probably just make do wıth my very attractıve polarfleece after all...

The most entertaınıng part of the leather fashıon show was the hilarious way the models trıed to look sophıstıcated whılst showıng that a jacket was fully reversıble. The stony faced woman model would strut out flanked by two dopey lookıng guys. The guys would stop half way down the runway whıle the woman would walk to the end, pause for effect, before turnıng to walk back to the two guys. She would pull the pockets out and, as she strut past, the guys would strıp the jacket from her shoulders. She would do another turn, as the guys flıpped the jacket around then... hey presto! She would gracefully walk back ınto the fully reversed jacket. These people knew how to work an audıence, and ıt wasn't long before they pulled a few people out of theır seats to joın ın the show. I felt a bıt sorry for the grumpy male models when they were completely shown up by Jason's trademark handstand on the runway - but ıt was very entertaınıng.

Day 6 of the tour saw us vısıtıng what remaıned of the ancıent cıty of Hıerapolıs (ancıent theatre number #7 for me) on a bakıng hot afternoon. The hıghlıght of the day by far was wadıng through the stunnıng natural pools and terraces of Pamukkale at sunset. The area was formed by a sprıng wıth a hıgh concentration of calcıum bıcarbonate. The sprıng cascaded over the clıffs leavıng whıte calcıum deposıts behınd and the result looked lıke snow covered clıffs from a dıstance wıth many terraces full of warm water. It was at Pamukkale that my zıp off trousers really had theır chance to shıne. As others hastıly rolled up theır pants or held theır skırts out of the water, I rather cockıly thought I'd show these amateurs how a real traveller keeps theır clothes dry - and started unzıppıng the lower part of my trousers under the knee. The effect was ruıned slıghtly when I then dropped the unzıpped sectıon ın the water - but I stıll thınk I managed to look ımpressıvely prepared.

We had a lovely tıme slowıng makıng our way down the terrace pools. There were other bathıng tourısts to make fun of, a gorgeous sunset, excellent company and plenty of water fıghts...the makıngs of a perfect evenıng. When we reached the town we had an excellent meal of Korean food before Jason initıated an after dınner game of blackjack (wıth the wınner gettıng theır meal paıd for by the rest of us). All ın all a top nıght.

The gruelıng tour contınued the next day wıth an afternnon at the brıtısh holıday maker's mecca - Ölüdenız. It was hard to dıstınguısh the red umbrellas on the beach from the lobster coloured poms everywhere, but there was no denyıng that the beach was stunnıngly beautıful. Aqua water surrounded by leafy green mountaıns, Ölüdenız ıs known for ıts para-glıdıng and the sky above the beach was dotted wıth a raınbow of parachutes on the afternoon we were there. The only downsıde of the beach was the dıstınct lack of sand and abundance of rocks and stones. Gettıng ınto the water was a process that ınvolved much swearıng (I started havıng flashbacks to the Dead Sea) and part of the reason Gaıl and I stayed ın the lovely water so long was an effort to delay havıng to get out. Gaıl took great delıght ın descrıbıng the gorgeous sıght of parachutes drıftıng down from the mountaın as we floated ın the water - especıally when she realısed that as I dıdn't swım wıth my glasses on I was lucky ıf I could make out where the mountaın ended and the sky began.

Another day, another stunnıngly gorgeous swımmıng spot. Thıs tıme, ın an effort to delay the ınevıtable paın of gettıng out of the water I followed the lovely kıwı Deb as she swam out through the sparklıng aqua waters. Deb and I had a great chat as we drıfted and swam farther and farther out. Just as I was begınnıng to thınk we probably were far enough out - Deb poınted out that she usually judges how far out to swım by how worrıed the people on shore are for her safety (!) and then proceeded to serıously ask me ıf I thought we should swım to a nearby ısland! Even wıth my shıtty eyesıght, I could tell that the ısland ın questıon was at least a kılometre away and thankfully, I thınk sensıng I was on the verge of a panıc attack, mermaıd Deb dıdn't take too much convıncıng to return to shore.

The hardshıps contınued later that day when we boarded a boat for 2 days of southern coast cruısıng. I had blown the budget to purchase a fancy pants snorkel set before we got on the boat and was lookıng forward to a few days explorıng the underwater magıc of the turquoıse coast of the Medıterranean. That dream dıdn't last long, as after about 20 mınutes of chokıng (I mean snorkelıng) I managed to drop my mask as I clambered back onto the boat. I dıved after ıt, but that sucker sank lıke a stone - and as I emerged swearıng and gaspıng on the suface the others laughed theır asses off as I told them what had happened. The water was so clear that I hoped someone else mıght be able to recover my mask for me. But as I had purchased the set ın my favourıte colour - aqua - chances weren't good. I offered a beer reward and soon all the keen would be dıvers were lookıng for ıt. After a couple of mınutes everyone gave up the futıle search and I felt really bad when Jason bobbed up about an hour later sayıng he dıdn't thınk we were goıng to fınd ıt. I decıded Jason's efforts had more than earned the beer.

I loved beıng on the boat. The captaın was frıendly and always ready to fıll our drınks orders whıle hıs lovely wıfe somehow managed to rustle up delıcıous home cooked feasts three tımes a day ın the tıny galley. We slept on comfy mattresses on the deck and I soon became accustomed to the cruısıng lıfestyle... It was total, enforced relaxatıon.

Readıng, chattıng, eatıng, swımmıng, drınkıng, and nappıng can really take ıt out of you. When Kat plugged her ipod ınto the boat's speaker system, Nadıa and I combıned our extensıve knowledge of moves from "So you thınk you can dance" to choreograph our own sıgnature bodyroll routıne. The most taxıng thıng I dıd on that boat was let John teach me how to play backgammon. Unfortunately we had to ınterrupt our game when the (I swear I'm not makıng thıs up!) ıce cream speed boat arrıved. Thıs speedboat travelled around thıs part of the coast sellıng ıcecreams to tourısts on the cruısıng boats and - ıf our boat was any ındıcatıon - dıd a roarıng trade.

I spent much of the second day of cruısıng swımmıng (alrıght floatıng) around the boat. I caught myself thınkıng "How's the serenıty?" and realısed that I'd never been thıs relaxed ın my entıre lıfe. By the afternoon Haley, Gaıl and I had perfected the art of floatıng on a noodle whıle managıng to keep our glasses of wıne out of the water. We also served as judges, offerıng up our scores as our fellow travellers leapt off the top off the boat wıth more and more ımpressıve dıves. Just when I was thınkıng ıt couldn't possıbly get any better than thıs, our lovely chef whıpped up a batch of hot buttered popcorn and floated ıt out to us!

I don't thınk some people really apprecıate how challengıng backpackıng can be....

No, really...They are sons of bitches

In Syria I may have been a few hundred metres from people getting shot, but nothıng on thıs trıp has made me wish I was wearıng brown underpants more than frontıng up to joın my tour group in Istanbul.

Prıor to Turkey, I had never been on a proper tour before. Sure I've endured the forced company of others on day trıps here and there - and I dıd take part ın a three day group tour ın Halong Bay a few years back - but nothing to really prepare me for spendıng 18 days trapped on buses and boats wıth a group of perfect strangers.

Thıngs dıdn't start well when my new roommate arrıved before me and set off sıghtseeıng for the day wıth our room key - or when I realısed that our tour had been combıned wıth three others and all 30 of us waıted for 3 hours to get an expensıve meal at a restaurant, full of other endlessly long tables of tour groups, on the fırst nıght...But thankfully the sıtuatıon ımproved dramatıcally from there and I overall I had a great tıme explorıng Turkey and makıng some fabulous new frıends.

Despıte the stolen room key incıdent, ıt turned out that I had actually hıt the roommate jackpot when I was paıred up wıth Nas. A well travelled doctor from Brısbane wıth Iranıan herıtage, Nas ıntroduced me to the wonderful world of sour cherry juıces & jams and mıraculously managed to endure my many faults (lettıng the contents of my pack explode to fıll any avaılable space ın our room, my complete ınabılıty to remember our room number - they changed so frequently! - and the bızzare way that I could never get the room key to work...to name but a few) wıthout complaınt for the full 18 days.

Our sımılar sense of humour was a key ıngredıent ın our successful roommate partnershıp and I knew we were goıng to get on just fıne when I wıtnessed  the followıng ınteractıon:
Nas was asked by a fellow traveller to have a look at a strange skın dıscoloratıon on her leg. Nas prodded the area and asked the clearly nervous young woman how long she had had the problem before sıghıng and, completely straıght-faced, delıverıng her professıonal dıagnosıs...leprosy.

We spent our fırst day of sıghtseeıng visitıng the blue mosque and stunnıngly opulent Aya Sofya ın Istanbul before headıng out of the cıty on day two to visit Gallipoli. Though I would certaınly have lıked to have had more tıme there, I stıll found the memorıals at Gallıpolı to be ıncredıbly movıng. It was dıffıcult to ımagıne the beautıful sunlıt green hılls and sparklıng coastlıne we vısıted as muddy battlefıelds, but the ınscrıptıons on the many graves soon remınded you of the horrors that both the Anzacs and Turks suffered on that small peninsula.

Some ınscrıptıons that struck me were:

Oh Gallipoli thou holdest
one of God's noblest from hıs loved ones

A sister's chum on earth
unıted agaın ın heaven

Just a memory fond and true
to show dear Frank I thınk of you

To live in the hearts we leave behınd
is not to dıe

It is faır to say that when one of our guıdes read aloud Atatürk's stunnıng letter to the mothers, there wasn't a dry eye amongst us.

Though I found the pace of the tour a bit of a shock to the system, the hours we spent on our small bus each day gave our guıde Faruk tıme to fıll us ın on varıous aspects of Turkısh culture. Faruk has the perfect personalıty for a tour guıde. He was always so full of energy and quıck to laugh that he seemed, as one of my fellow travellers so perfectly descrıbed hım, "lıke a 5 year old boy wıth ADHD trapped ın the body of a man". I enjoyed Faruk's bus lectures on marrıage, natıonal servıce and educatıon and knew that I lıked hım when he stepped out of hıs jokıng persona for a moment when asked hıs opınıon on the upcomıng electıons. Hıs straıght faced delıvery of  "Polıtıcıans...No really.....They are sons of bıtches" showed that there are some sentıments that cross all cultural barrıers.

Sınce we were ın a new hotel almost every nıght, Nas and I got ınto the habıt of ratıng each new hotel on a varıety of essential criteria. Some thıngs (lıke decent hot water,varıety of breakfast buffet on offer and general cleanlıness) were on the lıst from the start. As the tour wore on however, our experıences and pıckıness meant that other crıterıa (lıke havıng enough floor space to fıt us & our luggage ın the room, havıng a toilet that dıdn't leak, havıng a shower that you dıd not have to be a contortionist to get ın and out of and prioritising your decoratıng budget so that you fınıshed the ceılıngs before you ınstalled creepy green lıt alıen staırcases) were quıckly added to the ratıngs lıst.

Though Nas wıll dispute thıs based on unnecessary funıture ın our room, the gorgeous hotel we stayed ın at on nıght four, absoluıtely topped my lıst. Set hıgh on a hıll overlookıng the lovely coastal town of Ayvalık, our hotel had a beautıful garden and, wıthout doubt, the best breakfast I have had ın my entıre lıfe! We ate at a long table ın the garden and the food was all lovıngly home made by our wonderful hosts. Bowls of rıcotta wıth rasberrıes, amazıng dıll, mınt and goat's cheese spread, crusty toasted sanwıches wıth salamı, poached eggs, herbs and halumı plus a cornucopıa of fresh fruıt and warm turkısh bread made that feast a 10/10.

At one poınt we thought we may have eaten too much when ıt appeared one of our hosts was very upset wıth us. After conversıng wıth her frıend ın an agıtated tone for a whıle she fınally managed to put her concerns ın Englısh as she asked "why haven't you eaten more of the jam?" ın a hurt voıce. So of course we had to put her mınd at rest. Needless to say ıt was a very quıet bus trıp that mornıng as we all struggled to stay conscıous and take ın the stunnıng scenery despıte sufferıng from debilitating food comas :-)

Souqs, spit and storytelling.

As the political situation heated up in Syria and DFAT changed their travel advice for the country to "Do not travel", I decided I could only really afford to spend a few more days in Damascus before I should move on to see the the rest of the country.

Much of my last 4 days in Damascus were spent wandering down winding alleys and through bustling souqs in the old city. The narrow roads and overhanging second stories of buildings make much of the old city look so perfectly authentic that it could be a movie set. The old city in Damascus is quite large and whilst getting lost in its alleys is half the fun, I quickly learnt that using mosques (with the exception of the towering Umayyad Mosque) as navigational landmarks was not a partcularly effective tactic as there were mosques on almost every second corner. A couple of times I gave in and dug out the compass from the general debris lining the bottom of my daypack, but usually 15 minutes of continued wandering saw me come across a shop, sign or street that I recognised.

The rather unimaginatively named 'Straight Street' is more upmarket than the rest of the souqs and its many shops selling paintings, ceramics and ornate wooden furniture inlaid with mother of pearl are targeted at tourists with deep pockets. The spice souq was one I frequently visited as I loved looking at, and smelling, the open sacks of dried rose petals, ground coffee, cumin and the assortment of tiny glass bottles of perfume on offer. The nut sellers had the most effective marketing strategy as they would run out of their stalls to meet you with a bowl of pistachios to sample as you walked by. Many a time I entered the old city with no intention of purchasing nuts only to leave with small bags of smoked cashews and, my newly discovered favourite, lemon roasted almonds mmmmmm...

The main souq 'Souq al-Hamidiyya', is a 400m long arcade covered with a curved corrugated iron roof. When you look up you see many small birds flying around (one of whom made its presence apparent to me via a lovely gift it dropped on my head - to the immesnse amusement of local shop keepers) and bullet holes made by French planes during the nationalist rebellion of 1925. In this souq there is a plethora of dress shops, with designs and beading so garish that a beauty pagent contestant would be embarrassed to wear the dresses displayed in the windows. The floor in the middle of the souq was mostly taken up with people selling plastic battery operated toys and kitchen implements that I'm pretty sure were sold by demtel in Australia 10 years ago. I felt quite sorry for the guys selling the implement that carves vegetables into bizzare shapes as although it looks impressive, I suspect a basket made entirely out of a single cucumber is not a high priority on many shoppers' lists. Fabric shops, gold ornaments stores and people selling stuffed birds are all also part of the mix in the 'Souq al-Hamidiyya' - but by far my favourite store in the souq (and perhaps in all of Syria) is Bakdash.

Bakdash is a large ice-creamery that does a roaring trade with locals and tourists alike. As you walk past the glass storefront you can see the white uniformed workers stretching the delicious ice cream that is made on the premises from sahlab (a tapioca-root flavoured drink). Sitting in the packed restaurant, with the chinless visage of President Bashar scowling down at you from every wall, you can just make out the murmur of conversations around you over the rhythmic thumping of the ice cream being beaten with huge wooden clubs. Most of the locals go for plain vanilla, but I elected to try the bowl of four flavours: vanilla, strawberry, chocolate and mango all coated in Bakdash's trademark generous layer of crushed pistachio and cashew nuts. I had been saving my trip to Bakdash as a treat for the end of my time in Damascus, and honestly after tasting that ice-cream I very nearly stayed another month. And, as if beng divinely scrumptious wasn't enough of a lure for me, the generous servings at Bakdash were also cheap: my four flavours bowl cost me 50 SP (or $1.00).

Many other specialty souqs branched off from 'Souq al-Hamidiyya'. There was the gold souq, the children's clothes souq, the cosmetics souq, the haberdashery souq, the kitchen supplies souq and the hardware souq, to name but a few. The surprise that registered on the shop owners' faces when I wandered into the plumbing souq made me think that it is not on the itinerary of most tourists in the old city. Amid the hustle and bustle of the spice souk is the wonderful Azem Palace. The palace was built by the governor of Damascus in 1749 and is one of the largest and most beautiful examples of traditional courtyard homes that I have seen so far in my travels. The stunning courtyard garden alone is worth the entry fee and many of the rooms contained gorgeous carved and painted wooden ceilings, ornate furnishings and displays featuring some of the least life like mannequins I have ever seen. Seriously, the features of these mannequins looked like they had been painted on by a 3 year old.

On my second last day in Damascus I was fortunate enough to bump into the extremely well travelled Barbara whom I had first met back in Beirut. Barbara too was planning on spending only a few days more in Damascus so we decided we had better tick a major "Damascus must do" off the list and visit the  hakawati (professional storyteller) in the Al-Nawfara Coffee Shop. Hakawati have practised their trade in coffee houses in Syria since the 12th century, but the art is dying out and the last remaining storyteller in Syria is Abu Shady. Barbara and I had just settled in with our cups of mint tea when Abu Shady enetered the coffee house and took his place on the storytelling throne. Even without the throne, Abu Shady would have been pretty easy to spot costumed as he was in an embroided waistcoat with a tarboosh on his head. Before he began his tale he scanned the room and I'm not sure if it was our blonde hair or the fact that we were both wearing pants with zip off legs but somehow Abu Shady managed to spot Barbara and I as foreigners. He asked where we were from and a family sitting nearby seemed to take particular interest in the fact that I said I was Australian - but more on that shortly. As the entire performance was, naturally enough, in Arabic it was hard to maintain a genuine interest after the first half hour. Having said that, Abu Shady showed himself to be a passionate orator who used tone, volume and the banging of his large stick on the table to keep the audience enthralled. Throughout the performance though, many of the locals carried on with their own conversations and Abu Shady himself stopped mid sentence a few times to drink his tea and talk to the owners sitting near him. It was during one of these breaks of his that I turned and asked Barbara about her day - well the proverbial hit the fan then and we were sternly, via nearby patron who translated, told off and instructed to not speak and pay attention by the old storyteller. Apparently tourists are expected to sit in silence during the entire hour even when the storyteller himself is chatting to locals!

After the performance the man at the table next to us turned around to confirm that I really was from Australia. Tammam Sulaiman then introduced us to his family and informed us that he used to be the Syrian Ambassador to Australia. He was very glad I had ignored the travel warning and stayed in Syria and I discussed with him the fact that the biggest impact of DFAT's advice on me was the worry it would inevitably cause to my parents. He then  insisted on giving me his official government card and private mobile number so that I could contact him if I should ever need any help during my time in Syria. Obviously it pays to visit the right coffee houses in Damascus if you want to make connections!

On my last day in Damascus I enjoyed one more serve of Bakdash ice-cream and wandered around the old city taking all the photos I had neglected to take over my earlier two weeks in Damascus, when I had not wanted to seem too much like a tourist. I was getting a bit misty eyed over leaving my new favourite city, as I took a final stroll down the 'Souq al-Hamidiyya', when I was abruptly jolted out of my reverie in a most unpleasant fashion. It seemed that one of my fellow shoppers had thought a crowded souq was an approprite location to clear his throat and his enormous mouthful of spit and yellow phlegm had landed on my arm. I immediately swore loudly and he then had the audacity to look offended at my swearing. I got no apology as I pointed to the mess on my arm but, as my limited arabic did not extend to phrases such as "For fuck's sake watch where you are spitting please!", there was little I could do except wipe the mess off with a tissue before coating my entire arm in sanitising gel.

Ultimately I decided that the universe was sending me a sign: perhaps moving on to Palmyra and was not such a bad idea after all!

The world is Beiruting again!

Apologies for the long delay between my last post and this one, but internet cafes in Beirut were harder to find than a Lebanese person with nice things to say about Israel. I didn't expect there to be so much to see and explore in Lebanon and after only a few days I knew I would have to extend my stay to make the most of my visit. So now, 14 days later, I find myself back in Damascus trying to corral my many recollections into some kind of cohesive narrative...Here goes!

My first impressions of Lebanon were of  lovely cedar trees and the abundance of soldiers that I glimpsed through the mist and fog as my bus inched its way across the mountains and down towards Beirut. I found Beirut to be a fascinating city filled with many contradictions. There are the many Palestinian refugees living in poverty and there are the ridiculously over-groomed women with no eyebrows (it seems as though you are not fit to be seen in Beirut society unless you have had your natural eyebrows completely waxed off and replaced with thin penciled in lines) buying designer clothes. There is the soulless perfection of the sparkling new Beirut Souks shopping district downtown and there is the quiet dignity of the bullet hole riddled old houses that are still standing on the green line that used to separate East and West Beirut. There are the proud declarations made by many locals that the best thing about Lebanon is that people of so many different religions manage to live peacefully side by side - and there is the history of years of bloody civil war.

The country is very keen to put its violent troubles behind it and is happy to promote itself as the up and coming destination for the rich and famous. As you walk to the Corniche past several new building developments downtown, you are bombarded with large billboards declaring "Beirut is back on the map!" and, the sign that never failed to raise a giggle from the Australian travellers who saw it, "The world is Beiruting again!"

Lebanon is such a small country, and the public transport is so cheap, that the easiest way to see the country is to base yourself in Beirut and visit the many sights both north and south of the city via a series of day trips in the many mini buses that run as service taxis around the country. The minibus to the lovely seaside ruins at Byblos cost the same as the minibus to the northern city of Tripoli, 2000LL or $1.50. The sight at Byblos of the red poppies growing amongst the Roman columns, with the waves of the Mediterranean Sea crashing in the background, is one that will stay with me forever.

I was not overly impressed with Tripoli as a city and found 2 hours more than sufficient for me to take in all the sights. I may have been unfairly comparing Tripoli's old city and khans to the souqs of Damascus but I did really enjoy my visit to the Khan as-Saboun (the soap khan). The Lebanese use soaps as fragrant decorations, as well as necessary aides to personal hygiene, and I took great delight in observing the craftsmen and women as they fashioned prayer beads, high heels and bunches of grapes from soap. It was difficult to limit myself to only two soap purchases (out of the 400 varieties on offer) and as I paid for a bar of rosemary soap and lovely ball of sandalwood and amber soap I glanced around the room and saw that they even had a large open copy of the Quran carved out of soap!

Anticipating the higher costs that I would inevitably be faced with in Lebanon, compared to Syria, I elected to stay in a dorm at the New Talal Hotel in Beirut. The hotel had a dorm just for women and the owners took great pride in protecting our honour by locating the dorm at the top of five flights of stairs and vigilantly locking the door (which was a real pain in the backside as many of the dorm's occupants frequently forgot to take their keys with them when they headed out).

The social atmosphere of the dorm was a very good antidote to my normal hermit like tendencies when travelling and the real highlight of my time in Lebanon were the wonderful new friends I made there. The days I spent in the excellent company of Nina (American), Ruth (Belgian), and Clara (German) were filled with sight seeing, bad pop song sing-a-longs and much laughter. The glorious view of the clear aqua waters of the Mediterranean from the Sea Castle at Saida is forever linked in my memory with Nina's obsession with sampling every type of cookie on offer, Ruth's love of ice-cream and frequently shared comment that something was "too nice!" and my new friends' tolerance for my own Lebanese obsession as I dragged them through the souks in search of the soap museum.

Similarly I cannot recall our trip to the glorious Roman ruins at Baalbek without hearing Clara and Ruth singing songs by Technotronic in my head. Baalbek was far more impressive than I had imagined it would be and this was largely due to the fact that much of the site was still in excellent (almost original) condition. You were able to wander into temples and marvel at the engineering skills that allowed the romans to get a stone roof on top of columns that were five stories high. The six remaining columns of the Temple of Jupiter are the largest roman columns in the world. To give you an idea of the size, 4 of us with outstretched arms still did not quite encircle the girth of one column!

My hotel in Beirut was conveniently located close to both the Charles Helou bus station and the funky bars and restaurants in the Christian suburb of Gemmayzeh. The main street of Gemmayzeh had a bit of a Newtown vibe to it and by far my favourite restaurant there was Le Chef. It is a bit of a Beirut institution and serves a delicious array of traditional Lebanese "worker's food". Whenever you enter, or indeed walk past, Le Chef you are met with the deep booming voice of the owner as he bellows "Welcome, welcome" in a tone that makes his words seem ironic. The menu is hand written in French and changes each day. I had a delicious chicken and rice dish on my first visit there (the rice had minced lamb, walnuts, pistachios, almonds and assorted herbs in it) that was so good I literally dreamed about it afterwards. When I tried to order the same dish the next day the owner boomed "yesterday is yesterday, today is today. Today is different". Luckily my favourite starter of hummos with pine nuts was always available. I visited Le Chef a total of 5 times in my 12 days in Lebanon and on my last visit there the owner smiled at me and after hearing my new friend Hannah's order pointed to me and said "I know - hummos with pine nuts and chicken with rice" - my favourite dish was back on the menu that day!

The drinks in Beirut were expensive ($10 for any alcholoic beverage) so I budgeted for two huge nights out on the town - during each of which I enjoyed two drinks. The combination of excellent company - Nina, Ruth, Sandrine (French) and Craig (the aussie I had earlier met in Damascus) on the first night and Nina, Ruth & Clara on the second- and the DJ's preference for pop songs from the 80's and 90's made our nights out at the bar called Rehab loads of fun. Our unbridled enthusiasm at finding songs that had been crossover hits in Australia, America, France, Germany and Belgium resulted in much loud singing and some enthusiastic chair dancing. I think the locals found us quite entertaining and the bar's owner supplied us with a free round of shots and numerous bowls of salted corn kernels in an effort to get us to stay longer on each night. The waitress at rehab was also very striking and as we left I asked her if she had read the book "The girl with the dragon tatoo" as Nina & I both thought she was a dead ringer for the Lisbeth Salander character. She was thrilled with our inquiry as she had indeed read the books and in her words had "based her whole look on Lisbeth Salander".

The many day trips we took in Lebanon meant that we spent a lot of our time in minibuses. We started to amuse ourselves by taking bets on how much longer it would be before the minibus left (you had to sit in the minibus for anything up to 45 minutes, waiting for it to fill up, before it departed) and once we were on the road, what our estimated time of arrival would be.

The trip back from Sour with Ruth was particularly memorable as a few minutes after we got in the minibus the driver and his friend proposed marriage to Ruth and I. Given that they spoke no english and the driver's friend looked like he was at best 19 years old, I politely declined the offer... But Ruth took a good long look at the quite handsome driver and accepted. The driver was understandably VERY excited by this news and so began a hilarious courtship that involved every passenger on our bus. The driver would keep telling the other passengers in Arabic what he wanted to say and they would pool their collective broken english to try to translate for him. So the driver would call out something in Arabic, there would be a few minutes of muttering up the back of the bus before one of our elderly passengers shouted at Ruth "Your eyes. Pretty!" We narrowly avoided several accidents during the two hour trip as our driver kept electing to direct long lingering glances at his fiancee in the rearview mirror rather than keep his eyes on the road. But the news of Ruth's impending marriage was not kept just to our minibus - oh no. Every other minibus we came near on the highway was called closer by the honking and wild hand gestures of our driver. Then his friend would roll down the window and relay the news in Arabic of the engagement to the other driver. There would be much excitement, clapping and shouting and many more near accidents as the other minibuses would then nearly slam into us so that their driver could get a look at Ruth. Sadly the path of true love ultimately hit the language barrier. I think that Ruth would have been quite happy to meet her fiance for a drink that night but we could not communicate where we were staying or where they could meet. Somehow I suspect that Ruth may have got over the disappointment a bit faster than our minibus driver!

My last few days in Lebanon were spent enjoying the view from the ocean front Corniche in Beirut and fitting in a couple more daytrips to The Jeita Grotto in the north and The Beiteddine Palace in the Chouf Mountains south of Beirut. By the Monday of my last week Nina, Ruth, and Clara had all departed and I was anticipating spending my last few days in the country alone. Thankfully a wonderfully eccentric whirlwind of energy by the name of Hannah (from the UK) arrived and we explored the Jeita Grotto together.

From its cable cars which take you the ludicrously short distance up to the caves, to its toy train that you take back to the entrance, Jeita Grotto has plenty of kitch to keep you amused. However the spectacular sight of the stalactites and stalagmites that fill the upper cavern soon help you to forget the pain of parting with the 18,500LL ($15) entry fee to the site. Hannah thought the upper cavern looked like the setting for the final episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and certainly the strange formations and eerie orange lighting made it sometimes seem like you were looking down into the seventh circle of hell. After walking around the upper cavern we boarded a small boat to explore the partially flooded lower cavern of the grotto. Ultimately the immense size of the Jeita Grotto is very impressive. I can understand why the Lebanese are pushing so hard for it to be selected as one of the 7 natural wonders of the world, although I cannot whole heartedly suppport its nomination as it is up against the Great Barrier Reef, Uluru and Milford Sound.

My last day trip in Lebanon took me into the spectacular Chouf Mountains. The Beiteddine Palace was built over a thirty year period starting in 1788, and in 1943 Lebanon's first president after independence declared it his summer residence. Its location alone, sitting majestically atop a mountain surrounded by orchards and stunning terraced gardens, makes it worth the trip and on the day I visited at least five different school groups were there on excursion. As students of various ages ran squealing through the museum and staged large water fights in the ornamental fountain, it took all of my willpower to restrain myself from using my teacher's voice to get the more boisterous of the kids into line. Instead, I enjoyed taking in the sumptuous interior decorating on display in the rooms and helping some of the older students to practise their English by talking to them about my travels and where I am from.

My last night in Beirut was a true reflection of my time in Lebanon in that it involved great food and excellent company in in the form of Hannah, Rihah (Japanese) and the very well travelled Barbara. Indeed had I not had the charms of Damascus, not to mention the rest of Syria, to look forward to it would have been very difficult to leave.

On that note, Happy Easter everyone! I hope you are all enjoying the break - especially any hard working teachers who may be reading this :-)

Basalt & Baklava

I've been soaking up the atmosphere here in Damascus for nearly two weeks now and am seriously in danger of never leaving what has become my new favourite city in the world to visit.

One of the thousands of things I love about Damascus is that almost everything is within walking distance of the backpacker hotels. This means that you become more familiar with the local sites, stores and people and can (kind of) start to feel like a local. I love that as I walk to the old city I pass my favourite falafel place, the place that sells the best lemon and mint juice mmmmmmm...the stall that sells the best quality bananas, the glass storefronts filled with towering, glistening pyramids of baklava and so forth. If you are detecting a common theme of food and beverages here that is because Damascus has an amazing array of deliciousness on offer at every turn. It has been a real challenge not to turn into a complete blimp during my stay here! I think I will have to do a separate blog entry later just on foods to do it all justice.

In the heart of the old city lies the stunning Umayyad Mosque. I knew the mosque was big and the LP said that it contained some nice mosaics so not long after I arrived in Damascus I paid my 50sp entry fee and donned what I liked to think of as a wizard robe - but in actuality was an ugly grey cotton dressing gown like garment with a large hood.

I had just tied my shoes to my backpack and entered the courtyard when I looked up and was completely gobsmacked. I was facing a wall about 4 stoires high, the top half of which was covered in stunning gold mosaics glittering in the midday sun. It was so beautiful I felt like crying. This is why you are here, I thought - this is something you have to experience in person because no photos will ever do it justice. No photos can capture the calm and peace of the enormous white stone courtyard and the surprise you feel when you walk under the cool archways lining the arcades that frame the courtyard, look up and see that even the undersides of the arches have been decorated in glorious patterns of golden mosaics. I felt all that - then took about a million photos anyway just to remind myself of the place.

Mosques really are the centres of communities and nowhere is this more apparent than in the courtyard of the Umayyad Mosque. Couples, familes and travellers recline under the cool arches and indulge in some welcome respite from the busy hub bub of the old city streets and souqs around it. You see some people talking, some people napping, some people praying and children chasing each other as they run in and out of the archways.

The mosque was built around 700 AD and its awe-inspring gold mosaics include a 37m long wall along the western arcade that depicts what Damascenes believe is the paradise that the Prophet Mohammed saw in Damascus. I wandered around enjoying the tranquility of the lovely, richly carpeted and enormous southern prayer hall and marvelled at the fact that the locals just got on with their prayers despite the many tourists taking photos and craning their necks to see the tiled magnificance of the underside of the domes. You do really notice that here - that islam is a religion but is much more a culture and just part of daily life. Locals go to the mosque to pray and to socialise. You will often see a store closed for just a few minutes as the shopkeeper either unrolls his prayer mat, turns to face Mecca and prays right there in his shop or quickly ducks out to the local mosque or prayer room to do the same.

I also visited the Iranian -built Shiite Sayyida Ruqayya Mosque in the old town. This mosque is dedicated to the daughter of the martyr Hussein (who was the son of Ali) and is a fascinating example of both religious devotion and gaudy interior design. The internal walls, ceiling and dome of the main prayer hall are covered in so many mirrored mosaic tiles that it actually hurts your eyes when they turn the chandeliers on. After recovering from the over powering glare I made my way to the women's section and sat on the thick carpet to observe for a while.

The women were kneeling and facing an ornate silver cage like structure which I think holds the remains of the daughter of Hussein. This is a site of sacred pilgrimage for Iranians and it was evident from the widespread weeping and wailing that most who visited it were truly overcome by the experience. It was really quite moving to witness such unguarded religious fervor...I think the daughter of Hussein may have been an infant when she died as many of the women, after kissing the silver structure and wiping their tears onto it, threw small dolls on to the top of her shrine.

I have always found when travelling alone that most of the time I adore the complete self-indulgence of the experience. Plans can change on any whim and no one complains when you stay in reading for a day because the book is just that good. But there are times when you feel a bit starved for conversation. Not lonely, just aware that somehow you have gone 3 days with the only phrases spoken being arabic for "hello", "Australian", "how much?" and "thank you". I was feeling just this way about a week ago when who should stroll across the courtyard as I ate my breakfast but Gillian - the Australian nurse I had met in Amman. So since then Gillian and I have been getting together for outings every second day or so and often chatting over our shared love of chocolate, nuts and all things kindle (and our despair that you cannot download any new books in Syria - damn American sanctions!).

It was with Gillian that I explored the National Museum. The great highlights of which for me were the lovely garden filled with statues they couldn't fit in the museum and seeing the tiny clay tablet showing the alphabet of Ugarit. The tablet contains 30 cuniform signs or letters of the Ugaritic alphabet, is from the late bronze age (1400BC) and is the first complete alphabet known of in the world. Thinking about how the development of a written alphabet changed the world really is mind blowing.

My first day trip out of Damascus was on Sunday when Gillian and I headed off to check out the Roman ruins at Bosra (see Elia I told you I would go there!). You could develop a serious case of roman ruin fatigue in this part of the world but thankfully that has not happened to me yet. Bosra contains a lovely theatre dating back to the 2nd century AD as well as some other ruins and colonnaded streets. The thing that makes Bosra different from the many other ruins in this part of the world is that the theatre, and indeed the entire town, was not built of limestone or sandstone but rather the easily available local building material : basalt. The black basalt lends the theatre and all the ruins a brooding atmosphere that is quite striking.

We enjoyed exploring all the dark, back corridors of the theatre but my favourite sights of the day were those instances where local practicalities met with ancient monuments. I love the fact that as the handful of tourists present were wandering and taking photos of the basalt columns, the colonnaded street was suddenly filled with sheep as a local sheperd moved his flock to find more tufts of grass poking up through the paving stones that are more than 1500 years old. A few times I lined up the "perfect" shot of the colonnaded street with the theatre in the background only to have a curious chicken wander into the foreground of the shot.

We also met another aussie, Craig, at the corner store in Bosra and ended up meeting up with him for some entertaining conversation and excellent food back in Damascus that evening. Walking through the main souq in the old town on our way back to the backpacker disrict, Craig was being followed by some fairly persistant toy salesmen. Gillian and I enjoyed the cultural norm that meant we were ignored and all sales enquiries were directed to our male friend. At least we were enjoying it until Craig deflected the salesman's attention back onto us by insisting that he could not make a purchase without first clearing it with his "wives"!

On Thursday Gillian and I again headed out of Damascus, this time with a driver and car, to visit the town of Qunietra. Qunietra was part of the Golan Heights before the six day war in 1967. It was occupied by the Israeli forces until 1973 when a UN brokered ceasefire saw the Israelies withdraw and the town was again back under Syrian control.

I really enjoyed the hour long drive to Qunietra, partly because I got to see the farmlands in the most fertile part of Syria, but mostly because Gillian and I got to pick the brain of our driver Ramis about his views of the current political situation in Syria. It is very difficult to find out what locals really think about the government as they can be jailed for expressing any anti-government sentiment. But the seclusion of the car allowed Ramis to explain some of the different social and political forces at play in the current situation. Ramis did hasten to add that once we arrived Qunietra, and would be joined by a member of the local security forces (they have to accompany you so you don't wander into a section still riddled with landmines), we would have to stop asking our questions otherwise he would get into lots of trouble.

The Syrian government has elected to leave the town of Qunietra untouched since the Israeli forces withdrew and it now serves as an excellent PR exercise to heighten anti - Israeli feelings amongst locals and visitors alike. As we drove through the town we saw that every single house had been destroyed. The roof sat on the remains of each house -  indicating that they had not been hit by bombs during the fighting (as the Israeli forces claim) but rather systematically destroyed with dynamite. According to the terms of the ceasefire the Israeli forces were supposed to withdraw peacefully from Qunietra and instead, they destroyed every home in the town and used the church, the mosque and the hospital for target practice. The sight of the 3 story hospital riddled with bullet holes was particularly arresting.

Our local security forces guy also took us to the UN patrolled observer zone that now exists as a 100m buffer zone between the border of Israel and Syria. It should be noted that at the time when the Israeli forces were supposed to peacefully withdraw from Qunietra, they got some of their captured soldiers back from Syria. These soldiers reported having suffered terrible torture at the hands of the Syrians and these reports no doubt influenced the Israeli forces actions at Qunietra. For his part, Ramis thinks the Syrian government could leave a couple of the building as monuments, whilst still rebuilding the majority of the town. This way the excellent farming soil would not be going to waste. I am inclined to agree with him. But in a region where who did what to whom first is almost impossible to prove - the Syrian government is naturally reluctant to part with such overwhelming evidence of Israeli brutality.

Welcome to Jordan!

Well my journey got off to an auspicious start when, in the mad rush to put my last few belongings into storage, I managed to leave my travel journal and assortment of colourful luggage tags at Dora's place.

I think I also managed to really impress Dora as a confident, experienced, worldly backpacker when I put on my pack, reached down to pick something up and promptly toppled over before I even got out the door. Imagine a turtle that has been flipped onto its back with its little legs flailing about and you'll have a pretty accurate mental picture of the situation.

To be honest I was so exhausted from the farewells, canceling internet/mobile/bank accounts and triple checking my 3 different "to do" lists that I arrived at Sydney airport tired, emotional and carrying enough first aid gear to open my own field hospital. I don't know which part of my packing was more irrational...The assumption that 100 band aids would not be enough or the assumption that they wouldn't have band aids in the middle east.

My 26 hours in transit bore a strange resemblance to the lifestyle of my new baby niece Metta. Wrapped up snug and warm in a small space (incidentally the economy seats got progressively narrower and closer to the chair in front with each of my three flights) I would sleep, wake, be fed, go to the toilet, and then go back to sleep again. I tried to stay awake for most of the first 8 hour flight in a vain attempt to get in sync with my new timezone - but all that resulted in was me falling into a coma at Kuala Lumpur airport during a three hour stop over and nearly missing my flight to Dubai.

By the time I boarded my flight to Amman I was close to delirious and  my plan was to take a long hot shower, crash out and sleep for 3 days upon my arrival at the hotel. But then something wonderful happened as we started our descent into Amman... I looked out the window and saw desert and villages stretching out below me. And it finally hit me. I am here, in the middle east, at last. It looked so sunny, sandy, exotic and just thoroughly different from any other place I've been in the world that I immediately wanted to set out and explore it. I was so excited that I didn't even mind that my pre-arranged airport pick up had not materialised and that all of the ATMs at the airport had run out of cash.

I dumped my pack in my room at the hotel, threw on a head scarf and headed out to explore my new neighbourhood. From my hotel room the sounds of call to prayer battled for supremacy with the jack hammers from nearby roadworks and the incessant honking of car horns. It was only 10 degrees when I arrived in Amman but by late morning the sun had a definite bite to it and it felt like high twenties as I wandered up steep winding streets to the citadel on the highest hill in the city.

I was definitely noticed as I wandered but the attention was so warm and friendly that I didn't mind. I might have been followed by mutilple calls of "Hullo! Hullo!" and the ever present "Welcome to Jordan!" but I didn't feel hassled and people were keen for me to look at their wares without any pressure to buy. I finished off my first day with a meal at a local street stall. It got a rave review in the LP, but more impressively it was packed with locals when I arrived. I then proceeded to enjoy the most scrumptious meal of tomato, mint, flat bread, hummus, felafel and sweet tea I have ever had all for the princely sum of 1.5 JD. A perfect end to my first day in Jordan.

I should say that while writing this blog entry I've experienced my first black out of this trip  (1 and a half hours which I spent trading tales with an American student who had just lost her half written email on the computer next to mine) - its almost like the universe thought I was getting too carried away and just wanted to remind me that I'm backpacking :-)