This is not India

I always knew that I wanted to spend the last few weeks of my travels for this year relaxing by a beach. And I have to say that I have found the perfect location for that relaxation in the clifftop traveler's enclave of Varkala in Kerala, South India.

Varkala consists of a lovely crescent shaped beach at the foot of towering red cliffs. The clifftop space is one long line of cheap restaurants, hotels and shops. It really does have everything the budget traveler could need, with the notable exception of a disco to dance in. I was pointing out to one of the hotel staff that all Varkala needs is a good disco when I was informed that public dancing is actually illegal in Kerala.

Who would have thought that in the south of India I would stumble into the plot of the movie "Footloose"! I immediately had excited notions of leading an uprising against the shackles of dance repression, Kevin Bacon style. But further investigations revealed that the locals weren't really that bothered by the restrictions and I ended up deciding to go and have a mocha shake instead :-)

Varkala beach is one of those hippy traveler towns full of shops selling a mixture of "free Tibet" and Beatles merchandise as well as restaurants showing pirated movies each evening. You can go a few days here without meeting a single local Keralan as most of the people working in the shops, restaurants and hotels are from Tibet, Nepal or north India. The names of the restaurants, such as the Funky Buddha, Cafe Del Mar and the Chill Out Lounge, are consistent with the zone out mentality of many of the tourists here.

I used to really look down my nose at places like these and, by association, travelers who chose to spend time at places like these. I mean, this really is not India. The idea that someone could travel from the U.K all the way to India and only spend time drinking and eating by the beach in places like Varkala used to be a bit depressing to me.

The reality is that though Varkala is not India, it is a lot of fun. And sometimes you don't want challenging backpacking adventures, you just want to enjoy the sunset with friends and cheap delicious food. Most people I've met here have also not been visiting only Varkala, but rather using it (as I am) as a bit of rest and relaxation before they head home or off to their next backpacking adventure.

I had expected to spend a lot of time swimming, eating and reading in this lovely corner of Kerlala. What I did not expect was that Varkala would offer a veritable smorgasbord of social options. It was less than three hours after I arrived in Varkala that I bumped into the Belgian component of what would become our united nations of a social group. I had spoken briefly to Linda, Annie and Chris in the Ashram and was very pleased to see them again (and not just because they gave me an excellent tip about a cheap hotel room!).

My second day in Varkala saw me bumping into more lovely ashram veterans at the Juice Shack. It soon got to the stage where I was lucky if I managed to walk past two restaurants in a row without being called over to the table of someone I knew. It was like living in a small town with all of your friends. Though most of our group were aquainted from the ashram, we also had people who were "friends of friends" or "hotel neighbours" with someone we knew.

After a few days we fell into a kind of routine where we all did our own thing during the day, which often involved joining someone you randomly bumped into for a yoga lesson, a swim or a drink, before meeting up for dinner and maybe a movie in the evening.

One of the slogans at the Sivananda Ashram was "Unity through Diversity" and our little Varkala gang was certainly a testament to that. We had people from Australia, Scotland, Ireland, South Africa, Belgium, Germany and Italy in our group and the ages ranged from 20 to 55. The occupations of those in the group was just as diverse as our countries of origin, as we had a photography student, a tour bus driver, a dentist, a TV producer, a yoga teacher, a business manager, a real estate agent and, of course, a teacher in our midst.

I don't know if it was our diversity, our shared passion for storytelling, our eagerness to laugh or some combination of these factors that caused us to gel so well...But whatever it was, it was magic. Indeed that magical lure of Varkala was such that people found it very difficult to leave. I had always planned to stay in Varkala for nearly three weeks but everyone else had initially planned to move on after a few days. This lead to the situation where we were frequently having "farewell nights" for members of our group only to bump into them the next morning and hear that they had decided to stay for a few more days. Some in our group (you know who you are) had no fewer than three farewell dinners in their honour before they finally managed to make a clean break of it!

After the last of my new friends left on Monday, I was thinking that I would now have a week to catch up on my reading. I ended up having a day to myself before I started chatting to a lovely Swiss lady as we watched the movie "Slumdog Millionare". Rahel and I ended up catching up for breakfast and dinner 4 days in a row before she too headed off to Gokana.

So, after expecting to enjoy three weeks of solitude in Varkala, I will end up managing to get three days completely to myself. I had thought I needed to spend the last few weeks of my big trip reading and reflecting by myself. Instead I learnt from, and laughed with, some wonderful new friends.

Just goes to show you that the universe always delivers what you actually need, rather than what you think you need :-)

Ashram Agony

I never considered myself to be the type of person who would stay in an ashram. 


The very word "ashram"conjured up a group of associations in my mind that I had zero desire to align myself with. I imagined an isolated location, lots of prayers, and people handing over their sanity - along with their bank balances - to gurus of questionable authority. I imagined people hallucinating on LSD and declaring that they had "found themselves". People who went to ashrams, I unfairly imagined, were blind followers. And though my eyesight may be poor, I have never considered myself to be a blind follower.


So how on earth did I just end up spending two weeks at the Sivananda Yoga Vedanta Dhanwantari Ashram at Neyyar Dam in Kerala?


Well, the seed was planted by a lovely English traveler called Rosie who I met in Beirut, Lebanon in April. When she heard I was planning to visit Kerala later in the year, she insisted that I visit the ashram at Neyyar Dam. I was so resistant to the notion, that I didn't even fully listen to her as she raved about delicious vegetarian food, cheap accommodation and great yoga lessons. I even recall trying to politely rebuff her good intentions by saying, "it sounds great, but an ashram's not really my style".


Rosie could tell I was not buying and the conversation moved on. When she left the dorm a few days later however, she left a note with the details of the ashram under my pillow. The note said something to the effect of, "just look it up on the internet before you dismiss it". A big thank you to Rosie, because without her persistence I certainly wouldn't have just spent two weeks improving my health and quietening my mind.


For those of you who are interested here is the link to the ashram:
http://www.sivananda.org/neyyardam/default.htm


I decided that, as I wanted to get healthier, the yoga vacation program would be a good place to start. The ashram had a minimum stay requirement of three days and I kept repeating that as my mantra in the weeks leading up to my arrival. My thinking was, even if it is horrible I only have to stay three days - so how bad could it be?


I knew that my body was not ready for twice daily yoga classes, so while in Sydney I started attending yoga classes a few times a weeks to prepare. I started telling family and friends about this yoga retreat so that they would hold me accountable if I backed out at the last moment. I needed that push because everything about staying at the ashram terrified me.


Ashram life was not just "out of my comfort zone". Ashram life was at least a twenty hour flight away from comfort zone! I was definitely most afraid of the physical pain that would result from 4 hours of yoga a day, but really everything from the twice daily meditation sessions to the fact that they only served two meals a day freaked me out.


Anyway, on the 31st of October I finally sucked up my courage and took a taxi from Trivandrum to the ashram. The superb setting of the ashram, amid 12 acres of tropical forest with cool green coconut tree groves, a nearby lake and colourful flower-filled views, did much to alleviate my anxiety. Within a few hours I was swept up in the daily schedule of ashram life which I have detailed below:


5:20am - Wake up bell


6:00am - Morning Satsang (30 min silent meditation, 40 min chanting, 10min talk on a spiritual theme and 10 minutes of prayers).


7:30am - Tea 


8:00am - Asana (yoga) class for 2 hours


10:00am - Brunch (this was also my karma yoga duty  - like a daily chore - while at the ashram. So I left yoga at 9:50 to set up mats/trays/ cups in the dining hall. I then went around serving food. Following that, I ate for 10 min and then I had to clean up, sweep the hall, mop the hall, empty bins etc. The whole process went until 11:15)


11:15am - Free time


1:30pm - Tea & snack


2:00pm - Lecture on one of the five points of yoga for 1 and a half hours (Proper exercise, proper breathing, proper diet, proper relaxation & positive thinking/meditation)


3:30pm - Asana (yoga) class for 2 hours


6:00pm - Dinner


6:30pm - Free time


8:00pm - Evening Satsang (30 min silent meditation, 40 min chanting, 10min talk on a spiritual theme and 10 minutes of prayers).


9:30pm - Free time


10:30pm - Lights out


Predictably, by day two I was in sheer agony. 


Every muscle, tendon, atom of my body hurt. Though the yoga classes were the main culprit, it was actually all the sitting cross legged that I found the most unbearable. By the time you add satsangs, lectures, meals to the portions of the yoga lessons that we spent cross legged -  I was averaging about 5 and a half hours of cross legged action each day.  


My course started on a Tuesday and I was just willing myself to get to Friday, because Fridays at the ashram are "free days". This means on Fridays you only have to attend morning and evening satsangs. Most people use this opportunity to leave the ashram on lovely day trips to the nearby beaches of Kovalam or Varkala. I was planning on using my "free day" to lie flat on my back sleeping or sitting on a chair reading. But, the universe had other plans and I spent most of my "free day" in the bathroom with a lovely case of traveler's diarrhea.


Still, I soldiered on and when I awoke on day five to only moderate pain - I knew things were on the up. By day 6, I was almost pain free and able to start appreciating the benefits that ashram life was delivering to me. 


There was noticeable improvement in my strength and flexibility during yoga practice, my mind was calmer and I was actually looking forward to meditation sessions. The biggest change, however, was that I had got to know a number of my fellow yoga vacationers and I began to feel a real sense of community. Just like soldiers  who are forever bonded by their experiences on the battlefield, I think that the yoga vacationers who stayed beyond the pain of the first week also forged life-long bonds. No one else will ever fully understand the joy of finally mastering the plough posture nor our new found appreciation for chairs, hot water or coconut balls. 


Another part of ashram life I found surprisingly enjoyable was the chanting. Though I often didn't understand what we were chanting about, I definitely appreciated the positive vibrations of the Sanskrit words as well as the amazing sense of community you feel when a hundred people are chanting together in unison. I enjoyed the chanting so much that by the second week I was frequently picking up a tambourine. I even wrote a humorous chant about ashram life for the Saturday night talent show. The words to that chant will form the next post.


That's it for now. 


Om tat sat. Om, shanti, shanti, shanti....

Leaky Con 2011

I have to start this post with a spoiler alert. If you have yet to read all seven of the Harry Potter novels (and no, watching all the movies does not count) please do not read beyond this paragraph. In this post I will be mentioning key plot points from the series and I would hate to ruin the wonderful "what happens next" feeling for anyone who has yet to read the Harry Potter saga for the first time.

The opening festivities of Leaky Con 2001 saw all 3000 conference attendees gathering for a multi media presentation on the Main Stage. We were welcomed by Melissa Anelli and before the presentation even started she announced that one lucky fan had been randomly selected to come up on stage to be part of the show. As the lucky winner bounded excitedly to the stage, her boyfriend stepped out from backstage and proceeded to propose to her.

Needless to say the overly excited, 85% female, crowd went crazy when she accepted the proposal and the room seemed to swell with joy as the official presentation began. A film documenting highlights from the last 15 years of the Harry Potter fandom was punctuated with live performances from the first ever wizard rock band, Harry and the Potters, Vlogbrother Hank Green and YouTube sensations the Potter Puppet Pals and Team Starkid. The live performances were so good that I started getting giddy when I thought about how awesome the next few days were going to be.

The only downside of Leaky Con was that, unless you were fortunate enough to posses your own time turner, you could only access a quarter of the total programming on offer. This was because everyday from 9 am until 6 pm there were at least 3 different lectures, discussions or activities programmed for each hour. As if this wasn't enough, there was also always some performance/event going on at the main stage for every hour of the day. Add to this the lure of the vendor room (which was filled with excellent fan created Harry Potter merchandise for sale) and you can begin to understand why Sarah and I didn't have time to eat during the first day!

Some Leaky Con discussions/events that I missed out on but would have attended if I owned a functioning time turner included:

*What imprinting, attachment, learning and magic teach us about survival in Harry Potter

*Jeopardy: Harry Potter and the Law

*Family Dynamics in the Harry Potter novels

*The books vs the movies: What was left out and why its important

*A writer's guide to Harry Potter

*Growing up Potter and the effects on the English classroom

*Casting your Patronus: The representation of mental processes in Harry Potter novels

*Twelve fail-safe ways to charm witches: Lessons from Ron's success with Hermoine

*Dance Against the Dark Arts: Exploring Harry Potter's world through dance

*Racism and Slavery in the Wizarding World

*Rowling's not so flawed plan: The elder wand as a symbol of masculine power and the importance of love between its masters

*That's how we do it in Gryffindor, bitches: Sorting in the Harry Potter fandom

*International Quidditch Association Demo Match. Universities in the USA have quidditch teams that regularly play against each other. In the muggle version there is no flying involved but it is very physical (one player lost a tooth in the demo match). The snitch is an actual person who gets a minute head start to run off and hide before the seekers can start looking for him/her.

There was so much going on that by day 3 of the conference attendees stopped asking each other "What has been your favourite part of Leaky Con so far?" and started getting more specific "What was your favourite part of Friday morning?".

Some of my favourite Leaky Con 2011 experiences were...

*Attending the "Why Fred?" discussion where I was able to talk to other fans about the great juxtaposition of comedy and tragedy that was created by the death of Fred Weasley in book 7.

*Being part of a 3000 person singalong of songs from "A Very Potter Musical" at the Team Starkid event.

*Hearing Evanna Lynch, a huge Harry Potter fan and the actress who plays Luna Lovegood in the movies, talk about the transition of book to film.

*Being there for live recordings of Leaky Mug and Pottercast.

*Getting to meet and talk to the hosts of Pottercast, the Harry Potter podcast I have been listening to for the last 3 years, and thanking them for the hundreds of hours of entertainment they have provided me with on my daily commutes to work.

*Hearing more about the fabulous work of the Harry Potter Alliance. HPA uses the Harry Potter saga to raise awareness of human rights issues amongst young people and through its fundraising efforts empowers young people to see how their efforts can result in real change in the world. HPA currently has over 100,000 members around the world and in 2010 raised $123,000 to send five plane loads of supplies for Partners in Health to Haiti.

*Seeing Deathly Hallows (Part 2) with a cinema full of serious Potter fans.

*Spending the next 3 days tearing apart the movie with serious Potter fans.

*Seeing the wonderful fan created "Final Battle" musical (which was rehearsed solely over skype!).

*Being part of a huge Nerdfighter gathering and getting to be in the opening of one of Hank Green's Vlogbrother videos.

*Hearing two amazing lectures from John Granger: "Writing In Circles - Harry Potter and the magic of ring composition" & "Harry Potter and the Metaphysical Center - A 'Theory of Everything' to Tie Together the Artistry and Meaning Driving Potter-Mania".

I think it is fair to say that, even amongst hard core Harry Potter fans, John Granger is considered to be a serious book nerd. His detailed analysis and expertise in unravelling the genius of J.K Rowling's work never ceases to impress me. As well as having my mind blown by his new thesis (the importance of ring composition in the Potter saga) I also bought a couple of his books and got to chat to him while he signed them for me! This was one of many so-good-I-must-be-dreaming-but-if-I-am-please-don't-wake-me nerd moments that I experienced at Leaky Con.

*A highlight amongst a week of highlights was getting a sneaky early peek at Pottermore, J.K Rowling's new online reading experience. We found out how we will be sorted as well as some of the layout and features of the site. Jo (another great thing about Leaky Con was that when you said "Jo" no one asked "Jo who?") had long ago discussed creating an encyclopedia of all things Potter that would include copious backstories of characters and subplots that never made it into the actual published saga. I was initially disappointed when I heard about Pottermore, as I suspected that the new site would take the place of the promised encyclopedia. I still think it is highly unlikely that the encyclopedia will be published, but I no longer care as even the tiny glimpse we got into Pottermore showed that it will be far superior to any mere encyclopedia.

I don't think the bloke from Pottermore quite knew what he was in for when he showed up to present to a room packed with 3000 serious Potter fans. At one point, to demonstrate what the layout would look like, he flashed a page with the backstory of Professor McGonagall onto the enormous screen. Three thousand people gasped, leant forward and began speed reading in unison. The presenter started to talk and 3000 people did not take their eyes off the screen as they rose in a single voice to "shush" him. This happened twice more before he had to turn off the screen to get our attention back to him.

*Dancing the night away at the Esther Earl Rocking Charity Ball - and the hilarity of having to go back to my room to get my passport so that I could purchase alcohol because the bartenders didn't believe me when I insisted I was over 21 (eleven years over 21!).

*The Wizard Rock concerts were the times I felt most connected to the extraordinary community that is the Harry Potter fandom. It was only at Leaky Con that a few thousand people could be singing along with Harry and the Potters as we swore to "Save Ginny Weasley from the basilisk" and not worry that we were weird for rocking out to a song about a book.

The leaving feast on the final morning of Leaky Con 2011 was a lovely way to end a hectic few days. It was announced at the leaving feast that, in addition to being loads of fun, Leaky Con 2011 had managed to raise over $120,000 for charity. I was completely exhausted but still shared the sentiment of all present: I really didn't want the conference to end. The ballroom was filled with large round tables and constant chatter as we all filled up on the breakfast buffet. In true Leaky Con style, I managed to make new friends in the last few hours of the conference. It didn't seem fair that we were still in the middle of excellent conversations as we were being ushered out of the building.

Still, when I think of Leaky Con the lasting memory is not the sadness of saying goodbye to Sarah.

For me, the lasting memory Leaky Con 2011 was how I felt singing along with Hank Green, and a few thousand of my new friends, to "Accio Deathly Hallows" at one of the Wizard Rock concerts. Madly jumping up and down, I saw wands raised in the air above the mosh pit and realised that what I was experiencing was not just happiness...but rather pure, unbridled joy.

P.S. For those of you waiting for information on the 'Wizarding World Of Harry Potter' theme park, fear not. The theme park will get its own post, and that is coming up next :-)

Nerd Nirvana

I've copped a fair bit of stick over the years for my love of all things related to Harry Potter. But this was nothing compared with the outright sniggers that met my declaration that during my year off work I would travel to Orlando Florida to spend 5 days at a Harry Potter fan conference.

"Do you have to dress up?"

"Aren't you a bit old to like Harry Potter?"

"Won't it just be a big gathering of nerds?"

My answers to these questions from my friends were:

"Not unless you want to"

"Absolutely not" and

"Of course! But what's wrong with that?"

The subtext of the third question is something that has interested me for quite a while. The idea that any "normal" person would not want to associate themselves with an activity that is considered to be "nerdy" is a popular one in our culture. To those who like to think of themselves as too cool to be called a nerd, I'd like to share author (and Vlogbrother) John Green's ideas on the matter. He said that, essentially, to be a nerd is just to be really, really openly enthusiastic about something.

When you think of "nerd" as a synonym for "enthusiast" it seems like most people are a nerd of some variety or another. And thank goodness they are, because what a mind numbingly boring existence it would be if there was no enthusiasm in the world. I know people who are music nerds, theatre nerds, computer nerds (geeks), Australian poetry nerds, vintage car nerds, craft nerds, rock climbing nerds, film nerds, scrapbooking nerds, political nerds, surfing nerds, gardening nerds, rugby league nerds, photography nerds and (of course!) book nerds.

So what was this crazy Harry Potter conference called Leaky Con anyway?

When I said I was going to attend a Harry Potter conference, many people wondered why it wasn't in the UK. The simple fact is that no other country in the world can match the USA for boundless enthusiasm. Before Leaky Con 2011, there had already been 10 Harry Potter conferences in the USA dating back to Nimbus in 2003.

In 2009 my favourite Harry Potter fan website, 'The Leaky Cauldron', decided to run its own conference in Boston. I have been listening to the weekly podcasts from the Leaky Cauldron, appropriately named Pottercast, since 2008. I desperately wanted to go - but no money and the fact that I'd just started a new job kept me from attending. After seeing videos online and listening to podcasts about the first Leaky Con, I was devastated. It sounded like an amazing celebration and I really felt I had missed the best Harry Potter conference that had ever been run. Then a miracle occurred....

The Leaky Cauldron announced that it would be running another fan conference in 2011. Leaky Con 2011 would be held right next door to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter theme park in Orlando and it would be held on the weekend that the final film was coming out. It was like the stars had aligned. I didn't know where I would be traveling during the rest of 2011, but from 2009 I knew that I would spend the middle of July 2011 in Florida.

Since they announced Leaky Con 2011, the organisers had been slowly releasing more and more details about the conference. My excitement was growing exponentially with each new detail. Every great wizard rock band was going to be performing, the Potter Puppet Pals were going to be there, Team Starkid were going to be there, The vlogbrothers were going to be there, John Granger was going to be lecturing, there would be a special Pottermore presentation AND.... Just when it couldn't get any better for a book nerd..... The organisers announced that on the day before Leaky Con started they would be running a young adult fiction literary festival called Lit Day!!!!

As I hopped into a minibus that would take me from Orlando airport to the Royal Pacific Resort on Tuesday the 12th of July, I was quite nervous. In some ways two years of build up was too much. I decided that Leaky Con couldn't possible live up to my expectations and was just talking myself into trying to enjoy whatever the week held instore for me when I saw them. Two young women were boarding the minibus and they were wearing T-shirts that said 'Dumbledore's Army'.

"Um... Are you guys going to Leaky Con?" I asked

"YES! ARE YOU?"

Then others joined in our excited conversation and we soon realised that 10 of the 12 people on the bus were in Orlando just for Leaky Con. Within seconds we were all yabbering away about what we were most looking forward to, our favourite podcasts, our fears for how they would butcher the last movie and when we saw Hogwarts Castle in the distance... all hell broke loose. It was then that my worries melted away and I began to suspect that Leaky Con may just meet my expectations after all.

There were some ticketing issues at the start of Lit Day but the long queues gave me time to meet more Harry Potter fans, so I wasn't all that worried. I'd always rather suspected that it wasn't possible to be a serious fan of the Harry Potter books and not be a good person - and every single person I chatted to in those lines confirmed my theory. There were teenagers attending with parent chaperones, many college students, a lot of people in their twenties and some older fans such as myself. I know it sounds like a cliche but at Leaky Con age, looks, nationality - none of it mattered in the face of a shared devotion to all things Potter. Leaky Con was my Mecca.

I love a literature festival (surprise!) and Lit Day was exceptional. Wonderful, hilarious authors talking about characterisation, plotting as well as the ins and outs of the editing and publishing process. In one of the panel discussions the authors were discussing their favourite novels and as they mentioned titles such as The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice the thousand or so people in the audience cheered loudly for their own favourite title. It was a bit like Superbowl for book nerds.

Early on Lit Day I had the very good fortune of sitting down next to a lovely Potter fan from Scotland. Sarah and I had both travelled great distances on our own to attend and soon realised that we had much in common. The highlight of Lit Day for me, apart from meeting the wonderful Sarah, was attending a discussion called "I was a teenage author". In this panel authors such as John Green, Stephanie Perkins and David Levithan read out some of their own teenage writing....and it was more hilarious than any stand up comedy performance I have ever attended.

Lit Day ended with a keynote speech from Arthur Levine, the american publisher of the Harry Potter novels at Scholastic, and then a cocktail party where I got to discuss plotting and character development with David Levithan! I was in total nerd nirvana and Leaky Con had not even officially started yet.

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 :-)

All hail, Queen of the smells!

I've had a total of two weeks to kill here in Aleppo and, though it is no Damascus, it is not without its own charms. Many of you might be wondering why, given the current political situation, I am still hanging around in Syria. It is certainly true that I could have completed all the sight seeing I wanted to do in less than half of the six weeks I have spent in this remarkable part of the world. My reasons for spending so long here are two-fold and both reflect key character traits/faults that I fear will be with me for life.

1. I am quite lazy.

Every day of full on sight seeing that I do is usually followed by a few days just wandering around absorbing the atmosphere and reading.

2. I'm a bit of a tightarse with my money.

Admittedly my skills in this area are nothing compared with my sister's natural flair for living off the smell of an oily rag - but I do like to stick to a budget. Syria is by far the cheapest country I will visit in the middle east and to leave it earlier than I had orginally planned would put a serious dent in my ability to purchase my own body weight in Harry Potter merchandise come July.

Apart from the stunning Citadel, the labyrinth of souqs in the old city (which cover more than 1.5 square kilometres) and the outstanding array of locally made soaps - the highlight of Aleppo for me has been the cheap glasses. Ever since another traveller I met in Damascus mentioned that Syria is cheaper than India for purchasing spectacles - I've had my eye out for any stores selling glasses. Imagine my delight when I discovered an entire street full of glasses stores here in Aleppo!

I know many of you are wondering how I can get so excited about getting a bit of a discount on some glasses. But I'm not just talking about a BIT of a discount. Picture this: designer frames, top of the line lenses with anti-reflective coating and the convenience of being able to walk away with your fabulous new glasses two hours after you first walked into the shop. How much would you expect to pay? Well in Aleppo you only pay........$50!!! I had planned to get some cheap glasses in India and would have been happy with anything under $300. But I never dreamed I'd be able to get them for $50 - so naturally I bought two pairs.

The last item I had to tıck off my Syria `must do´ list (not countıng a few places that are no longer polıtıcally stable enough to vısıt) was a vısıt out east to Dura Europos on the banks of the Euphrates. The Euphrates river features sıgnıfıcantly ın both the bıble and the Qu´ran. The Book of Revelatıon ın the New Testament predıcts Armageddon when the Euphrates runs dry and the Prophet Mohammed warned that the rıver wıll dry up, revealıng unknown treasures that wıll cause wıdespread war. Relıgıon asıde, the fact that the Euphrates provıdes water to the growıng populatıons of Turkey, Syrıa and Iraq means that ıts polıtıcal sıgnıfıcance wıll surely ıncrease as tıme marches on.

I was a bıt hesıstant about goıng due to the cost (the trıp ınvolved a prıcey hotel stay and hırıng a drıver for a day), a slıght unease about beıng more than one days travel away from a border should thıngs get stıcky and a fear that the Euphrates (lıke the Rıver Jordan) would be disappoıntıng when seen up close. Ultımately ıt was my desıre for a change of scene from Aleppo that decıded the ıssue and last week I headed east ınto the desert for a few days.

On my fırst full day ın the regıon, I set out early wıth my drıver ın an effort to beat the blısterıng heat. I was a bıt peeved that my $40 dıdn´t buy me passage ın an aır-condıtıoned vehıcle, but gıven my recent experıence ın Aleppo I was just relıeved that thıs drıver dıdn´t seem hell bent on kıllıng us both. By the tıme the drıver ındıcated that we were close to the sıte I had almost completely melted ınto the back seat vınyl and could no longer make out where the rocky desert ended and the sky began as we travelled on through a bıscuıt coloured haze.

When he poınted to a crumblıng wall and small tower barely discernable ın the dıstance and saıd ``Dura Eropos´´ I was not that ımpressed. I had blown my budget and travelled for 2 hours that day ın 38 degree heat for thıs? I started lookıng around wıthout much enthusıasm at the large sıte as the wall and gate were all I could see above ground. I took a half hearted look ınto a few of the large holes contaınıng the remaıns of temples before I caught a glımpse of aqua ın the dıstance.

Just a few hundred metres further along I spotted the ancient cıtadel and the ground dropped steeply away to reveal a gorgeous expanse of turquoise river and lush fields stretchıng out below me. The mıghty Euphrates did not disappoint.

After also visıtıng the 5000 year old archeologıcal sıte at Marı, my drıver and I headed back through the 40+ degree heat to Deır ez-Zur. I was completely knackered when I got back to the hotel ın the afternoon and decıded to have a quıck meal before I showered and collapsed. This was a decision I would soon come to regret. At the restaurant I was so engrossed ın the latest Thursday Next novel on my Kındle that ıt took her cough to alert me to the presence of a young woman at my table. She asked what I was readıng and as we chatted I notıced that her Englısh was very good and that her frıends at the nearby table were watchıng our ınteractıon wıth much ınterest. I apologısed for keepıng her from her frıends, but she ınsısted on brıngıng me back to theır table to meet them.

That was how I came to meet the lovely Noor, her sısters Alaa & Esraa and theır frıend (whose name I´ve unfortunately forgotten). It is really dıffıcult to have decent conversatıons wıth local women ın Syrıa, as they are not out and about ın publıc as much as the men are and they are less lıkely to know Englısh than theır male counterparts. Wıthout any male famıly members present at the restaurant, they were free to dıscuss a wıde range of topıcs, such as theır boyfrıends, polıtıcs, educatıon, famıly expectatıons and careers, wıth me. Just when I thought the day couldn´t get any better, Noor then insisted on brıngıng me back to their flat for a visit.

As we crammed ınto a taxı for the short rıde to theır home, I suddenly remembered what I had been doıng for most of the day and, consequently, what kınd of state I was ın. A quıck glımpse ın the rearvıew mırror confırmed my fears as I was coated ın a revoltıng mıxture of sweat, dust and sunscreen. Nothıng short of a long shower and a change of clothes was goıng to remedy the situation and I decıded that sınce the gırls had already seen me thıs way there was no poınt worryıng about ıt. I met theır brother Mohammed at the flat also and spent a most enjoyable afternoon beıng treated lıke a queen. They seemed almost as excıted to talk to me (and offer me tea, fruıt and sweets) as I was to talk to them and I soon realısed just what an honoured guest I was when other members of the famıly started droppıng round. It seemed that the sısters had been busıly callıng everyone they knew to let them know about theır new Australıan frıend.

Noor translated as an ever changıng array of cousıns, aunts and uncles asked me all about Australıa and my travels ın Syria. Just when I thought there could not possıbly be any more famıly members to meet, Mohammed got off the phone and saıd that another uncle had ınvıted us all around to hıs house for the evenıng. I trıed to back out - I really wasn´t dressed for goıng out - but once ıt was clear that my reluctance would cause more offense than my odour, I agreed and we set off ın another taxı. The doorway to the uncle´s lovely home was full of shoes and I was horrıfıed to realıse that I would have to remove mıne to enter. I apologısed profusely for the smell and hastily asked the way to the bathroom where I was able to at least rınse my feet under the shower.

The kındness and generousity shown to me by the entıre famıly was staggerıng. I was gıven gıfts, complımented continuously, fılled wıth delıcıous foods and made to feel ıncredıbly valued. We vısıted the homes of two more relatıves that evenıng and when I fınally returned to my hotel at 11pm I dıdn´t know which was more full: my stomach or my heart.

All in all, I couldn´t have asked for a lovelier end to my tıme ın Syrıa.

NB* Please excuse any strange letters or punctuatıon ın thıs post. I´m fınıshıng ıt ın an ınternet cafe ın Istanbul and the symbols on the keyboard bear lıttle resemblance to what comes up on the screen.

Met with a chorus of groans

I was the only foreigner on the bus to Palmyra and I really started to feel my appalling lack of Arabic. The entire bus ticket was in arabic so I just showed it to every person I saw and said "Palmyra?" repeatedly until someone showed me to my bus. Some lovely ladies on the bus happily showed me to my seat and even let me hold their small children for a short while. I then got out my phrase book and spent the remaining 40 minutes until the bus left partaking in complex and sophisticated communication that resulted in an exchange of nationalities, names and destinations. I was most proud of figuring out how to say "Your baby, beautiful" but I don't think my language skills are quite up to diplomatic levels just yet.

When the bus finally started moving a guy came round to check our tickets. He was most displeased with mine and I thought I was on the wrong bus until he repeated "police" and mimed stamping my ticket several times. I just shrugged and then he indicated I should follow him off the bus. It turned out that I had neglected to get my ticket stamped by a police officer and a young boy was instructed to accompany me to get this rectified before the bus left. My bus had already started driving slowly off through the depot at this point and I was pretty worried that my big pack was off to Palmyra without me. We had been told to run so we took off weaving through several hundred buses in the depot and after 5 minutes came to an abrupt halt. Thank god I had my young guide with me because how on earth anyone was supposed to identify the rather non-descript man sitting at a table in front of us as I policeman was beyond me. Anyway he roughly stamped my ticket so it now had a blue smudge on it and we took off again to find the bus. The driver seemed very happy with my blue smudge and soon we were heading off through the desert towards Palmyra.

The ruins at Palmyra stretch over an impressively large area and there is no better way to take in the scope and beauty of the sight than by visiting the citadel, high on the hill, at sunset. You can see the vast expanse of sandy desert, the nearby valley dotted with tombs, the long colannaded street of the roman ruins with the Temple of Bel and the palm groves stretching out in the far distance. The situation in Syria has meant that many tourists have left the country and no where has this been more apparent than at locations that only exist to service tourists, like Palmyra. At the citadel I met the most persistent souvenir sellers I have encountered thus far in the middle east. My frequent repetition of "La, shukran" (no thankyou) was met with cries of "No tourists for 5 days" and "Why you not buy? Because I am Bedouin?".

By far the highlight of my time in Palmyra was the excellent company I had from my fellow guests and the host at the Al Faris hotel. The guests were a young frenchman who was living in Latakia with his wife, an older french couple (who are the frenchman's parents in law) and the lovely latvian Kristine and her czech partner Jan (diplomats living in Brussels). The hotel was a recommendation from Barbara and its location, directly opposite the ruins on the road that lead to the citadel, could not have been more perfect. We shared breakfasts and dinners sitting at the communal table in the front garden and enjoyed the entertaining company of our host Mohammed almost as much as his mother's outstanding cooking.

After dinner each night, we relaxed with glasses of arak while Mohammed tried to teach us rude words in arabic and would always challenge any females present to play the coin game with him. The loser of the game would have to dance on the table, which was why our host only ever wanted to play against the females. Mohammed would fold a tissue and place it over the top of a glass. He would then place a coin in the middle of the tissue. The players had to take turns using a cigarette to burn small holes in the tissue, and the loser was the player who made the burn that caused the coin to fall through the tissue into the glass. The quality of a particular game was judged by how many cigarettes were used before the coin fell. The game is very entertaining as it progresses and the players take longer and longer to decide where to place their burns. In the final stages when the coin is held aloft by a few tiny shreds of tissue each new burn is met with "oooohhh"'s and "aahhhh"s from the spectators. I played the first night and won - and despite much protesting Mohammed did not dance on the table (he promised to do so the following night). Kristine lost her match the following night but in the end we all got up and had a great time dancing in the lounge inside the hotel.

The upside of the lack of tourists was that when I set out to explore the vast ruins the second day, I had large sections of the site completely to myself for half hour stretches of time. Palmyra is certainly the largest area of roman ruins I have seen so far, and their location, rising out of the desert next to an oasis, lends them an eerie atmosphere of a city abandoned. I've discovered that whilst I find deserts interesting places to visit, I start to feel a bit unsettled if I'm there for more than a couple of days. Something about the vast emptiness, quiet and lack of greenery unnerves me a bit - and so whilst I was sad to say goodbye to Kristine and Jan, I was quite happy to make my way to Hama after 3 days at Palmyra.

Given that most of the large demonstrations, and subsequent troubles, occur after midday prayers on Fridays - I had planned to arrive in Hama on Thursday, buy some supplies, and hole up in the my hotel for much of Friday. The Riad hotel was the perfect place to execute my plan as it is run by the very outgoing Abdullah (whose Aussie accent is so good I thought he was from Australia) and I managed to get a cheap room with a TV there.

In the end I joined an early tour to the majestic Crac des Chevaliers on Friday and spent a lovely morning exploring the crusader castle and enjoying the spectacular views from its ramparts in the company of a japanese backpacker, an energetic German lady called Irene and a surly South African guy. The South African had been living in the UK and was so overwhelmingly negative and pesimistic that he provided much entertainment for Irene and myself throughout the morning.  Some of  Mr Wet Blanket's pearls of wisdom were:
"I HATE the English. They are all so spoilt"
"Don't bother going to the Dead Cities - they're lame"
and upon hearing from our driver that we would have two hours to explore the Crac des Chevaliers, "Oh really?! (Sigh) I won't need more than 10 minutes."
Of course he was the last of us back to the car after more than two hours and Irene couldn't help but comment, "Gee, that was a long ten minutes!"

We got back to Hama just before midday and the streets were so deserted that I half expected to see tumbleweed. Thankfully there were no serious clashes on that Friday and I had a very pleasant afternoon enjoying a picnic of bananas, nuts and chocolate on my bed as I watched the Royal Wedding on BBC World.

In the days that followed I relaxed walking by the river and sitting in the lovely gardens in the centre of Hama. Everywhere I went I was met with a chorus of groans from the many norias (giant wooden water wheels) that line the river in, and around Hama. The norias still operating in Hama date back to the 12th century but in the museum I saw a mosaic from the 4th century which depicted a water wheel - so it seems as though they have been a feature of the region for quite some time. The mournful groaning sound comes from the friction between the wooden wheels and the blocks they are mounted on and my favourite times of day occurred when the groans from the norias battled for supremacy with the calls to prayer from the local mosques. The largest of the norias is more than 20m in diameter and on warm days I saw that the cool water and the thrilling height lured a few local teenage boys who climbed into the wheels, rode around to the top and jumped off into the river.

While based in Hama I also took a day trip to visit the citadel of Shayzar, Apamea, the dead cities of Al-Bara and Serjilla as well as the mosaic museum. Given my usual snail pace for sight seeing (visit a single sight, then rest up for 3 days) this schedule was a bit full on for me but in the end price and convenience won me over and I joined the tour with two swiss ladies and a russian gentleman.

Prior to getting in the car that day, I had not even heard of the citadel of Shayzar and was rather shocked to see how gorgeous the remains of this 10th century fortification were. The citadel is perched on a rocky hill and towers over a small town on one side and a stunning river gorge on the other. The ruins were covered in wildflowers and the surrounding landscape, not to mention the presence of thousands of flowers that bore an uncanny resemblance to the scottish thistle, brought back wonderful memories of the highlands.

The scenery at Apamea was no less striking, as these roman ruins are located high on a grassy moor. On the day we visited we had the entire 2km of Apamea's cardo (colonnaded main street) to ourselves. Looking out through the columns at a sea of red poppies in the surrounding fields was a sight that will stay with me always. Contrary to the surly South African's prediction, I also loved wandering around the abandoned buildings and tombs of Serjilla and Al-Bara. I loved that the ancient tombs were dotted around rocky olive groves, vinyards and apricot plantations. The houses, inns and hammams in Serjilla are in remarkably good condition given that they haven't been inhabited for some 15 centuries! Our only company at the site was a local family and, after hearing where I was from, the father took great delight in getting his children to show off their English to me by reciting the alphabet and counting to 10 several times each. My clapping seemed to extend the performance, rather than end it, and I'm not sure how I would have made a polite exist had our driver not started honking the horn indicating that it was time to leave.

Our last stop for the day was the mosaic museum and it did not disappoint. I was particularly taken with an enormous animal scene mosaic, in which the animals all had very detailed facial expressions. Being able to clearly depict a look of utter defeat on the face of an ox, using only the medium of tile, must be a rare gift for an artist. As with the last three museums I have visited, we had the place to ourselves which meant that each room had to be unlocked and the lights turned on before we could enter. My visit to the museum in Hama had obviously interrupted someone's morning tea as turing my head, even momentarily, away from a particular display resulted in the lights being immediately turned off by the impatient curator at the door!

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 :-)