http://www.dreamingtrack.com Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00 +0100 FeedCreator 1.7.2 http://www.dreamingtrack.com/api/images/logo.gif http://www.dreamingtrack.com/ http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=154 Pshart Valley: Happiness is a warm yurt.

Whoo Hoo!! Some serious connectivity at last!

That's actually a bit premature: We don't know where we'll be by the time we get to post this, but we know we'll be overjoyed to return to unfettered access to the web.¹

At the time of writing Mau and I are holed up in a hotel room in Dushanbe, the stately capital of Tajikistan. We've just spent a few gruelling weeks exploring the Pamirs by jeep. The mountains and the people who inhabit them are awe-inspiring and beautiful, but a "road" is just a concept out there and vegetarianism is a complete myth...

Madian Valley: A road smooth enough to raise some dust on!

Our trusty Russian UAZ jeep needed many kinds of cajoling, with regular roadside TLC required for carburetor, radiator, starter motor, exhaust and tyres. Mau and I were required to push it to make it go on numerous occasions, but the beast was essentially indestructible and got us everywhere we needed to go.

Some of the places we needed to go were on the other side of things we thought it impossible to get a vehicle to cross, but our intrepid driving/exhortation/TLC team of Kobanich and Momosaduk were supremely (and comically) competent.

Pamir Highway near Chatyr Tash: Momosaduk and Kobanich take a break.

In the end, there were only three things that denied us passage:

• The cops at the Roshtkala checkpoint. They said we didn't have a permit. META said we didn't need one. Hmm. Mebbe cops wanna Somani...

• The Bartang River in full summer flood. There's no arguing with a gazillion megalitres of roaring mountain water when it decides to eat a road.

• A missing bridge. The UAZ can do many things, but flying isn't one of them.

Khorog: Roshtkala times ten! Cops plotting their strategy for the town's main intersection.

It was a bone-shaking, thrill-inducing, arse-numbing, dust-encrusting ride. It was the revelation that in some places "Wow!" is an exclamation impossible to overuse. It was the discovery that in the Pamir, "highway" apparently relates to a road's altitude, not the quality of its construction.

A local quoted in one of the guides we were carrying had it right. He was speaking of one road in particular, but I reckon his words apply to almost all of 'em: "The road to Kök Jar is fine, but at the end of the trip both the car and driver will be destroyed."

Bartang Valley: The river says no.

The Pamiri people are famed for their hospitality. We found that simply exchanging a few words during a chance encounter would usually result in an invitation for "chai". While certainly delightful, this was also fraught with the potential for misunderstanding - especially if, as was often the case, we had no common language or interpreter.

The invitation to chai is not easy to decline without giving offence. You might be wondering why we'd want to decline a cup of tea. It's never just tea: In the Pamirs "chai" is the use of many cups of tea to wash down a giant repast of bread, plates of tomato and cucumber and bowls of meaty soup or noodles. To decline or to fail to finish a dish would risk provoking great consternation among our hosts and it was pretty much impossible to adequately convey the concept of vegetarianism, even with a translator present.

Gishkhun: Vegies! Perfect! Stop right there thanks ladies...

Prior to this trip, I hadn't eaten meat, fish or eggs for over twenty years. Given the lack of vegetable protein available in Central Asia and the fact that I could never explain why I consider eggs a flesh food, I eventually compromised and began eating the eggs proffered at breakfast. We weren't prepared to compromise on the meat, but found we didn't really have a choice. Having heard an explanation of our idiosyncrasy, our hosts would smilingly serve us great bowls of meat soup. With a little side plate to place the meat we didn't eat on. Sigh...

Sometimes it was bearable. Often it wasn't. After twenty years, the taste and texture of a strong mutton broth is - um - rather unpleasant.² We tried - oh how we tried - to convey that "no meat" includes anything containing and/or made from meat. We said we'd be happy with noodles and whatever veges were to hand. We said we'd be happy with bread and salad. We said eating meat was against our religion. Nothing worked.

Poi Mazar: Nasrudin and friend.

Sometimes, when it all got too much, we'd find ourselves thinking along the lines of "How would you, as a Muslim, like it if we did that to you with pork!?" Dammit. We hated feeling so ungrateful, especially since Tajikistan is a hair's breadth away from famine and the people whose wonderful hospitality we were enjoying are among the poorest of our planet's inhabitants.

I couldn't help feeling it would be so much easier for everyone if Tajik hospitality revolved around music and dancing rather than food! It was all quite ironic, given that Tajikistan was the first country in several months' travel in which vegetarian dishes form a substantial part of the traditional cuisine...

No complaints though. That's just how it was. Although no holiday, travelling in Tajikistan was the experience of a lifetime! More pics and even some video to come...

Poi Mazar: Remember! It's never just chai...


¹ It turned out to be Koh Phangan. Ahhhhhh - Thailand! Ocean breezes, clean bathrooms and toilets, more vegetarian food than you can shake a chunk of tofu at, smiling happy people, free wireless and fruit! A balm we tells ya...

² That is: Ab. so. lutely bloody AWful!

]]> evenstar Sun, 17 Aug 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=153 These blog-slack tumbleweeds figured they had better explain their current tumbles before you all give us up for lost.

I think we left off “catching up” in Jordan, which is a bit disgraceful because that was about 3 months ago and we've seen parts of seven more countries since then.

Temporarily skipping over Syria, Turkey, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan - I know, it's a bit of a skip, 6000 miles or so - we're now in Kyrgyzstan, land of the nomad, squeezing in some laptop time in our suburban yurt. (The yurt is a very cool domicile).

The Chinese, in their infinite wisdom (ahem) have decided not to issue anyone in Kyrgyzstan with a Chinese visa, and have thrown our existing plans into complete disarray. Thankfully tumbleweeds are adaptable little creatures, and Kyrgyzstan one of the loveliest places on earth to be “stuck”, so we're not suffering a bit from China's rejection. There's nothing like gorgeous summer pastures, wildflowers, rushing mountain streams and enormous skies to help get you over the no-visa blues.

We now have a good many friends roaming various parts of the globe, so just in case there's a chance of crossing paths with any of you, here are the new, improved and entirely China-free plans:

July 10 – 18: Fly to Osh. Bum around in a 3000 y.o. city for a while (Solomon's Rock, the ancient bazaar) . Jump in a jeep and head to the Tajik border.

July 19 – 27: Drive through the legendary Pamirs, playground for Great Game intriguery (my new word). Hot springs, alpine lakes and neolithic cave paintings.

July 28 – August 2: The Wakhan Valley. Follow the Pyanj River along the border with Afghanistan checking out ancient forts and views of the Hindu Kush.

August 03 – 08: The Bartang and Geisev Valleys. Holy shrines, hiking from one timeless village to the next. Cliffside driving along the Amu-Darya to Dushanbe.

August 09 – 14: Iskander-kol. Relaxing at a dacha in the Fannsky Gory (Fan Mountains). On the 14th we fly to Almaty, Khazakstan.

August 15: Fly Almaty – Bangkok – Ko Samui. Ferry to Ko Pha Ngan.

August 16 – September 13: Laze on Had Yao. Swim with the fishies. Mmmm.

September 13 - October 25: We're not sure about this bit yet. Something in SEA. Suggestions?

Sometime in the not too distant future (i.e. Mid-November?): E and I move to Melbourne to be good little sedentary citizens once again :)

Once we reach Thailand we should be back online a lot more regularly. Sorry once again about the long break!

If you can't meet up with us before we get home then we very much hope you'll come and couch surf our new digs in Melbourne (though we might be sharing the couch with you, given the skyrocketing rents in Australia). E is a really good cook, so I'll make him whip up some grub for guests too.

Hope everyone is having a wonderful time, appreciating their flushing toilets, hot running water, the privacy of their own home and the ability to store personal belongings larger than a bag of sugar. I miss you all!
]]> harimau Sat, 12 Jul 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=152 DAY 30: Wadi Rum, Jordan. The view from Lawrence's Spring.

By the time the ferry got us to Aqaba the lights of Israel's city of Elat were spangling the hills across the water in the west. By the time George drove the truck off the slow boat it was almost midnight.

One night in Aqaba, then onward to TE Lawrence's desert hideout of Wadi Rum. We dunno what started it, but a knife fight was in progress when we pulled into the dusty carpark at the canyon of Nabatean petroglyphs - do not piss off a Bedouin!

From Wadi Rum we pushed northward to the town of Wadi Musa which lies above the canyonlands that hide the ancient Nabatean city of Petra. Wow. What a delight. We only had one full day there. A week wouldn't be enough.

Northward again past the commanding ruins of crusader castles, then the long fall down a road that switchbacked through a wadi that carved its way ever deeper into the earth before depositing us in the baking heat of a piedmont whose toe dipped to the lowest dry land on the planet. 420 metres below sea level. The Dead Sea shore. After an obligatory swim - well, float really - it was time to ascend two kilometres skyward to our bush camp site.

The story is told that Moses gazed from Mt Nebo over the promised land he was never to attain. Mt Nebo is sacred ground that draws pilgrims still. We stopped briefly at the site of the monastery there before heading for what has proved to be our best campsite so far.

It's hard to describe the feeling engendered by a blood-red sunset over the Dead Sea while the wind shrieks in your ears. Suddenly the wind begins to die and in the silence that follows a million lights emerge in the distance. The hills far to the west appear as if draped in a bejewelled shawl: Jerusalem!

That blood red sunset suddenly feels a little ominous. Below and to the north of the twinkling lights of Al Quds is the blazing yellow glow of the city of Ramallah. Closer to us still, a harsh orange highway of twinned lights carves a line in the sand. The border.

The view is stunning and I'm grateful for the silence. From up here, out of range of the sound of helicopter, siren and loudhailer, it's possible to believe in the dream of peace in the holy land.

Esther is much taken and swathes herself in her sleeping bag and spends most of the night in reclusive contemplation on the hillside.

Tomorrow we leave for Syria.

DAY 31: Petra, Jordan. A Berber matriarch on the descent from the High Place of Sacrifice.

DAY 31: Petra, Jordan. Weathered facade of unnamed tomb.

DAY 32: Mt Nebo, Jordan. The lights of Jerusalem and the last tree...

DAY 33: Mt Nebo, Jordan. Dead Sea dawn. ]]> evenstar Fri, 06 Jun 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=151 DAYS 24 and 25: Dahab, Egypt

The Gulf of Aqaba is not very wide, but it sure is deep. Here on the western shores are the seaside party towns of Egypt. The mountains on the other side are Saudi Arabia. So near and yet so far...

It wasn't hard to fill our unexpected extra time in Dahab. Quiznights at the Tota, sunsets at the Funny Mummy, snorkelling, horseriding, beach walks...

We spent a day in the desert with Mohammed and his son Mohammed. We explored the Coloured and White Canyons, bouncing mercilessly in the back of the 4WDs as Mohammed - "I never come second to anybody!" - took advantage of every shortcut and as much speed as possible to arrive at our next destination ahead of our companion vehicle. Mohammed was teaching his son the ways of their people and the pride shining in his eye was reflected in his son's everytime Dad won another leg of the race. Mohammed stopped to fill watertroughs for roaming camels and had brought food for a dog he knew had been left at a temporarily abandoned campsite. It was nice to see such compassion for animals in a country where a beast of burden's life is so hard.

Once George and Sue returned from Cairo with our Azerbaijani visas it was time to head for the port of Nuweiba to load the truck onto a ferry for the crossing to Aqaba in Jordan. We drove north and spent the night in huts on the beach at Tarabin before backtracking a few miles to the port the next morning.

We arrived at Nuweba at 8.00am, the ferry was scheduled to depart at 9.00am, but it was 2.00pm before we'd boarded - and this was the "fast" ferry. The truck was loaded on the slow one. Ahhh, Egypt!

It was a long day waiting in the heat of the asphalt loading yard. Esther talks to everybody, and it wasn't long before she'd been adopted by an Algerian family who offered us tea and laughed as we played with their boy. Every cloud has a silver lining!

DAY 26: Dahab, Egypt. Mau and Susan ride out of town.

DAY 27: Dahab, Egypt. Coloured Canyon detail.

DAY 28: Dahab, Egypt. The Cotton Bracelet Girls

DAY 29: Nuweiba, Egypt. Esther and the Algerian family. ]]> evenstar Wed, 04 Jun 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=150 DAY 17: Alexandria, Egypt. The Corniche. The curved wall in the middle distance is the new library.

Alexandria and its catacombs - where unfortunately cameras were banned. Grrrrrrrr. Shame. They were special. Cairo - where the crowds at the museum made it impossible to decently view that spectacular collection. I did get to linger before Tutankhamun's fabulous grave goods, but again cameras are no longer allowed. Mau, Margrete and Jennifer had previously done the Egypt stuff we were to see and elected to go ahead to Dahab for some extra R&R.

The truck's a lot more crowded now - our days of having room to spread our stuff out and lie across a few seats are gone. In Cairo we said goodbye to Patrick, Martina, Nick and Simon and were joined by Heidi and Shaun, Jenny, Ray, Susan, Esther and the legendary Colman, who we didn't actually lay eyes on until almost a week later in Dahab.

Delays in securing the visas for Azerbaijan meant we spent a few extra days in the beachside party town of Dahab. It also meant we were to sacrifice climbing the 2134m Nemrut Dagi in southern Turkey to see the monstrous statues flanking the 1st Century BC tomb of King Antiochus I Theos of Commagene. Even the Kiwi vodka buckets at Dahab couldn't make up for that...

Under the Suez canal and on through the Sinai to St Catherine's Monastery. The climb to the peak of Mt Sinai where Moses is said to have received the Ten Commandments. Sleeping on a rock ledge waiting for the dawn, then the descent of The Steps of Repentance.

DAY 18: Alexandria, Egypt.

Horse spots tourist in taxi. As we're in Egypt, he tries to sell us a better fare.

Off to Cairo today, down the longest highway full of billboards that I've ever seen. (Over 120Km of 'em. Both sides of the road. Every 50m or so!)

DAY 19: Cairo, Egypt.

The crowds wait to flood through the doors of the museum. There are signs requesting that people refrain from touching the statues, but they don't stop some folks from climbing on the Sphinx's back for the photo opportunity...

DAY 20: Giza, Egypt.

I saw them in the distance as we entered Cairo, but the closer you get the more impressive they are. Fantastic...

DAY 21: Giza, Egypt

I spent the day writing in my hotel room, seeking some respite from the relentless noise and hassle of the city.

Remembering the wonder of yesterday I feel I should head for Luxor and Karnak, but those crowds are a major deterrent...

DAY 22: Mt Sinai, Egypt.

Under the midnight full moon's glow, a late party of climbers wend their way toward the summit. The photographers among them wake me a couple of hours later as they scramble onto my ledge.

DAY 23: Mt Sinai, Egypt.

The desert air is full of the fight between red dust and the cyan haze of distance as the Steps of Repentance lead me down to the ravine above St Catherine's Monastery.

]]> evenstar Sun, 18 May 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=149 DAY 12: Benghazi, Libya.

We've obviously had to give up on any pretense of catching up on the day by day account while we're on the road. We're in Sheki in Azerbaijan as I begin to write this and if we're lucky we'll get to post it from Baku, just before we board a ferry to cross the Caspian to Turkmenistan. Obviously, that's a hell of a lot further down the road than Libya!

Since our last post we've passed through Benghazi on the way to the ancient Greek city of Cyrene and its associated port of Apollonia. We've walked in silent reverie amid the headstones of the many who gave their lives in battle for control of the sands of Tobruk, crossed the border into Egypt and done the same at El Alamein.

A picture a day keeps the guilt at bay...

DAY 13: Cyrene, Libya.

Ader to Nick: "Is that all you got, man?" "Really?" "You're going DOWN."

It was all over in seconds...

DAY 14: Cyrene, Libya. The Baths of the Virgins of Astarte.

Mau comments on how Cyrene's mountainside outlook reminds her of the view from Delphi. Our guide tells us the city was founded after the Oracle of Delphi told the inhabitants of Thera that they would emigrate to North Africa and find "The Land with the Hole in the Sky". That is, a place like home with good rainfall.

That hole is open today...

DAY 14: Apollonia, Libya.

Water supply channels to the customs rooms by the harbour.

DAY 15: Tobruk, Libya

Lonely silence, so far from home...

DAY 16: El Alamein, Egypt.

Battle flags at the El Alamein Museum.

Our first stop in Egypt rekindles yesterday's sadness... ]]> evenstar Fri, 16 May 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=148 Leptis Magna in the blue spring morning. Our flash visit starts here at the Arch of Septimius Severus on the Via Trionfale which runs down to the harbour on the Mediterranean.

Lucius "Lucky" Septi was Leptis Magna's most famous native son, rising to become the Empire's ruler in 193. He liked to build arches. His good pal Antonius "Antsy" Pius liked to build baths - you might remember our pictures of the ones he erected in Carthage. Lucky and Antsy were one of history's famous teams and no wonder!

Moving right along, we come to LM's mall and lemme tellya - I'm bummed they don't build 'em like this anymore! I could hang in this kind of mall for aaages. Needless to say, we don't have the time to spend soaking up the sheer magnificence, imagining how absolutely incredible these markets must have been when roofed and pristine. Hell of a bunch of shops, no?

We take a quick stroll through the Forum - which is nicely placed down by the seaside - before whizzing off to take in the action at the theatre. Nothing's playing but the view and ambience are astounding.

As at Dougga, there's hardly anybody here and it's wonderful not to have to penetrate milling crowds to appreciate the wonder. Bit of a bummer for ticket sales though. Doesn't matter - the show rolls relentlessly on.

All too soon it's back to the truck for the transfer to the amphitheatre and hippodrome, which lie at some distance to the east, beyond the dunes which conceal yet more of this sprawling city.

On the way we traverse the red-light district. There's no spruikers touting the wares, but the remaining advertising signs leave no doubt about the marvels available here for a few denarius. (Or antoninianus if you'd rather.)

The hippodrome is a huge beachside racetrack that lies quiet behind the dunes and is easily discernible from the hills above. I climb down to hunt chariot tracks. There's a mighty arch built into the cliffside by the hippodrome by which I enter a yawning processional road leading between hewn rock walls which cut deeply back into the hills. The road turns ninety degrees to the left and enters a long tunnel big enough to admit piggybacking elephants.

The amphitheatre is a Colosseum sunk in the ground! Emerging from the tunnel, I enter to the roar of the crowd and turn to salute Caesar high above.

Oh wait... It's just the wind and Mau giving me the thumbs up from the heights.

I just remembered: In our hasty exit from the main part of the city, we did have time to pause briefly and admire a few more details. On the left: Another part of the market. Can you imagine getting your fruit, veg 'n' grains from a shop like this? On the right is a detail of Lucky's arch. He did good didn't he?

Thanks the gods that those damn Vandals never made it this far!

Meanwhile, back at the Colosseum, I've discovered the maze of subterranean passages that encircle the edifice below the bleachers. It's too cool for words! There are gladiator waiting rooms, animal cages and a long passage heading deeper back into the hills that ends in an unexcavated collapse. I'm in heaven - there's no one here to ground my flights of fancy and I'm like a kid exploring this subterranean labyrinth. I eventually emerge into the sunlight of the upper levels of the amphitheatre to find even Mau has left. I can hear the lions roaring! No, dammit. It's Ader shouting at me that everyone else is back on the truck and we're late leaving. I wish those lions were here. I'd toss 'em whoever wrote this itinerary! For the next couple of hours on the road I'm still lost in the Colosseum's secret halls...

]]> evenstar Tue, 29 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=147

No, time doesn't really travel that much slower in the Middle East. We have progressed beyond Day 10 of the trip, and I have the evidence to prove it! (Thanks to Margrete and Jennifer, our favourite geniuses, for the photos) We're currently in a beautiful little town in northern Turkey called Amasya and we're yet to dazzle you with tales from Egypt, Jordan and Syria, but I thought some of you might like to see what a fabulous time we've been having. It's a wonderful journey and we are lucky to be sharing it with a great group of people, some of whom feature in the photos above. Give us all a break – there's not a single spare minute for beauty routines on this expedition and that includes showers, fresh clothes, hair brushing, shaving etc. We're dirty and loving it ;) Left to Right, Top to Bottom: 1.Typical me. Enjoying a book on a convenient rock, somewhere in Libya. 2.E taking a cliched toilet break on a Roman loo, Leptis Magna, Libya. 3.Me enjoying the view of Green Mountain from a Cyrenacian wall, Libya. 4.E's Ali Baba routine in the remains of an ancient oil jar, Crac des Chevaliers, Syria. 5.Me hanging out of a kurdish castle wall, Crac des Chevaliers, Syria. 6.E and me getting busy with a Kiwi Vodka “bucket”, Tota Bar, Dahab, Egypt. 7.Snuggling in my sleeping bag, campsite near Damascus, Syria. 8.From left: E, me, Margrete, Susan, Heidi and Shaun, Tree Restaurant, Dahab, Egypt. 9.E hanging out with his camel mate, Cafe Baghdad, Syria. 10.E reaching for the terrapin before he disappears up my coat sleeve, Appollonia, Libya. 11.Me and Jennifer enjoying the view from the esplanade, Dahab, Egypt. 12.Margete and me digesting chocolate milkshakes, Tree Restaurant, Dahab, Egypt. 13.Jennifer, me and Margrete in sand people costume at the Ummayad Mosque, Damascus, Syria. 14.Margrete, me and E at the crusader monument, Damascus, Syria. 15.E doing his favourite thing, but having some friendly doggy troubles, Dahab, Egypt.

]]> harimau Sun, 27 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=146 Sorry you guys. At this rate we should be able to make the trip last a couple of years! Should be able to get a few more up for you at this stop though....

Now where were we? Oh yeah...

We set out for Tripoli before dawn. The windstorm has abated, the full moon is westering and almost everybody is asleep again before we pass the last of the streetlights that extend into the desert far beyond Ghadames' outskirts. One side of our great circular horizon blushes at the coming sun as the setting moon fades into mauve dusk above the other.

The day brightens as we retrace our route and at eight-thirty we abandon the road for breakfast under the vast bowl of the sky. The tracks of shrew, centipede and gecko are thrown into high relief by the wash of the early morning sun across the powdery microdunes deposited by the storm.

We're in for a long day's drive, the highlight of which comes not long after breakfast when a wealth of camels materialises from the seemingly empty desert, their herdsmen swathed against the sun and resurgent wind and dust.

The men are keeping the herd compact and shepherd the animals swiftly across the road before us. I get the feeling they're bound for somewhere far over the horizon and have little time for a sealed road or its strange travellers.

George stops the truck briefly for the photographers amongst us and I notice a lone rider bringing up the stragglers up behind. He is yet to cross the road, so I open the truck's back door and step out onto the spare tyres bolted on the back to get my angle. George can't tell I'm out there, so I grip a handle tightly with one hand while framing the shot in anticipation of the herdsman's route.

Silly really. The truck lurches into motion, a few of my fellows yell and Mau's hand grabs the back of my jacket and hauls me back through the door. I wasn't in danger of falling, but I guess it didn't look that way.

All I can think of is the look in the Berber's eyes as he met mine through the lens...

Several bumpy Libyan road-hours later the desert has given way to parched farmland and olive groves which have in turn been subsumed by the sprawl of heavy industry on Tripoli's outskirts.

Our lodgings for the night turn out to be the most salubrious of the trip - giant rooms with barfridges, satellite TV and marble bathrooms big enough to hold a dance party in. It wasn't supposed to be this way, but it's the cheapest available within 30km of the city center. It's blown Oasis's budget, but we've lucked in!

Opposite our hotel is the former king's palace which is now occupied by Libya's equivalent of the CIA. We're admonished to not even consider pointing a camera in that direction. We go for a group dinner, then most of us follow Ader to a shisha café in the center of town. By the time we get back to the hotel at midnight, the concierge has fallen asleep and we're locked out. After repeated hammerings and buzzings fail to rouse him Nick and Kevin decide a leg-up over the wall is required. The two rather imposing gentlemen who've been hanging by their Mercedes watching us spring into action, dissuading the lads from this approach in no uncertain terms. When we finally gain admittance, they berate the concierge mercilessly. It's later alleged they were a pair of generals instrumental in Gaddafi's coup, but they didn't seem old enough to me...

Tripoli is a cosmopolitan city and the Italian quarter has some imposing architecture. The boulevards of the capital are thronged with late model expensive cars (is there another city where the police drive new Mercedes saloons?) but it seems no-one's inclined to keep them clean and sparkly. Perhaps that desert dust reaches here too often.

Our morning amble brings us back to the shisha café, which occupies the courtyard of government buildings erected under the influence of Mussolini's dream of a resurgent Roman Empire. The high arches leave no doubt of the aspiration, but I've seen ruins that were far more impressive.

Alas! We wander as far as the citadel down by the ocean, but I find little inspiration for the camera. (Sorry Autumn!) The light is harsh and flat and our time is limited as we leave at four for Leptis Magna. I'm sure Tripoli has much more to offer, but we're not finding it today. Not long after lunch we see the writing on the wall. We do as it suggests...

]]> evenstar Sat, 26 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=145 Hey there trackies - I've got a question...

Right now we're in Dahab, Egypt, shortly to depart for the head of the Gulf of Aqaba for our ferry crossing to Jordan tomorrow. We've been here for four days and prior to that I had three days in Cairo. In Cairo I decided to skip Luxor and Karnak to have a little downtime and (hopefully) catch up on posts as I promised.

My issue is this: I'm a totally ineffective blogger!

Today is Day 24. I've walked the ruins of Cyrene and Apollonia, visted the desert war graves and battlefields of Tobruk and El Alamein. I've wandered among the fabled pyramids of Giza and the madness of Cairo and been dumbfounded by the treasures of Tutankhamun's tomb. We've driven under loaded container ships plying the Suez Canal and climbed Mt Sinai in the dark to witness the sunrise over the land of Moses, wandered Sinai's desert, explored the Coloured and White Canyons and watched the sky turn indigo over the hills of Saudia Arabia.

But I've only posted to Ghadames.

SO: Given that I'm so slow at cobbling together pictures and story, whaddaya prefer? Same deal, but with big gaps in the story so we stay current? Day by day pictures with captions only? Day by day descriptions with a single picture? Or shall I keep going as I am and spin the story of this journey out over the next year or so?

Dammit! I'm SO printed page - not decisive enough by half for this high-speed, constant deadline, new-content-required medium. Printed page.... Hmm... How about a book?

HELP! ]]> evenstar Sat, 12 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=144 I'm surprised by the sudden appearance in my viewfinder of a man pushing a bicycle through the covered alleys of Ghadames' old town. I'm concerned that I've taken his picture without asking, but my expression of surprise and apology apparently confuses him, leading him to think I'm unhappy he's walked into my shot. We say "sorry" simultaneously as he dissolves into the blinding outdoor light.

I lose track of time, unable to resist shouldering through random doors that loom in the dark passages of yet another extraordinary ancient city. The oasis of Ghadames is a Tuareg Berber town and for thousands of years was a major base for trans-Saharan trade. The Romans were here too of course, occasionally manning the garrisons at the edges of their far-flung empire.

The seven clans who dwelt here left for the convenience of houses with running water and toilets which were built by the government in the 1970s, but many return in the height of summer for the cool environment their more modern houses lack. The old town's water still flows cool and clear in the galleries beside the mosque...

I feel my way down a minor passage that disappears into darkness from the half-light of the main thoroughfare. A dry and splintered door hangs ajar, behind which light from storeys far above illuminates dust-filled mysterious voids where dimly perceived remnants of past lives linger still.

Crossing the threshold, I'm once again wishing Mau was well enough to share the wonders concealed behind this fascinating portal.

I negotiate the dust of years that pools on the steps leading toward the light. The staircase is overarched by a ceiling embedded with closely spaced whitewashed stones like seashells, interspersed with the occasional bright splash of ceramic shards.

The staircase turns and spills me into the ruin of a living room whose wall has tumbled, leaving me squinting against the sudden light that floods the chamber. The walls are adorned with intricate sepia monotone motifs, its alcoves still populated with the tools and trinkets of the former inhabitants. Scattered across the floor, floating in a sea of wind-blown dust is the detritus of daily life.

Careful negotiation of another flight of far less solid stairs brings me to the roof of the house and reveals the cause of the disintegrated wall. The house stands at the edge of a vast bowl of jumbled mud-brick ruin, the curving sides of which are pocked by the remaining portions of rooms now laid bare to the sun and wind. Furniture hangs overhead and shattered crockery and rusted iron relics are strewn across the crater's floor.

I've stumbled upon the site of the Atik, Libya's oldest mosque. Built in 666, the mosque and its surrounding dwellings were reduced to this forlorn wreckage by misguided B-17 bombers seeking to destroy an Italian garrison a kilometer or so away. Hundreds perished here in an instant. The ruin of this house and that gaping wound in the sea of roofs speaks volumes of the suffering of innocents caught up in other nations' wars.

By the time I've made my way back to where I started everyone has vanished. There's no use searching for them in the maze of the city so I wait in the square by the mosque for them to return. The wind is stirring the air of the sheltered passages by the time Ader cries "Here he is!" and I'm reunited with my no doubt exasperated friends.

We visit a restored home for lunch and are treated to a Berber meal under the watchful gaze of a youthful Colonel Gaddafi who, with his cocked knee and hand to chin strikes me as being in his Heath Ledger period. (I'm saving that picture for a later tribute post to the Guide of the First of September Great Revolution of the Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya - keep an eye out for it!)

Some of our little group. L to R: Ader, Jennifer, Patrick, Simon, Tanya.

As we sit drinking mint tea after lunch, my eye wanders over the rich decoration and accoutrements of the house. Ader tells me that the dyes for the red, green and yellow tracery that adorns the walls were traditionally made from pomegranate, egg yolk and green plants, but their screaming aniline brightness here suggests felt pen to me. Ader adds that red predominates as it's the Berber colour of hospitality.

The house is attractive and hospitable no doubt, but it's those forlorn abandoned rooms with their cracked walls, desert patinated staircases and sudden brilliant lightshafts that fire my imagination.

On the way back I deviate once more down a darkened alley and find the other side. A painted door this time, that opens on a home that obviously echoes to laughter in the heat of summer. An airy whitewashed space detailed in gorgeous pastel colour, the dust upon its floor only a season old. I move quickly through its three storeys, passing a hundred potential photographs - mindful that I've used up my mates' indulgences for today. The presence of the family that owns this place is strong and I can't help but feel an intruder, despite the door being open and inviting. I wonder if I shouldn't pull it to as I leave...

Outside the wind is howling and the sky is dun with airborne sand. By the time we return to the guest house where Mau is waiting visibility has dropped to fifty metres and banshees are screaming at the windows of the building's upper storey. We were due to leave for Tripoli but the sandstorm obliterates the notion of a desert camp. George says we'll wait 'til four to see if it abates, but by three-thirty the banshees' dusty moans are demanding admittance at the front door. During a quick foray to the truck to get our cooking gear the wind blasts sand deep into my ear. I hear its tinkling cascade against the membrane of my eardrum. Footnote: Trouble comes in threes. Mau's visit to the hospital and Kevin and Tanya's bad news is followed by George coming down with the bug that's claimed Mau and Martina. Another night in a bed is a good idea...

]]> evenstar Thu, 10 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=143 The wind has kept us company and threatened us with rain since breakfast. As we negotiate the switchbacks below the redoubt of Nalut's abandoned qasr, the gain in altitude exposes us to the full intensity of the wind's chilling embrace.

Mau is really ill now, having slept feverishly last night and waking weak and with a burning throat. She elects to shelter in the warmth of the bus, rather than accompany us as we file out to explore these wind-scoured ruins.

The ramshackle dun remains of Nalut's old town are piled in dissolving ruins around the feet of the still imposing qasr - the more than three hundred year old fortified granary that dominates the edge of the escarpment.

The four-pillared spire of the even older mosque rises on the brow of the escarpment's vertiginous face, against which the rushing wind is channelled upward to rent blue holes in the grey mantle spread above.

The granary's steadfast wooden door opens to an entrance tunnel whose mud plastered walls and arching ceiling are emblazoned with arcane symbols and scripts which whisper the identity and aspirations of those who raised this stronghold. The wind pours through the open door, an insistent hand upon our backs, pushing us into the ancient ambience of the qasr's sinuous alleys.

We emerge into a narrow defile whose sheer walls are pierced by myriad dark apertures. The wind is suddenly gone, leaving me in silent amazement.

The openings to the ghurfas - the storage chambers of the granary - extend from beside my feet to high overhead. The mud render of the walls reveals the motion of the hands that placed it, hands that also fashioned the stars, crescent moons and written names that adorn many of the chambers' entries. Flat stones project from the walls, providing precarious access to the higher ghurfas and embedded rough-hewn, weathered timbers occasionally dangle disintegrating woven baskets on fraying ropes suspended from pulleys now locked with rust.

As always, I'm soon separated from the group by my need to linger: To find a private perspective that draws my eye and fires my imagination. As soon as I find it though, I want to know if Mau sees it too. I wish she was here so we could share this wonderment, but the cold confirms she's done the right thing by opting for the shelter of the truck and resting up.

My private investigation leads me to clamber into the deeper nooks and crannies of the warren of storerooms and to my amazement, although now empty, they all still emanate the warm, sweet smell of grain and olive oil. The mighty mill around which generations of camels walked in endless circles lies not far away. In its anterooms still lie the woven grass concertinas and palm tree trunks that pressed the precious oil from the pulp, to flow in rivers across the floor to drain through twin holes into the amphorae placed beneath.

Each ghurfa held the wealth of a separate family and hundreds of them are stacked one atop the other and burrowed in series deep into the labyrinth of this ancient bank. Like any other, this bank had its manager: The man who held the keys to the mighty door and slept within the fastness of the walls. He knew by heart the contents of each family's deposit box and his tally was the final arbiter of any dispute over the deposits held.

One inconspicuous window, low down in a corner of the winding alley that circumnavigates the granary's prominence opens not to a room of grain cisterns and ensconced amphorae, but to a now blocked shaft which dives to the foot of the escarpment. It was by this secret egress that the inhabitants spirited away their goods in times of peril, emptying the granary and leaving the assaulting marauders empty handed.

Just like at Dougga, my time at Nalut is over all too soon and again I'm the last back to the truck, cementing my reputation as the lagger of the group. Mau is feverish again and George decides we should take her to hospital check when we reach Ghadames, the next stop on our journey south toward the sand. The road to Ghadames dives deeper into the desert and it's not long before we see our first dunes, windblown outriders of the great expanse of the Saharan sands. As if arranged by a tour operator with an eye for detail, right after the appearance of those rufous dunes we have to brake for camels grazing the scant roadside vegetation...

]]> evenstar Wed, 09 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=142 Two peals of thunder wake us to the sound of real rain on the tent fly.

It's another day in the truck with nothing much to report, which I guess means that this should more properly be called a no-news post.

We pack up our wet tents and the day slowly clears as we return to Medeini to exchange our Tunisian Dinars for the Libyan variety. Then it's eastward across the sand to the border where we're joined by our guide Ader (that's a-deer) and his companion Khalid, who is our pistol-packing chaperone for the Libyan leg of our adventure.

Formalities take an hour, but there's no issues and our next stop is at a service station that boasts ultra-clean toilets with padded vinyl toilet seats. Hey - I told you it was a pretty uneventful day!

Evening finds us passing through Zwara, which Ader informs us is the only Berber town in North Africa that's situated on the coast. We drive on a few more miles and pitch camp in the litter-strewn sandbowl of a scout camp.

There's thankfully no rain, but the wind is howling as the waning moon rises... ]]> evenstar Mon, 07 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=141 No stops today. We heading for the border and it's the long haul to the coast.

The road out of Matmata winds through the hills of the plateau past small hamlets marked only by the electricity lines strung to the edges of their entrance craters.

Suddenly the land just falls away...

The bitumen follows a narrow defile under the ruined gaze of an ancient fort and plunges in switchbacks through the intriguing town of Toujane. Nobody seems to know anything about this town, but Patrick and I agree it'd be a lot more interesting to camp here than stay in the hotel at Matmata.

Extensive ruins line the ravines descending from the plateau and the escarpment is pocked with the entrances to rustic cave homes. It was a bummer we couldn't stop so I could make some better photographs of the place.

Looks like it's going to be a day of drive-by snaps....

As we draw closer to the Libyan border the roads become lined with vendors peddling diesel and petrol in all manner of containers. Fuel is dirt cheap in Libya and an uncontrolled cross-border market is thriving. George reckons hardly any Tunisians buy local fuel. The stuff's so cheap here it's more than worth the drive down.

We pass through the town of Medeini and the plain becomes a patchwork of mustard and grain crops, red sand and olive groves. Our rest stop for the night is within sight of the Mediterranean in the compound of a roadhouse constructed in the Tunis/New Mexico style.

As the cook team is preparing to serve dinner George, who had disappeared with the owner of our lodgings, arrives back from town with a case of beer. This is a good thing, because Libya is a dry country in more ways than one.

The sky lowers as the sun sets and by the time the beer is gone a light patter of rain is falling.

]]> evenstar Sun, 06 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=140 Another day, another planet - this time the one that featured in Star Wars!

Tozeur lies on the northern shore of the Chott El Jerid, which at 7000 square kilometres is the Sahara's largest salt pan. The morning is a blue void above the widening sere expanse of the lake as we rumble across the the causeway toward the troglodyte town of Matmata.

Our exertions yesterday have sapped Mau's strength and this morning she's feeling pretty low, but rouses when we pull into a rest stop far out on the salt flats. The landscape is eye-scorchingly bright and already the Fata Morganas are dancing above the horizon.

Ah yes. All the normale conforts of home...

I'm sure this would be the most photographed toilet block in Tunisia. Perhaps even in the whole of North Africa. I reckon most people would label these colours garish, but in this bleached and dessicated landscape they look fantastic.

While we sip tea and check out the vast array of souvenirs available the wind strengthens to the point where we have to drop the tarpaulins that shield the open sides of the truck. By the time we arrive at Douz on the lake's southern shore the sky has yellowed and Saharan grit fills the air. Fills our mouths and ears and noses too, but at least we have a the shelter of a subterranean hotel and hot showers awaiting us at day's end, unlike those who eke out a living in this harsh environment.

The sun is doing the big red ball thing in the dust-filled sky and the wind has begun to abate as we roll into town.

Matmata occupies a depression in a desert plateau and all the action's underground. This is the town where you'll find the Hotel Sidi Driss, which was the location for Luke Skywalker's home in the first movie and some of the set still adorns the walls of the hotel's open craters. So I've been told anyway - I opted for climbing a hill on the edge of town with Nick, Kevin and Tania rather than doing the Star Wars tour.

We check in to the similar Hotel Marhala, right behind a busload of ebullient shisha-smoking Danish teenagers who are on a school excursion. Lucky them! We get set up in the little sleeping cells hollowed from the walls of the hotel's various craters while we wait for 'em to finish preening in the shared bathrooms.

It's night by the time they're done and a bright full moon floods cool light into the pits of the hotels open spaces as we negotiate the tunnels to the bar for some pre-dinner drinkies.

Mau's feeling pretty bad and resorts to double shots of the local firewater as an anaesthetic. It seems to work a lot better than the drugs we have! George appears disappointed when we all retire before 11.00, but he's had the relative calm of the cab all day. You might think a day sitting in the truck would be relaxing, but the constant bouncing on poor roads and the incessant flap-hammer of the tarps in the desert gale sure has taken it out of us. A tour bus it ain't! The schoolkids are partying it up in their rooms as we head back toward our beds where I'm in for a disturbed night of surreal dreams involving Punic tombs and Imperial Stormtroopers...

]]> evenstar Sat, 05 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=139 The clouds continued to thicken as we pushed south from Haidra yesterday afternoon. By the time the first russet Saharan sand shadows appeared downwind of each low bush in the ever more dry landscape, sparse fat raindrops were dying in dark patches on the ground.

We pulled into Tozeur after dark and stepped out this morning into the palm shaded oasis town that has served the Saharan trade routes for millennia. Tozeur is a Berber town famous for its distinctive decorative brickwork which is said by some to reflect the design motifs of Berber carpets.

Mau, Patrick and I decided we'd start the day slowly by hunting down a café in the main street where we could indulge in copious quantities of mint tea and a shisha pipe while checking out the goings on. On the way I was startled by the sudden appearance at my shoulder of a hanging camel's head with pendant ropy thoracic tract. Jeez! Why not just a sign? "Fresh camel meat!"

Speaking of signs, this one added mystification to surprise:

Any guesses? Beware Algerian militants? Spontaneously erupting buses? Parking bay for large vehicles on fire? Some simple graphics apparently aren't that simple...

Just down the road from this enigmatic sign is an entrance to the medina with its welcome shaded alleys and cool breezeways. Reminders of Tozeur's history as a former outpost of the Roman Empire are scattered throughout the medina, where weathered Roman stone columns and immense trunks of ancient palm trees share the duty of supporting the arches of public squares.

An hour or so of aimless exploration found us debating the most direct return route and our pause provided the opportunity for an enterprising young Berber man to offer to show us "The Spanish House". We almost declined. We would have been fools if we had. An unremarkable door beneath the courtyard arches opened onto a darkened flight of stairs that climbed through ninety whitewashed degrees into one of the most beautiful houses I have ever seen.

We stepped from the dry furnace of the courtyard into a refuge of cool darkness interspersed with starbursts of light admitted through the perforated golden dome above. Above the tracery of an intricate stucco frieze, the soft aura of the dome drew our eyes upward and proved so entrancing to Mau that she walked straight into the fountain drain that occupied the center of the floor and narrowly avoided sprawling face first on its magnificent but unforgiving inlaid marble.

Stacked around this gorgeous central space were other equally beautiful sanctuaries accessed by further flights of stairs or shuttered behind beautiful wooden doors. In a tiny loft bedroom another cupola pierced with star-shaped stained glass ports cast pools of coloured light across a bed draped in luscious brocade spreads. Believe me: I'd love to post more photos for you, but I've got another 15 posts to deliver before I've caught up to today. Maybe later...

Here's a detail of the bathroom. The bath is marble and in expansive Roman style, but the room too small to fit it all in with the lens I'm using. It'd be a shame to distort the perspective any further by using a wider one too...

On the roof adjacent to the main room's dome is the home's kitchen. In contrast to the cool darkness of the lower rooms, the confines of the kitchen enclose a light-filled eyrie positioned to make the most of the desert breeze and the view across the rooftops and palms of the medina. Oh to breakfast at this table! Jealous, jealous, jealous, jealous, jealous...

Our guide, who lived in the venerable Berber house across the courtyard, told us that this building originally belonged to a Spanish trader (or was it missionary - I must make more timely notes!) and was now owned by an Italian man who was currently "in the desert". We wondered if the current owner knew that his caretaker was making a few dollars on the side by showing people through his house in his absence. I hope so - the house is a delight, the owner's taste impeccable and it would be a shame for the lucky few the Berber lad entices to be unwelcome visitors.

We spent the late afternoon wandering in search of a famous Imam's tomb in the cool of the palmerie where the springs of the oasis water hundreds of thousands of date palms, producing fruit that's been famous for centuries. Alas! The sun set before we found the Imam's tomb and dusk was heavy and our feet aching by the time we returned to the campsite in town. No matter though: It's difficult to imagine anything topping the glory of the Spanish House as the highlight of our day.

]]> evenstar Fri, 04 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=138 OMG! They killed Kenny! You bastards!

The tombstone of Kenny of Le Kef lies amid the jumbled collections piled in the half-light of the antechambers of the Byzantine basilica adjacent to the mosque. Like almost everything else here, the basilica was raised on Roman foundations. Foundations that the mix of script and symbols on these varied fragments suggest is probably underlain in turn by those of the people of Baal who came before.

Last night we made camp for the first time in the grounds of a hotel on the outskirts of town and this morning Mau and I sat drinking sweet mint tea in the café beside the mosque while waiting for the basilica's caretaker to admit us.

Emerging from the cool of the basilca's cloisters we climb the hill to the kasbah. From the kasbah's crenellated ramparts a panorama spreads from the white-washed walls and domes of Le Kef to the horizon which humps into the blued hills of the Algerian border twenty kilometers to the west.

On our way back to the truck our conversation with an old man walking his poodle is interrupted by the raucous clatter of a low flying helicopter. The old man shrugs his shoulders and gestures toward the hills of Algeria. "Security" he says, with what appears a modicum of disdain - but maybe that's just me...

A warm handshake from the old boy bids us farewell. We're southbound today, down the ribbon of asphalt that leads to the remains of the Roman settlement at Haidra. Haidra lies in much drier climes than these, but by the time we get there, the cyan haze of morning has greyed and threatens rain...

]]> evenstar Thu, 03 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=137 Dougga.

Superlative unbelievable awesomeness. Never seen anything like it. Had no idea. Totally, completely and utterly blown away.

Can you tell I was impressed?

Hell, yeah! I was so entranced I spent most of my time at Dougga staring in slack-jawed amazement. I soon found myself alone, unable to keep up with Mau and the rest of the group as they spread out, moving on to see it all. I couldn't do it...

I sat wide-eyed on the ruined portico of the Temple of Saturn, drinking in the panorama of verdant valleys spreading to blue infinity far below this eyrie. This is an inspirational site for a city and Dougga's "ruins" are magnificent and awe-inspiring still. How incredibly beautiful the living city must have been. Curse those bloody Vandals! Surely theirs were the most bitter and tiny of minds. I can't imagine why anyone would wreck something as glorious as Dougga at its zenith. Why didn't they just move in? Pffft! Dickheads.

I was the last one back to the truck and I didn't even see half of it. I wasn't ready to leave, but the time I was able to take was more than worth everything I missed...

]]> evenstar Wed, 02 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=136 I'm in need of a few new words.

I am wonderated...

Soaked in awe at the breadth of history beneath my feet.

I olfactinate...

Did these flowers bloom upon this hillside those three thousand years ago? When Elyssa girt this mount with cowhide, did this scent of yellow/violet fill her senses also? Did her hands need part this riotous garden to lay the cunning strips that found her empire?

Wow! I didn't expect this. I'm unprepared for such an emotional response to this place. Yeah, sure, as a kid I'd been fascinated by the Phoenicians, my imagination had been fired by the tale of Hannibal's epic feats and who doesn't have at least some interest in the accomplishments of the Empire of Rome? I'd never had an intense desire to visit the ruins of Carthage, though - not like I'd longed to see the Potala Palace in Lhasa.Yet as I stand here amid the ruins of Roman villas on the flanks of the hill called Byrsa I'm overwhelmed by the same incredible depth of feeling I experienced in the Tibetan capital.

It feels like I'm flying. It feels like I'm drowning. The sensation is a waveform that transmits the essence of mortality. A cycle of wondrous joy and awe that swoops to depths of sorrow and heartache. Wonder that such can be and sadness for its passing.

Below me now are the villas of this moment's rich and famous, their rooftops sprouting satellite dishes, their walls surmounted not with marble sculpture, but with the robot eyes of security cameras and antennae of automated entry systems. Just beneath their feet, underlying their patios and courtyards are the crumbled dreams of others who no doubt also thought their accomplishments everlasting.

I stand in a field of gold, my gaze reaching for the blue-washed prominence that rises toward heaven from the lake's far shore. The black maw of a broken tomb gapes amid the nodding flowers at my feet as the sunlight falls from a blue vault full of mare's tales. I'm frozen in the wonder of this moment. I feel somehow removed. As if my eyes are not my own, my vision a node in a web that stretches back across the ages to where someone else stands looking across the water from this hillside.


Here are histechoes...

On the narrow plain squeezed between the hill and ocean is a place where the voice of the wind sings a moaned lament. The song reflects and echoes from stone to stone beneath the pines. the The decaying arches that open to the darkness underground reflect, amplify and embellish the refrain until my ears are filled with cries and whispers.

Baal, what did you do?

Rising above the darkness of this eerie crypt is a blindingly white, sunlit wall holding aloft yet another of the satellite dishes via which our age worships more prosaic gods.

I wonder if the inhabitants of that whitewashed vibrant villa ever feel the presence of the children entombed in the shadow beneath their feet. Do they too have an ear for the voices that murmur among the stones of Tophet?

]]> evenstar Tue, 01 Apr 2008 04:00:00 +0100 http://dreamingtrack.com/applications/home/display.php?postID=135 Hi there loyal trackers - still with us?

We're really sorry about the lack of posts recently, but the pace of this trip and the dearth of laptop-friendly net cafés in this part of the world prevents us keeping you regularly updated.

At the time of beginning to write this post we were in Benghazi in Libya and Day 12 of our expedition had just drawn to a close. Day 12! We've seen so much and travelled so far it already feels as if we left Tunis months ago. Much has happened. Our expedition leader/driver George drove ten of us out of Tunis, but we're down to eight already. Kevin and Tanya had to leave us in Tripoli to fly back to Australia as Kevin's Mum is seriously ill. We miss you T&K and our thoughts are with you...

The same day that our friends received their sad news we had to take Mau to hospital for a flu that had resulted in infected tonsils. By that time we were in outback Libya in the town of Ghadames. Mau's consultation and treatment at the hospital were completely free of charge and the folks there wouldn't accept the donation we wanted to make either. They also supplied us with a course of penicillin and all the gear required to prep it for intra-muscular injection as well. All without charge. Can you imagine that happening in one of our countries?

Luckily Tanya is a nurse and administered the first few injections, but as she was flying out before the course was complete, yours truly had to pick up the slack. I now have a skill I'm loath to use. I can prepare and administer IM penicillin injections but let me tell you: I was shitting myself far beyond anything I've ever felt on the receiving end of a needle! I'm pretty sure Mau was more nervous than me though. Especially the first time, when the syringe jammed while I had the needle buried in her thigh! Mau's now feeling a lot better, but the damn flu hasn't departed yet. Martina from Switzerland boarded the trip with a flu as well and it has subsequently jumped to Nick, the other Australian on board, as well as our driver George, who doesn't have the luxury of retiring to a sleeping bag on the driving legs of the journey. (If you can call being sick as a dog and bouncing around in the back of a windy, dust-filled truck a "luxury".)

We've six more days in Libya before crossing the border into Egypt. Our first stop there will be El Iskandreya, better known to us as Alexandria, then it's down to Cairo and all the fabled sights of ancient Egypt. I really hope we've found a net café to post from before that, as we've quite a bit of catching up to do. To that end, there'll be a post a day from now until we've caught up to wherever it is we get to post this from.

We hope you're still with us and enjoy 'em!

Update: Alexandria March 31

Live blogging! (Almost.) This pic was taken a few moments ago here at Carlos' Shisha and internet café on the Alexandria waterfront. Thanks Margrete :)

The last week in Libya has been amazing. So has the weather. From Saharan sandstorm in Ghadames to pouring rain and freezing wind at the ruined clifftop Greek city of Cyrene. We've seen perfectly preserved Byzantine mosaics discovered on ancient church floors in the Green Mountain region where fields of luxuriant grain crops alternate with groves of fig, almond and newly flowering fruit trees. We've walked the dark subterranean hallways and lion cages beneath the circus of Leptis Magna and gazed across the Mediterranean from the heights of the theatre there.

We've walked among the graves of the brave who defended Tobruk and this morning tears again filled our eyes at the last resting place of so many of our countrymen who helped finally stem the tide of Rommel's Afrka Corps advance into Egypt. The sand and limestone of El Alamein still occasionally resounds to the blast of the abandoned ordinance that litters the battlefield, still claiming lives all these years later. Rommel had it right when he decried the "rivers of blood spilled over a narrow strip of land that in any other time even the Arabs would not bother with".

Now we sit here in the city of Alexander and Ptolemy, smoking shisha, writing instant letters home on our laptops, watching the traffic of the boulevard that separates us from the sea. It's a different world... ]]> evenstar Mon, 31 Mar 2008 04:00:00 +0100