Back to reality.

After the better part of a month in the beautiful Middle East I'm back to reality in beautiful Melbourne.

Thanks for all the people who followed my adventures. 

Journalist Raelene Wilson from the Manningham Leader has used some of my images and some quotes from the blog in her story about the death of Pope Shanuda III. Check it out here.

Pyramid scheme.

Cairo, Egypt.

Today was my last full day in Egypt, so I set off to the pyramids.

You all know that they are great, so I’m not going to bother to tell you how great they are, except to say that they are great.

What is less known about the pyramids of Giza is that they sit smack bang in the middle of a Cairo suburb.

There is a metro station there. The romance of visiting the pyramids is kind of lost when you jump on a 7am train, packed with office workers, to get there.

When you do get there the fist thing you notice, except for how huge the things are, is how much damage the revolution in Egypt has done to the local tourism industry.

As I was leaving the site I estimated that 20% of the people there were touts. And they were fierce, you couldn’t turn around with out having a little sphinx or plaster pyramid shoved in you face.

The poor bastards were desperate.

My tour guide wasn’t too worried though; this probably has something to do with the amount of hash he smokes. At one stop of our tour, he rolled a joint the size of my index finger. It couldn’t have been much later than 10 in the morning.

On my way home that afternoon a young guy approached me in the street and asked me if “Tahrir Square was good or bad?” He was talking about the revolution. I told him that I thought it was good, but it had scared off all the tourists.

He wanted to know when the tourists would come back. I told him I had no Idea.

Anyway the pyramids are fantastic, everyone should come and see them.

Yep, they look just like they do on TV. 

Totally amazing.

Tourists pose, holding the sphinx's head.

Tourists; ready for anything.

Funeral for a Pope.

Cairo, Egypt

The Pope of the Coptic Church died the same day I arrived in Cairo. Pope Shenouda III, or “Baba Shenouda” as the locals called him, seems to have been a very respected man. 

“I love him, even though I am a Muslim” said the lady at the front counter of my hotel. She also asked me if I cried. I din't cry, I did get lost on the way home though.

I must have missed the funeral proper. By the time I’d made my way to St. Mark’s Cathedral in Cairo’s Abbasiya district, the coffin had already left. There were still hundreds of mourners, and heaps of security.

On the way to the Church I passed helmeted riot police, soldiers and an APC.

The APC was a slightly worrying sign. I remember seeing one just like it on the news months ago; charging at Coptic protesters.

The mood was calm. I didn’t see any scuffles or problems of any kind. The riot police looked pretty bored for the most part. There were kids selling posters with the Pope's face on it. 

A local dude approached me with a stack of pamphlets and asked me if I’d accepted Jesus into my heart. I told him I had. He was wrapped to hear it.

“Very good, God bless you” he said, stuffing a pamphlet into my hands. It was written in Arabic. Great, I thought, I don’t have to read it.

When I made it into the church, there were people clambering at the alter. They were lining up to wipe tissues and flowers on the chair where Baba Shenouda’s body had been on display. They would then kiss the tissues and hold them to their face.

Outside the church a young dude told me that some believe that these tissues might grant miracles or heal the sick.  

I should have grabbed one. You never know. 

Army dudes.

Two nuns leave the church. 

Police officers. 

The riot squad.

Copts on the top of the gate leading into the Cathedral.

The loss was too much for this woman.

The faithfull scramble to touch the chair.

The main gate was locked on my way out. People were still squeezing in to pay their respects.

Last Stop. Cairo.

Cairo, Egypt

Flying, even a very short distance, with a hangover is horrible. But when the tickets are booked and flight is paid for you just gotta get on the plane.

My last night in Israel was spent in Tel Aviv. It was a big night and it resulted in an equally big hangover.

Anyway, following two short flights and a tedious and nauseous stop over in Jordan, I arrived in Cairo.

The next day was a write-off, I’ve been holidaying pretty hard, so I thought I’d better take a day off.

Today, however, it’s back to holidaying, so I hit the streets.  Fist stop was the Egyptian Museum, no cameras allowed so if you want to see a bunch of amazing relics you’ll have to google them.

Next stop, Tahrir Square then the bazar.  

I had seen a report on Al Jazeera about young revolutionaries painting murals on the walls near the site of the protests and I wanted to check it out for myself. 

Like other parts of this trip, it's been a strange to stand in a place that has had so much recent media. I found myself recognising parts of a city that I've never visited, and until recently, had no real concept of. 

I still managed to get lost on the way back to my hotel. 

Tomorrow, the Pyramids.

Graffiti near the square.

The National Democratic Party building burnt out behind the Egyptian Museum. 

Girls walk past Tahrir Square.

More graffiti goes up near the square.

An old bloke sits by the bazar with his prayer beads.

Cairo's streets at night.

Jesus loves you; everyone else thinks you’re an annoying tourist.

Jerusalem

I wish I could remember more about the death of Jesus. I should know my gospel stories back to front having gone to both a Catholic primary and high school. 

The knowledge would have come in quite handy when walking the Via Dolorosa, or as I remember it; The Stations of the Cross.

For those of you who didn’t benefit from 12 years of Catholic education, this is the path on which Jesus carried his cross.

The path leads you though the Old City to various Churches that have been built on the different stations.  After following the path you end up at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, constructed on the area where Jesus was crucified.

As you could imagine the place is teeming with tourists and pilgrims. It’s quite a spectacle. 

There is a team of Franciscan monks who's job it is to keep the faithful under control. They have a sort of harried look about them, and have a hell of a time keeping snap-happy tourists out of the way of the official religious goings on inside the church.

Like the rest of Jerusalem, this place is totally fascinating. 

On the Via Dolorosa

Monks lead prayers through the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Out side the church.

People praying on the slab that Jesus was anointed on, after his death.

People queue to get into the site of Jesus's burial.

Tourist shops outside the church sell all kinds of amazing stuff.

The Holy Land.

Jerusalem, Israel

After landing at Amman airport from Beirut, the aim of the game was to get to the Israeli border with the minimum of fuss, and with any luck the minimum of cash.

I failed on both accounts. So begins the battle of the cab drivers.

At this point I’m traveling with Caroline from the US of A. So after I pump myself full of coffee, and we collect our bags we stick out thumbs out for a cab.

The first guy who pulls up quotes us 60 Jordanian Dinars (US$84) to get us to the border. No way. Too much.

The next guy tells us he can get us there for 20 JDs , but he’s not an official “Airport Taxi” so he’ll pick us up from a hotel down the road.

So we jump in an official cab, and direct the driver to the hotel. Our man is no fool. He knows exactly what is going on, strait away; he is on the phone yelling in Arabic.

The only words I can pick out are “Transit” “Hotel” and “Border”. There is some trouble ahead, we have bent the rules.

As it turns out, there are two kinds of taxi ; Airport and Amman. The Airport guys take you from the airport to where ever you need to go. The Amman guys, on the other hand, can only take you from the city.

We end up at the hotel, five minutes from the Airport with the two cab drivers yelling at each other. A cop arrives tries to calm them down. Great.

Eventually we offer the official cab 30Jd to take us to the border. All is well, but we should have just taken the bloody bus.

After a 40-minute drive, we are there.

The border is unassuming. There is the occasional guard tower with a .50 cal machine gun, some barbed wire but otherwise it’s noting too special.

Our bags are x-rayed to within an inch of their life, passports are stamped, forms are filled out and that’s it.

Welcome to Israel.

You wouldn’t know it, but you drive through the West Bank on your way to Jerusalem.

Jerusalem is great; once you get past the tourist kitsch of the old city there is heaps to see. After getting lost in the maze of old narrow streets and alleys I stumbled upon the Jew’s holiest site, the Western Wall.

It’s a great place to people watch. Filled with soldiers, Hassidic Jews and crawling with tourists; it’s quite a site.

The Jaffa Gate to the Old City.

A soldier with his family.

The wall of the Old City.

Tourists at the Western Wall.

There is a pile of kippahs for tourists who want to approach the wall.

Tourists.

The Jewish quarter of the Old City.

The Islamic Quarter. 

Young Israeli soldiers pose for a photo by the Western Wall.