Monday, 8 March: Thieves' bazaar and central square in Nasiriya

The drive from Basra to Nasiriya takes about two hours, through flat, open desert with little vegetation and few people. The road is well built and maintained - but we've been warned about frequent carjacking along it.

Life is hard along the parched road from Basra to Nasiriya

We drive quickly. As we enter Nasiriya, we cross a broad sweep of river and see date-groves, fresh and clean after the filthy canals of Basra.

We pass a vast shabby market, known as the thieves' bazaar, with piles of rusting scrap metal. Most of the goods on sale are second-hand, the scavenged wreckage of anything metal.

Men walk past with newly-acquired rusty pipes and joints over their shoulders. The mood is poor, down at heel and rough, a marked contrast with central Basra.

One person describes the difference to me in this way: Basra is a city of traders and entrepreneurs but the people of Nasiriya are basically farmers of land which has been drained to desert.

The people trying to restore order here are the police and the tribal leaders. The coalition leaders do nothing Abed Sabar

Fewer women are visible on the streets than in Basra and the few we see are heavily covered.

Nasiriya had a reputation in the 1960s and 1970s for being scenic and charming, with lush date groves, a desert oasis close to the then still-flooded marshes.

It is hard to imagine that now. There are still farms and of course, oil fields, but our abiding impression is of a hard, barren, dusty terrain barely supporting a hardened, frustrated people.

Hostile interruptions

We park in the centre of Nasiriya on the edge of an open square. The meagre traffic of shabby cars and men whipping small donkeys pulling carts swirls around a grassy roundabout, marked by an imposing black statue of a robed man on a plinth.

He is Nasiriya's most famous son - the political and religious leader Mohammad Sa'ed al-Habobi, who led a rebellion against the British in the 1920s.

The locals are eager to see the back of the coalition troops

We start talking to people. We find Salih Mehdi sitting quietly on a stool in his shop, reading a controversial book published in the 1990s about Iraqi history in the 14th Century. Our translator says the author was executed by Saddam Hussein and the book banned but still secretly circulated. Now Salih Mehdi can read it openly.

"We want conditions to be better in our new life than in the days of Saddam," he says. "But now the coalition forces are just as bad."

He is concerned about unemployment too - an issue raised by many people in Nasiriya. "So many Iraqi people now are out of work and selling things on the street corners," he says.

Back in the street, a crowd of young men gathers round us at once - and follows us throughout our time here. The mood generally is more hostile, aggressive and dissatisfied than in Basra.

Our interviews in public are often interrupted as angry onlookers give their own views, often fiercely critical, threatening ones. The men here seem quick to criticise and slow to say life has improved.

More money, more crime

Nasiriya's squalor is in stark contrast to the bustle of Basra

Abed'alkader Rehan admits things are better without Saddam but adds security is a constant problem.

"We don't want the coalition forces here any more," says Abed'alkader Rehan, as the men listening nod in agreement. "We want an Iraqi government... They've got rid of Saddam. There's no reason for them to stay."

In one quiet corner, looking out at the statue and roundabout, wooden benches have been set out and men are drinking tea, puffing on Arabic pipes and chatting.

We meet Abed Sabar as he sits with his tea, reading the newspaper. He describes himself as self-employed and soon echoes the views we're hearing here - that the standard of living has improved, people in work have better salaries and more goods but the insecurity undermines everything.

"Politics affects everyone's lives," he says. "We need stability so foreign companies will come and invest. It's in everyone's interests."

He has little time for the coalition forces. "The people trying to restore order here are the police and the tribal leaders," he says. "The coalition leaders do nothing."

Scores of newspapers flourish where last year, there were only two

The final word goes to Ajeel Jabar, 42, a stout man in spectacles who runs a newspaper and stationary stop. When we meet him, he is selling permit holders to police officers, newspapers to another customer and photocopying documents for a third.

He sums up the concerns. "The standard of living has improved but conflicts and crime have increased," he says.

"But we all have freedom now which we didn't before."

He sweeps his hand dramatically along the row of newspapers neatly lining his counter. "Before, we only had two newspapers and they were controlled by the government. Now there are so many - and every one of them can express views."

Tuesday, 9 March: Petrol station on the way to Basra

As we prepare to leave Basra, we decide to investigate en route the long, conspicuous queues we have seen every day for petrol.

We stop at a queue of almost 300 vehicles. British soldiers are there with armoured vehicles, supervising the petrol station, as are the Iraqi police.

One British soldier tells me they have been called in as back-up because when queues are so long, fights can break out, especially if someone tries to jump the queue.

The soldiers confirm what our own drivers have told us - that there is no shortage of petrol, but rather, there is a paucity of petrol stations. Just three, for example, supply this whole section of Basra. The whole system is also antiquated and desperately needs upgrading.

Police at petrol stations try to stop frustration boiling over

As we waited, we saw two men with jerry cans try to talk their way to the front of the line.

One soldier gave them permission, another angrily turned them back and an argument breaks out. They finally return to the back of the queue, disappointed and grumbling.

We meet taxi driver, Akeel Hamid Darwesh, bearded with traditional headdress, creeping finally to the petrol pumps in his rusty, battered old taxi. He says he has been waiting since 0630 that morning - a total of four and a half hours.

How can he earn a living, he complains, if he has to spend the whole morning sitting in a queue?

The only good news is that when they do finally get petrol, it is very cheap - about 60 to 70 litres to $1.

Read previous diary instalments: