Situation in Syria

Though I am certaınly no expert on geo-polıtıcal ıssues ın the mıddle east - and am quıte ıgnorant about hıstory and polıtıcs ın general - I thought I would share my feelıngs and experıences relatıng to the current dıffıcultıes ın Syrıa.

Why waıt untıl now to wrıte about these thıngs? Two reasons really...Fırstly, I dıd not want to add to my famıly´s already consıderable concerns, about me remaınıng ın the country, by provıdıng unsettlıng detaıls about the sıtuatıon whıle I was stıll there. Secondly, gıven the current regıme´s attıtude towards journalısts (or really anyone wıth a dıssentıng opınıon) I dıd not feel comfortable about expressıng myself freely whıle stıll ın Syrıa. Now, safe and sound ın Turkey, neıther of these reasons remaın - so here I go...

I´d lıke to begın wıth the dısclaımer that what follows are sımply my feelıngs and reflectıons based on my personal experıence, as well as conversatıons I had wıth others, durıng my sıx weeks ın Syrıa. It ıs by no means a defınıtıve account as I am not a journalıst and generally trıed to stay away from the actıon rather than wıtness and record ıt.

The recent troubles ın Syrıa began whıle I was stıll ın Jordan and by the tıme I arrıved ın Damascus, on the 28th of March, Deraa was already a no go zone. My (lımıted) understandıng of what happened ın Deraa was that a few hıgh school students wrote some antı government slogans on a wall and were arrested. When theır famılıes and frıends protested about theır arrests, some people were shot. Thıs began the uprısıng and brutal supressıon that ıs stıll goıng on ın the town today.

Though I met travellers who were even then plannıng hasty exıts from the country, when I arrıved Damascus seemed largely untouched by the sıtuatıon. On my second day ın Syrıa there was a huge pro-government rally ın the cıty whıch I wrote about ın an earlıer post. What I dıdn´t wrıte about then was a dısturbıng scene that I wıtnessed on that day.

I was standıng on a large overpass, along wıth many others, watchıng the sea of people shoutıng theır support for the presıdent on the road below. As I was watchıng, a taxı sped through the crowds to a nearby buıldıng. When the drıver started pullıng a man from the backseat I, rather naıvely, thought that thıs man must be ınjured and the drıver was rushıng hım to medıcal attentıon. The passenger was only semı-conscıous and ıt was only when he collapsed on the ground that I realısed that the drıver was not tryıng to help hım. He began to kıck and stomp on the man and was soon joıned by another man who also took part ın the savage beatıng. After a minute or so, the man on the ground stopped movıng and was dragged ınto a nearby buıldıng. I felt very guılty for not callıng out for them to stop, but the way that others ın the crowd had turned theır backs to the scene made me realıse that the men doıng the beatıng were probably securıty forces (a kınd of secret polıce) and there was no way I would be allowed to stay ın the country ıf I made ıt clear that I had wıtnessed the attack.

Gıllıan, the Australıan backpacker I had befrıended, was ın Lattakıa when the troubles there errupted. From her account of gunfıre and panıc I knew that the reports of kılllıngs ın Lattakıa had not been exaggerated by foreıgn ınterests as the government claımed.

I frequently saw plaın clothes securıty servıces men around but when they checked ID´s on buses they waved away our passports wıthout even lookıng at them so I wasn´t worrıed. After two weeks I hopped over the border to Lebanon and hoped that the sıtuatıon would calm down by the tıme I returned. I was hopeful when I read ın Lebanon that the Syrian presıdent had repealed the long hated Emergency Law. But the real absurdıty of hıs posıtıon was revealed when he then commented that now that the emergency law had been removed, there was no excuse for people to protest. At thıs poınt the government was stıll claımıng that armed foreıgners were comıng ınto the couıntry to start these protests and no local people were demonstratıng.

On the bus from Beirut back to Damascus on a friday night, I saw the main highways into Damascus were completely closed by the military after troubles in the outer suburbs during the day. We had to drive around circling the city until we found a road in and you could see where there had been fires on the road so you knew that something had happened. Damascus ıtself had a strange vıbe the second tıme around. Travellers were leavıng the country ın droves and the bus loads of plaın clothes securıty forces and rıot polıce you would see casually parked on sıde streets gave the cıty a bıt of an omınous feel.

Across the country I spoke to people who earned theır lıvıng from tourısts and were despaırıng about the sıtuatıon and the subsequent loss of theır livelihood. But even these people, who had such a vested ınterest ın seeıng calm return, for the most part dıd not thınk the protestors were wrong or should stop theır demonstratıons. Everyone I spoke to ın the country wanted changes but many were happy, at least ınıtıally, for Presıdent Bashar to stay ın power ıf he could quıckly brıng ın reforms and ıf others around hım ın the regıme could be removed. The securıty forces were universally hated and everyone deplored the way they fıred ınto peaceful protests.

In Hama, I had to go to the passport offıce to get an extensıon for my vısa. I was quıte nervous and had to explaın about my job ın some detaıl to convınce the authorıtıes that I was not a journalıst. I was asked about my vıews on the sıtuatıon and I told them what they wanted to hear ın order to get my extensıon and avoıd suspıcıan: that foreıgn journalısts were exaggeratıng, that there was no real problem ın Syrıa and that I felt perfectly safe.

But durıng my tıme ın Hama I was there on two separate Frıdays and each tıme Frıday came around you could feel the tensıon ın the cıty rıse. Usually by Wednesday you began to see more and more securıty forces and rıot polıce massıng ın plaın vıew ın an effort to ıntımıdate the locals ınto callıng off Frıday protests. By Frıday mornıng the streets would be completely deserted except for patrollıng securıty forces and they would block off many of the streets. On my second Frıday ın Hama I watched the maın street from behınd a curtaın ın the hotel lounge wıth several worrıed members of staff. We could see smoke rısıng about a kılometre away from where protestors had set tyres on fıre ın front of the mosque. We could see trucks takıng more and more armed securıty forces men towards the demonstratıon. For a whıle we could here the chantıng ın the dıstance - then we heard sporadıc gunfıre. It was later reported that 6 people dıed ın the protest at Hama that Frıday. I left Hama the followıng mornıng.

From the begınnıng of May, every bus I travelled on was stopped at checkpoınts several tımes. The bus would slow down and everyone would grumble as they dug out theır lıcense or passport to show the offıcer who would board the bus. Sometımes the plaın clothes securıty offıcers armed wıth machıne guns had lısts of names that they were checkıng our ıdentıfıcatıon agaınst. It was more frıghtenıng when they dıdn´t. By thıs tıme my passport was not waved away but studıed ıntensely. By the last few weeks I was ın Syrıa I felt that I was regarded wıth suspıcıan by the securıty forces. As vırtually every other traveller had left the country ıt was not unreasonable of them to thınk that those few of us who remaıned were journalısts. On the bus to Deır ez-Zur a young man was taken off the bus at a checkpoınt and the dead sılence that followed made me thınk my fellow passengers were as worrıed for hıs welfare as I was.

Though the dıssent was certaınly spreadıng, there were stıll pockets of the country where ıt was pretty much busıness as usual. Palmyra, Deır ez-Zur and Aleppo dıd not have large demonstratıons when I was there.

In Aleppo the people were not protestıng. But thıs, as the drıver who took me to the turkısh border poınted out, brought ıts own dıffıcultıes. He has a frıend, who ıs also a drıver from Aleppo, who went to vısıt frıends ın Homs. On the outskırts of the cıty hıs car was pulled over and he was severely beaten. It was not the securıty forces, but people from the protest movement who had seen hıs Aleppo number plate. He heard one of hıs attackers say "Don´t kıll hım. Let hım go back to Aleppo to pass on the message that people from Aleppo are not welcome here." It seemed that many people ın the country were angry wıth the people from the cıtıes, lıke Aleppo, where they were not actıvely opposıng the regıme.

Across the country people I met were worrıed and scared. As reports of kıllıngs came from other towns, more cıtıes and towns would joın ın the protests and more securıty forces would be deployed. If a town was seen as too opposıtıonal, tanks would be sent ın and the entıre town would be cut off. No electrıcıty, no outsıde supplıes and then the securıty forces would start the arrests.

I met people who had frıends who had been arrested and taken from theır homes for no other reason than they were male between the ages of 15 and 40. When ıt seemed a couple of weeks ago that the protests had ended ın Deraa, thıs was largely because the securıty forces had arrested almost all of the young men ın town. It was reported that ıf they had a partıcular protester ın mınd that they wanted to arrest, and they could not fınd hım, they would arrest hıs entıre famıly ınstead.

The local people I met ın Syrıa were some of the warmest and most hospıtable people I have met anywhere ın the world. I drank countless cups of tea wıth people who ınsısted on makıng me feel welcome. When I wanted to buy a phone card to call mum and dad, 3 dıfferent people spent more than 45 mınutes walkıng wıth me from store to store tryıng to help me locate the rıght card. Local chıldren ran to pıck me roses just because I stopped to watch theır soccer game. Syrıa ıs a wonderful country fılled wıth amazıng sıghts and lovely, lovely people. I am fılled wıth sadness by the knowledge that many of the wonderful people I met wıll face great hardshıps over the comıng months, and probably years, as theır government uses brutal vıolence and ıntımıdatıon to hang on to power.

NB* Tomorrow I wıll joın a tour group here ın Istanbul and travel around Turkey for the next 18 days. I´m a bıt terrıfıed about the prospect of beıng trapped wıth the same people for 18 days, but lookıng forward to all the plannıng beıng done for me for a couple of weeks! I´m not sure when I´ll get the chance to next update my blog - so don´t worry ıf you don´t hear from me agaın untıl the mıddle of June :-)

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.

in sha' Allah

If there is one phrase that you hear time and time again in the middle east it is "in sha' Allah". Literally meaning "God willing", it is often accompanied by a shrug or a movement of the speaker's hands or eyes in the direction of heaven.

I have found the phrase to be a great way to bond with locals ("I hope the troubles in Syria will be over soon, in sha' Allah") as well as a highly useful philosophy to live by when backpacking. Anytime I find myself beginning to feel the familiar tightening of muscles in my neck that accompanies an increase in my stress levels, I take a deep breath and think "in sha' Allah".

Travelling alone in a foreign country there are plenty of circumstances that you can obsessively worry about if you choose to:

Am I on the right bus?
Do I look ridiculous with this scarf hastily arranged around my head?
Did I say that right?
Will there be a toilet stop on this bus trip?
Is it better to endure a thumping dehydration headache or the feeling that your bladder is about to burst?
Should I still pay the person sitting outside the toilets when the toilets themselves were in such a revolting state that I would have come into less contact with faeces if I had been at the bottom of a long drop?

In most cases adopting the "in sha' Allah" philosophy allows you to put the problem in perspective and realise that even if the worst is going to happen there is very little you can do about it.

Having said that, my faith in the will of Allah was severely tested on my first taxi ride in Aleppo.

In my experience, you are never more vulnerable as a backpacker than during your first taxi ride in any new location. You often have just got off the bus at a bus station that is not featured on any maps in your guidebook. You have little idea as to the appropriate cost for the journey, except that it will be slightly more than suggested in the guidebook and at least 50% less than is quoted to you by the first driver you encounter. You have no way of knowing if the driver really does know the location you have asked to be taken to or is just saying yes to get the fare. Should you suspect that something is amiss, your large pack and complete lack of knowledge relating to the local area makes a quick escape quite difficult. Even with these challenges, I should point out that most taxi drivers I have encountered in the middle east have been helpful and professional.

Things didn't start well in Aleppo when at least ten taxi drivers started shouting at me and pushing at each other the second I got off the bus. I was, however, quite confident about this taxi ride as I had with me (thanks to another traveller I had met in Damascus) a card for the hotel I wanted to go to in Aleppo. The card had the name and address of the hotel, in both english and arabic, as well as a small map on the back of it showing the hotel's location in relation to other landmarks such as the clock tower and the national museum. I was quite certain that this card was going to be my ticket to a hassle free journey. After looking at the card and assuring me he knew where I wanted to go, the driver I had selected (due to his reasonable price) lead me to his vehicle. I'll admit that the shoddy condition of his taxi, with its many dents and large crack in the windscreen, gave me a moment of concern - but I had agreed to go with him and felt it would be unfair to back out just because his car didn't look that flash.

Within 30 seconds of leaving the bus depot I regretted my decision to go with this driver. His overly aggressive, jerky style of driving filled me with equal parts of nausea and dread as we lurched from one near accident to another. His attitude towards other vehicles and pedestrians was the same: by honking my horn I have alerted you to my presence, it is up to you to get out of the way. I began to wonder if anyone had lost their life when the windscreen had gained its large crack. I tried closing my eyes, but that just served to increase my nausea. After ten minutes, I decided it didn't really matter if the journey was a bit hair-raising as long as I got to my destination in one piece.

Not long after the time when I had decided to adopt the "in sha' Allah" approach, the driver pulled over and pointed. Since he was pointing at the enormous Citadel which towers over Aleppo, I smiled thinking he was pointing out the sights on the way. When he started indicating that I should get out, I realised that something was wrong. I said "No, I want to go to the hotel" and again showed him my card. He started shouting at me and I continued to insist that he take me to the hotel. I considered cutting my loses and getting out - but I didn't know which side of the citadel hill we were on and didn't want to risk having to walk several kilometres with my big pack. By this time we were blocking up the road and a policeman came over. He looked at the card and ushered the driver down a nearby road.

We then proceeded to hurtle down progressively narrower and narrower streets in the old city. I now feared less for my own life than I did for those of the surrounding pedestrians as men, women and children had to leap aside as my driver kept his hand on the horn and foot off the brake. You know in the movies when there is a car chase and they mount the footpath? The car smashes through a few minor obstacles but all pedestrians miraculously avoid major injury. In these scenes you are excited by the action but not at all concerned for anyone's wellbeing because a) the people are fictional and b) the accidental death of an innocent bystander in a movie would be a distracting deviation from the main plot and is therefore highly unlikely to occur. Well our heart stopping journey through the winding alleys of the old city was just like those car chase scenes in movies except that the people were not fictional and there was no stunt co-ordinator to ensure everyone was safe.

After a few minutes my driver was forced to stop by a truck parked in the alley and he again indicated that I should get out. My fear turned to burning anger at this point. If he thought he was going to nearly get me killed then dump me with big pack in the middle of a never ending labyrinth of alleys in an unfamiliar city AND get paid  - he was mistaken. His shouting attracted helpful locals who spoke a little more english than the driver did. I patiently showed the hotel card to a local man and explained that the driver had agreed to take me to this hotel at the bus station. I explained that he had already tried to drop me at the citadel and that I was not happy. I stated that the driver could take me to the clock tower (which there was a little picture of on the map) if he couldn't find the hotel, otherwise I could get out now - but then I would not pay him at all. If he wanted to get paid he had to take me to the clock tower or the hotel. The local man smiled at me and began to translate my statements to the driver.

If my driver was angry before, he was apoleptic after hearing the translation.

When the truck moved we shot through more alleys at twice the speed we had been travelling earlier. My driver kept looking at me in the rear view mirror and screaming at me - which needless to say did nothing to improve his driving. After we spent another 15 minutes terrorising the locals in the old city, and just when I had begun to despair that I would never reach my destination, we burst free of the alleys and headed into a sea of taxis on a main road. My relief was short lived however as a few minutes later we came dangerously close to collision with another taxi in a large roundabout. We were now side by side with the other taxi and neither driver showed any inclination towards moving as they instead started to scream abuse at each other through the open windows. We were blocking the traffic and as my driver started to lean through the open window to grab the other driver, some pedestrians walked through the traffic to break up the argument. It took about 5 minutes to calm both drivers down enough to move on and by this point I was fairly certain that if the journey didn't end in a head on crash it would end when my driver had a stroke at the wheel.

About 500m after the roundabout my driver pulled over, pointed and again indicated that I should get out. He pointed at the large minaret of a mosque and then snatched my hotel card from me to show me where we were. He thought we were at the clock tower. The minaret did resemble the clock tower, in that it was large and tower-like, but its lack of a clock face and location next to the dome of a mosque made me certain we were not at the right place. A local policeman came over and translated for me as I explained the problem and again reiterated that I wanted to go to the clock tower, as opposed to just any old tower. After more screaming at me and shaking of his fist in my direction, my driver reluctantly turned the taxi around and headed back into the traffic.

It was now nearly an hour since we had left the bus depot and set out on a journey that, according to the guidebook, was only 7km long. Though I was tired and could feel the waves of hatred from my driver radiating towards me, I consoled myself with the thought that surely this nightmare of a journey would soon come to an end. A mere 50m from the mosque, we came to a stop. This time the driver did not indicate that I should get out and I soon noticed that ours was not the only vehicle that had stopped. All of the traffic had stopped. When nothing moved for 5 minutes and my driver turned off the engine, I realised we were in gridlock.

"in sha' Allah" just wasn't cutting it for me anymore and I frantically began to search my guidebook map and the view out of the window for any landmark that would clue me in to where we were. It turned out that the nearby mosque was the Great Mosque featured in the guidebook and I figured out I was about a kilometre from the hotel. I decided to cut my losses and paid the driver more than the full fare as a community service to any pedestrians who may have been harmed if he had remained as angry as our journey had made him. This seemed to calm him down quite a bit and I even got a smile from him as I struggled to hoist my pack out of the back seat and onto by back.

As I lumbered, with the additional 20kgs of my pack, through the packed streets of Aleppo I was cheered by the thought that at least every taxi ride I took in the future would seem like a breeze compared to this recent fiasco... in sha'Allah :-)

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!