I believe in Syria!

Elizabeth and Jason live in an 4th floor apartment on a pleasant leafy road in the embassy district, just off Rawda Road and nearby the Lotus Restaurant, which judging by a letter left on the side in the hallway is how the post is how addresses are written, presumably with the postie knowing who lives in what building? Elizabeth is studying in Damascus for a PhD on a Fulbright Scholarship and seems to be collecting research grants for fun. For the first weekend of my stay she goes to Beirut (just before the fighting beaks out in the Tripoli refugee camps) and Jason is host, showing me around. I'll end up staying here for almost three weeks, exploring the old city, applying (waiting ) for an India visa, watching two cup finals, and celebrating my 27th birthday with an 'interesting' trip to the baths.




Damascus Old City

With the Citadel to our left we enter the grand doorway through the old city walls, headng down Hamidiyeh Souq. We merge into the flow of human traffic, young men wandering with arms hooked over each others shoulders eager to show their friendship to young women linking arms, children in prams waving arms for attention, families walking tgether all enjoying eating ice-creams. Either side a panoply of cloths, spices, brass-craftsmen, hookah peddlers, bristling with energy and optimism for a sale, all under a domed roof.Taking a turn off the main thoroughfare down one of the side-streets, overhead the cover is removed and flags swoop across between buildings. Shops are organised into clusters selling particular items, such as sweets, or gold jewellry, or in some places household utilities and plastic toys. Posters of President Bashir Assad's image over the national flag are taped to most shop fronts, occasionally also a picture of Hasan Nasrallah or rarer still yet found in a few places a Lebanese Flag.

Ummayad Mosque

The masoleum for Salahuddin is a small building to the left as you enter the side of the complex. It's understated surroundings are surprising as the shrine itself is very ornate. From the masoleum its a short walk to the entrance of the courtyard, (we carry our shoes rathe than put them on again for these few steps.) Inside is marble-floored, oblong open space with three free-standing monuments, an ablution fountain, the octagonal Al-Mal (dome of treasury) and Al-Sa'at (Dome of Clocks).


The walls and arches are painted in gold and verdant paints showing leafy patterns and scenes. It might feel palatial, somewhere people silently move around in reverence admiring the achitecture and maintaining the air of assumed conventions of respect, however it's much more familial.

Groups of people sit in shady areas chatting whilst children have fun sliding and polishing the floor in their socks. Above a frustrated flock of birds zip around unwilling to chance diving down to the courtyard floor where a feast awaits of seeds, snacks left-over from people picnicking scattered underfoot.

The interior room near the clocks dome contains the shrine for Hussein, a shiite martyr of 8th Century Battle of Karbala whose head was taken by Caliph Ali and is supposedly kept here behind a silver-grilled box. It's certainly an attraction for visitors, some who maybe are pilgrims, with people having their photograph taken besides and others touching the grille, eyes shut in concentration and prayer.

The main hall of the mosque has overlapping crimson patterned carpets, some worn others looking as if newly laid. Men sit against walls, looking relaxed, contemplative, or some just tired, one arm resting on a bent knee, the other leg tucked beneath in a half-crossed position. One man is praying with a young boy watching closely and copying the movements for kneeling and bowing. A group of people sit in semi-circle listening to an older man to whok they alos appear to direct questions, behind them some kids are playing games jumping rope-chains and hiding behind pillars. In the middle of the hall is the shrine. According to written testimonies, whilst foundation works were underway centuries ago a basket was found containing a preserved head which was claimed to be that of the John the Baptist, which is now kept there.

FA Cup Final 2007 (Give me back my two and a half hours!!!)

Kick off is at 5pm local time. Jason's guidebook says the 5-Star Sheraton Hotel has an 'authentic British Pub complete with red pillar boxes'... well whatever, but it's a fair bet they'll be showing the match so lets go! The cab driver doesn't seem to know exactly where it is and although he drops us off nearby on a parallel road the place he directs us to a building where we're met by guards carrying guns... quick excuses later we're walking round behind to the correct building across the busy highway. Walking through the lobby, aware that our appearance and attire is perhaps not what is usual for patrons of this establishment we turn a corner and find what we're looking for. There's a large flat-screen TV behind the bar and deep-cushion chairs, we order a beer and settle down to watch. It's a dour game and after 60 minutes, despite Man Utd being the marginally better side it seems painfully likely this 0-0 snore-fest is going to extra-time. Just to rub it in Drogba scores in the 116th minute to deny penalties which had been the minor excitement I'd started to look forward to. The commentators say something about the long-walk, an architectural feature of the new Wembley stadium there are more steps to collect the trophy, relying on inane facts to enliven events... tell me Mottie, how many winning captains have had first names beginning with 'T'... no wait a minute, don't bother! On our way out we pass a woman dressed in a black evening gown who sits down at a grand piano in the lobby and starts to play what sounds like Beethoven... ah well now that's something you wouldn't get down the Whalley!

Elections - One Big Party

On the journey into Damascus posters portraying the Syrian President Bashir Assad on the background of the national flag seemed to be on posters and billboards lining the streets every 100 yards. Walking around the capital city there are banners, flags and posters everywhere, cars drapped in flags and windows covered with posters. The presidential elections for 2007-14 are being held and along with the posters and flags there are marquees and public events taking place all over the city with music, dancing, speeches and a lively atmosphere. At night some of the main roads are illuminated with golden lights wrapped around palm trees. Amongst the various election paraphrenalia two stand out for me, the brilliantly simple campaign slogan "I believe in Syria", and the massive picture in the main shopping boulevard of Bashir dressed in full Adidas tracksuit and trainers doing some gardening with the Adidas logo at the bottom. It may be a matter of contention whether he has been officially endorsed by the sports manufacturer, personally I don't think he'll be appearing in an advert alongside Beckham. The official public celebrations and partying last over a week until the results are announced, Assad gains 97.6% of the vote, impressive, though in the absence of any opposition candidate it seems a bit careless to drop 2.4%.

Mount Kaisson at Night

Together with Jason, Elizabeth and a woman she met at the museum, Aisha, we go to dine out on the hill. It's a winding taxi journey taken at the obligatory white knuckle speedto reach the summit. There are many similar roadside cafe and restaurants all with patios and tables with give panoramic views overlooking the city at night. From here it's possible to make out the towers of the old city mosque although it's easier to orientate using the major new buildings, the Blue Hotel and the Four Seasons.


Athens denied


Wednesday 23 May 2007, Champions League final kicks off in 45 minutes. I get a text from Ruth, although I don't recognise it at first as she's not given me her new mobile number, to ask if I'm watching the match and to fly the flag in Syria (figuratively speaking). We're back at the Sheridan, sipping the luxury import beers (i.e. a can of Carlsberg) and munching peanuts and rice-crackers. It's a tense game, having finished off the table snacks in the first half, my nails by 60 minutes, I'm nibbling my fingers as Inzaghi slots home Milan's second goal with only 10 minutes or so to go. A good friend, who self-confessed "learnt his lesson" two years ago, now starts the text-message lauding... he's right, pan-continental mocking makes it worse. At the weekend I speak with James who was in Athens on holiday with some friends for the final. They got to meet John Aldridge and Ian Rush, and someone spotted Ian Wright but no-one cared.

Film

DVDs of the latest movie releases are remarkably easy to get here and as such during my stay I watch a fair few films, including:

• Pirates of Caribbean II & III - amusing especially the Dali-esque surrealist scenes in third
• Spiderman III - superhero gets an ego problem
• Blades of Glory - another Will Ferrell outing of 'ironic' boufant chauvanism (good use of the kick in the groin gag though)
• Children of Men - implausible concept of world infertility pandemic with impressive cinematography
• and Hot Fuzz - kinda funny but a bit weak overall (more like luke-warm lint)

Very Intense Stressful Action (VISA) extension

I need to extend my initial 15-day tourist visa whilst waiting for my India visa to be processed. The Hijra wa Jawazet (Passport & Travel Office) makes the border visa process look like a pampered and effortless stroll in the park. Three floors, seven desks, application form for an extension in triplicate, buying a stamp at the 'office' outside the building, countersigned 3 times including once by an important looking military guy in a big yet sparsely furnished upstairs room surrounded by piles of paper he barely looks at as he marks and with a large tot of what looks suspiciously like scotch and water (but who's gonna question him?!) with many multicoloured badges and stripes on his left breast, and a trip to the closet backroom 'for the supervision of foreigners' which operates a card index system in dusty boxes, and finally submitting my passport and forms to be told I have to collect it tomorrow. The eventual stamp turns out to be illegible, Elizabeth, who speaks Arabic and without whom I don't know if I'd have ever figured out the system, cannot work out how long it is for or if it is a multiple entry and neither can anyone else we ask.

The Ugarits started it


After less than an hour we're out and thankful for a mercifully short experience. One plus is we're really close to the national museum. On the way we try a popular street snack at one of the many open-air shops, sponge cake soaked in watery syrup which sits on top of melted mozarella cheese in a big circular pan, the calorie count must be frightening but it's really good!


The museum entry is 150 Syrian Pounds [SYP] and has a gardened area dotted with benches and sculptures and to the right-hand side a cafe with wicker chairs, tree-stump tables and a thatched roof. The entrance hall has paintings on the walls from 20th Century artists showing particular not especially subtle interpretations of events in the Middle East, such as the 'Palestinian tragedy' with three ogre figures in the bottom left corner wearing hats bearing the national flags of Britain, USA, and Israel. Amidst the collections of pottery and artifacts of the ancient world, the wing to the east has exhibits extracted from Dura Europa close to the Iraq border in eastern Syria, including a fresco from the synagogue which has intricate and colourful depictions of biblical stories including Moses turning the Nile to blood and the test of Abraham's faith. In the west wing is the Alphabet of Ugarit stone (c.1400-1300 BC), the earliest known complete alphabet record anywhere in the world with 30 cuneiform signs inscribed left to right on a small tablet only about 2 inches by one inch.


Travel Plans


My intention had been to go to Lebanon, with the hope of doing volunteer work there helping refugees, also to see Baalbeck and Beirut. However, the escalation of fighting in the north, fingers being pointed at Syrian involvement to distract from or derail investigations into the assasination of the Lebanese PM Rafik Hariri in 2005, and the troubles in Gaza with an increasingly bellicose Israeli government maybe considering another summer' incursion' beyond the Litani River with the relevant approvals (go-aheads) from foreign governments, means a rethink.


The 'Silk Road' plan (missing out Afghanistan) is a contender but watching BBC world news is like playing conflict bingo - Lebanese Army intensifies efforts against entrenched militants, Iran threatened with UN sanctions following IAEA reports, bombings and riots in Pakistan, explosion in Hyperbad India - that's line! Actually, most conflicts or tensions are very localised (though Lebanon is definitely out for now) the real issue is administrative, getting visas. Going via Iran to Pakistan then India would require a minimum of one months wait whichever country I choose to apply at embassies. Finally I settle on India as the most plausible option, just need to find the embassy in Damascus...


UN-successful


Whilst searching for the Indian Embassy, I find the UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees - or Refugee Agency) office. Syria has an estimated 3 million refugees, mostly from Iraq, a large proportion living in camps near to the border. It seems there's a reasonable chance they'll have some information about volunteering opportunities to work with refugees in some capacity. However, after being told to return twice because there's no-one available to speak to, on my third and final trip, the guard acting as gate-keeper who also claims to be the receptionist after saying I can leave a CV eventually relents to my requests to speak with someone about volunteering e.g. which NGOs are working here, opportunities etc, and tells me to wait outside. 15 minutes later he emerges with a form, 'National Competitive Recruitment Examination 2001'. Maybe I'll just try the internet instead...

Palmyra - pillars and pancakes (29-30 May 2007)


The morning sun is already asserting it's presence and wavering lines of heat and dust hover in the distance above the cobbled road to the ruins. Inside the fort-walls the cella (temple) of Bel is set-back from the entrance and central, with various masonry and rubble clustered in a roughly organised manner around the interior. The stones seem ossified like ageing bone relics with facture lines scorched into furrows by desert winds, sun and sand, or else disintegrating slowly hollowing out columns and pillars like half-eaten Blackpool rock.





A main avenue runs between the temple and the Diocletan Camp fortress along which are numerous sites, including the market and roman baths, an amphitheatre which has been mostly preserved and restored, and occasionally a Bedouin man asleep in the shade against a pillar or otherwise inviting you to check out his trinkets and headscarves. In the centre is a raised platform with eight columns of which only one is original the rest constructed using rose-coloured cement, a feature which doesn't please some people wanting 'authentic ruins' but gives asense of what the monument would've been like (it's also a good vantage point to take a photo of the main archway.)


The ruins stretch out across the plains, following a roughly straight avenue, and wandering about gives a greater the sense of scale than the Pharonic temples at Kom Ombo or Erfu. At the far end, before the hillside rises to the fort, the raised platform at Diocletan's camp gives a view of the whole ruins which dazzles reflecting the midday-sun. It's getting far to hot to continue walking around so I head back to town looking for a place to eat.


A recommended place is the 'Pancake House', but it's not easy to find. I'm fortunate a young guy on a motorbike wearing an Argentina football shirt with 'Maradonna' on the back, offers me a lift (I'm only carrying a day-pack the rest is back in Damascus -I don't think it would've worked with back-pack and guitar). A short ride, weaving along back roads and dodging pedestrains, he drops me off at the restaurant. The savoury chicken pancake is excellent and afterwards my new friendly motorcyclist gives me a lift to the bus-station to catch a ride back to Damascus.




Birthday (Bath) Boy! (31 May 2007)


Hurray, it's my birthday, 21 years young!... honest... Ok, 27, but it's not the years it's the mileage, (speaking of which I wonder how may miles have been travelled so far?) anyway, last year I was in Bordeaux, drinking moonshine rum at a bar with a college friend and the Jamaican owner which seemed pretty exotic, what could I do this year to match that?...


Damascus is a good start, I wouldn't have guessed I'd be here, so I should try something that is a local experience - the Hamman Nur-ul Din is to the south of the Umayyad Mosque and is the oldest steam baths in Damascus. Inside a ticket-box man issues a shaving bag sized pouch to place my valuables in and locks them in an individual drawer behind him. Walking past a fountain an attendant indicates to remove my shoes and socks which he puts in another locker.


I'm wrapped in large, thin cotton towel and wearing out-sized wooden sole sandals, with a birds-nest fibrous sponge and soap block and a green plastic tag attached to my wrist with an elastic band. Inside the steam room you have to stoop to avoid the scoulding heat from standing straight. Around the main chamber are wash basins at knee-height with taps and metal bowls. Cleansing consists of lathering-up with soap and then using the bowls to pour water over yourself, although looking around the convention seems to be this is a two-man job with burly blokes soaping each others back.


Just as I'm pondering this, a large man strides over and checks my tag then signals for me to follow him outside the main steam room to a side-chamber. He indicates for me to lie on the floor as he dons an exfoliating mitten and proceeds to scrub my back and front, next sitting upright he covers me in soap suds and then using the metal bowl pours warm water over me. It's an odd baptismal feeling of being thoroughly cleaned. After all this he removes the wrist tag and slaps me on the shoulder with a smile and a nod to say "'that's how it's done", sure enough there's another man getting the same treatment in the opposite side chamber.


I'll be honest, it was a somewhat unnerving experience of being scrubbed by a big, hairy man whose language you don't know, especially as I had no idea this was what the green tag was for! But afterwards, sat is the relaxation room on cushioned seats drinking sweetened chai, wrapped up in fresh towels, I defintely felt invigorated. However, in response to friends with more furtive imaginations, I'm sorry to disappoint but I won't be holidaying with Dale Winton, in San Fransisco, wearing arse-less chaps, anytime soon... he's busy.

In the evening I meet up with Jason and Elizabeth and wander around quieter streets in the old city, stopping at a small bookshop to buy a inexpensive copy of Said's 'Orientalism'.


After a couple of drinks aty the Marmar Cafe and Oxygen, both pretty empty but interesting places, we go for a meal at Elissar Restaurant, a relatively expensive place set inside a decorative old building. We get a combinations of hors d'ouevres and dishes to share, the muhamurrah is my favourite, a spicey red-pepper houmous and white-cheese dip. We get a 5 SYP microbus ride back, all of us feeling pretty stuffed but with just enough room for a white russian to round-off the night - the dude abides.


Salaams Syria


Finally my India visa is processed. A morning and afternoon of searching travel agents and airline companies and I manage to find a fairly cheap flight from Damascus to Delhi, via Kuwait City. The night before we all go out for a farewell meal and afterwards a Barada beer at a small local bar that keeps a low profile. Thanks to Elizaebth and Jason who've been great hosts and friends, who I'm sorry to be leaving. But I'm heading onwards, swapping the hot days in Damascus for Delhi where the temperature is a mild 42 degrees, here goes....