The Road to Damascus

From Antioch to Aleppo

On the bus from Antakya (biblical Antioch) in Turkey to Aleppo in Syria I was seated next to an Afghani bloke in his early twenties who spoke passable English. Meydani was studying in Istanbul but returning to his parents' home in Saudi Arabia for a few weeks and we were deep in conversation by the time the bus stopped at the Syrian border for passport control. Shade from the sweltering Syrian sun was close at hand in a large hall where tens of people queued at perspex windows to have their documents stamped - if queuing isn't too deliberate a work for something that involves groups of sweaty, hairy men elbowing and jostling for the attention of indifferent officials.

On producing his passport, Meydani was promptly swept away behind closed doors by two soldiers for questioning. Always the same at this border he said, once they see his Afghani passport. In the dimly lit room at the back of the building one soldier sat behind a desk, his face illuminated by the light falling from a small desk lamp. This one never stopped examining the pages of Meydani's passport, all the time firing off the questions. The other officer sat in a darkened corner beyond the lamp-light, saying nothing but never once moving his eyes from the interviewee. What did they ask him? When he was last in Afghanistan, how often he prayed, how often he went to the mosque, if we was a member of any religious groups. The secular Syrian dictatorship seems as concerned about Islamists as does the West.

At Aleppo bus station Meydani and I set off to find a hotel. As he struggled with what seemed to be one hundred hand-held bags I helped out with a small red suitcase at his feet. For half an hour we burned under the searing afternoon sun, lumbering along dirty, broken footpaths as we searched for suitable digs. After some hard bargaining at the reception desk of a centrally located dive we ended up sharing a twin room. I dropped my mule-pack on my bed and set the red suitcase in the middle of the room before hitting the shower.

Once settled into the hotel room we went our separate ways; Meydani to meet up with friends and i to explore the town. I spent a couple of hours visiting the citadel that dominates Aleppo from a hilltop in the centre of the city. Vast fortifications set behind the dusty remains of a deep defensive moat; a huge sandstone bridge crosses this gulf and dwarfed the slow trickle of visitors, whose exposed reddening skin seemed to glow like blisters under an unremitting sun. Later i visited the leafy Christian sector and was somewhat surprised to find a vibrant community centred around a grand cathedral and churches. Clearly this was the most affluent neighbourhood in central Aleppo.

Matyrs' Day in the Aleppo Souk

The next day was Martyr's Day; a national holiday in honour of Arab rebels executed by the Ottoman Turks. I had expected fireworks and demonstrations to mark the occasion - a real, live sample of the "angry Arab street" that the tv never tires of boring us with. Instead it was a rather sedate affair marked by some numbingly boring political speeches on the tv. Much of the city was closed to mark the occasion but the souk was still busy. Here i met Mohammed, a twenty year old university student, who was fronting his father's fabrics stall during the national holiday.

While i chatted with Mohammed a newspaper salesman came by bawling the news. Mohammed eagerly purchased an A4 sized sheet for a few pennies and smiled broadly as he quickly scanned the poor quality print. A Presidential decree on Martyrs Day he beamed. Compulsory military service was reduced from three years to one and a half years. Mohammed - who had yet to do his service - was delighted. He was desperate to avoid service and had looked into a number of ideas that might excuse him - including undertaking to teach Arabic in Africa for two years after graduation. The army officers were, he declared, dogs; worse than dogs; animals; no, worse than animals. They treat the conscripts like shit, they beat them, humiliate them, do everything they can think of to break their spirit. To crush them. Yikes i thought, no holding back there then.

However despite his extreme loathing of the military Mohammed had not a bad word to say about "President" Assad. Same story for every Syrian i spoke to. The furthest any would venture, and it was a line I would hear over and again, was "Nobody's perfect". It seemed to be a sort of code. Nobody risks saying a word against the regime. Its too dangerous. You never know who might be listening or to whom your words might - even innocently - be repeated. The Mukhabarat secret police are rumoured to be everywhere; in the cafes, in the souks, in plainclothes, they could be one of your friends. Best not to say anything that could land you in an interrogation room. After all, nobody is perfect.

Mohammed's stall seemed to be something of a reference point for Westerners in the souk. An excellent command of English and easy going nature make him an ideal local contact. But what surprised me most was the curious number of gay people dropping by to say hello. Both foreign couples and Western-Syrian couples. Australian queens, South African lesbians, French, Swedish etc. This was at some remove from my expectations and the guide book's warnings about attitudes to homosexuality in the region. Mohammed railed against the guide books and uninformed Westerners who were prejudiced against Syrians. There was he said a vibrant homosexual scene in and around the Aleppo souk and the surrounding hamams. And, thinking about it later, it's not that surprising. In Syria it is common for male heterosexual friends to stroll about town holding hands or linking arms. And then there are the hamams, where the otherwise rigid inhibitions of society are casually cast aside in an all-male environment. Nonetheless a gay scene in the Aleppo souk was an eyeopener on the lives lived beneath the conservative social veneer seemingly cloaking every aspect of public life in the Middle East.

Drugs Mule

The next day I was to leave Aleppo for the quieter town of Hama. Meydani offered to show me where the bus station was and to organise my bus, tickets etc in Arabic. So i loaded up and headed out the door. Out on the street i noticed that the red suitcase had been moved for the first time in two days as Meydani swung it by his side. Must be connected to the errand he was running i thought distractedly.

At the station Meydani quickly discovered a bus that was leaving in ten minutes, bought my ticket and and hurried me to the bus. Here i unloaded my backpack and handed it to the attendant to be stowed in the compartment underneath the bus. As the attendant swung back from under the door of the luggage compartment Meydani handed him the red bag. I looked at him puzzled. Had i misunderstood, was he also going to Hama?? No. So what was he doing with the bag? Through patchy english he told me that he was putting the bag on the bus for me to take to Hama. Alarm bells went off in my mind like a car alarm at 3:00am. A dude i met two days ago, who happens to hail from the world's largest opium producing nation and lives in Saudi Arabia wants me to carry a bag on a bus for him in Syria. Absolutely no chance mate.

Under pressure from the imminently departing bus-driver - and this seemed a little too neat not to be contrived - i hurriedly explained as nicely as possible why i couldn't take the bag and i physically stopped the bemused attendant from putting it on the bus. But it is your bag Meydani insisted. The hell it is i retorted. The first time i saw that bag was when i carried it for you to our hotel. It is not my bag Meydani insisted. And at this point i began to realise what had happened - and it did not involve me working as an unwitting drugs mule and spending four hundred years in a Syrian gulag.

Amidst the confusion getting off the bus from Antakya i had mistakenly assumed the red bag next to the bus to have been Meydani's. As he had no reason to suspect otherwise, he had assumed the red bag sitting in the middle of our room was mine and helped me out by carrying it to the bus station. A surge of relief burst a smile on my face. No such relief for Meydani who asked what he should do with it. We both stared at the mysterious case at out feet as though it were toxic; neither of us dared touch it. Although it almost certainly contained nothing more dangerous than somebody's undergarments the little red bag was now tainted by the image of shrink-wrapped baggies of opium. All i could do was jump on my bus, which, door-open, was reversing away from the kerb and leave Meydani with the dilemma. I watched him through the window as the bus pulled away. Staring at the red case at his feet he was clearly considering giving it to the cops or chucking it in the garbage. Perhaps he just walked away. I did.

Hama

Hama is a pleasant city in the centre of Syria; water, canals, parks cafes and restaurants. It is generally thought of as a conservative heartland; the Muslim Brotherhood launched a brutally suppressed rising from here in the eighties. But to me it seemed pretty relaxed. The women did not all wear the hijab, many wore jeans and tight tee-shirts. The extremists, if i encountered any, were all pleasant. Everyone was incredibly hospitable to yours truly, particularly in the surrounding towns and countryside.

One day i took a trip to the remains of an old Roman road at Afamia. The neglected road runs through otherwise unblemished grassland for over five kilometres. Sculpted white marble columns and caps set a stunning relief against the green grass engulfing a once-teaming commercial artery. A two hour trip from Hama in three connecting buses, it is possible to be have the length of the Roman road to yourself for a stroll of an afternoon. Company if any is most likely to be in the form of shepherd children tending goats, perhaps looking for pens or sweets. The caretaker brought me in to his booth for tea and a riotous chat about Syrian, Ireland, movies, Gerry Adams and football. An hour later he let me into the site for free.

Travelling there and back on the cramped mini-buses plying the local highways is an experience in itself. As with elsewhere in Syria there is no such thing as the bus being full, there is always more space for new passengers and there is no luggage that wont be carried on board for a fee. Including goats. On one of these buses i met a beekeeper from Palestine. His family had fled from Jaffa during the 1948 war. Whilst he lived close to Hama most of his relatives lived in Damascus; a few still in Israel but now they could never meet. He could never return home. An interesting if melancholy chap, he insisted - in a typical gesture of hospitality - on paying my bus fare. As did the passenger sitting next to me on the next bus. Typical of Syria.

The next day i visited the famous Crac De Chevalier crusader castle. A fairytale fortress set on a mountain-top overlooking the Syrian plain all the way to the coast. Once upon a time the crusader armies controlled the vast surrounding plains from here, were besieged by the legendary Saladin and were eventually sent packing. Giant turrets with tiny archers' windows, a huge many-foot thick grey-white perimeter wall, a wide and deep moat inside filled with pond-water tinged green by algae and a still impeccable, near-impregnable, interior castle. Can't ask for much more. Save perhaps a late-afternoon bus. By the time the castle closed for the evening the buses in the direction of Hama had finished for the day. Shark-like cab drivers preyed outside the entrance seeking and obtaining obscene sums for the hour's drive. I walked past their entreaties and pitched up at the side of the road. I stuck out my thumb and the very first passing truck stopped. The three workmen inside spoke no English but were sunnily disposed as i practised my nascent Arabic. They drove me all the way to Hama.

The Rest of the Best

From Hama i dropped into Palymyra and Tartus before spending the final two days in Damascus. Palmyra is an oasis town in the Syrian desert. East from here is Iraq, all around is sand and sun. The modern town is a dusty, dirty tourist trap. Attached to the ruins of an ancient Roman desert town and fortification, employment for most people comes from tourists and the nearby oil wells. This combination has created an unpleasant gritty feel that is very different from the rest of Syria that i visited. The ruins are spectacular and draws the coachloads, the rest is an unpleasant nuisance.

Damascus is a large, ancient city with charm. And home to some of the best ice cream money can buy. Another Syrian surprise is that their ice-cream beats just about any Western concoction going. Made to resist the baking desert heat it has some kind of binding agent that makes it stick and cling when your average '99 would be dampening your socks. Rolled up in pistachio-nut dust it is simply the best. Another Damascus highlight is the ornate and gilt-beautiful Grand Mosque. A huge complex of prayer rooms and frescos. Open to the infidel public, it is especially interesting during the five daily calls to prayer, when the faithful slink in from the nearby streets. The atmosphere is pleasant and peaceful, the prayerful seeming to zone out the few impostor tourists in their midst. It also hosts the final resting place of the infamous crusader-botherer Saladin.

And from here i grabbed a shared taxi to Beruit one morning with an Algerian ex-pat, a young Lebanese Christian, two elderly Jordanian Christian ladies, and our straight by the line of the Quo'ran Sunni Muslim taxi-driver. An interesting conversation absolutely guaranteed....