Upon getting up we decided it was time for an illegal act, so we attempted to take some photos of the police checkpoint in the street below. Nice guard hut, young national servicemen with Kalashnikovs, a perfect photo opportunity. The only problem was the police headquarters directly opposite us. The people in the offices there could look directly into our room. So we had to try to lean far enough out of the window to get a clean shot, while still remaining behind the cover of the curtains. Not the easiest photograph I’ve ever taken, and in the end it came out all blurred. The next experience of the day was the shower. I turned it on, and was met by a torrent of red water. Fortunately this was only a short-lived state of affairs, and pretty soon I had an ample supply of hot water. So did most of the bedroom - a pity the Syrians haven’t heard of shower curtains. Well, except the penguin-motif one in Palmyra. The bathroom was a tiled corner of the room with low dividing walls, and a large, uncovered doorway. Meanwhile Eric sat down on the bed just a little bit too hard, and went straight through it. So it is not only the food and the highways which are dangerous for tourists in this country.
Breakfast, and back to our favourite juice bar, where we discovered they also did toasted cheese sandwiches. After this it was time for my first encounter with a proper Syrian bank, the Commercial Bank of Syria, as I had once again run out of money. It took 5 different members of staff about 20 minutes to change my $60 of travellers’ cheques. First one girl checked my details, then I was sent to the manager for him to check my passport. After this a third lady wrote out my transaction slip. Her supervisor checked this, and sent me to a cashier. He appeared to short-change me by 25 Syrian. I protested, but he pointed out that one of the slips said there was 25 Syrian commission. The slip in English showed no evidence of this, but the other slip, entirely in Arabic, did appear to do so. "Oh yes, how silly of me," I remarked. Meanwhile Eric amused himself taking photos inside the bank (the most antiquated we’d ever seen - talk about over-staffing).
Then we went up to the Meridian hotel to pick up my receipt from Europcar. While we were there, in the serenity of a civilised (but faceless and dull) hotel, we thought we might as well have a beer and watch CNN for a while. We spotted two young beauties sitting across the hall, so what better idea than to see if they fancied meeting up for lunch. Much to our surprise (we looked so scruffy I’m surprised we were allowed into the hotel at all) they agreed, and suggested the Sheraton at 3pm. That left us about 2 hours to kill in the meantime. So off we wandered to the military museum, which sounded quite amusing - total propaganda, no doubt. We got there just as it was closing, so we’d have to come back the next day. By the time we had got this far, it was just about time to turn around and go to the Sheraton. We had just about enough time to pop into the Hejaz railway station, to see an old steam train shunting about. Apparently there was going to be a train to Deira the next day (near Bosra), but we couldn’t work out whether we would be able to get any closer to Bosra than that, and how we would get back to Damascus in time for my flight. So we gave up and went in search of a taxi.
After about 10 minutes on a street corner without any sign of progress, we concluded it might be a good idea to change locations. A policeman helped us hail a taxi. We got in, asked for the taximeter to be turned on, he declined and cited a price of 50 Syrian. We got out again. The maximum price, at a stretch, should have been 20 Syrian including a hefty tip. The policeman looked at us a bit strangely. We hailed another taxi. Same performance, same result. A third cab arrived, I asked "Taximeter?" through the open window, and the guy looked shocked and drove off again. The policeman started to look somewhat bemused. A fourth taxi pulled up. Two Arabs got out, heard us say Sheraton, and told us to pay no more than 20. Nice guys, I thought. We turned to the cabby. Taximeter? No, no. How much? One hundred. One hundred, you’re joking, 20 maximum. All the way there we told him he was getting 20, and if he didn’t like it he could stop there and then. He dropped us off at the hotel, and got very irate as we paid him only 20 Syrian. Tough - there was nothing he could do about it. So he screamed off into the distance.
The Sheraton, like the Meridian, was a sea of tranquillity. We had just installed ourselves in some comfy leather armchairs when the other two arrived - Joanna, and her gorgeous cousin, whose name I immediately forgot. It turned out they worked in the Meridian, selling Syria Business Guides to foreign and domestic businessmen. Hence they preferred to socialise in the Sheraton. Clearly well heeled, and very westernised. Joanna did most of the talking, while her cousin sat there looking pretty (which she was remarkably good at, even if I do say so myself). Joanna was well read (studying English literature) and well travelled, with family in Italy. Originally from Jordan, she was very defensive of the Syrian people, claiming them to be the most liberated of all the Arabs, and that the Jordanians are far more conservative. Soon her cousin had to leave, but Joanna remained, though the conversation we got out of her was not all that informative - much of it confirmed what we had already worked out. While not entirely enthralled with the Syrian social regime, the western one was even less to her liking. In the end it was time to leave, and to see a bit more of Damascus - I still hadn’t got to see much of the place, considering how much time I’d spent in the city. On the way back from the Sheraton I was very nearly run over by a maniac Lebanese in a big black Mercedes. My only encounter with a Lebanese up to that point, and he nearly killed me. I must make a point of visiting that country sometime! We walked back into town along the Barada river, the most unpleasant, stagnant stretch of water i had ever seen. And this had been one of the main causes of man's settlement in this area?
Our first port of call was the souk, where Eric was after a good deal on a shisha, and I was also vaguely interested. Soon I got diverted to the idea of a pestle and mortar instead. The more I thought about it, the less I could justify the shisha. Besides, I would have great difficulty getting it home in one piece. We tried a couple of shops, but the shopkeepers were downright annoying, with super-inflated prices and little flexibility. Eric had a particular shisha in mind, made of intricately carved basalt. He had already arranged a good deal on it. However, on closer inspection it became clear that this was a showpiece and not intended for use. So we headed on into the old town, where in the end we ran out of open shops, and promptly got lost. We were in search of the Hammam Nur-Al-Din, allegedly the most historic and best of the Damascus hammam. We found it eventually, after asking directions about 8 times. It was fabulous.
You enter into a large hall, with raised, carpeted areas lined with clothes hooks. You tell the little man behind the counter what you want, and he gives you the tokens you need. He also puts your valuables in a little safety deposit box and hands you the key. Then you are led to the carpeted area, swap your shoes for wooden slippers, and go up the steps to the rest area to get undressed. They give you a clean wrap to wear. You hang your clothes on the hooks and they drape a cloth over them.
The first port of call is the sauna. We were sitting in here when three large bearded men entered. One of them started to say "Hezbollah, kwayyis (good)", and gesticulating that Israel is bad and must be destroyed. They were Lebanese. From Baalbek, oddly enough (I would never have guessed that!), they had come over specially for the hammam - I gather there are none in working order in the Lebanon. One of the guys spoke a little English, and explained that the big guy likes a joke, that’s all. Still, sense of humour or none, I wouldn’t like to mess with him. They seemed friendly enough, though, and not in any way anti-western, so at no point did we feel threatened by them.
After the icy-cold plunge pool came the warm steam room lined with low basins, where one washes oneself. In one of the corners was a hot steam room. We tried to go in it, but could find no way in - the steam jet across the door was too hot to bear, and once inside you had to stand in the jet while your eyes acclimatised to the darkness and you found a seat. Unfortunately my eyes never acclimatised in time, and I always had to flee to give my poor ankles a chance to recover from their burns. So we contented ourselves sitting in the warm steam room instead. Then came our turn to have our scrub wash. Eric went first, and when he returned alive and in one piece, I decided to risk it, too. A man with one of the most boring jobs in the world took care of us. He scrubs you down with a coarse flannel (more like a brillo pad, really), and then sponges you with a soapy sponge, which really tickles. After this you go back into the warm steam room to wash off the soap. At each stage someone comes along and removes one of the coloured tokens from your wrist - yellow for sauna, green for soap scrub, red for massage.
Next - the massage. I had heard about the types of massage in hammam from Ronnie and Rob, so I was a bit wary of it. Eric had heard about them, too, so he let me go first. It actually wasn’t painful, so I felt a bit conned. I did, however, feel very much refreshed as I returned to the warm steam room one last time. Then one more cold shower, and a competition between Eric and an Arab as to who could stay under water in the plunge pool the longest (remembering that the pool is incredibly cold). They both did horribly well (I felt funny just watching them, as each tried to out-do the other). In the end I’d say it was a draw, and I’m sure Eric can say he made a friend doing it, even if they could never communicate.
They have a remarkable system for getting changed in the hammam, whereby the assistants can change your wet towel for a dry one without you exposing yourself indecently at any time. When you’ve had your shower, they give you a clean, dry towel to wrap around yourself and another to dry yourself with. Then, as you come back to the changing area, they swap these towels for yet more fresh ones - another wrap, one wrapped over the shoulders and a third turned into a sort of turban. You sit like this as they bring up a table and ply you with tea. As we sat there I noticed another westerner sitting next to us, and I thought he looked a bit British.
That’s because he was British. He was a teacher at the American Language Center, and had already been in Damascus for 15 months, having spent the previous 18 months in central Anatolia. After 5 years of learning Arabic, he seemed to be able to get by in Syria - we were dead jealous. It’s probably a great country if you can communicate. The guy (we never found out his name) started telling us the ins and outs of Damascus life. It seemed quite tolerable - once you’ve found out the short-cuts, you get things done 10 times quicker. He said he’d show us a good place to change money, so we paid up and left with him. After showing us this place (a dodgy looking shop if ever there was one) he took us for a tea. We explained the previous night’s eating problems, so he recommended an Italian place. He’d hail a taxi to take us there. The problem was that he couldn’t remember the address, and the cabby didn’t know the place. So he hopped in with us - he’d direct the driver there. He could walk back from there.
The Italian place turned out to be harder to find than anticipated - we ended up being dropped about half a mile from the place. There our guide left us. The food was allegedly Italian, and I ended up having the Syrian interpretation of cannelloni (which somewhat resembled the version of lasagne Eric was tucking into more than it ought to have done). I’d give it 3 out of 10 for taste, 2 out of 10 for presentation and 1 out of 10 for realism. The beer was a novelty - Barada, the local brew named after the river that once flowed through (and now stagnates in) Damascus. Going by the taste, it wasn’t so much brewed as tapped straight from the said river. To put it mildly, it was the worst beer I have ever tried. We only opted for beer because we were told the Syrian wine is a little rough. Could it have been as rough as the beer, though? We paid, found a taxi willing to take us to the city centre rather than for a ride, and went to bed.
This time it was my turn to go through the bed as I sat down on it. The problem was that I had to fix it, too, as Eric had already transferred himself onto the spare bed in our room. It turned out the bed was of a complex construction - a large piece of wood perched precariously and without fixings on top of the frame, with the mattress placed on top. Of course the sheets presented the usual Syrian dilemma in there being only one - does one sleep on the dirty mattress under the clean sheet, or on the clean sheet under a dirty blanket? Anyway, the bed’s design meant that shifting the large sheet of wood only a small way (such as sitting down in anything but a vertical motion) would bring it crashing through the bed. I sat down much more carefully after this.
Last Updated on 13 November, 1999