My last day in Damascus, indeed my last day in Syria. And I still hadn’t been to the Omayyad Mosque, Army Museum or National Museum. Time to get a move on. First of all (after the obligatory fresh juice and cheese toasty) Eric wanted to change some money, but couldn’t get the rate he wanted, so we had a discussion, than went back and agreed to the rates on offer, which curiously enough had risen by then. Next he wanted to check that he didn’t need a visa extension. I told him he didn’t, but he wanted to play it safe. After much time-wasting by numerous officials, it was confirmed that he definitely didn’t need an extension. This had us worried. This level of certainty from a Syrian is usually a sign of their being mistaken. Still, there was nothing else we could do. So we went to the Army Museum. The greatest load of propaganda I’ve ever had the misfortune to see.
As you enter the museum complex, cramped as it is in a courtyard behind one of the more significant mosques in Damascus, you first encounter a few bombs, guns and shabby looking Mig fighters scattered around the place. Round one corner there is a heap of mangled wreckage, some of it with writing in English in the style of the US military - evidently the remains of several Israeli Phantoms shot down during the Yom Kippur war. There were also the relics of the French occupation, including a couple of really cute mini-tanks. Proudly propped against the wall by the entrance to the museum proper was a wingtip - clearly from a Phantom - graced with a white circle containing a blue star of David: Israeli air force insignia.
Inside it was no better. The first room contained models of the important features of Syrian military history, from an early caveman (little has changed) to the expulsion of the Romans and Crusaders, the conquest by the Arabs, etc. All propaganda, needless to say. The model entitled the "Conquest of the Occident" was particularly irrelevant. The next room was even more unpleasant. It was entirely dedicated to the Syrian victory in the October (or Yom Kippur) war. Captured Israeli paraphernalia, the tailplanes of an Israeli Phantom and of a South African Mirage (allegedly they helped Israel in this war), a photo of a beaten-up looking airman, photos of grieving Israelis, etc. We were shown around by a Syrian soldier. Well spoken, eloquent, full of shit. I didn’t like him much, to say the least. The room next to this was full of guns in unimaginative displays. Finally, there was a long room full of awful art, depicting heroic Arab soldiers, Arschgesicht, his son, scenes from advanced Syria’s society (Soviet satellites, tanks, television sets, etc.). It didn’t take long to look at most of the museum, but we got our money’s worth, as it only cost 5 Syrian to get in.
We went to a hotel for a drink, and then parted company for 2 hours as I wanted to see the National Museum and Eric didn’t. It cost 200 Syrian to get in, and would have cost a further 500 to take my camera, so I left my bag at the entrance. It’s really stupid, as I couldn’t use the camera indoors, and there’s only one thing worth photographing outside - the gateway of an early Arab desert fortress near Palmyra - which I photographed through the Museum gates afterwards for free.
The museum was a rip-off at 200 Syrian - the British Museum is bigger, better - and free. They used to charge 10 here, but hiked it to 200 overnight because the only visitors were tourists, who, of course, can, and should, be ripped off. I took great exception at this, as they did nothing to improve the displays and labelling when they increased the prices. As it was, the best guide to what was to be found where was in my Lonely Planet guide. The labelling was abysmal in so far as it existed at all. Most of it was in Arabic, which was fair enough (although this does not take into account the demographics of the visitors explained above), and this was sometimes, but not always, complemented by French. In one or two places there were English explanations, such as in the section covering the Palmyra textiles - the most amazing patterned silk and fine wool garments from the 1st to 3rd centuries AD. The Museum was also not laid out sensibly, with bits of classical and ancient remains interspersed with Byzantine and Arab artefacts. For my tastes there were also too many Arab pieces and too little from the Byzantine and pre-Byzantine periods.
There were, however, some stunning sections. Of particular note were the Palmyra textiles, some artefacts from Mari, the Ugarit cylinders (clay cylinders covered in Ugarit and Babylonian cuneiform writing from the ancient city of Ugarit, including one presenting the 33 [I think] letters of the Ugarit alphabet, the oldest known alphabet in the world dating back almost 4000 years), and the Doura Europos relics. These included 2 particularly spectacular pieces: The frescos from the synagogue there, transferred bit by bit to their current home in Damascus (they are unique in that they are the only known depictions of old testament scenes in any synagogue) and the bronze scale-armour for a horse. This is a third century piece, a part of the equipment of a cataphractus or heavy cavalryman in the eastern army of Rome, and the armour is complete and in near perfect condition. I spent an absolute age gazing at this piece in wonderment, and afterwards I returned for another look about three times. Other good pieces in the museum (but not from Doura) included two elaborate Roman ceremonial cavalry helmets and their awful reconstructions next to them. All in all there was too little Roman military stuff there, considering the enormous military importance of the region in the early centuries AD. And where are the Doura Europos shields - they aren’t in Damascus.
I rejoined Eric at a cafe on Martyrs’ Square, and we set off to explore the souk again and to visit the Omayyad mosque, which I still hadn’t visited by 3pm on my 4th day in Damascus. The souk was an adventure, as I was now definitely after a pestle and mortar. The problem was dodging the rip-off merchants. Whenever I asked a price, they would say something outrageous like 600-800 Syrian. When I offered them about 400, they’d show me a smaller or inferior model. So I’d tell them what I thought of their prices, and moved on to the next shop, where I’d encounter the same story all over again. We encountered the same story when Eric was trying to find a nice shisha to take home with him. In the end, Eric was able to agree a reasonable price on a shisha, while I found a shop which claimed it had fixed prices. What? Fixed prices, in Syria? In the souk? Get real! Eventually I did find one willing to haggle, and with the greatest of ease bargained him down from 750 Syrian to 450 Syrian, and had I tried harder from the start I might have got him even lower. But I didn’t try. I also got a Fez for 150 Syrian - the asking price was 200, and when I offered 150 the guy looked at me and said he’d given me a special price, usually it’s 250. Get lost, I thought.
Finally we got to the Omayyad mosque, and promptly took a detour to visit the tomb(s) of Salah al Din (Saladdin). There was his original tomb, and next to it there was a disgusting heap of junk donated by Kaiser Wilhelm II. They were refurbishing the place at the time, so it was all a bit of a mess. Then we went on to the mosque itself, the 4th most important shrine in Sunni Islam. It started out life as a Byzantine church, apparently, and this really shows - not a dome to be seen, and the front looks distinctly basilica-esque. Inside it is vast, with a very long (or rather wide) nave, with the tomb of one of Mohammed’s companions in the middle, one of the first caliphs. Pigeons fly around it, and people litter the place, sleeping, chatting, etc. Not the image of a mosque I grew accustomed to in Constantinople. People looked at us very strangely when Eric started to address postcards while leaning against one of the pillars. They seem rather strict about respecting the place here - you have to be very conservatively dressed, and women have to report to the tourist reception where they are issued with great big black hooded gowns. Also, they have to pay the tourist admission charge which we circumvented by being properly dressed (long trousers and long sleeved shirts).
Next on the agenda, with light fading fast and my kebab trilogy of photos still lacking the kebab element, we went in search of a kebab stall in the souk. We eventually found one, and then we raided lots of fantastic spice stalls. Here I picked up a kilo of henna, half a kilo of hot pepper and (I don’t know why) 400 grams of frankincense. My bag was beginning to feel quite heavy. Eric wanted to find out how to get to Zabadieh, near the Lebanese border, and to Amman with his father, so off we traipsed to the bus station - ah, but which one? We eventually worked out from conflicting answers which was the most likely to be correct, and made our way over there. We eventually found out what we wanted to know, and saw yet another aspect of Syrian life: forward planning. We were there on Sunday, and when people realised Eric was talking about a bus going to Amman on Thursday, they were rather confused. No-one plans that far in advance (I suppose you’re likely to have been run over by one of the many maniacs by the time your plans come to fruition), and no-one is likely to sell you a ticket more than 2 days in advance.
Back to town, and to the place where I had eaten my last meal before becoming ill. I thought I’d risk the spicy chicken sticks that Ronnie had had the previous time, and some stuffed vine leaves. They turned out to be quite good, and they didn’t give me a dysentery relapse, so I was quite happy. I suppose I’d seen the chickens out the back a couple of days earlier, so they were fresher than the rest of the meat in Syria.
We picked up our bags from the Grand Ghazi, and used our new-found taxi expertise to get us to the luxury Hotel Tishreen, where Eric checked in while I repacked my rucksack with all my newly purchased goodies. Then another taxi, driven by someone who purported to have lived in Argentina, and therefore was able to participate in a conversation with us using romance languages (he in Spanish, Eric in Italian and I in Latin), took us to the bus station for the airport bus. We liked him so much (he used his meter, for one) that we tipped him more than he charged us in the first place. He almost refused to accept the money, too.
At the bus stop, we had difficulty obtaining information about the bus to the airport - there was one standing there, but it took some time to work out whether it might be going to the airport. Apparently it was, so we boarded it. Meanwhile a taxi driver offered us a lift - no doubt for an extortionate price, so we declined impolitely. The bus was a wreck, but it only cost something like 15 Syrian each. For some obscure reason the guy sold me three tickets - perhaps one for the luggage? - but at that price I really couldn’t quibble. The bus shook and rattled all the way to the airport, stopping once in a while to drop people off along the deserted motorway to the airport. It eventually trundled in front of the pathetic excuse for a terminal building, and we got off, shaken not stirred.
The time was about 9pm. My flight was at 3am. Nice timing. And Richard wasn’t even there! We went to find a bar from which we could watch the bustle of this lively airport. We found one hidden away on the top floor, deserted. So we sat down for a couple of chilled Carlsbergs, awaiting Eric’s Daddy’s flight. It arrived (we recognised it quite easily - it was the only plane to land there while we were watching. Besides, it had a huge crown, the emblem of Royal Jordanian, painted on the tail), so we headed downstairs. He emerged, right at the end, without luggage. So he had to go and investigate, while we went to find ourselves another bar. It was still not even 11pm - over four hours to go. I asked the barman what time the bar closed that night. He replied that yes, it is part of the Cham Palace hotel chain. I let the matter rest - I was glad to have been reminded why I was happy to be going home: this man epitomised the difficulties of getting questions and answers to match up in Syria. Meanwhile Herr Heindl had joined us. They had left his luggage behind in Amman, and were flying it in on the next flight, later the same evening.
So back we went to the Cham Palace bar for another round or two of drinks. Eventually flight no. 2 arrived, and so did Heindl Senior’s luggage. So he and Eric went to the Europcar/Transtour counter for a cab - a guy at one of the other counters demanded $20, reducing it to $15 and a grin when we informed him that we knew that Transtour charge $10. They don’t have a clue about competition. Then I waved them off, and wandered off to check on my flight.
I ran into Rob and Ronnie, and sat myself down with them for a chat. They seemed to have had a good time, and to have got about even more than I had. As I sat there chatting, I noticed this bloke strolling in my direction. I thought I recognised him - the guy from the hotel in Aleppo. He came up to me, smiling broadly. Where’s my friend, he asked my. I told him that we had split up and gone our separate ways. I didn’t feel comfortable about meeting him here, and I certainly wasn’t willing to tell him where Eric was. I’m sure he’d be able to find out one way or the other, anyway. "What the hell are you doing here?" I asked him - more than 200 miles from his hotel. "Oh, I get around," came the response. He then continued on his way. I didn’t like this one bit. Don’t tell me he’s secret police. How have we upset the local authorities? OK, if he was secret police, I knew exactly how we had upset them. By opening our big mouths when we shouldn’t have in Aleppo. Anyway, what were they going to do with me? Deport me? I was already at the bloody airport! So I decided not to worry myself silly about this, and to play it by ear. Still, it was a bit of a strange coincidence.
The check-in procedure was ridiculous. First we had to put our bags through an x-ray machine. Then we had to queue up chaotically to check in our baggage - mine was spot on 20kg, compared with 11kg on the way out there. After this we could go to the counter to pay for our exit visas - we tried to go to the counter earlier, but were turned away. It seems you can only buy your vouchers 2 hours before flying, or something silly like that. Then you go through customs, where the guy checks your passport and entry card, verifies the computer record, and then glues in and stamps the exit visa. From there it was a short walk through he customs zone to the escalator to the waiting area.
That was one of the longest walks of my life, as I was half expecting to be assailed by moustached Kalashnikov-wielding Arabs swooping on me and carrying me off for interrogation and torture. Or something like that. No-one did. I think I was a little disappointed, but mainly relieved. Next: more security checks as we went to the boarding gate. Another x-ray, and a metal detector. One poor bloke was getting very nervous, as he kept on bleeping, removing something from his clothes, trying again, and bleeping again. He just couldn’t find the offending object, and the woman searching him was beginning to look very irate indeed. In the end he did make it through, much to his relief and everyone else’s amusement. After this we were allowed to board the plane, a 737 called Göreme. This entailed going down the boarding bridge to the plane, and then not boarding it directly, but leaving the bridge by way of the side stairs, identifying our luggage, and then climbing more stairs into the plane. It was a bit silly, really. Why bother with the boarding bridge at all?
We boarded, and I ended up on the aisle, next to a couple of Arabs. No lucid conversation to be expected here, then. Oh well, time for a nap. I had scarcely got my meal when I fell asleep, secure in the knowledge that I was at last free to speak my mind again: we had left Syria and Arschgesicht behind.
Last Updated on 13 November, 1999